Doomcoming was a fucking mess. All thanks to Misty's grand plan, that ended up with shrooms in their food, inevitably fucking up the rest of their time trying to avoid thinking about their imminent deaths.

What once should have been a good distraction to the fact that they will never go to Nationals and attend prom right after, turned into a horrible night filled with emotions running high, and hallucinations that were certainly lethal.

Everyone went off into the woods, into the cabin— like rabid animals who have been depraved of food.

The shrooms were taking effect as soon as they've decided that someone was taking something that wasn't theirs, everything else was a mess of a situation right after that. Jackie was fucking Travis while they were off being high, Coach Scott and Nat were nowhere to be found— so was Javi, for the time being.

You can vividly remember the way they laid their hands on Travis, trailing up everywhere in such a way that violated his sense of safety. How they had a knife to his throat as if he were a lamb sacrificed for slaughter, and they almost did.

Water splashes across his face, expression daunting and disgruntled from last night's events— and you think that he should have been more pissed than how he's acting right now. He should have done something. He deserves to be angry about it all. But no— he's here, acting like nothing was wrong, as if he wasn't just violently assaulted last night.

"I told you, drop it." He mutters, dark eyes looking into the water within the bucket, as if he wanted to take another dunk and wash himself off everything. Off the touches that he felt in various ways he hasn't felt before. "It's not worth talking about, okay? I don't care about what happened last night."

He does. You can see that he's simply holding back— afraid to look vunerable. Afraid to be pitied.

"Just, stop talking about it."