{and} If this isn't all a dream || {T/N}

and in the morning i'll be with you
but it'll be a different kind

Nash Harvey —

As soon as the words left Nash’s mouth, she started to regret them. It wasn’t that she was having any second thoughts about her request — no, she knew that she needed to die — but rather the fact that she’d requested it at all. It was too much to ask. Unfair, really. But no matter what approach was taken, the outcome would induce guilt and sorrow and betrayal and other similar, detestable feelings. In her head, Nash had gone through a list of every possible course of action, and ruled each of them out: simply running away to die alone was unfair to her ally, and would be a slow process for Nash herself; killing herself right there at the creek would prompt some sort of response from Topaz, considering how rude it would be for the District Two to not say goodbye; waiting for starvation to take hold was probably the most drawn-out and uncomfortable death Nash could envision. And, worst of all, procrastinating? Waiting until there were no other tributes left in the Arena, save for Topaz and herself? Letting the other girl decide to attack her without Nash prompting her? Without any sort of goodbye? That wasn’t right.

Even so, it wasn’t fair to ask that favor of the District One tribute, whether it was the best course of action or not. "I don't want to be the one to kill you." The memory resurfaced without any sort of prompting, bringing up heaps of guilt with it. It had been practically the only request that Topaz had made, and Nash had asked practically her only favor of the girl to contradict it. The request had been horribly selfish, Nash knew, and the other girl's delayed response did nothing to ease her conscience about the situation. It was a lot to ask of anyone at all, save for in the Hunger Games — but during the past week and a day, Nash never felt as though she'd actually been in them. She was more of a spectator to them, regardless of her injuries, regardless of her one human kill, regardless of the things that stemmed from the very nature of the Games. They had been a side attraction, a subplot; for Nash, her ally was more of the main event.

But the Hunger Games had invariably taken back control of the derailed plot. They had to. That was the way they worked. No matter what anyone worked towards in the Arena, no matter what they said or did or built or became, it always came back down to the Hunger Games. It always came down to the need for a victor. One. Singular. There could be no ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘together’ here. It saddened her to think about, but Nash had always known that. She’d brushed aside the danger of trying to live a little before she had to die, which made letting go under such circumstances even more difficult.

It was Topaz’s response that made the District Two tribute’s insides turn to ice, made her simultaneously feel warm and frozen. In the space where their timelines had overlapped, Nash had seldom seen her companion at a loss for words. Not even when she’d been spurred on by the Two to attack the other girl. Not when Nash had spat out a rushed sentence indicating feelings for her. So the fact that Topaz seemed to have difficulty formulating a response of any sort made her heart both sink and swell. As she’d discovered during their morning at the pillars, it was nice to know that someone cared, even when she herself did not. If fulfilling her request was hard for the District One girl, that was the awful best it could be. Better to die willingly by the hand of someone who cared then to be killed in cold blood by a stranger while struggling to keep living.

She didn’t worry too much about whether her ally would actually do as Nash requested, even after the pained ”I can’t...” Because she had always been able to tell that Topaz had been in the Hunger Games to win them. Most tributes were, really; Nash was an anomaly. They’d already established that her victory meant the District Two tribute would die, and that Topaz cared while Nash did not. Caring made nothing easier. Please, she tried to mutter, but no sound actually came out. It didn’t matter if anyone saw it, as the gesture was more for the sake of her own conviction that this was how it had to be, that this was how it had to end.

"If it's really what you want..." Nash wasn’t sure if she nodded or not; if she did, the motion was so slight that she herself barely felt it. Whether or not it was really what she wanted, it was for the best. In an ideal scenario, neither of them would have to die. Nobody would. Nobody would be trying to kill anyone. In Panem, that was a laughable prospect, however; in the Hunger Games especially preposterous. So for Nash to die now, when there were so few others left, when she was so close to death as it was? Yeah. That was for the best. So while she didn’t exactly want the end to come, she had reached the conclusion that she had to. But if the deed was easier for the District One tribute if she thought that it actually was something that Nash desired right then, she wasn’t going to do away with that.

You’re a damn fool! And how am I the one suddenly advocating for what’s right? This isn’t what’s right, that’s how; it’s what’s easy. The girl is a coward and a fool, you

must see that.

I see someone doing what they ought to, rather than feebly trying to save their sorry hide. It’s taking the easy way out, though! Go down fighting! Fight back! FIght back!

the days get shorter,
and the nights get cold;
I like the autumn,
but this place is getting old.

Nash Harvey —

As her own fist made contact with the other girl's shoulder, the reflexive action fortunately about as weak as it could have been, Nash realized for the first time that she was more afraid of this than she'd thought. Since before she'd even been reaped, she conditioned herself to embrace death, to be grateful when it actually came. It was Noam, really, who'd done that to her — the neurotic teen who, back in District Two, had been both her closest friend and something of a mentor was unhealthily fixated on the subject of dying up until the point where he'd taken his own life. Trying to force away the sting of his suicide, Nash had sort of taken up his mantle, distancing herself from life in the manner that he had, albeit to a lesser degree, until the thought of dying was not only comfortable, but familiar as well.

It occurred to her that she was doing more or less of the same thing that Noam did — it was suicide, in a way, to be asking for death, even if she wasn't the one holding the blade or stringing up the rope. Dying like this was cowardly, she knew it. But it was also the solution, the best one that Nash had. There was no other possible outcomes, really, to her situation, to the Hunger Games — at least her death was inevitable, whether she asked for it to be taken or not. Did it make it better that she would have chosen life if she could have?

"If it's really what you want…" The last thing that Topaz had said to her — probably the last sentence of the other girl's voice that Nash would ever hear — echoed off whatever surface it could plant itself on in her head: memory of their morning spent by the stone pillars, trace amounts of electricity from the way Topaz had kissed her in the pumpkin patch, futile hopes that the whole world would simply fall away so they could just be, but most of all, guilt stemming from the selfishness of her request. It was too much to ask of the red-haired girl, yet Nash had done so anyway, and her ally was good enough to oblige, even though she'd explicitly stated that she did not want to. The District Two tribute had to admire that selflessness.

Directing her gaze back upwards just so she could do a bit more admiring of a different sort, Nash ended up taking the sight of the other girl as a much more painful blow than the nick on the arm that she received just then. She hardly even felt the bite of Topaz's falchion the second time it came, so desperate was the look on the other girl's face. She couldn't bear watching the face whose resolve and strength she'd always admired when it was pleading with her to let it stop, but looking away would be a much more difficult, much crueler task. As it was, she could hold back tears no longer, feeling the thin stream chilled in the icy air.

Oh, cheer up, would you? Don't you see how you're just like us? Making someone do something they don't really want to, and watching it destroy them while they try to fight it? Just like us. She's too weak to be just like us. She can't stand it, see? She can't do what needs to be done.

The words of the Two — or maybe it was from blood loss — sent the arena around Nash spinning. She recognized the validity of the assertion; the desperate way that Topaz stared at her, silently begging to not have to kill the District Two girl was vaguely reminiscent of what Nash remembered of when her voices had almost gotten her to attack her ally however many days (was it only days?) ago. The comparison only hurt worse, because now she knew. She knew the sort of pain that she was causing with her request, except the other girl had it worse, in a way — there was no one else for the District One to put the blame on.

Astoundingly, the rebuttal from the nagging voice, the one that had recently been advocating the death of her ally, actually did offer the smallest bit of consolation, even though it was intended as abuse. The relief, which was minor to the point of imperceptible, was short-lived, as feelings of remorse for asking — or was she forcing, as the Two said? — far too much of her companion were already overwhelming.

She wanted to say something, anything, to try and diminish the guilt — hers, or the other girl's, or just in general — but her vocal chords refuse to cooperate, her mouth refused to open, her tongue refused the shape the words that her brain refused to construct. From across her vast sea of incomprehensible thoughts that would not be translatable into words eventually emanated a single muddled line: I shouldn't have asked you to do this. Each syllable took such an effort to formulate and then decipher again that Nash didn't even realize they hadn't been said aloud. The sentence had an impact on the District Two tribute herself, and something in her throat made the next words shake: "I'm sorry." The apology was hardly audible, but getting the three syllables out at all was draining. It didn't even help Nash to feel a little better; she doubted anything would.

Even so, she tried once again to run her mind through the loop that it had tried to take comfort in, that this was the only way, that this was for the best. But that mantra had grown tired, and longer did anything to console her. That she was doing the right thing wasn't enough to cling to on her way out. She'd have liked to cling to her ally, but somehow it didn't seem like that was an option, considering that it was Nash who'd come up with the suggestion — the request — the command — that Topaz kill her. There was nothing left to hold on to, even if she'd changed her mind about being ready to let go.

One gonna hold the memories, another gonna close the door
One gonna keep me restless, another wanting more
You're gonna keep my soul, it was yours to have
long ago

Nash Harvey —

Twisted logic told Nash to keep standing until the very end, no matter how appealing it would be to brace herself against a tree, or curl up in a little ball on the ground, or just plain collapse, lying spread-eagle on the arena's floor. She was a stroke away from death, though even if the other girl missed, as blood was still pouring from the first gash, the one on the back of her head. Everyone knew that even the smallest of head wounds bled profusely, while the larger ones poured; Nash could feel on the back of her neck and the back of her shirt that she was no exception to this. She couldn't actually see it, but even the dullest of nerves wouldn't be able to miss the characteristic viscidity of the life sustaining liquid as it began to dry or coagulate — although any clotting wouldn't be nearly enough to keep her from bleeding out any quicker.

Struck by the sudden pestering whim to look at the wound that would kill her, yet hindered by the obstacle posed by the anatomical impossibility of viewing something on the back of her head, Nash settled for the next best option. Slowly, gently, she pressed a hand to the back of her head, for the first time aware of how cold her hands were, as though they'd already been dead for hours (sans rigor mortis) and the rest of Nash was trying to catch up.

Although perhaps the blood — her own blood — should have frightened her, she was more intrigued with the scarlet coating on her hand than anything else. When it was placed in front of her, something tangible, imminent death no longer seemed quite so terrifying. She liked things that she could see so much better than things she couldn't; it was easier to verify their existence, easier to take at face value. Not having to second-guess the motives of something was something Nash took advantage of while she could, because when she couldn't — which was most of the time — it completely drained her, and this was the vast majority of the time. That was why Nash liked things she could see, things she could feel, anything she could validate in more than one way.

"You're sorry? You're sorry, when I'm the one with the blood on my hands? Ha." Even in spite of the tears that still lingered on her own face, Nash could not suppress the slight smile that formed in response to what resembled a battered version of Topaz's characteristic good-humored sarcasm. The sentence had managed to all but shed its lightheartedness, instead bearing a weight far more pressing than the District Two tribute had ever remembered, but it was still comforting, in a way, to have that particular constant make a final reappearance before the end. The words themselves were exactly what Nash had been sorry for, of course — sorry that she'd asked for that, sorry that the other girl would feel even the slightest bit responsible for the situation. Oh, hell, no use sugar coating it — sorry that the other girl would have to shoulder the responsibility of Nash's death.

"Yeah," she choked out, voice soft to the point of inaudible from having caught somewhere in her throat. She coughed once in an effort to muster a bit more conviction, or at the very least a bit more volume to her words. But even so, it was hard to speak, to say what she meant when her thoughts did not belong to any particular language, but instead a vast array of pure feeling that were completely impossible for her to interpret. She knew there was a reason to be sorry, but she couldn't process it quickly enough, and did not manage to get any semblance of an explanation thought up before Topaz had spoken again, closing the distance between the two of them with straightforward words: "I need to see your face."

The electric shiver that accompanied the light touch of her fingertips against her face as the other girl reached out to tuck a bloodied strand of hair behind Nash's ear somehow drew up memories of their shared moment in training, before they'd even entered the arena, when Topaz — the stronger tribute, the better Career — had been giving the District Two some knife-throwing pointers. It was a skill she hadn't used a single time — a skill that she wouldn't use a single time — and yet, this was the small piece of training that had made the biggest impact. Or, at least, from a retrospective point of view, it certainly seemed as if it had. For Nash, the shared space between the two tributes had brought about a conscious awareness of the District One, and with it a resolve to actually do something before she died. While the doing had been largely been in thanks to Topaz, the dying was not something she wanted the other girl to try and take the credit or blame for.

She gently caught the other girl's wrist with her bloodied hand, looking her in the eye, finally realizing what she'd wanted to say earlier, or something that would suffice. "Yeah, I'm sorry." The genuine albeit small smile that went with the words was tinged with sadness, but astonishingly, Nash's voice never faltered. "Because you shouldn't have to be. It can be on mine instead." As much as she wanted to stay put just like that, just keeping eye contact, just keeping physical contact, it had become increasingly and painfully apparent over the course of the week that staying simply didn't happen. Not in the Arena. Not in life at all. She could hold on and struggle against change as much as she wanted to, but the flow of time would always overpower. Always. So she let go.

Without even flinching — without even feeling it, really — Nash received her new wound. This one was on the hip, none too deep, none too debilitating. She was still alive, and she would still be standing, just like she'd somehow decided she ought to, even though she knew it would not be for much longer. Her legs were already on the edge of giving out, and no matter how much she willed them to cooperate, there was no conscious decisionmaking involved in the nerve impulses that controlled balance. It didn't matter that she wanted it, Nash knew she would not be standing in another minute. Death was finally coming, whether she was actually ready or not. And as much as she wanted to be ready, as much as she'd always wanted to be ready, somehow she didn't think that she was.

I wish that I had known in
That first minute we met
The unpayable debt
That I owed you

Nash Harvey —

The timer officially started when Nash hit the ground. Sand had been dropping from the top of her hourglass since she'd been placed in the Arena, and it seemed that each new milestone had involved gravity tugging at the time left in her life quicker and quicker, until it was just simply not possible for her do die any faster. She had three minutes at most before the world faded to black and her heart stopped feebly trying to pump the blood she no longer had. Nash knew. She had seen what dying of blood loss looked like. And where the Arena was concerned, she knew it wasn't even close to the worst way to go. She was lucky, more than lucky, and she knew it.

She didn't even have to be alone. How many tributes had she, in eighteen years of life, seen bleed out on the ground, whimpering for their parents, their friends, the allies they'd made, their mentor, their stylist, for any sort of human companionship? She'd seen dozens reaching out for human flesh that wasn't there, their hands clamping shut instead around twigs and roots, or fistfuls of dirt; the cold steel of their weapon if they were lucky, nothing but tragically empty air if they were not. Nobody wanted to be by themselves when their cannon knelled in mourning; and though the percussive blast was given no pitch, it carried a solemn single note as it echoed across the Arena, anyhow. Just for the departed.

When she'd thought of her luck to be dying in company, Nash had been thinking of her ally, whom she certainly would not be going anywhere before the request had actually been fulfilled at this point, rather than the company that had actually reached her first. And there she was, foolishly thinking she would get to die in peace. But with the smallest inkling of good fortune, they had taken to to abusing one another rather than ganging up on Nash, as they had done on rare occasions; they weren't even really taking individual stabs at the fallen tribute.

Now you've done it. Gone and gotten yourself killed, that was pleasant. And isn't it better this way? No more stress. I'd say

dying is pretty stressful, don't you think? You should've listened; I was right. When you had the chance, you should've —

Oh, quit your incessant babble. You can't change what's already happened, and there's no use fighting for anything anymore. Where was that pacifism that was so annoying the first few days out here, hmm? You didn't agree then when I said kill off an ally, did you? The timing wasn't right! The timing was plenty right; it would've been so