doesntlookgood:
Notoriety common, tacked onto the name MITCHELL ( family names and forbidden stories; he’ll take on anyone that tries to prove him wrong about his father ). He’s got talent — genius, he’s heard them say. Though words expressed are not with a puffed chest, with pride worn like the glint of metal pinned to chest; in fact, there’s hesitation. It almost cost him his place here.
He’s being sized up, a man measured against a ghost and stories that scream a recklessness that seemed hereditary. Not that he cares. He’s good at what he does, and all he wants to do is fly.
Chin up, defiant.
“ Not a chance. But I’ll be sure to get you flowers once they stick you with the alternates. ”
“Save the flowers.”
He slides from the table he’s been sitting on, feet hitting the ground sure. When he moves closer to the young man, it’s with assurance resting across his shoulders and a certain knowledge in his movements: i can be better.
He dips into personal space, smirk curling at his lips and eyes fixed on Mitchell’s own. Head tips, as if in acceptance of something lower than expected standards.
“Need ‘em for your funeral when I destroy you.”
