i didn't need a savior. — adrian and frost

”Any adventures today?”

Gully’s sitting across from me at the kitchen table, fidgeting with his fork. He looks up at me with a sheepish smile that answers my question. Yes, always adventures… or schemes.

”I pushed Squid into a pile of fish guts. He was pissed. But it was pretty funny.”

I break out into a smile, too. ”Ah, just tell him he’ll have to get used to the smell, it’s good for him.”

”That’s what I said!”

Gully’s laugh is infectious, the kinda laugh that shakes the legs of his rickety chair. He laughs with his whole being, like everything he hears is the best thing yet. I think it’s endearing, so I let him keep on going. He giggles as I pick up my fork and take a sniff of tonight’s fish, making a pretend face.

More serious, but with some warmth, I tell him: “Make sure to apologize tomorrow, though. You don’t wanna go losing a friend for nothing.”

That gap-toothed grin of his just widens. ”Uh huh. He probably won’t even remember, but I will. And it’ll be today, ‘cause we’re gonna go out to the beach and look for shells.”

I nod. ”Want me to walk you? I was gonna get some air, anyway.”

He agrees, and that’s how we end up venturing out into the afternoon. I wave goodbye to Gully as he runs to his friend on the sand, and I keep going. Not anywhere in particular, just… out. Moving through the sea breeze and using the time to think.

My eyes are naturally drawn to the horizon, that great unknown. I wonder if fishermen ever try to take off into the sea on their boats, or if the Capitol searches the waters. Is there a border out there? An end point, where their fleet might stop you and bring you back to land to be punished? Or is it just: good luck, there’s nothing out there, nobody will save you?

I shake my head. Stranding myself at sea, lost from the reaches of humanity, does not sound ideal. Maybe there’s a place out there we don’t know about, but I haven’t heard of it.

Not for the first time, gazing out at the endless expanse, I feel hopeless.

And I’m not the only one, it seems. I’m standing on the shore, just to the left of a dock, and I catch sight of another person gazing out. They’re pacing quickly, almost too quickly for the deck, and then --

It happens. For a split second, I think perhaps my imagination is running away with me, but it happens. One moment, I’m imagining that the stranger might slip and fall, and the next -- splash.

I think: did they mean to do that?

The frantic splashing gives me my answer. I see the way the waves crash against the dock, the roiling of the water, and the figure does not emerge with the ease I imagined. They’re gasping for air.

In an instant, I leap into action, moving before I can think further.

”Hey! Hey!” I holler, running into the waves. As I get closer, the seafloor drops out from under me, and I’m forced to swim. A blonde tangle of hair creeps just barely above the surface. It’s a boy, I can see that now, and he’s floundering.

And then he’s sinking. There’s no air in his lungs.

My heart thuds wildly in my chest. I’m still ten meters out from the boy, trying to swim closer, but I’m fighting the waves. By the time I reach him, he’s already below water, so I have to throw my head beneath the waves. I have to fight my body to keep my eyes open to the stinging saltwater, but it’s hard to do for long. But I see him -- a shadow, not too far down, but far enough to make this difficult.

I push myself down, fighting the own air in my lungs to reach him. I’m grasping, searching with my hands, catching only fleeting glimpses as the saltwater forces my eyes closed. And then there’s skin beneath my hands, the shape of a jaw, and I follow it down to catch the boy beneath his arms. I hold on tight and then stop fighting the forces of buoyancy pulling me toward the sky.

Seconds pass. It feels like it takes millennia to breach the surface, but we do. We emerge into the open air, and I just keep saying one thing as we move slowly, too slowly, toward the shore: ”Breathe. Please breathe.”

My arms feel like gelatin as we reach the place where the seafloor rises to meet us. My feet touch solid ground and I pull myself upright, but I’m not just one person now. The boy -- whoever he is -- is slumped like a rag doll against me.

I huff, trying to catch my breath. I’m used to swimming, but with another person in tow? Not so much. I know I need to hurry, but I take this small moment to gather my composure and get a better hold on the boy’s lifeless body. I stand behind him, gather him beneath the arms, and move so I’m dragging him backward. I’m thankful for the ocean and the way the water lifts his languid limbs. And for a moment, I think I see one of his hands twitch. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light.

Please don’t be dead, I think. Please, please, please. He’s cold, but he just fell. I don’t know how quickly bodies get cold when a person dies, but it can’t be that fast, can it? Maybe it’s just the temperature of the water, sapping the warmth from his skin.

God, I need to hurry.

”Come on,” I say, more for my own benefit, trying to gain speed or motivation or something as my muscles strain against the weight.

And then a miracle happens. The boy coughs. It’s quiet, sort of weak, but maybe it means he’ll be okay.

Finally, finally, finally, we reach the shore. I don’t pull him far into the sand, just enough to where the tide won’t reach us. I lay him on his back, and my brain fills with panic. His eyes are closed. He's dangerously pale.

I switch into survival mode, trying to remember what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Then I think.. Okay. Breathing. I sit next to him and lean in close, listening for the sound or the feeling of air.

And there it is -- his chest, rising and falling. The gentle, almost imperceptible touch of breath against my cheek. I sigh in relief, then lean back on my heels. I think… maybe I’ll try to wake him.

But I don’t. I close my eyes, throw my head to the sky, and try to slow the panic thrumming in my chest. And I wait for him to wake up when he’s ready.

The waking up happens slowly.

Too slowly. I think for a second that maybe this guy’s actually really sick, and he’s dying while I’m just sitting here waiting for him to wake up, and what if he doesn’t wake up? Every disaster scenario runs through my mind while I sit in the damp sand and wait. I could see if anyone knows him, try to find his family, or I could go get Gully and his friends and try to lift him to help, or --

Well, or leave him.

I hate the thought before it’s even done forming in my brain. I grimace at the idea, feeling evil for even considering it for a half second.

And then I see his fingers twitch.

Once the waking happens, it happens with the gross vitality of being human. He coughs and pukes up the saltwater sloshing around in his stomach, and I look at the sand, not wanting to watch him in this moment of weakness. I guess I just don’t know him well -- or at all -- and being sick is the kinda thing that feels personal somehow. Like oh no, this stranger will realize that I’m a person inhabiting a fallible prison of flesh, and they can’t know I sometimes vomit.

Yeah, I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking either. I just look away.

Which is okay, because sooner or later he finally gets his bearings with reality, and when I glance up he’s looking straight at me. And that feels like too much. I’m thankful that he turns his attention toward the sand when he speaks.

"Thank you... assuming you're the reason I'm not laying at the bottom of the ocean."

I laugh nervously. I don’t fucking know what to say to that. I take the brief silence that follows as a moment to observe the state of him: pale face, ragged hair, soaked and sandy clothes, eyes bloodshot. I frown.

”It’s nothing,” I say, though of course we both know that’s not true. It was a hell of a lot of work, and now my arms are jelly and my brain’s sort of on fire with nerves. ”You look… pretty rough. I’m not a doctor or anything, but I think you should… “

I trail off, because I actually have no suggestions. ”Are you cold?”

The embarrassment is rolling off of this guy in waves. I don’t know what he thinks when he looks at me, but I sort of get the inkling that he might be a Career. He has a look about him. Aside from the disastrous, panicked swimming, that is. He’s young -- maybe my age, maybe a little younger -- and he looks athletic. A lot of people in Four are, but there’s a certain kinda look about the fishermen, and I don’t remember seeing this guy on any of my shifts at the dock.

I’m glad that he eventually breaks the silence, but I’m less glad that he moves to remove his shirt. Now I’m staring aggressively at the sand, ‘cause it seems like another sort-of-awkward thing to do in front of someone you don’t know. First the vomit, now this. I mean, I know I just hauled him from the bottom of the ocean, but I feel like I’m -- I don’t know, invading his privacy. Too personal, too close.

"I'm fucking freezing, dude. But, getting out of these wet ass clothes will probably help... Are you alright?"

Until now, I hadn’t really thought about it. I could feel the nerves prickling at my brain, the wobbly feeling of my arms, and the shock, but…

I nod, lifting my gaze for a half second before I feel awkward again and stare absentmindedly at the waves. But then I shiver, because of course I do. The boy quickly rushes to apologize.

"Sorry you had to jump in, I don't know what happened, I fell and I think I hit my head on a piece of driftwood or something after I went under. I'm such a great career, aren't I?"

Memory has an odd way of warping. With the adrenaline slowly wearing off, I wonder if I got it wrong. Was he panicking? Or was there a piece of driftwood? Perhaps he hit his head and then got confused? I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Then the second part of his statement sinks in. So he is a Career. I smile in that I-know-exactly-what-you-mean-but-not-really kinda way, still looking very much everywhere but at his bare chest.

”Yeah, I --” I begin, but then lose my train of thought. The sentence doesn’t have a plan. ”I mean, I was just here, taking a walk. It’s fine. I mean, what was I gonna do otherwise? I think I’m fine, just," I shiver, "chilly. My house is just down this way. Do you wanna go warm up?”

I don’t say it, but I don’t know where this guy lives, and I’m not certain he’ll make it home okay like this. The wind’s picking up, and it’s getting darker by the minute. He should at least dry off and warm up before he ventures anywhere in the dark.

The guy throws what may be another lie out there, but I brush it off. I swear he didn’t check his pockets, but maybe I missed it. Guess it doesn’t matter anyway, and it’s not my business why he wants to hide something or other. Maybe he doesn’t even have a home. I know I’d feel sorta weird talking about my life, so I suppose I can’t blame him. You never know what someone’s dealing with.

He says his name’s Adrian, and I take mental note of it. Now I’m 100% sure I’ve never met him before. Maybe he goes to some special school ‘cause he’s a Career.

”I’m Frost,” I say, offering my hand to shake.

A cold wind whips up from the shore, and I shiver. ”Let’s go. You’re right that it’s freezing.”

We head down the shoreline, and I think about what to say. I wonder what my dads will think, me hauling a very soaked and sickly-looking stranger into the house. And while Gully’s a sweetheart, he’s still sort of an asshole, so if he’s back I can’t guarantee he won’t say something mean about how shitty we both look.

It’s silent while I’m thinking this, aside from the waves flowing over the sand. It’s not an awkward silence, but I do feel the need to warn him of my family. I can see a lantern hanging up, a little glimmer of light in the distance, so I know somebody’s home. I slow down.

”It’s getting dark, so my family should be home,” I say. ”They’re nice, don’t worry, they’re probably just gonna be concerned about what happened. It’s me, my brother Gully, and our dads.” I don’t say ‘I hope you don’t have a problem with that,’ but I think it, and it sort of hangs in the air with a silent emphasis. I’d sort of hate to invite a stranger into our house and then find out he’s freaking awful, like some people are.

”And we’re almost there. We’ll be out of the cold soon. It’s that bright light over in the distance.”

A wave of relief washes over me at Adrian’s nonchalance. If he’s perturbed, he doesn’t show it, and so long as he can keep that up -- whether he’s bothered or not -- he’ll be fine in my book.

I nod when he mentions being cold, and quicken my stride. The wind is coming in from the shore and the clouds are stirring overhead. Briefly, I’m thankful that I pulled him from the water before the weather turned. In a crueler world somewhere, we’d both be at the bottom of the ocean right now.

The last fifty yards to my house are exhausting. My legs, worn from the swim, threaten to give out at any moment. I try not to make it too obvious, but I don’t doubt that this Career can tell I’m weaker than I’d like. Living in District Four is all well and good, but the fact of the matter is that working in a boat all day is a lot different from taking a dip for exercise, which I don’t have a lot of time for.

Warm air crashes into me when I enter the front room. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Our house is small, but comfortable. There’s the front room, with a makeshift kitchen to the left, with a fireplace and sitting area in the opposite corner. There’s also two bedrooms in the back of the house. Gully’s got a little space of his own by the sitting area, since he’s the only one without his own room. It’s like a fortress of blankets where he can hide and get some space from everyone, and it works for him. Sooner or later I imagine he’ll move into my room when he gets too big, and I’ll find a place of my own.

My dads are there in the kitchen, working on a fish stew over the small stove. There’s my dad Fisher, a lean man with freckled skin, bronze hair, rough beard. Then there’s my dad Mark, a tall man with long, dark hair and skin that looks more like mine. They lift their heads and smile warmly, then sort of quizzically, eyeing the stranger at their front door.

I jump in before they can ask questions. ”Hey, this is Adrian,” I say, nodding back to where he stands. It occurs to me that I don’t want to worry my dads, so I decide to lie through my teeth.

”Is it okay if he stays here for tonight? It’s storming down the beach and that’s why our clothes are soaked, and he lost his keys, and it’s freezing out there, and he’s a friend from school, not like, a stranger, and...”

I trail off, realizing both that I’m talking too fast and that I don’t have anything else to say. I’m like a kid trying to convince his parents to let him adopt a stray puppy. Judging by the wide smiles on their faces, I can tell I’m an idiot for trying to over-sell this. I guess I just don’t have friends around much.

”Nice to meet you, Adrian,” Dad says, and he gestures with the spoon he’s holding in his left hand. ”I’m Mark, this is Fisher, and Gully’s over th--”

”I’m reading!” a voice interrupts from the corner.

Mark grins wider. ”Gully’s here, but he’s reading. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. It does look pretty bad out there.” And then he adds, with some humor: “And so do you two.”

I notice, but don’t comment on, the way Adrian looks so nervous stepping into the house. I suppose I can’t blame him; I’d be nervous if I were a stranger in someone else’s home too, but I don’t meet new people often enough to know what that’s like. Maybe he’s an anxious guy and I’ve terrified him. At least it’s warm in here.

Thankfully, he finally shuts the door and seems to settle into the moment. My dads introduce themselves, and Adrian -- thank Ripred -- continues the lie of mine. But then I’m taken aback at the mention of a heart condition. Is he just being clever? Or is it true? Was that why he almost drowned?

I feel suddenly thankful that his heart didn’t stop on the beach. Now it seems like a miracle, at least if he’s telling the truth.

Mark smiles widely at the boy’s words, and doesn’t seem to think anything of this heart condition or our situation on the beach. He nods at the stew on the stove, and I feel my body relax. We won’t have to elaborate on our story.

”Yes, we’re having fish stew from the extra catch today,” Mark says. ”You’re welcome to some of it, once it’s ready. Frost should have some extra clothes, and the fire should help with the cold.”

“Great,” I say with a nod, eager to get away from them lest they pry any further into my day or make Adrian uncomfortable with questions. I stride toward my room, unsure if Adrian’s following, but at least I can get away from the conversation.

I step into my room, and my heartbeat calms. It’s comfortable, familiar, and -- most importantly -- devoid of my parents. I’m a really terrible liar, and I feel like I’ve just gotten away with something, even if I haven’t done anything wrong. I guess I’m just not used to keeping things from my dads.

My room is small, but cozy. There’s handsewn quilts on the bed, made by my grandmother Isla before she passed. There’s a small pile of books against the wall, since I don’t have a dedicated bookshelf. Mainly it’s school stuff the Capitol approves of, like An Introduction to Fish and Wildlife, but there’s a couple of tattered novels in the pile, too. Those make me happier than anything, ‘cause they’re so tough to find, and they can bring me to a whole new world. I’ve got a makeshift desk and chair that I built with my dads one year, and in the corner there’s a nest of extra blankets and pillows that I curl into whenever I read.

When Adrian follows me into the room, I turn to him with a question I desperately want to ask. It bites into my thoughts and stays there, but I hesitate. What I want to say is ’Heart condition?’ But what I actually say is decidedly less invasive. The question hangs in the air, but I don’t dare ask about it.

”I think my clothes should fit you,” I begin, reaching to rummage through the dresser. ”They might be a little too snug or too big, but at least they’ll be dry.”

I find him a pair of loose, soft gray pants for sleeping. They’re maybe a little worn, but they’re comfortable. Then I fish out a sweater that my grandma also made; it’s knitted wool and the color of pine needles.

”Should be comfy,” I say, smiling at the memory of receiving the sweater as a gift.

But god, the question lingers in the back of my mind. Before he goes to change, I ask him meekly: ”So about the heart condition… was that true?”