attitude won't get you the crown, {95 train, d8}

He's not scared of the train.

This writing mass of screeching metal, the heat of its rage visible as it wafts off machine. He could lay down on the tracks and it would rip him to shreds, chew him up between its gears until there was less Tavi and more an eviscerated mound of flesh formerly known as Tavi.

And he's not scared of it, even as he hesitates at the threshold and feels his heart stop beating. Shame burns his cheeks as he shoves his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He doesn't regret volunteering, it was the best decision he's ever made.

It is. It is. It has to be.

The atmosphere is comfortably tense as he settles into a plush seat beside Theo, reaching over the victor to claim his own expensive bottle of alcohol. He wraps his lips around the mouth, pretending to drink deeply as pleasantries are exchanged. An excuse to listen, to watch, and most importantly to make it seem like he isn't.

"Thanks man," There's a red stain on his tongue as he grins at Theo. He decides he likes the victor then and there - he's the first person he's met who can take a fucking joke. His wrist still aches from that Keeper's iron grip. No way to treat a precious tribute, if you ask Tavi.

These boys are so big and bad when they snark at each other.

There's the promise of conflict, not yet a storm.

So preoccupied with this, he doesn't even realize he's stopped shaking.

"Wooooooow." He leans into Theo, regarding Machiavelli with wide eyes, "He's totally making fun of you! Are you gonna take that?" He mimes taking another drink, "'Cause personally I wouldn't let that slide."