A/N: Written for the Caesar's Palace Nova Challenge Prompt: Stars. Warning: Contains depictions of Incest.
Like diamonds strewn across mourning cloth; stars scatter the inky blackness of the sky. It's a clear night, and a solitary disc of white gold has set itself in among the gems; an ethereal sight, but Gloss keeps his head down, avoiding the ornamental imagery above him and its reflection in the lake below. He shuts his eyes and remembers the diamonds scattered upon their Father's velvet-lined workbench, and the carefree afternoons spent with Cashmere, sorting them according to weight. Somewhere in his thoughts, the image of a girl appears: with blonde plaited hair, piercing green eyes and a smile which is a splitting image of his own.
He opens his eyes and sighs. Standing knee-high in the windswept grass, Gloss stares at the hollow patch of darkness by the lake, and his heart clenches.
A void has formed between them; he knows that. It's far too easy to miss each other in the immense Capitol-sponsored apartment during their trips there. The only clue he has of her presence are the frequent sobs and the occasional scream he hears from her room. But sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night heaving with cold sweat on his face and tears in his eyes; and wonders if it was really himself he heard. He avoids her eyes during the train rides back to District 1, and she pretends he's just another piece of furniture in the train cabin; usually a mirror.
With the stealthiness of a leopard stalking its prey, Gloss shifts his weight through the grass, moving only when the breeze whispers through the silence. As he slips closer and closer, she comes into view: a pale figure turned away from him, her matted blonde hair seamless with the savannah. Despite his childhood instincts telling him that this would be the time to rush in and surprise her – he knows they're broken adults now, and he'd more likely receive a knife flying at him rather than the chirp of her melodic giggles.
But he receives neither, merely the softest of whispers he would've missed if the breeze had been blowing.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
Gloss freezes in his tracks and thinks, before reminding himself that he doesn't have to.
"We're twins, Cash. Half a brain each - remember?"
She chortles, her voice a beam of light in the darkness. The sound of pain beneath her laughter causes him to sigh, and he resists the urge to look at her face; familiar with the pain that stabs through his heart every time he does. But he sees her wiping her eyes and feels it anyway.
"Everyone's looking for you," he mutters, staring at the unopened bottle of whiskey laying by her pedicured feet.
"I don't care," she scowls, keeping her gaze fixed on the grass.
"Well, it's your birthday. You can't expect me to pretend to be you and blow out your own candles, right?"
"It only worked when we were kids," she says, the bitter reminiscence seeping through her voice.
"You should go back. I'm sick of everyone asking me where you are."
"If you came here just to make me return," she says, hesitating on her next words, "you can go now. Because I'm not going back."
"Well, I might as well give you your present anyway," he says, pressing the gift into her damp hand, "I made it myself."
She lifts the watch to her eyes and squints at it through the darkness. Plain leather strap, stainless steel casing, clock-face woven from cashmere – and not a gemstone in sight.
"It's not much, I tried to keep it simple."
"I know," she whispers, planting a kiss on her brother's cheek, "it's perfect. Thank you so much."
Cashmere rips apart another watch shackled around her wrist, scattering bits of gold and silver bracelet links onto the ground. It was a gift from a wealthy political officer, but there was nothing diplomatic about the way he shoved it in her face on a sweaty palm while she clutched the sheets to herself. Fuck politics, Cashmere thinks, flinging the heavily jeweled timepiece as far as she can, and watching it shatter the lake's surface. Gloss sees her lips curl into a smile as she adorns her bruised wrist with his gift.
"That was a pretty expensive watch you threw away. Was it a-"
"Shut up, it's gone now," she scowls, still admiring the plain watch on her wrist, "if anyone asks I'll tell them you made this for my birthday."
"Hey look, you're not the only one," he says, ripping off the diamond- and sapphire-encrusted cufflinks on his sleeves. Someone gave it to him, but he can't remember who; the faces of heavily made-up women with jewelry in their outstretched palms blend into one another over the years. He tosses them into the water, adding two sets of ripples to the one she made.
"I threw mine further," he gloats.
"Oh yea? Watch this," she scoffs, standing and ripping a set of pearls from her neck. With the poise of an athlete, she leans back and hurls it into the night. The chain of white globules sails through the air, glimmering in the moonlight – before it splashes into the water a short distance further than his.
"Not over yet," he says, pulling a ring from his finger and trotting a few steps before painting a golden arc in the darkness.
"Hey not fair! No running."
Next, a stack of bangles jingles as it slides off her wrist. She divides it with him and they giggle while taking turns to toss the ruby-encrusted hoops into the lake, each one further than the next. When they're done, he rips off his gold-buckled belt and adds it to the heap of jewelry now adorning the lake bed. Cashmere removes her earrings and tosses it in, not caring about how far she throws anymore.
"Alright we should stop," he pants, "before we both end up naked."
She smiles, her chest heaving at the exhilaration of reliving memories long stolen by the Games and everything thereafter.
"Do you remember swimming in this lake at night?" she asks.
How could I forget? he thinks. The warm summers when training stopped so the Academy students could enjoy a week away just to be children. The shrill of laughter and swish of water splashing about – now silent in the inky darkness of the night.
"We played the pebble tossing game, and I always won," he recalls.
"We would lay on the shore, and you'd tell me the names of the stars," she remembers, finally allowing her gaze to venture skywards.
"It's been a while, I forgot them all," he says, lying next to her and gazing at the star-studded sky.
I don't care, she thinks, we were happy children, and that's all that mattered.
"We had picnics too," he continues, "Mum and Dad let us try champagne once."
"Well, no champagne tonight, but I made some pastries for the party," she says, reaching into a paper bag, "there's only one left though."
Gloss takes the tart and instinctually breaks half of it for her. She stares at the broken piece of pastry perched on her hand in puzzlement, before remembering – they've always shared their food.
"It looks like the night sky," he says, examining the dusting of icing sugar on the coating of dark chocolate, "did you do that on purpose?"
"Maybe," she replies, leaning on his chest, "maybe it reminded me of you."
The siblings nibble on their halves of chocolate pastry in silence. The sugar brings a rush of sweetness, followed by a lingering bitterness from the chocolate that lasts long into the aftertaste. Gloss doesn't say it, but he knows his sister is a skilled enough pâtissierto have done that deliberately. This was exactly how winning the Games felt: a momentary rush of euphoria - followed by a lifetime of regret.
"That was some intense baking you did there," he says, licking his fingers clean, "made me do some soul-searching of my own."
A smile spreads across her face. She knows he got the message, after all – they have half a brain each.
"Did you like it?" she asks.
"Of course," he replies.
Gloss watches as the last bit of pastry perched between her manicured fingers disappears between her glossy lips. Beneath the full moon, the streaks of smeared chocolate lining her fingers look like tendrils of blood dripping down her hand. He shuts his eyes and takes her fingers between his lips, licking away the chocolate.
"Oh my g-gosh," she stutters, her cheeks flushing cherry-red, "do you do that for-"
"No," he lies through his teeth, "only my sister has the privilege."
"How do I taste then?" she asks, her fingers trembling upon his lips.
"Bitter-sweet."
Cashmere watches as her brother finishes licking every trace of chocolate, and she wonders if he can feel her throbbing pulse through her fingers. A part of her wants to yank her hand away and withdraw into that vacant shell of her own thoughts, where he's just a mirror in the corner of the room. But another part of her can't get over how alive she's feeling right now, and it's been a long time since she last did.
"Like how I felt when I saw you win," she whispers, slipping her fingers into his, "you were alive, but I knew you'd never really come back. No one does."
"I wouldn't be able to reach you even I tried," he sighs, looking away.
"You f-found me here," she stutters, clutching his hand and trying her best not to sob, "I guess t-that counts as a try?"
"We're twins, Cash. Maybe we have half a heart each as well, and they'll always be two halves trying to find each other."
Cashmere turns and grasps her brother's shirt, just needing to see if he meant it. For the first time tonight he's forced to look into her eyes and every instinct within him tells him to avoid them. But tonight's different; they've mended a bridge between them torn by trauma and shame. So, instead of looking away, he pulls her head down and kisses her.
He didn't know what to expect, and he's taken away by how fragile her lips feel. For her, it's like she's kissing for the very first time, and she feels like she's falling further and further forward. When she finally manages to pry herself from him, her eyes are red – but the pain he usually sees in them is gone.
"You taste the same," she whispers, tracing her fingers along his cheek, "bitter-sweet boy."
This time she leans in, and in the darkness their bitter-sweet lips melt into one another – until only sweetness remains.