vive ut vivas

7 AM turns to 12 PM turns to 3 PM and 6 PM. Days in the Hive always pass either too quickly or too slowly–spend them thinking about the gunk stuck in your teeth and the day will never cease continuing. 

“Hi,” Yixing greets by way of usualness, sitting across Havoc and placing his dinner on the table; always a sort of wide-eyed anxiousness to the way he operates, like a baby chick just a few days out of his egg, or a newday gladiator people say had too much of his mind erased, (or a mole controlled by a machine.) Either/or.

And there’s a charming awkwardness to every silence–just enough done deliberately to make nothing seem like it was. “Hey, Havoc, listen…” he starts, pauses scattered in all the right places, so much worded in so little. “I … … left … my toothbrush. In your room.” An apology, a statement, a request–people always say Beast is an open book. 

like now, during dinner. nobody bats an eye when beast takes his dinner straight to his table without doubt. busy with their own clinking utensils and bread of the day. nobody turns their head when beast tells him about his toothbrush. safe and sound.

“and?” raises an eyebrow, but it doesn’t take long for him to smile again. beast does that to him all the time. “it’s okay. I think I left mine too in your room. probably.” shrugs, tries to act as casual as possible when he takes a dip of the soup with his spoon and lets it fall into the bowl instead.

smooth, havoc.

“so uh, how’s your day?” another poor attempt of a distraction. “I got the movie. you can sleep over for the night, if you want to.”

admin algaea actually had this drafted for the longest time and is releasing them right now as she comes back in a few days. remember the rule that if you reblog it from someone else, send them one back! 

“we need help.”

“you’re gonna be okay.”

“be careful.”

“i am the romantic type.”

“don’t leave me to turn.”

“it’s called luck—and it’s gonna run out.”

“are you still breathing?”

“we’re shitty people.”

“are you flirting with me?”

“what’s holding you back?”

“i’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

“will you /ever/ be comfortable with this conversation?”

“it’s not that easy, you know.”

“our luck had to run out sooner or later.”

“don’t touch me.”

“just fucking go.”

“does it sound like i know how to whistle?”

“i’m a pretty good shot with that thing.”

“let’s get the hell outta here.”

“goddammit—i’m clean!”

{ @blckhavoc

After narrowly escaping the jaws of a loquacious girl in the training room, Cobra relishes in the brief moment of solitude he gets walking into an empty elevator. At least for a few sweet moments. He nearly releases an exasperated sigh when a young man pushes his way through the doors before they close. Adrenaline lingers in his veins and he tenses, reflexively gripping his gym bag.

Two guys, one elevator. There was nothing weird about it.

The red tufts of hair, unkempt and wild like a flame undoubtedly belong to a face he knows ㅡ not well, but he knows it. A quick search of his recent memory places them on the same team for a mission. Matching in their lone wolf mentality, it was only right for him to think they both wanted something similar. (As far as missions were concerned anyway.) Silent and withdrawn, with complementary skills to boot, they played off each other well at the time. After that day, he considered Havoc one of the few fellow players he respected.

Cobra wipes sweat from his temple with the back of his hand, catching a glimpse of the small sun. He scratches idly at the black markings and wishes his fingernails could pry them from his skin. He plays it off as just another itch.

His eye contact is unwavering as he finally chimes up, “So what floor?”

“uh,” words die in his throat upon the gruff voice that he emitted on his own. the toothpaste box inside the plastic bag digs into his skin, swinging slightly from his previous movements. curious eyes trailing down towards the other’s gym bag before a response was finally heard. “seventh... thanks.” 

a familiar sense of lightheadness comes over once the lift started moving. he scratches his left calf with his slipper, eyes fixated to the panel to keep unnecessary eye contact the minimum. the silence is too loud without his earphones and havoc curses himself for the nth times that day for forgetting them on his island counter. 

it’s okay, give it another minute and he’d be back in the comforts of his room--

the lift abruptly halts into a stop, causing havoc to latch an arm around the handle on the wall upon reflex. "what the fuck?” was the surprised exclamation that escapes his lips. 

the whisper falls on deaf ears, but certainly not the blaring alarm that seem to pierce through his entire being. havoc thinks about leaving her right there, but that’s just the same as throwing a knife on his feet. teamwork makes the dream work. that sickening, fake saccharine voice from the tv replays in his mind. if your assigned partner dies, you die too! so make sure you have each other’s backs before someone else drive a knife into them first!

“hey, twinkletoes,” baritone breaks the silence. nails digging harder to clothed palms at the stretch of a path of bushes stretching in front of their eyes. a maze. a change of atmosphere, at least. “cover me.”

it’s not ideal, but they both need each other to survive. in more ways than one. she’s fast, he’s not. he’s a hurricane that destroys everything in his path, she’s the silent predator that kills quietly. 

the sound of the gates closing had long since stopped ringing in her ears. she had been in the game for almost four years then (though her math was wrong, she was sure that counted for most of her life), and she thought there was just a kind of calmness that came with being a veteran of a killing game; a kind of solitude in knowing what it feels like to hang her life on a live wire. 

she waited as she was told, and waited and waited until footsteps approached. roxy turned her head towards the sound and found a familiar face. if the instructions were true–which they seldom held to be–this was her partner.

the screen of his tv said it was a trial game, see if the public digs candidates getting paired up randomly and goes into a killing spree until there’s only the two of them left. havoc was lucky enough to be one of the participants to join--or at least that’s what they said. doing solo missions is one thing, but having partners? not his forte.

deep breaths. it’s just one mission. it’s not like they’re going to pair them up more in the future. no attachments, no problem.