An Unlikely Pair
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By: DarkGiggle
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I make no profit so please don't sue me.
Warnings: Un-beta'd and looking for a beta. Rating and violence level will go up.
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PART 13
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All stations close at 7 pm sharp, no exceptions and all tributes must be out of the training area by 7:01 pm, no exceptions.
As we all head for the elevators none of us normal tributes want to ride up with the Career pack of 1s, 2s and 4s, so we have to endure their smirking, goading faces as they load in. A pair of hazel eyes pointedly catch my sky blues; he was the only tribute that had the position to see what happened this morning aside from my teammate and he has not forgotten about me. I glare but the bloodlust just darkens his eyes and it's the elevator door that cuts us off.
Before I mean to I growl out, "What's that jackass throwing spears at doors for anyway?" It is a rhetorical question; it's the one thing I didn't understand about the whole incident. Why the fuck would he aim at a closed door if he is so freaking bloodthirsty? Or did he just hope to kill someone, anyone, by coincidence?
"Um, me." A small voice from the back of the group says, before the tiny girl makes her way forward. "He was aiming at me, but I think he was going too high just to scare me."
Her? The smallest, weakest tribute here and that pustule had to pick Her to frighten?! "That Low, Nutless, Scummy, Toe-Fungus!" I hiss. "That Cretinous, Spineless Infected Donkey's Dick Must Be Too Scared To Pick On Someone His Own Size!"
There is a collective gasp then silence from the other tributes that is crushed when Hawthorne, the tiny girl and the huge male from 11 start laughing. Slowly some of the rest chuckle but it dies quickly.
I color but spit out, "What? You know I'm right," and push the button.
Seam gray eyes shine handsomely with laughter as he nods, "Of course you're right but that's what's funny, Panty."
I whirl around on him; I don't appreciate that in front of our competitors. "Don't you start Gale or I'll just find a name for you too." I already have one in mind.
He straightens and smirks playfully, "I don't believe you Panty."
The elevator arrives and opens as I retort, "Whatever you say, Gay-boy." His smirk gets strained but remains. Being called gay, lesbian or homosexual isn't a big deal back home but who knows about the other districts? The peacekeepers from District 2 certainly don't approve. Also I've never called him a name before but he's never called me anything but Mellark in a crowd before either.
The braver tributes come into the lift with us and ignore the tension. There is utter silence as none of the other district pairs will talk or even acknowledge each other. For the first time I'm glad for even the small relationship the hunter and I have; it would be much lonelier without him. Then I instantly regret the thought. It would be better for the people I care for and Hawthorne's family if he'd never been picked and it was a stranger and myself here. As the elevator drops off at different floors I see other escorts and mentors. Yes mentors, plural, as every other district has two mentors and at least two victors. This and the silence make me more resolved to make sure he goes home a victor, not a corpse. The last to leave are the huge male and tiny girl of 11, what a vast difference.
Mr. Abernathy (surprisingly sober), Ms. Trinket and dinner are there to welcome us at our floor. I am happy to see each of them. They have us sit to eat but don't wait for us to start before they are asking about today. Hawthorne begins first since my mouth is currently very full of mashed sweet potatoes. They aren't pleased to learn about the spear, my hand, the staring or my meager retaliation. They are pleased to hear he is passable with a halberd, slingshot and sling but great with fire making, throwing knives and daggers. He says he was fine with the Ropes Course, but aced the Navigation, and Stealth & Tracking Station. He mentions we had lunch together then goes on to tell what he saw the other tribute excel at. I only listen with a half ear because I am stunned he didn't mention helping tiny 11 or his time with the combat station. I don't know if it is more rebellion, foolishness or distrust in Mr. Abernathy but I do not think it is a smart idea. Although he can't possibly be the best mentor, he is ours and so if he is ever to help us he should be properly informed. When it is my turn I just give my teammate a look but he doesn't say a word. "I'll tell them if you won't."
"Tell us what sweetheart?" his voice and face are lackadaisical but his Seam eyes narrow the slightest bit in suspicion.
Hawthorne shoots me an angry and distrusting look that wounds me for some strange reason. "Look you don't have to follow his advice but it does no good to lie to him." I defend.
"Lie to Me?!" Haymitch snarls and Ms. Trinket frowns.
"Mellark you're a dirty rat! And stupid too, trusting a booze hound like him."
"Oi, boy! I-" our mentor starts but I cut him off.
"Well you're a pig-headed idiot-savant that was brilliant enough to do what you did but too moronic to tell about it! What does it hurt to tell Gale? Really, tell me a logical reason and I'll never give him a word about it or anything you don't want me to." When he turns away I grab his sleeve to force him to look at me. Yes I may ridiculously place my trust and hopes in Mr. Abernathy but I am on his side. I need him to see that. When he still won't meet my eyes I say the words aloud. Grays pierce into me for a moment before a very conflicted expression takes over his whole being; still he gives me a subtle nod so I inform the adults. I stress the genius of his tactic in the two-hour combat session he had, how it looked from the outside and how all the tributes dismissed him.
The elder Seam gazes over the younger for a tense while, Ms. Trinket and I hold our breath for the call. Finally, "Oh she's got you pegged boy, pig-headed idiot-savant you are." Now I regret the words. "That was very clever, and on the spot too. That more than anything can get you out of the arena, but so can help so no more turning it down." He turns to me and asks, "anything else?"
There was the thing about the tiny girl from 11 yet it was trivial and I don't want to get either of us in more trouble. "Nope," I say then fill him in on my day. Both were expecting I would do the combat station and would hold back my strength, neither expected I'd to it for three hours and add wrestling for two. Haymitch grills me on the sessions and in the end is not happy about me showing all my skills or my endurance. The way the displeasure settles on his face is more upsetting to me than it should be, it is kind of like when I disappoint a coach from home. I guess that it's fitting, I'm not close to them either. After a pause the two proceed to really question us from the top, like we didn't just tell them. It's annoying, I don't get why they do it and I accidentally let slip about my father but it's what they want so whatever.
Dinner lasts an uncomfortable 40 minutes with all the talking and the next 45 minutes after are no better. They split us up, each takes one of us to work their specialty so it's 22 minutes of one then the other. Ms. Trinket gets me first and it's back to learning how to walk and stand. She says that next time we'll work on sitting and hand gestures too. (Oh joy, I can't fucking wait.) Time with our mentor means it's a session to sharpen my lying skills and prepare for the Flickerman live interview. At 8:30 Hawthorne and I get the order to hit the showers, a reminder to use the creams afterwards and a recommendation to be in bed by 10. We know what it really means.
I was a bit tired before but just the thought of another spar with my teammate rejuvenates me. I reach for the shower panel but then see him in the mirror pointing to the tubs they have and a panel for some type of music selection. It seems very odd to me that people would want to listen to music while cleaning themselves yet I roll with it and copy his every motion, perfectly in sync with him. The tubs fill, the same song plays at the same volume and at last real privacy.
There isn't time to wonder what comes next as he makes a come hither motion with his fingers. He's not smiling or looking altogether too thrilled so I know he will at least in part be getting me back for snitching on him. Hawthorne really isn't the forgiving type and I'm in for soreness later. That in mind it still comes as a breathless shock when I charge at him, he feints a half step left only to surge forward inside my guard and uses both our momentums to slam the tip of his elbow into my sternum. The pain is enough that I'm choking on it, my lungs feel compressed but my ribcage hurts so bad my chest refuses to expand and draw breath, I can't draw in air. For a few horrible seconds all I can do is stumble away and try to get oxygen in me, finally survival instinct kicks in and I take in an agonizing lungful. I pant through the sensation my nerves and brain are telling me and simply stare at him; half not believing he just did that to me and other half mentally screaming from my pain.
He stares at me a bit wide eyed, then says, "I didn't know it would work like that. I was just trying out a move Anton showed me, Peeta."
I shake my head, that is an explanation but it is not enough. I would never do that to him, at least not without warning; we both know what a blow to there does and if he didn't before then he found out on the train when I hammer fisted him. No, just now he wanted to hurt me, maybe not this much but he did. "Apologize right now, you knew that wasn't going to be a light tap. Say it or we don't fight."
Instead of contrite he looks slightly hopeful, "Does that mean you don't want to have me win anymore?"
It sounds like a provocation but he may mean in the arena not just here. I don't get what his problem is with me helping him but after a day of such highs and strange lows I don't have the patience for this shit. He wants to hurt me? Well I can hurt him back. He wants to push me away? Well I won't let him, and forget what I said earlier about not fighting! I attack him, holding back far less than I normally would and my effect is visible. He blocks but can't hold them head on so he has to switch to diverting; sometimes he is fast enough and some times he isn't. He on the other hand has some definite new moves; he is using his elbows, knees, forearm bones and even his shins to block, hit, kick and smack me. Each contact hurts so I know he isn't holding much back but the location of the pain is getting it through my anger-fogged mind that he isn't hitting where he should be. He's always a few crucial inches off and I don't think it's on purpose.
I use some of the overhead blocks Mr. Anton taught me, they were meant for a girl with far less upper body strength against a taller, stronger opponent so with me they allow me to break into his guard, slip my hands down his upper arms and grab him just before the joint. I charge with my full strength, not giving him time to recover and smack him into the wall. For all that he may be the better fighter I am stronger. I chose a section of padded wall so although he is stunned we shouldn't have to worry about a concussion. I back away from him, immediately feeling pain in my shin where I blocked his own shin from whacking me, and announce, "We are done. I don't think your head is on straight." I review the frenzied attacks and counter attacks we just laid into one another. He was going for my vital points, like my kidneys with his fists and my spleen with his knees. I wasn't exactly trying to spare him either, so to be fair I add, "And I know my head isn't either." We should have held back more. I don't know what his problem is but we won't solve it like this.
Absently my hand reaches for my collar, for Madge's pin. As I run over the shape of it for comfort it occurs to me that it might have been damaged today so I dash to my mirror to inspect the piece. It's fine, the double layer of my collar is a good place for it but I'm sure I'm not so lucky. I peel my shirt off and I know there is trouble when my muscles try to protest the move. Already the adrenaline is fading and the pain is blooming, particularly in my chest. In the mirror I see that I am purpled in some places and getting there in others. I strip my hand then my pants to see my lower body is the same. This is not alright. It's to the point where my only patch of flawless skin is where the bandages were on my hand.
In the reflection I watch him, slumped against the wall, slowly sliding to the floor and eyes once more jumping from injury to injury on me. He knows that this is not alright either. After a second he stands and strips to his boxers and I see the damage I did. Shit! His ribs! I zip over to him and run my hand over them before he can stop me. He slaps my hand away; I didn't feel anything off and he didn't seem to be in too much discomfort, still I say, "Sorry."
"Sorry?" He says mockingly and looks away from me, "Maybe you should look in the mirror again."
He's still mad, but now I don't know if it's at me or the word in general. "I don't think that fight did either of us good." I try to say diplomatically then go on, "And I am sorry. Sorry for your ribs, sorry for not holding back and sorry for telling Mr. Abernathy like that but you really should have told him yourself."
He turns to me and gets in my face, angry as a wet hen for some reason. "You shouldn't trust him, he's not looking out for you!"
That last part he says a little loud so I put my finger to my mouth and make a shushing motion. He frowns then grabs my arm and pulls me down to the cold tile floor with him. I have to suppress a yelp when my bottom feels the drop in temperature. Acting like I didn't feel a thing I insist, "Yes he is."
Hawthorne actually sits like it's nothing, and leans in close to hiss, "If he's letting you keep your stupid plan then he's not on your side idiot."
I have to remind myself not to yell. I whisper, "My plan is not stupid and shouldn't you be happy you have someone on your side?"
He scowls, "Fine it's not stupid, just fucking cowardly. You just want to use me. I get it. It's to help everyone back home, so noble. So you'll use me for a 'good' reason, expect me to do everything and handle everything back home. But if you weren't such a frightened bitch you'd get some real guts and kill your way through the games to fix home yourself."
I HATE, Abhor and Detest when he calls me Bitch! All my knuckles crack as my fists clench tight in order not to seriously punch his face in. He's right and it's the only thing that stills me. Even though he has correctly pegged me as a coward it doesn't mean I'm going to go out and turn into another Wilhelmina; I refuse to let myself be changed like that. I hiss, "Yes, you're right, but it doesn't change anything. You still want to live, you want to return to your family and they still need you back, so tell me who does it really hurt?"
He blinks at me in astonishment and I know it's over not denying the coward part, before that had always been a sure fire way to goad either of us into a fight. Neither of us like the term but why not call a spade a spade. I'm a coward; I want to live but won't murder to save my life because I'm too afraid of what it will turn me into. I'm already changing so much for the Capitol, for the sponsors, for the chance to help those I love I cannot give the sadists this too. I will not become a murderess. None-the-less the more he looks at me the more a feeling of shame grows.
I get my aching body up and to my tub. There is nothing more to say and the water is still very warm.
Part 13 End.
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Side Note: Double posting! Part 12 was posted with this part so please allow a time gap for part 14. Standard reminder, I am still looking for a beta because it's just me trying to find and fix all my grammar errors so... I pity all of you that in fact have perfect grammar and read this.