bloodletting ; chanel & beck } 94th

"Beck, do you have a minute to talk?"

The voice on the other line is vaguely familiar, even as some syllables lose themselves to radio static. A long distance call, then. My grip tightens on the receiver.

"No."

"It's about Chanel."

I wince around the warmth in my chest, a hope that's metastasized. Couldn't ever burn it all and now I'm a man made of sugar, stuck grinding his rotten teeth. The silence stretches on like we both don't already know my answer.

"I'm listening."

---

Twenty minutes past hanging up on Hume, I'm on the train with nothing but my coat and whatever would fit in it's pockets around the vodka shooters already stashed there. My mouth tastes like a hangover.

I sit with my fear, it makes for pleasant company. We make small talk as it shoves its fingers down my throat until I gag around the realization that there's not a world in which I don't go to her. That it's obvious enough Hume knew he could use me.

I press my palms into the migraine building behind my eyes and do my best to tune out the anthem playing over the communication system. A tinny rendition of the melody which had haunted my forest. It's always there in my peripheries, but it's been years since I set foot in my old arena. This won't kill me, not like it did Patricia.

It's a long ride, and at the same time it's not long enough. The crowd files out of the station, not sparing me a second glance as I turn off main street and onto paths not touched by afternoon sun. I've only the vaguest idea of where I'm heading, an address scrawled on the palm of my prosthetic.

Given the way Hume's voice went soft around the information, I don't think I'm supposed to know where Ren Tanaka lives. I've never encountered a mother's love, but I've held the result of it in my hands. Seen the corrosion on Chanel's lips and tasted the venom she left on the rim of shared whiskey glasses. I counted the scars left on her by loving Emi; memorized the gouges in her skin where she'd tried to carve out the remnants of her mother.

And in spite of that Chanel is here, in this mausoleum called a mansion. I let myself hate her for it. I let it hurt. I give up on delicate love. Whatever this is, it is mine. It's worth fighting for.

There's no plan, all reckless indifference as I pick a path toward the front door. Though a rabbit's pulse pounds in my neck I tuck the terror away for safe keeping. It's of no use to me now.

I hold my knuckles above the door, stained yellow with old bruises, and knock. Once. Twice. Three times.

No turning back now. If this is a mistake, I've already made it.