playing with ghosts :: bowie x rafael [blitz]

[pogue]

B   O   W   I   E

White knuckling the handle of his second throwing knife, Bowie closes his eyes pretends that the chatter and chaos of tributes training is the roar of the crowd, the steel lights from above nothing more than a spotlight dragging against his skin, the nerves that run through his veins no more than pre-show adrenaline. Eyes open, the knife flies from his grasp with a single flick of his wrist.

It arcs right, just managing to graze the dummy's shoulder and Bowie watches as a thin line of red seeps from the wound, furrowed brow and frustration whipping across his face. He can feel eyes centered on his form, taking in every inch of his flesh like he's nothing more than some animal at the zoo. It feels familiar, as if the curtain has been pulled back and his soul bared to the world. He knows that feeling, of empty gazes and stares looking for nothing more than amusement.

He also knows what a stare asking for trouble look like.

It's why he's been wary of the tribute standing to his right ever since he took his spot at the throwing knife station, has felt the boy's eyes watching his movements in thrown glances. He grits his teeth, balancing the knife on his finger before popping it into the air and catching it, lowering it to the table before he turns.

"Y'know." He finally says, turning to the tribute to his right, Rafael, and cocking his head. "I was always told growin' up that it's rude to stare." He drags the back of his hand across his forehead, swiping sweat and grime away from his eyes and off of his skin. His gaze goes toe to toe with Rafael's, looking him up and down as if unimpressed before he speaks again.

"So are ya rude? Or can I help you with somethin'?"