hi mox didn't change the nameplates and that drove me insane. under the cut: post-match death riders being Complicated, winner's room
mox doesn't see it himself, but he may as well. the sound is deafening, builds and builds as the cowboy fumbles fingers that must still be slippery with sweat and blood against the key. the collective drawing of a giant breath, tens of thousands strong, and the sting of the loss doesnβt hit quite as hard as the blunt force of a bellowing crowd.
mox doesn't see it himself, but he doesn't have to. the plates are seared behind his eyelids, and no amount of time sealed away could make him feel it less. fitting, mox thinks, that the way the metal swirls around the dragon's wings make it look almost like a vortex. hypnotizing. if you let yourself look at the title too long, you start hoping it looks back. mox knew better than to allow himself a sniff.
mox commemorates the dead in other ways. wheeler keeps complaining about his knee aching, these days.
course, he hadn't expected the dragon to rise from the grave. mox's mistake. he's gonna be so fuckin' smug about it. he exhales. the crowd is still going crazy. fingertips digging firmly into his shoulder tell him it's time to make his exit. cowboy's got time to be gracious. title grants you that kind of luxury.
mox lost sight of the dragon. marina doesn't say a word as she helps him to his feet, eyes sharp and darting around - threat? not currently. threat? no. threat? not yet. - and mox follows her lead back into the grey guts of the arena. claudio guards the back. wheeler's close, but mox won't look at him. bryan's mark burns heavy inside the kid's skin. it's too much for mox sometimes.