heaven knows, chanel & beck.

He presses his thumb into the valley between his bruised knuckles until the dull ache sharpens into something more bearable. He's done more damage to his hand than the brick backsplash of the hotel room he'd left behind, likely an intentional move on the part of his PR department now that he thinks about it. There's probably a paper on some intern's desk that lays him out and picks at the bones; complete with psychoanalyses of all his outbursts and a canned de-escalation script.

That poor bastard deserves a raise they'll never get.

For as long as Victors have existed there's been this effort by the Capitol to frame them as a family. It's to their benefit that they seem to stand united, a hoard of Panem's perfect darlings smiling down from propaganda posters. Hell, when he was freshly seventeen and still in the process of picking Walter's blood out from under his nails he'd bought into it too. 'Cause then all the shit he'd been through would mean something, right?

Yeah, no.

Talking to other victors is like talking to a fucking mirror, somewhere to place all those simpering sympathies they're desperate to have but can't convince themselves they deserve. It's okay that you're alive and they're not. You deserve to be here.

bullshit. bullshit. bullshit.

Informing him of Patricia's death had been a scheduled event. They'd pulled him into an empty room, frowns painted over upturned lips as they instructed him not to look toward the camera. Waverly shifted from foot to foot, nerves making the cadence of her delivery jarring. As though she were informing him they'd been out of chocolate milk at the department store and not of his old friend's death.



They're still running him ragged on the sympathy circuit, though he never did find out what they did with that initial footage. This morning it's an interview with some journalist who's going to give him puppy dog eyes and extend upturned palms stained crimson with Patricia's blood in comfort. He hadn't talked to her in fucking years by the time she'd died; he's not naïve enough to think that matters.

He'll give 'em hell for her sake, at the very least.

The influx of victors from Four has made travel more bearable. People don't tend to linger as long once they recognize he's not held a headline for a few months. It's still humiliating picking through a starving crowd so he keeps his eyes on the sleek black leather of his shoes as he treks toward the café that'll hold him hostage for an hour and a half.

"Beck." She peers at him over expensive sunglasses and he decides he hates her then and there.

She doesn't rush to greet him so he drags his feet as he approaches, drawing out his last few seconds of freedom. "You look like hell." When he pulls out his chair he lets it screech across the pavement so as to drown out the next part of her greeting. "Thanks... meeting.... morning"

He sits heavy, not even posturing at politeness, "I didn't want to." There's a cup of coffee in front of him and he presses the rim to his lips with no intention of drinking. It's simply comforting to have something else between him and Chanel.

"Long night?"

He blinks slow, eyes swollen and he prays she write that it's from a hangover. His plan is to lean into the assumption and give no real answer because having no control over his emotions makes for shit lying. "Do you care?"

And he wishes he had a cigarette but Waverly had stolen his pack as she'd announced he'd be meeting with Chanel Sato for an early morning interview. She was a frustratingly efficient personal assistant. "Go on and ask the real questions, it'll be more fun for both of us."

"so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave"

tap. tap. tap.

The fingers on his left hand play an absent rhythm fueled by errant anxiety and nicotine withdrawal. Not that he needs the burn of smoke given this conversation has a similar unpleasantness building in his chest. It’s been about a decade since he smoked his first cigarette. One might think he’d picked up the habit in a, frankly, on-brand attempt at self destruction but the truth is more pathetic than even that. Beck had found himself curious what it was like to take a breath that actually felt like his own. Given that he sits here dressed up by other’s hands in clothes he didn’t pick out for himself, it’s still just about the only way he knows how.

He watches Chanel press the cigarette between her lips with a softer yearning.



Laughter is torn from his throat involuntarily, loud and sudden and very quickly clamped down by grit teeth. Still he lets eyes fall to Chanel and for the first time he looks at her instead of the space above her shoulder. She leans toward him, though nowhere near close enough to crowd him he finds the attention no less suffocating. It’s wicked and wonderful, searching for any answer he wouldn’t let fall from his tongue.



As often as Beck begs for agita, it’s rare that someone try to deliver.

His lips twitch against a grimace, forcing them both into uncomfortable silence as he observes her as an opponent this time and not some vapid Capitolite better off speaking to his last photo spread.

She looks to unravel so he ties his tongue into knots, ”Not the strangest way I’ve been asked out.” He sets the coffee she’d bought him down on the table in front of her, naming a boundary because Capitolites seem incapable of helping themselves otherwise. What does he look like in those sharp, honeyed eyes? An easy paycheck or an opportunity to feed ambition? Do those fingers seek to gouge in between the hollows of his ribs in an effort to expose the rot laid beneath or is she more interested in making him pretty and palatable? ”Not the first time it’s been an interview question, either.”

He closes his eyes against a wave of nausea, unpleasant memories have a way of taking root. At this point it’s a fucking infestation. ”If I wanted to be happy, I wouldn’t drink.” He blames poor impulse control on the answer because he certainly wasn’t intending to give her one. ”Do you often ask questions you already know the answer to or is this a special kind of intimidation tactic?” And though every inch of him begs to lean away, he props his chin on his palm and watches Chanel watch him, ”Because we don’t have to play this game. Give me a script, I’ll speak every line.”

It’s hard to ruin what’s already hollow.

So he lets them think that.

"so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave"

"You're annoying."

She's hellbent on honesty ; Beck offers it.

His heart beats slow and methodical, careful with the body he takes great care in resenting. Survivor's guilt that's metastasized into something far more sadistic these days. It's a common trait among his peers - he wouldn't be surprised if such neglect had a hand in Patricia's passing.

It'll certainly have a hand in his.

As far as interrogations go, this one could be better. He's cornered by the wooden paneling behind his head and the pleasant instrumental music leaking out of the cafe's open door. The scent of cooking grease and caffeine forms a pit in his stomach, the hunger is only comforting because it's a manageable pain.

Chanel is smarter than him. Not much of an accomplishment considering he only ever excelled in athletics back at The Academy. Still, it's intimidating to watch her draw conclusions in real time. Her closed lips hold thoughts hostage as she searches for the best angle with which to approach him.

He's beginning to wonder if she even cares about the fucking article at all.



When she sets fire between his fingertips Beck is more than willing to burn.

He smiles, cruel and grateful ; be it a mistake or a white flag he brings the cigarette to his lips and takes his first breath of the morning.

When Chanel reaches across the table and his eyes snap to her movement, fear is so often the first thing he remembers to feel. He tenses, trapping her smoke within his lungs until his head is spinning and she's retreated to back her side.

Still, there's little grace to be found around a small café table on a busy street. The constant hum of life around them forces intimacy in a way an empty room wouldn't. She leans close ; he follows suit and though he cannot feel the warmth of her from this distance, he must at least acknowledge she exists. His whole world has narrowed down to this moment in time and the scent of burnt coffee, cigarette smoke, and vanilla shampoo.

"...I'll show you mine if you tell me yours."

If he's being honest, Beck hasn't been happy in a very long time. He'd found it in the crimson hues of the jungle's sky when he reached another dawn; in the shape of Sophie's mouth when she laughed at something he'd said. As far as he was concerned it was yet another lovely little thing he'd never truly had and then lost all the same.

So much of Beck's happiness can only be found within his ghosts.

Yet they call him haunted like it's a bad thing.

"Might have to get back to you on that one." An ember burns between his fingers and he looks at that instead of Chanel "Promise that when I find out, you'll be the first to know." If he sounds bitter, it's because he is. Anger is often the second thing he remembers how to feel.

This place is breathtaking. The very picture of the world he'd fought and killed to live within all those years ago. He could tell Chanel of the list of names playing on repeat in his mind that should be sitting across from her instead of him. The papers would call it cliché, a story they've heard from Beck Hailsham before. Sales wouldn't even cover the cost of production.

The nightmare he lived through means nothing anymore.

But he's still fucking stuck in it.

"See, I wasn't trying to be difficult when I offered to lie." He lies, "I'm content with misery, that's all." He remembers the napkin in her hands and curiosity festers in spite of everything.

"Haven't thought much about what makes Capitolites happy, though. Other than the obvious."

He takes another drag of her cigarette.

"so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave"

Chanel does not rise to his anger, she meets it where it festers. It's not quite understanding, but it's to her credit that she doesn't try to feign that. There's nothing more unsettling than watching a Capitolite attempt empathy while looking down the bridge of their nose.


"It's kept me alive this long, I wouldn't have stopped even if you didn't find it charming." A dry bite, more playful than meant for venom. The furrow between his brows has smoothed some, no doubt thanks to stolen nicotine coursing through his bloodstream to the tune of a rabbit's pulse.

"You collect bad habits," Surrender currently burns between his pointer finger and his middle, so idle hands have turned inward. His focus catches on the jagged edges of her nail as he flicks his head toward it. What a funny place to find common ground.

Then she looks at him like that and it's certainly only to prove that he's got nowhere to hide. Not really. He should be quite used to staring down the barrel of a loaded gun by now, but instead he feels his prosthetic clench into a fist where it sits in his lap. He yearns for the sensation of carving crescent moons into palms.

Another insult rises in his throat and floods his mouth with the bitter taste of chemicals. He knows better than to release it as something tells him she'll hear it for what it is. A plea to just fucking look away.

So instead he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, holds his breath even though there's no smoke on it, and watches. Reluctance quickly melts into rapture as Chanel works. Several times he tries to guess what she's making only for her to fold the napkin into another convoluted shape and leave him at a loss once again. It manages to occupy his thoughts so completely that some kind of childish wonder overwhelms him.

It's brief and awfully melancholy.

Hailsham is still the only place he's ever felt at home. Which is shit because it was shit, but there was a time before they knew how bad things really were. He recalls a day he'd failed a spelling test and sat in the corner of the common room for two hours in hopes that nobody would see him crying. Unfortunately his attempt at obfuscation was not as inconspicuous as he'd hoped and Juno had thrown paper airplanes at the back of his head until he turned around.

Chanel's creation wouldn't soar as well but the wings are far prettier.

"Then with the plague that hit the districts this year,"

He scoffs loudly at that but lets her finish speaking.

Then she holds out the crane and he grinds his teeth together. His hand twitches where it's come to rest on the table. He imagines putting out the cigarette on her stupid fucking bird; considers what might happen if the damn thing caught flame. Let her singe those fingertips with bitten nails, maybe that'd be enough to ward her away from trying to crawl under his skin.

A quieter part of him realizes this is kindness.

That it's okay to be treated gently, even if it's not genuine.

Blame it on the goodwill of a shared cigarette, he lets the crane take it's place. He wonders if she'll smoke it now that he's tainted it or if it was a matter of pride and possession as it so often is with Captiolites.

His hand trembles as he tries to set the crane down without ruining it. "Ah, silly me." He sets his chin on his palm and fucking beams at her, "Didn't even occur to me to worry about how our plague was affecting you." He licks his teeth and raises his brow - all cruel indulgence, "I mean taking up hobbies? Poor thing."

The staples holding together a fresh wound burst open, he blinks hard against eyes gone suddenly dry. It would be so fucking nice if he could conjure anger.

Instead there's only exhaustion, bitter and hopeless and hollow.

"We live, breathe, and die under the Council's thumb. Dunno why everyone is hellbent on pretending Patricia's death was any different."

A thrill shoots up his spine as he speaks. It's blatant treason, but Beck is in the habit of blasphemy.

"We didn't need reminding we're not invincible, they just want to gloat."

"so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave"

Indulgence is the last thing he expected from Chanel Sato, but that only lends to the fact that he should have been paying better attention.

"Are you intimating that the Council could have done something to save Patricia Valfierno from the Rose Plague?"

She doesn't even do him the decency of feigning outrage. The question does not bite, hell, it holds all the weight of pleasant small talk. She looks to him, gaze unwavering, but Beck finds his focus caught on that fucking cigarette resting between her lips. For a brief second his expression slackens into shock and then fear before settling on something like admiration.

He's always loved the company of a loaded gun.

He can feel his pulse fluttering in his wrist, little butterfly kisses that sharpen into stinging adrenaline. His lips part under the answer they both already know but Beck hesitates to speak. If he truly wanted to die he would not spend so much of his time taunting the Reaper. No, he wants to revel in the fact that he continues to survive even with her hands wrapped around his throat. He swallows hard, choking on a laugh to ease the tension of her fingers.

He's not sure what Sato's angle is, but his silence feels a whole lot like losing so- "I'll say it as many times in as many ways as you need, Chanel." It's strange that the distance between them has become unbearable. The bustle of life around him grates on his nerves, the company of the deaf and dumb masses making it difficult to focus on the conversation they are really having. So much quieter than their already hushed voices.

Did she expect to find his beating heart in her hands, he wonders, when she woke up this morning? There's this awful hope stirring in his chest that she hadn't. That, no matter what comes of this interview, he has found out how to make himself a formidable ghost. Sure, it's wrong to hurt someone but don't the scars make for lasting memories?

The out she had offered him was halfhearted at best, offset by how fucking sweet the unspoken challenge sounds. Knuckles white and breath bated, he leans in to get a better view of her as he says, "The Council could have saved Patricia. They didn't." He exhales stale, humid air. Strange glowing eyes bore into the back of his neck. The warmth of blood crawling down his cheeks is stark in contrast to cool rain.

alive.alive.alive

In spite of it all.

To spite them all.

"If I know anything, it's what a kill looks likes." Doesn't always have to be axes in childrens' stomachs. Beck makes it a point to say horrible things. Which he might admit was a problem if they weren't also always true. He enjoys the thrill of watching the thorns wreak havoc. To those he hates, to those he loves; it doesn't matter as long as he's managed to draw blood.

He tunes out the call to return to his jungle. This is the most fun he's had in fucking years.

His eyes are almost frantic as they scan Chanel for a reaction. A small part of him, pathetic and preening, hopes that she is proud to find that he had not only given her a blade but then bared his neck. So full of buzzing impulse, he's yet to realize he's hardly even afraid of her anymore.

That's where the anger comes from, it's not exactly a well kept secret. Those who have bothered developing a tolerance to his venom know well enough that his deepest wounds are self-inflicted. He's simply never been one to worry about collateral damage. Whatever wandering ears might have caught his words are free to keep them, to do with them what they will.

No, he only cares about her. About what she will do with the life he has just set snugly within her palms. If anything, it's nice to be free of it's weight for once.

Relaxed, though maybe he shouldn't be, he laces his fingers together in front of him. And if an ending awaits him, it can't be said that he didn't fucking deserve it. He's always felt the most in control on the brink of spiraling out of it.

"I'll miss her." Aching and genuine, because he need not hide the broken heart already thumping feebly on the table between them, "She didn't lie to me after I won. Helped me more than she knew, more than I ever thanked her for."

"Too late now, I guess." Always is.

"so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave"