ghost town, chanel & beck.

[🌱 kaitlin.]

The phone call starts like this: “Meet me at Half Alive.”

I let it end as quickly as I began.

No preamble, no explaining, no questions about whether or not he’s free. Only this, and a confidence bolstered by frustration and warm vodka.

I don’t know exactly how to explain away the impulse, can’t explain why I picked up the phone and decided to dial Beck. More than that, demand he come and meet me at a bar in the southern section of the residential area. It’s not my favorite bar; the cocktails they make are bottom shelf liquor at best, overpriced and always watered down by too much ice. No one asks questions about who you are there though. That’s what matters to me.

After talking to Hume, I couldn’t help but storm off to my office, my boots making heavy thumping noises against the floor as I moved through it. The fluorescent lights strangle me slowly, the way they buzz and flicker, making me feel like there’s something vibrating in my chest. I make a point not to stop, storm away from Hume and his pansy ass decisions about journalism. He doesn’t pay me nearly enough to care about whether or not Victors View gets to decide whether or not I’m going to write this piece about Patricia Valfierno and all the people who are mourning her. Clarity Carmichael tries to get my attention when I walk past her office, but I pretend not to hear her and just keep moving until I can slip into my office and shut the door behind me. The last thing I feel like engaging with is how much she wants to talk about her case with the stylist who supposedly stole some designs from an up and comer out of Seven. Clarity always smells like the caramel hard candies that she sucks on, rotting her teeth out and pretending she isn’t getting them bleached every three months. 

Calling Beck is an impulse, a stray thought that’s turned into action before I can let myself think twice.

Picking up the phone, I press the buttons to get Jeremy’s line, our office assistant. He’s less of an assistant and more of a whipping boy most days, but he knew what he was signing up for when he agreed to the entry level job at Capitol Times. At least I don’t get mad at him when he fucks up my coffee order. I’ll leave that variety of cuntiness to Clarity and her overperfumed bullshit.

“Hello?”

“Jeremy,” I start. “Get me Hailsham’s number.” I pause only a beat. “Now.”

“Right away, Ms. Sato.”

That makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit, the evidence of my authority over him. It makes my stomach roll.

I’m a writer, not anyone’s boss.

I slip the warm flask of vodka out of my purse instead of analyzing the feeling, take a sip and wait for it to hit my belly. It doesn’t take long for the world to start to go a little bit blurry, fuzzy around the edges, dropping the curtain in front of my eyes that makes the world so much easier to be a part of. I told my therapist that I’ve been doing better about not drinking as much, but it’s starting to feel like I’m lying to Doc, bold face and all. Not that it stops me. If anything, the thought makes me take another swig. There’s nothing else that makes it possible to deal with this place, this city that has always felt more like an old acquaintance I lost touch with rather than a home.

Jeremy delivers me Beck’s phone number himself, scribbled handwriting that I think better of giving him shit for. My own isn’t any better. He doesn’t laugh when I answer his question about being able to do anything else for me with “set the building on fire” though.

Maybe it went over his head.

Either way I roll my eyes and tell him he‘s welcome to fuck off back to work when he just stares at me like a little toddler in need of validation.

It took me less than thirty minutes from the time I hung up on Beck to make it to the front entrance to Half Alive, beat up old place that’s usually frequented by the Capitol’s working class instead of women like my mother. Nondescript gray door, the kind of place that has a couple windows covered by dark curtains on the inside, people come here to forget that there’s a world outside.

Roger nods at me from behind the bar, a familiar gesture of hello. He’s a pretty good guy, I think, and he’s got a strong pour, so I nod back at him in an equally noncommittal gesture of acknowledgment. He’s wearing his usual get up of a flannel over a stained tshirt. I could wait for Beck at the bar, but talking to Roger always makes me a little bit sad. I don’t need help with that, especially not at 2 PM on a Thursday. He’ll have Ruthy bring me over a glass of bourbon, no ice, and when he does I down it like a shot, hand it back to her unceremoniously, and settle in to wait for Beck to show up.

I know he’s going to.

We committed treason together. Quietly, carefully, certainly, intentionally. Ive never much been in the business of making friends, but that felt like a better bonding experience than any other I have ever had.

Ruthy brings over another, and a second glass when she does, but I tell her to just turn back and bring the bottle. Beck waltzes through just as I plant the glass back down on the table, bourbon number two slamming down my throat. Mixing hard liquor has never been a good idea for me, but I decide not to think about the consequences as I pour myself another.

I fill the glass I had Ruthy collect for Beck, stiff pour to do Roger proud.

“Sit down. We’re drinking.”

CHANEL
SATO

[ᴥ]

beck hailsham.

It's a low-grade fever. Muscles aching gently, little more than a whispered pain that I barely even notice. That is, until it's quiet and I realize too late that my thoughts have drifted to a small table in a crowded cafe. To the jagged scar I carved into my tongue and the way she looked at me, open and bleeding, and then did the same. It's a good thing I'll never see Chanel Sato again, because the last time I found someone so stuck in my mind's eye I fucking reveled in setting the both of us on fire.

And if her thoughts ever drift as mine do, I hope they feel as unpleasant.

I'm forced into five more interviews over the next two days. There's a nice mundanity in the brutal professionalism or gratuitous fawning I'm met with. I might be a shit liar but that hardly matters when they take my words and twist them up into whatever they like. At the very least, they end without mouths full of treason and nicotine highs. Which is a good thing, because I still feel a bit like someone tried to pull my lungs out through my nose since that afternoon.

Waverly says I'm strange, lately, 'cause I look her in the eyes when she talks now. In response I threw a pillow at her face and told her to get the fuck out, please, and we haven't spoken since. Maybe she quit. She'd be better off.

(Have you ever heard of an ouroboros, Mr. Hailsham?

Bless you.

No, no it's a myth! A snake swallowing it's own tail. It's, like, this metaphor for eternity and repetition.

It's stupid then, why wouldn't it just let go?

Mm. I wonder.)

I should have been angry when that article dropped but I'm starting to worry I've burnt through hatred and now it's all just ashes. I'm a fucking mouthpiece for propaganda, every word I've ever spoken is for the Capitol to do with whatever they like. Of course they want to denounce Patricia, they fucking killed her.

Vindication gives way to wonder, just when will I see that fluff piece from Chanel? I know the tide has changed - somber grief giving way to condemnation but I, personally, think the mixed messages would be hilarious.

"Mr. Hailsham?" Waverly shouts through the locked bedroom door. So she didn't quit, poor thing. "There's a call for you!"

I make sure to groan loud enough that she can hear it, my head falling back against the wall with a soft thump. I've got no idea what time it is, the blackout blinds are always pulled in my room to hide the gaudy sea-faring décor and I didn't drink so I didn't sleep because that's just asking for night terrors.

"Let it go to voicemail, Waverly." As she's been instructed to do that with every call I get. This is probably petty revenge for the pillow incident, which I can't say I don't deserve.

"It's Ms. Sato, Mr. Hailsham."

Before I'm even aware I've made the decision, I'm by the entryway with a fluffy comforter tangled around my ankles. I don't want to face Waverly, so I crack the door open and hold out my hand for the phone. "Give it." I think I hear her chuckle before the places it on my palm.

Indignance, hot like molten iron, settles in my chest. I didn't give her my number, so I don't know why she thinks she can call me. What does she expect? Another interview, more in line with the current popular opinion? Or is this to chastise me for giving impulsive answers when I know the media's game?

I absolutely should not answer this phone call. Nothing good can come of it.

"What do you-"

"Meet me at Half-Alive."

The call ends as quickly as it had begun.

I'm familiar with the bar, hell I've been there a couple times. When I was looking for a quiet night and not to throw crystal tumblers at glass partitions and pick a fight with the fanciest suit at the bar. It's strange to imagine her there and even stranger to picture myself sitting across from her. I'm far too sober for wondering why she called and why I don't even consider standing her up.

My walk of shame out to the parlor is softened only by the comforter I've thrown around my shoulders to hide that I'm still in my boxers well past noon. "Waves?" I grimace, feeling like I'm talking through a mouthful of broken glass, "I'll need something to wear."

I'm a bit too presentable as I reach Half Alive. Waverly was smug about it, insisted on doing my makeup herself because I've got one clumsy hand and the other is shitty and fake. I don't feel as ridiculously done up as I do when professionally styled, but I'm more nervous about it. Fidgeting with the sleeves of my leather jacket and pulling hard enough at the silver necklace resting on my throat that I worry it might break.

Having Chanel's full attention, I have learned, is a very uncomfortable experience. One I'm almost eager to experience again. But I'm not going to dwell on that or the soft smile that settles on my lips as I find her sitting at a table with an empty glass across from her. A place for me. The assumption is infuriatingly heartwarming.

She fills my glass and I've drained it before I've even sat down. "That sounds like a terrible idea. I'm in." I grin, all indulgence. Though she scheduled this meeting it feels significantly less on her terms. She's not being paid to prod at me and I'm not scraping bloody nails against a gilded cage. Her editor isn't looming over us with a Cheshire grin, kind only if I dance to their tune.

Here we're reckless. With each other, not to spite one another.

"Do you do this often, or am I special?" I lean my chin on my palm, pulled toward her but I'm not thinking about that because I haven't even bothered to consider why I even showed up. Save that for drunker thoughts. "I assume it's been a rough week." And I laugh at her a little, because it's fun.

Because I like to push her.

"would it really kill you if we-"

♪

[🌱 kaitlin.]

Hailsham doesn’t look the part of Orphan Boy when he sits down across from me.

At first glance, we mirror each other in certain ways, the dark color palette, the curated grunge, the designer pieces that aren't normally popular with Capitolites. Beck has a cleanness to him though that's hard for me to miss, even with the liquor clouding my eyes. That's where I notice the difference first; the color on his face is freshly applied, airbrushed in the way that only lasts a few hours before all makeup begins to crumble. I should know. Mine's been on for days. Maybe I should feel embarrassed about the fact I don’t really remember applying the eyeliner I’ve woken up with, only that it’s been there for three days, but I’m too impressed by it’s lasting power to do anything about it. I applied my eyeshadow in the bathroom at work this morning after choking back a double espresso with the same lipstick that left a mark on the cup's brim.

There's two now to match my old coffee cup on the glass tumblr in front of me. 

That sounds like a terrible idea. He doesn’t pause, but the second still sails past my ears with a whooshing noise, the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears. I can’t explain how badly I want him to pick that glass up off the table, or the satisfaction I feel in the pit of my belly when he says I’m in as he wraps his lips around the rim of the glass.

Something about his voice makes me feel less ragged.

You never feel quite as alive as you do when you want something. I feel like I know that better than most people.

I raise my eyebrows at him, pick up the bottle of bourbon and tip another pour into his glass, pour myself one to match. It’s my turn to mirror him this time, feel a grin spread across my cheeks before I can really think better of it. He hadn’t managed to make me smile last time. I remember that fact with pride. It makes this one taste sweeter. “It’s been a rough week.”

I take a sip of my glass this time, rather than finishing it with a single swallow. My lipstick leaves a third imprint of my mouth, and the bourbon infects my brain with the thought of that same imprint under the edge of Hailsham's t-shirt.

I distract myself by talking.

“I’m not interested in nurturing your inflated sense of self by reminding you that you’re special.” The words are honest, but I say them callously, as if they’re a joke rather than the truth. If he’s smart, he’ll see through it. I make a sort of noncommittal gesture with my shoulders and look away from him, taking another sip of the bourbon. I should slow down before I outdrink him by a mile. I almost wish I hadn’t had the vodka already, am finding it a little hard to focus on the sharp lines of his face. I tip my head back against the leather of the seat behind me, watch a pair of men, already sloshed, stumble in through the front door and crash in another booth across the room. Poor Ruthy looks miserably at Roger behind the bar before trudging over to them, shoulders resigned, notepad out in front of her as if that was going to stop either of them if they wanted to get too handsy with her. I’m not in the mood to get in the middle of anything, but I’ll go dump their beer over their heads if they try and ruin my afternoon. “Besides, do you really need to hear it from me?”

When I look back at Beck, it’s with the unflinchingness of someone in her cups.

"I'm sure Luella Saint-Luce did a wonderful job reminding you of that when she had you spit on Valfierno's grave."

CHANEL
SATO

[ᴥ]

beck hailsham.

I've no interest in gentle things. Call it a lingering aversion from my academy days but I've always found hope to be little more than delusion made an analgesic. I prefer my vices a bit more potent. The more I think on it the more I'm certain I wasn't meant to survive all this bullshit. That my being here is some cosmic fuck up and now I'm burning through stolen time with shitty bourbon.

Chanel smiles when she refills my drink.

She didn't during the interview. I realize it only after I've seen the way her face changes around the expression. Pretty in every way I don't really expect, like her eyeliner bleeding out at the edges and the way her lipstick has begun to give in to glass rims. It grates against me, more painful than pleasant. Awful only because I can feel myself becoming comfortable with her company.

I like listening to her speak, even bitter words. If Chanel meant what she said, she's not stupid enough to think I'd mind the way they stung. This particular brand of self-loathing sits prettiest behind a liar's grin. In place of laughter I let alcohol stagnate on my tongue. The warmth of it settling somewhere just behind my eyes. The room's not quite spinning, but the harsh industrial lighting suddenly glows with an angel's warmth, halos flaring.

“Besides, do you really need to hear it from me?”

"Yes. Absolutely."

Said with the unflinching confidence of a man who knows he won't be getting what he asked for.

I wonder if that's why Chanel twists the knife. The fucking interview. Less than that, the microphone they shoved in my face outside the door to my hotel room where I was already worn into less than nothing and desperate to unravel alone. Only a few hours after it had finally sunk in that I would never see Patricia again, and minutes after I came to terms with the fact that actually upset me.

("I'm tired of hearing everyone talk about how to honor her.")

Is that such an unreasonable thing to feel?

"'I want to see what you're willing to do to make sure she's not forgotten.'" I finish my drink and set it down beside the bottle, begging for more ruination. There's boiling heat in the gaze I set on Chanel - unflinching because now there's blood in the water and I've just realized I'm starving. Fuck my face always gets red when I drink, "That's the part they cut out."

I've forgotten all intention of a peaceful evening, this is much more fun. "Is that what this is about, Chanel? Am I here to be cornered over an unfinished thought?" It's impossible to ignore the weight in my chest, whatever's left of the dumbass who'd agonized over which shirt to wear because this might have been about more than a bottom line.

"If I ruined your stupid article, I'm glad."

"would it really kill you if we-"

♪

[🌱 kaitlin.]

At first, I think he’s talking directly to me. It feels like the leveling of a challenge, something he’s keen to see me do personally, like he wants to watch me build the memory of Patricia brick by brick until I’ve laid the foundation of her memorial with my own bloodied nails. He wouldn’t be wrong for it, would have every right to wish that someone give a damn about a woman who died in a way no one deserves to go. Especially someone he shared something as intimate as history with. The part of me that wants him to know he’s not alone in wanting the world to be remembered exactly as it is picks up the bottle and pours him another glass, answering a question he didn’t bother to ask.

I twisted the knife in his gut myself. I’d be an idiot if I were surprised he went for the jugular. Worse, I'd be disappointed. 

Beck’s words are softened by the need to drink though, a showing of cards and an indulgence in a weakness that I put in front of him on purpose. It makes my thoughts blow back on themselves, ignites a stirring in my chest that makes me roll my eyes rather than put walls up. The flush he gets in his cheeks when the anger starts to burn in him is lovely to look at. I shift in my seat, don’t hide it, (I feel alive). Sometimes it feels like weightlessness, like if I exhale I’ll fade away in the breeze. Not today though. Not right now. 

Beck’s inflated sense of indignation seems like a self-inflicted wound, and I watch it take hold over him as every muscle in his body flexes as he speaks. He stays like that, all tension, and I’m exhausted looking at him. Loosen up. 

But it grounds me exactly where I am. 

“Oh please, Hailsham,” I say around a quirk of my mouth, another smile, another point in his column. I should stop keeping tally, but there’s a strange fluttering of pride in my chest when he makes it happen. “If I wanted to corner you, I would’ve invaded wherever you were.” I gesture between the two of us with a lifted hands, drawing an invisible string to tie us together. “This is because I knew no one else would commiserate with my miserable rage the way you will.”

That’s what he’s missing here, the juicy, meaty center piece I haven’t given him yet. The part where he realizes I have no love for this city, this suffocating place I’ve been forced to live in my whole life.

I shrug. Grimace.

“Story was going to be bullshit before my editor pulled it anyway. Fluff pieces are just smear campaigns dressed up in silver trim and wrappings.”

CHANEL
SATO

[ᴥ]

beck hailsham.

Like always she's content to watch me burn, exasperation tinged with fascination glimmering in her gaze. In two short meetings I've made a fool of myself far too many times, which should be embarrassing.

More than anything I like the audience.

I've found so many are eager to hang themselves on good intentions. They look at me as though I'm still bound to that infirmary bed, looking up with glass eyes and pleading not to be hurt anymore. That seventeen year old might have been worth their pity but not me. I could do better if I wanted, I have more than enough opportunity.

Chanel came across this grave I've dug and slung her legs over it's mouth. To keep me company, not pull me from it's depths. "Fine you're right, but I'm not apologizing." It's a struggle to relax into her company, even with the sheer force of the alcohol hitting me. Trust is an effort, a conscious decision I'm forced to make. It's painful, like bending fingers back far enough they break. It is not a sacred thing to be earned, it's more akin to placing my head on an executioner's block.

I know I will come to regret this some day, yet- "Oh I would have loved to read you smearing me so prettily, I think." Thoughts threaten to spill unbidden off a numb tongue and so I busy my gaze with the sad sods at the bar instead.

(So that I don't say that her miserable rage is quite captivating, that I wasn't going to take the fucking call until I saw it was her. That I've got no idea why I'm even here but she makes me feel terrible and I think I'm becoming obsessed with the sensation.)

This bar is full of people who look like, well, just that. Seemingly untouched by the Capitol's repulsive glamour, they've not paid for surgeries to turn their skin blue and torn out all their teeth to replace them with platinum. They're exhausted, with wrinkles worn into their skin and callused hands. They're pathetic, like us, getting a drink at two in the afternoon. "You hate what you do," Stating the obvious, I wince at the weight of my tongue. "Whatever's got you pinned must be a force of fucking nature."

I scoff, looking back to her with a brow raised, "Since you're still doing it, even so full of spite."

"would it really kill you if we-"

♪

[🌱 kaitlin.]

I like hearing him say that I'm right.

If it were another day, he'd make my smile stick around, I'm pretty certain about that one. Or at least he'd have an easier job at it. I had felt like I was suffocating on intentions sitting in the office though, counterfeit self righteouness that most of my coworkers only employ because they're afraid to look their callousness in the mirror. I can't count the number of times I've watched Kathy type up a piece about a string of dead hookers off Style Street, or some similarly nauseating violence, all while munching on her nasty caesar salads. The memory never fails to disgust. Even Beck begging me to ruin him doesn't get the smile to stick. I inhale, take a sip, feel the warmth kissing the back of my throat and heat my chest. I shrug out of my black bomber jacket, another ridiculous purchase that says more about me than I'm comfortable with people noticing. Military issue, from a million years ago. According to my mother, good 'ole Dad commanded the battalion.

I'm not exactly a sympathizer when it comes to the Peacekeeper force here in Panem, but there's something to be said for the aesthetic. Looks great thrown over my ratty t-shirt. That also says more about me than I'm willing to consider at the moment, so I let my liquor-addled brain latch onto Beck's words instead, and the way his mouth looks wrapped around them.

I scoff a little bit when he tells me I hate what I do, tip my head against the back of the leather booth and look down my nose at him for a second before closing my eyes.

"I thought you'd understand," I say, opening my eyes to study the ceiling. I swirl my glass in a circle on the table, absent, slow, then stop and trace around the brim with my pointer finger. I tip my head back down to study the ministration, letting him look at me. "Sometimes I think I do it because I hate it, because I'm filled with spite."

I decide I want to look at him again. The movement is abrupt, but once I make a choice, the whole moment is already in the past. It feels like I never looked away.

"It's mostly just a way to fill the days between books anyway."

CHANEL
SATO

[ᴥ]

beck hailsham.

I thought you'd understand.

Sometimes Chanel doesn't really answer, she just holds up a mirror and makes me stare into glazed eyes addled by liquor. I wait for the anger and the outrage to settle between my teeth at the mere suggestion. To rise, as it so often does, unbidden but not unwelcome - repose from feeling literally anything else. The boy of a few afternoons ago would have spit in her face for suggesting he held any empathy for the Capitolites who languish in cities built by his people's blood.

Instead I chase the migraine thrumming behind my eyes with another sip and feel the slide of leather against my forearm. The jewels sat at the hollow of my throat are heavy enough to settle into the skin there. To have everything but the right to live for myself - can I even claim to be a victim anymore?

My eyelids are heavy, lashes obscuring most of Chanel's features until she's this haze of blurry watercolor. My elbows slide a little further onto the table, half leaning over it in an attempt to meet her gaze. There's a lot of Chanel that's beautiful, but I find myself enamored with all the parts of her that are not supposed to be.

Exhaustion in her eyes, sunken and shallow. Lips that only ever hold the ghost of a smile - that treat every expression as something fleeting. That occasional glint of loathing that I can't be sure she's meant for me or herself. We meet in hatred like it's a holy ground.

I chuckle softly, the words feeling like an admission of guilt more than an answer, "I do." Smiling is something of a defense mechanism, a pleasantry expected rather than given. This one is rather frail, but then again everything about me is. "You write children's books right?" And if she were to ask how I acquired this information, I would not provide an answer.

I don't think she will, though, she's not one for stupid questions. I, on the other hand... well she should know that by now, too.

"If I ever open up that orphanage in Four, I'll insist you make something special for them." A selfish request, I offer no apologies. "Not keen on watching another generation grow up to be just like us, you know?"

A wish I've never had the courage to put to words.

Thank god for bourbon, I guess.

"And before you say anything, I don't make it a habit to hope for better things. Just this one."

"would it really kill you if we-"

♪