taste of death. district four.
Feb 24, 2022 18:09:50 GMT -5
Post by ruby wolfe [d2] kaitlin. on Feb 24, 2022 18:09:50 GMT -5
You sit on the couch with your knees pulled up to your chest, breathing even as Beck Hailsham looks like he's about to fall to pieces. There's something to the way he looks at Nixie that you're not quite sure what to do with, but it makes you want to keep your distance from both of them, former admirations of Nixie Summers aside. It's a quiet sort of desperation that clings to every one of his features, no matter what mask he's wearing.
You're not sure how many other people have noticed it, but you're curious about the show that this boy is putting on for everyone. Curious why he's hiding it. Why he's not doing a better job at pretending he's not.
But still. The scores are airing, and you know your fists should be clenched at your hips. Your jaw should hurt with how tightly you are clenching it—but yet, it doesn't not, and you do not stress.
You went into that room knowing what you were doing, were trying to provoke a reaction because you knew that's what you were supposed to do, so you had to do it well. But beyond that, you didn't follow their rules, didn't give them any advance warning for what you were doing. You'd slunk into the training room at odd hours and set your traps and pulled your strings in the quiet of your darkness and then threw it at them full force, no hesitance.
You aren't much expecting to be rewarded for that.
"Drink that," you say, snatching the bottle of scotch off the little tray behind the couch and shoving it towards Beck. "Chill the fuck out," you go on. "You're even going to start stressing me out with the way your leg is bouncing. Do you need a cigarette or something?"
You're not sure how many other people have noticed it, but you're curious about the show that this boy is putting on for everyone. Curious why he's hiding it. Why he's not doing a better job at pretending he's not.
But still. The scores are airing, and you know your fists should be clenched at your hips. Your jaw should hurt with how tightly you are clenching it—but yet, it doesn't not, and you do not stress.
You went into that room knowing what you were doing, were trying to provoke a reaction because you knew that's what you were supposed to do, so you had to do it well. But beyond that, you didn't follow their rules, didn't give them any advance warning for what you were doing. You'd slunk into the training room at odd hours and set your traps and pulled your strings in the quiet of your darkness and then threw it at them full force, no hesitance.
You aren't much expecting to be rewarded for that.
"Drink that," you say, snatching the bottle of scotch off the little tray behind the couch and shoving it towards Beck. "Chill the fuck out," you go on. "You're even going to start stressing me out with the way your leg is bouncing. Do you need a cigarette or something?"