scarlet loathing || d4 train thread
Jun 14, 2021 19:56:02 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Jun 14, 2021 19:56:02 GMT -5
beck hailsham
His smile is sandpaper, all blood that seeps between his teeth before he spits it into the sink. "Fuck." He presses a hand to the split in his lip, leaning into the pain that causes because that's all they've ever taught him to do. Memories linger in the cramped washroom, Turner's eyes intense as they bore into the back of his neck. He hears Nanette laugh somewhere in the distance, an artifact from before he watched her forget how. Beck Hailsham is always the first to the train because he loves to greet its ghosts.
The mirror is soothing when he leans his forehead into it, exhaustion has him burning feverish as of late. So full of restless flame that it's a wonder he still manages to look this sallow. The skin beneath his eyes is kissed a dark blue that even foundation cannot obscure completely, Sailor had been sure to gripe. Though that small, scared part of him screams in protest, he lets his eyes slide shut and counts the precious seconds where nothing exists at all.
3
2
1
It always hurts to open his eyes, he hates looking at himself. Dim lighting is excruciatingly bright and his gaze is so, so dull.
He grips the counter with white knuckles and forces another smile. This one is cleaner. He can face them now.
Not that he had much of a choice.
He feels pity for the boy, Bubby. There was too much mourning when his name was called, that pregnant pause that waits for greedy little volunteers, and when none came it all collapsed. In on him and anyone else who gave a damn about him. There's a foggy memory - one Beck is actively trying to push from his mind's eye - of Bell standing on that stage and of just how small he felt looking up at her from the crowd.
It's a wonder that in all these years, nothing ever changes. Tragedy repeats itself, a broken record that skips all the sweet melodies.
Areto is electric, a thundercloud heavy with its next breath. He'd have admired her if this was five years ago and he was still a sixteen-year-old fool who believed strength is what made a good career. There's an ethereal beauty to her, one that will grab the attention of her sponsors and peers alike. He believed in so many tributes like her and then he watched them die.
But he smiles at them when they arrive, gesturing at the empty seats beside him. In spite of himself, it's not entirely false. It's a terrible thing to board this train and find yourself completely alone.
"Do we start with the depressing shit, or would you like to sample the sushi platter first?"
The words taste metallic, he must be bleeding again.
The mirror is soothing when he leans his forehead into it, exhaustion has him burning feverish as of late. So full of restless flame that it's a wonder he still manages to look this sallow. The skin beneath his eyes is kissed a dark blue that even foundation cannot obscure completely, Sailor had been sure to gripe. Though that small, scared part of him screams in protest, he lets his eyes slide shut and counts the precious seconds where nothing exists at all.
3
2
1
It always hurts to open his eyes, he hates looking at himself. Dim lighting is excruciatingly bright and his gaze is so, so dull.
He grips the counter with white knuckles and forces another smile. This one is cleaner. He can face them now.
Not that he had much of a choice.
He feels pity for the boy, Bubby. There was too much mourning when his name was called, that pregnant pause that waits for greedy little volunteers, and when none came it all collapsed. In on him and anyone else who gave a damn about him. There's a foggy memory - one Beck is actively trying to push from his mind's eye - of Bell standing on that stage and of just how small he felt looking up at her from the crowd.
It's a wonder that in all these years, nothing ever changes. Tragedy repeats itself, a broken record that skips all the sweet melodies.
Areto is electric, a thundercloud heavy with its next breath. He'd have admired her if this was five years ago and he was still a sixteen-year-old fool who believed strength is what made a good career. There's an ethereal beauty to her, one that will grab the attention of her sponsors and peers alike. He believed in so many tributes like her and then he watched them die.
But he smiles at them when they arrive, gesturing at the empty seats beside him. In spite of himself, it's not entirely false. It's a terrible thing to board this train and find yourself completely alone.
"Do we start with the depressing shit, or would you like to sample the sushi platter first?"
The words taste metallic, he must be bleeding again.
