We're {Too Old // Not Old At All}{T/N}

I lean back and let my eyes just go,
floating now where they want to float.
They seem to take to the horizon.
Now I know there is a world beyond
the small place I was coming from.
I feel at home here in the middle of nowhere.

Nash Harvey —

It startled Nash to hear her ally return the words that had been drifting through her thoughts in response to the whispered declaration that she'd made to the darkness. Yes, if Topaz would — when Topaz did win, it would mean that Nash would be dead. It was something she'd already toyed with in her head, already accepted as a truth. But they never made any impact on her until she heard the syllables out loud. "If I do, you're going to die."

Yeah. Yeah, she was. But there was no denying the newer, different sort of iciness that came over her with the words. As though she'd have to die right then. She didn't particularly want to, not while there was no immediate threat, nothing left to be accomplished in the Arena. She wanted to use her dying breath to make some sort of forward progress, if it were in any way possible. To make an impact.

But did she care that she wasn't going to return to District Two? The response was reflexive. "No. Not particularly." She did her best not to dwell on life back home — the memories of the callous and unfeeling Career district were growing dimmer by the day, replaced with the vivid orange hues of the Arena's foliage, the crimsons of spattered blood, the heaviness of mist over the Lake. And Topaz. And forced thoughts about the Two, like did they care that she was going to die?

She thought for a moment, a slight frown of trepidation coming over her face as she braced herself for their unceremonious barging into her conscious thoughts. Would she have to try and fight them off again, battle back the influence to try and do away with her ally once more? Even their usual constant bickering was a headache that Nash preferred not to put up with if she could help it. But with such a question plainly directed at them, it came to be a complete surprise that no sound came.

She was left to be their spokesperson with very little information on the subject, a feeling of power over them that — despite however minor it actually was — had seldom if ever been realized. She was speaking for them, making up their minds for them, and not the other way around. Nash seized the moment to enforce whatever temporary control she had over them, whether it would be effective or not. "And I don't know if they do. Don't know what their plans are for after my death, if they've got any, or what will happen to them. But there will be silence, at least. Silence at last."

Of course, it wasn't exactly true that there had been no silence before; a few several months ago, the Two ignored her completely for several weeks, either forced out of her head by her own guilt or intentionally ignoring her to make her feel worse about having put some other Career boy (a real Career, this one) in the hospital. That time, Nash had not fared too well without the voices in her head, which had at the very least always been a small comfort in their consistent appearances. By the time they'd finished punishing her and finally made their return to her brain, Nash had been a wreck. But this time? The temporary mental solitude she'd been granted since the kiss had been calming rather than debilitating. It allowed her a chance to figure out the end-stage of her life, to make whatever plans could be made in the Arena before the end of it all. Or, at the very least, it allowed her to enjoy it.

Nash finally cast her gaze towards Topaz — a luxury of sorts that she'd been denying herself all morning for the simple reason that she would have felt incredibly creepy watching anyone sleep — as the other girl made her way over to the pillar which Nash occupied, sharing her body heat with the District Two tribute once again. Another involuntary shiver ran itself up Nash's spine, this one not brought on by the cold, specifically, nor the new absence of it. She made no protest as Topaz took one of Nash's hands in her own, but was rendered somewhat incapable of making any responsive action by the butterflies in her stomach. The other girl's hands were far warmer than Nash's own, which had turned to ice in the chilly air. They were powerful, Nash felt, rough from Career training, a bit larger than her own. Perhaps it was a direct result of their brief exchange about Nash's own mortality, but they somehow made her feel a little safer, better protected. And it all but eliminated the risk that the Two would be able to get Nash to succeed in doing anything she didn't want to, even though it seemed unnecessary, given their silence. It felt better that her hands weren't bound in her ally's out of precaution.

Although the announcement that Topaz made about the weather was quite obvious and doubtlessly a filler piece of conversation, a way to keep out the silence when there really was nothing to be said, Nash took delight in hearing her ally's voice, anyhow. It made her feel connected, the way they were sitting, the way that they just were. Together. For the time being, they were, anyhow, although it wouldn't be too long before they were forced to separate by the Gamemakers, by other tributes, by simple basic survival needs, but Nash didn't want to consider that. They had their moment, and, no matter how brief it was in the scheme of things, she was content — far more than content — to just be.

"Yeah." Her soft agreement came at a long last, and with it Nash did not hesitate to lean into the other tribute a bit more. No matter the infinitesimal magnitude of their moment in the grand scheme of anything — of life, of Panem, of these Games — it was still theirs. Any inhibition she may have felt earlier on account of fear had been completely decimated by her grasp on her own mortality, and, more than that, by her newly acquired sense of belonging with the other tribute, at least for the time being. Gently, she rested her head against the other tribute's shoulder, not really wanting to ruin the moment with her words. Some things were better in silence.

Oh, and I know this of myself
I'd assume as much for other people
Oh, and I know this of myself
We've listened more to life's end gong
Than the sound of life's sweet bells

Nash Harvey —

Confusion, though no stranger to Nash's face, was usually brought on by the mental-verbal assaults that she'd been subjected to on a regular basis, rather than by actual internal conflict. Unsure of what exactly they ought to do, what emotion they should reflect, Nash's lips pressed themselves into a thin line, a bittersweet smile of mixed gratitude and sorrow at the other tribute's admission. "I care. I care a lot, actually." The lines threw the District Two's stomach for a loop, although it didn't take her too long to figure out why the words had more weight than anything she'd heard for about as long as she could remember — in the Arena or otherwise.

No one had ever cared about Nash before, not really. Or if they did, they never expressed it. Not with the effortless and unprompted honesty that Topaz had, there was no question about it. That was what brought about the pang of guilt that had followed; if people hadn't cared about Nash very much prior to the Hunger Games, nobody should be burdened with having to care about her right before she died. But maybe, she realized, it wasn't a burden; maybe, for the other girl, it was something that just was, and didn't need anything to accompany it. Or maybe it was, in a way; Nash's experience with serious Careers had shown that anything that would stand between them and victory was a serious threat. Whatever the case was — and when it came down to it, it didn't really matter — she was more than grateful for the gesture. She laced her fingers through one set of those that held them, giving a slight squeeze of thanks.

Reserved though she had been for much of her Hunger Games experience, Nash could not let the moment to return the sentiment pass. Because she was convinced that Topaz would be the one to win, and at least deserved some sort of closure, or to not be forced to wonder about more alternate universes than she'd have to. Something about the dark hours between dawn and dusk always made Nash feel the need to whisper. "Me too."

Perhaps as a result of their proximity to one another, or perhaps from the fact that in Nash's mind, the moment was nothing short of sacred, but she refused to let herself think of what Panem was seeing, what Panem was doing, what Panem was thinking. Regardless of the fact that the entire event was broadcast on national television, it was still a private moment, and nobody else had the right to intrude on that. Tributes, from Nash's memory, and especially Career tributes, did not often get cozy. They did not get familiar, they did not speak of each other's deaths so calmly. And they certainly did not care about one another, or freely admit that they did. They did not get rest their heads together, or hold hands, or be at ease with one another.

But Nash had long since been sick and tired of hearing about what a proper tribute ought to do, or ought not to do. It had been drilled into her head during her younger years, and ignored as best as it could be later on. And now that it was the proper time to put her lessons of Arena behavior into play, it was no wonder that she'd continue on with her streak of spite. But she didn't want to think of her mother, or any of the negative associations that went with the doctor. They didn't belong in the Arena; Nash did. And she didn't need that ruined for her, too — although nothing short of a sudden firestorm would be able to extinguish the soft and peaceful happiness that she felt just being with her ally.

Allowing her eyelids to drift slowly closed, Nash focused more on Topaz's fingers as they ran through the District Two tribute's hair, in a pattern that was almost rhythmic, relaxing the tribute to the point where President Snow himself could have walked into the Arena and stuck a knife in her abdomen without her caring in the slightest. Death at this point would be a disappointment only in the manner of cutting their moment short. Nash still longed to keep the sun from rising, to keep the day from progressing, to force time to stay in one place for a little bit longer, a little bit longer, a little bit longer — but she knew her efforts were futile. But regardless of whether time would obey Nash's whim (it wouldn't,) at least the temperature was effectively controlled by the warmth shared between the two of them.

The only thing to really chill her was the next sentence out of Topaz's mouth. "I don't want to be the one to kill you." The words were innocuous enough — for that particular conversation, anyhow — yet still brought a biting reality back to the forefront of her mind. There were only seven tributes left, five others apart from the two that rested against the stone pillar. That left only six possible killers for Nash, and the number was dwindling as time wore on. Someone would have to, surely. She tried to console herself with the fact that these Games wouldn't come down to just herself and Topaz; she wasn't good enough of a tribute to stay alive all the way to the end. But hadn't she said the same about making it out of the Bloodbath? Or into the top half of tributes? The top ten? Yet here she was, wasn't she?

On the flip side, Nash was almost positive she wouldn't be killing Topaz, no matter what the Two tried. Whether her life depended on it — which it would, at that point — or not, the inhibition caused by the arguing inside her head would doubtlessly serve as an impediment to her reflexes, worsening her already mediocre-at-best combat skills, not to mention the fact that she wouldn't allow herself a weapon. But to consider having to do it, and be consciously aware of it? Unable to pin it on anyone else — or any two others? That would be miserable. "I know," she started, small hesitation cutting off her two thoughts. She lightly ran her thumb over the edge of her companion's hand, crafting the sentence that she wasn't really sure she wanted to say. She spoke the words aloud, anyhow. "But I wouldn't hold it against you if you did." It was ridiculous, of course, that a dead person would be able to hold something against the living, all uncertainty about ghosts momentarily suspended. But in truth, Nash wouldn't particularly mind if it were the District One tribute to kill her; after all, death was something of a personal matter, so why wouldn't it be better to be killed by a friend than a stranger? Save for the psychological damage it would spare the friend — and there was great amount of potential for that — there weren't many benefits.

She almost found it funny, the ease with which they were discussing her future death — like they were planning it, almost. It was an odd conversation piece juxtaposed with their, for lack of a better word for it, togetherness, but Nash couldn't find room to complain. What was the matter with discussing the inevitable? Why did there have to be such a taboo around death? As her own drew quickly nearer, she wove in and out the five stages of dealing with loss — although, fortunately, hovered most frequently around acceptance. Because, really, and especially after their morning, Nash would be okay with it.