A/N: In which a realization is had.
Lalyh17: Thanks :) I do enjoy writing their relationship!
hella-sirius: Lol! Well, this story definitely pushes at pretty much every boundary I can think of, and we all know that I like to make my characters suffer more than necessary ;) I'm glad you liked the last chapter. I have to admit that this one is one of my favorites, though. Mainly because of Gloss's revelations!
Hope you all have a great rest of the week!
Chapter Twenty One | Its depth is too short, yet too much
"Be ruled by me; forget to think of her.
O, teach me how I should forget to think!"
1.1, 189-193 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
He's confused, and he hates it. Gloss doesn't do complications. He's too straightforward for that. He doesn't let his life get swept up in the extraordinary. It's already messed up as it is without adding any additional drama to it, so then why does it feel like he's missing something important where it concerns the latest addition to his life? An addition that, by all rights, should be as uncomplicated as every other aspect of his story?
It was supposed to be sex. No strings. For a while, it was exactly that. But then, somewhere, somehow, it became more.
It isn't just sex. It's a deeply concerning existential crisis that involves talking about the profound complexities of their lives. It's feeling like he has a place in someone that understands him in ways he cannot wrap his head around. It's belonging to another soul in a manner that he never thought was possible.
It isn't just sex. It's more than that, and that's extremely scary.
"Hey, it's your turn to go to the grocery store," Cashmere calls as she pokes her head out of the front door. She looks over at him, only to see that he's staring off into space as he sits on one of the chairs on their front porch. She turns her head to see what he's looking at, but there isn't anything interesting to see besides the small crop of manmade grass at the center of the Victor's Village and the marble wall that surrounds it. It's a cage around nature that isn't truly nature, because grass does not truly belong in the arid desert, and neither does he.
What a strange thought. Of course he belongs in the desert. He was born beneath this sun, surrounded by the sands that stretch far beyond the realm of District 1. His body has grown accustomed to the harsh beat of the wind when it pushes the sand into the air and tunnels it down the streets. His skin has grown used to the feeling of this dry air and the hot rays that turn him tan and highlight his hair.
But suddenly he wonders if his heart is here, in this moment, in this place. Is it still buried beneath the sand, where he had left it when their parents were murdered and Cashmere won her Games and he foolishly volunteered too, because he wanted to follow her? Or is it swept up in the rainstorm of another heart that beats a thousand miles away in a place he cannot go?
Now that is a tragically frightful thought, if there ever was one.
"Did you hear me?" Cashmere asks with a frown, staring at her brother who stares off at the grassy outcrop that shouldn't exist because it doesn't belong here, yet there it is, existing.
What has happened to him? He feels changed. He wants to blame her for it, but Elara Winston isn't really at fault. He can only blame himself for being as stupid as he was, when he had allowed himself to fall into her arms time and time again and assume that he would be able to keep himself above the whims of human nature.
Humans – they are such fickle things, allowing themselves to be tossed around by their own souls. They lay traps for their virtues, and when they fall into them, they weep with self-pity. But they never learn, not really. They just keep setting traps, and keep falling into them, and the cycle goes on and on and on. An eternity could go by and nothing would change. They are fickle things, made from sinew and soul, and they delight in their own torment like sadistic beasts who cannot help themselves. The torturous burn of humanity is too tempting to pass over.
What has happened to him? He thinks he knows, but he dares not fall into that particular trap, lest he never be free of it.
It is an overgrown path that he is too afraid to venture down. It is a shrouded thing, a dark place, meant for the brave and courageous. He's never claimed to be either.
Cashmere impatiently sneers, "Snap out of it, Gloss, for fuck's sake – you're mooning over her, aren't you?"
He does snap out of it, then, because he is not mooning over her. He does not moon over Elara Winston. He does not.
"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, but there's no bite to his words. Maybe that's because somewhere inside he knows that his sister is a just a little more correct than he wants to admit
She scoffs, voice tattered with scorn, and questions, "I thought you were going to break it off. You told me you were going to – "
"I said shut up, Cashmere," he growls, and hunches forward, elbows on his knees. He stares at the stone steps that shift from porch to ground and glowers at them, squinting in the sun that pools on the deck.
Cashmere doesn't shut up, of course. She rarely ever does. He should be used to that by now.
She steps out onto the porch and slams the door shut behind her with blazing eyes. "You fell into bed with her again like a fucking idiot, didn't you? Just can't get enough of Elara Winston, can you? Do you like the danger of it all? Is that why you can't say no to her?"
Gritting his teeth, Gloss grinds out, "Cashmere, this is not a good time. Do not piss me off."
He's already spun out, thoughts a whirlwind of confusing complexities that have no beginning and no end – they just keep spiraling, picking up speed and strength like a dust storm in the desert, and he can't stop it or control it. All he can do is let it blow out.
He's angry. He's angry at himself and he's angry at Elara for being so goddamned perfect and saying such fucking perfect things to him and making him forget himself in that infernally perfect way she somehow does, as if she just knows exactly what he needs without even having to ask. He's angry that she can read him so well and he's angry that he isn't as mysterious as he'd thought. He's angry that he isn't impervious to her charms and that he can't seem to keep his walls intact around her. And even when he does, he's angry that he lets her break them down with just a flash of her smile and a few barbed quips.
He's already so fucking crazy about her that his defenses are utterly useless whenever she tosses her haphazard smiles his way. He's crazy about the way she looks wrapped up in sheets and nothing else, with the sun beaming intricacies into her skin and her eyes glowing with the morning sun. He's crazy about the ratty t-shirts she likes to wear to bed because they're comfortable, and that she doesn't care if they're sexy or not because she somehow manages to look irresistible in them anyway. He's crazy about the way she kisses him after a long absence, when she cups his face in her hands and slowly drags her mouth over his as if she's saying 'hello' and a thousand other things that he can only marvel at, because he doesn't know how a kiss can transcend so many inconceivable things but it does.
Cashmere breaks into the whirlwind of his thoughts and adds to it when she snarls, "She's wrong for you, Gloss! She's District 5, from a different world! She gets handed around the Capitol to men who just want the thrill of fucking a Victor. She'll never belong to you and you fucking know it – "
He stands up so quickly that the chair he's sitting in tumbles backwards and crashes into the deck with a bang, but the sound isn't nearly as powerful as his voice is when he thoughtlessly shouts, "I LOVE HER, CASHMERE!"
And – the sound that follows immediately after his shout is also incomparable. Total and complete silence often is.
Cashmere stares at him like he's insane, and Gloss thinks that he definitely is. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't even realized the full extent of this whirlwind that's been pestering him for days now, ever since he returned from the Capitol and from her arms, yet again. He's just as shocked as his sister, who is staring at him with wide eyes like she thinks he's turned into a timebomb and is about to explode.
"You…what?" she splutters, utterly baffled, wondering if she had heard him right. It would be impossible not to though. His words seem to echo in the spaces between them even now, casting shadows through the breeze.
He heaves there on the porch like a wild animal in the path of danger, chest rising and falling, nostrils flaring, fists clenching. Perhaps it is an apt description, for it certainly coincides with the feelings that have gained weight inside his chest and are at this very moment dragging him down. Love is a wild thing, untampered, senseless.
He doesn't respond to Cashmere. Instead he just turns and throws himself from the porch, walking quickly away from the house before he can fall completely into the trap he hadn't even known he'd set. But it's too late. God, it's too late. He's already fallen, and he has no idea how or why or when but suddenly he realizes that he's turned into the very same fickle creature that he's always loathed. And suddenly it doesn't even matter that this path is shrouded and dark, because he's already on it and he can't turn back.
He's been on it for far too long to turn back now, only he hadn't known.
But this overgrown path has already gotten a hold of him, this trap that he stumbled into like a hapless fool. The weeds cling to his legs, growing up his arms and taking root in his chest. He can't pull out the kernel that has been planted within him. He can't stop the feelings that blossom from his heart.
He loves her? Does he? No. He can't love Elara Winston. That hadn't been a part of his plan. He vowed long ago that he would never fall in love. He had blocked that overgrown path with cinder and cement so that he would never fall prey to the alluring call of it.
He is not in love with Elara Winston. It had been a slip of the tongue – thoughtless, ridiculous, stupid.
Yet, if that's true, then why does he feel like this place he was born in is not his home? Why does he feel that his home is far away from him, shuddered with fog and rain and wind, errantly sparking with lightning bolts that sear him into dust?
Why does he feel lost here, in a place he knows like the back of his hand? And, more importantly, why does he feel found when he is within the confines of her arms? She is yet another trap that he falls into, like a cycle that goes on and on and is not stricken by the vastness of eternity.
He stops, kicks at the fake grass at the center of the Victor's Village, and rubs at his chest. What has happened to him?
It is love.
"Well don't you look nice," Finnick drawls, sidling up to Elara where she stands off to the side of the large crowd. All around them, people are crowding forward to catch a glimpse of the newest Victors, who is being escorted around the room by Effie Trinket. Haymitch is supposed to be with them too, but Elara suspects he's long since joined the others at the bar.
Elara gives Finnick a sidelong glance and raises her eyebrows at him. He mirrors her expression over his champagne glass, and she shakes her head. "You know, I think you might get prettier every time I see you, Finn."
He laughs loudly at this and gives her a saucy wink. His voice is flirtatious when he purrs, "Right back at you, darling. Wanna dance? I'm bored as hell, and I've got a horde of clients following my every move."
She wrinkles her nose and mutters, "That doesn't exactly make me want to dance with you."
Finnick just chuckles and puts his champagne glass down on a nearby tray. He turns to her and whines, "Come on, Elara. You're the only person who can handle me."
She gives him a dry look and his mouth twitches, giving away the innuendo of his voice and making her roll her eyes. As if she would ever want to handle Finnick Odair, no matter how pretty he happens to be. He laughs again, amused at their games, and holds out his hand for her. She just sighs and takes it, letting him lead her out onto the dance floor.
This year's Victory Tour Gala is beyond incredible. The Capitol hadn't pulled expenses for their star-crossed lovers, and it shows. Besides the gourmet food platters and large selection of drinks, there are probably ten times more people at this gala than there had been at last year's. Everybody wants a piece of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.
"This is pretty amazing, right?" Finnick asks as he pulls her into an upbeat song and spins her around. "I mean, I don't think I had this big of a crowd, and people practically worship the ground I walk on."
Elara chuckles and snarks, "Speaking of your incredible fame, I think I see some women over there who look like they want to murder me."
Finnick cuts a quick glance to where she's looking. When he turns back to her, there's a peculiar smile on his face that Elara recognizes as the smile he often wears to mask his own pain. He lightheartedly quips, "That's what you get for dancing with me, Elara."
She sighs and glumly tells him, "I've seen quite a few of my clients around, too. You're not the only one."
The information doesn't appear to surprise him. Finnick gives her a quiet smile and squeezes her waist, silently pressing comfort into her. As the song morphs into something slower, Finnick pulls her closer and wonders, "D'you think Gloss will punch me if I slow dance with you?"
Elara can't help the laughter that rises into existence at his half-serious question. She pulls back to snicker at him, and Finnick grins. Then Elara pauses and tells him, "He might, yeah."
Finnick winces as if he's already been punched, and she laughs again. This time it's her that pulls him back in. Gloss knows that she's good friends with Finnick and that Finnick doesn't feel anything else for her. He might not appreciate the sight of them on the dance floor, but she's having fun for once, and she never has fun at these parties. Finnick does have a way of making even the most boring scenario seem scintillating.
Besides, the last time she'd seen Gloss, he was surrounded by a gaggle of Capitol women who were absolutely fawning over his every move. Not that she's jealous – she knows that he loves her, even if she's never actually heard the words pass from his lips. It's just that she wishes she could go up to him and claim him as her own in public, without fear of the consequences.
She knows she can't, though, she instead she just lets Finnick pull her around the dance floor, laughing at his jokes and the quiet way he makes fun of as many Capitolite ladies as he possibly can.
"Do you think those sequins are body modifications, or just glued on?" he wonders, eyeing a woman who has bright pink sequins over the top of her shoulders, trailing down as if they're the scales of some tropical lizard. Elara snorts out a laugh as he expertly twists her so that she can get a look.
"If they're glued on, it must've taken her hours," she replies, then says, "Do you want a drink? I'm getting tired of this loud music."
He agrees, though not without an amused, "Ooh, a proposition from Elara Winston. I can't refuse that." She shoves him playfully for good measure and he laughs, "I'll go get us something from the bar. Hopefully Gloss won't murder me for touching you in the meantime."
Elara smirks wryly at him and says, "I doubt he's even noticed. He's a little preoccupied."
Finnick's response is a roll of his eyes and an exasperated, "Please. He notices everything you do. He's like a bloodhound." He grumbles something about Gloss being a lovesick idiot as he makes his leave, and Elara chuckles to herself as she watches him go.
She idles at the edge of the dance floor for a while, trying to not get roped up into any conversations by stray Capitolites. She's glad she doesn't have the same fame that Finnick or Gloss has. Cashmere, too, has been surrounded by men the whole night. It's a small relief that Elara can be here without being forced to get in the middle of anything.
Until, unfortunately, her sliver of peace falls away quite abruptly.
"Elara Winston," a voice sounds to her left, and she looks over to see a familiar face. It's a Capitolite man who has bought her several times in the past. She stiffens at the sight of him, but he doesn't seem to notice as he edges over to her side and throws an arm around her shoulders. "You look ravishing tonight. I don't suppose you're free after the party? We could go to my place for a drink. It would be…quieter."
It would also be much more than a 'drink'. Elara swallows around the clawing sensation that's making its way up her throat, and tries to move away from him. But his arm is like a vice around her shoulders and she doesn't manage to get more than a few inches away before he pulls her back again, looking all the more amused for her reluctance.
These people just don't know when they're not wanted. Then again, it isn't as if she has any control over who she wants.
"I already have plans," she tells him as smoothly as she's able to. She manages to get a handle on that clawing emotion that threatens to keel her over, and is proud that it doesn't leak out into her voice. She tries to edge away again, only for the man to scoff and hook his arm around her waist, more solidly capturing her.
"Don't be like that," he chides. "You should feel lucky that I've paid so much attention to you. Not that you aren't gorgeous of course, but your sex could be improved a bit." She turns to gape at him and he smirks cruelly. "I'm just saying, you're like a cold fish in bed. No passion whatsoever. Now Cashmere – she's great. She's got this dominatrix thing that she does – "
"Well why don't you go bother her," Elara snaps, and the man laughs heartily, as if she's just told him a hilarious joke.
Fingers clenching down around her waist, he leans into her cheek and murmurs against her skin, "I haven't had you for a few months now. I'm thinking that I could teach you a few new moves. Give you some pointers, you know?" He smirks vividly, amused at his own words, and pulls her backwards towards the door before she can even form a reply.
He's a tall man, muscled and towering, and he's been rough with her on a number of occasions. It isn't very shocked that he manages to force her outside. She's a head shorter than him and far weaker, and when he drags her away from the party and pushes her against a wall several hallways away, she can't do anything to stop him. That doesn't mean she can't complain of course.
"Get the fuck off of me!" she snarls, batting away his hands as he grasps her waist. "You know this isn't how it works – "
"Oh shut up, you little slut," he sneers back at her, and grinds his hips against her thigh. She struggles to push him off, but he only grabs her wrists and shoves them against the wall above her head, reaching forward to cup her breast over the silky fabric of her gown. He gives her a rough squeeze that hurts her, and she tries to spear his foot with the heel of her stiletto. It doesn't work. In fact, it only seems to frustrate him even more.
"You think anyone will care that I haven't technically paid for your services? You should be grateful that someone actually wants to fuck you without having to pay for you," he growls, and slips his hand beneath her dress to cup her sex.
She grits her teeth, glaring fiercely as she clenches her legs together, trying to inhibit his movements. He's in the middle of trying to wrestle her thighs apart when suddenly a hand comes down on his shoulder and tears him off of her with one strong pull. Before Elara even knows what's going on, the man is falling clumsily to the floor and clutching his nose, which is bleeding from a punch that had been administered by her resident hero.
"Gloss – " she starts, trying to catch his arm and pull him away from the man. Getting into a fight at the Victory Tour Gala is not a good idea, but Gloss is far to pissed off to let her have her way.
He shrugs her hand off and reaches down to grab the man by the front of his shirt, heaving him off the ground with a snarling growl that looks extremely dangerous on his face. His eyes are slits that burn with fury. When his anger is unleashed as it is now, Gloss can be downright terrifying to behold.
"What the fuck is this, huh?" the man sneers, tearing himself out of Gloss's hold. "Just walk away if you know what's good for you. You've got no business getting in the middle of this."
Admittedly, this isn't the right set of words to say to a furious Gloss who has just witnessed the woman he happens to be in love with get molested by a disgusting Capitol man.
He lurches forward and pushes the man into the wall with a forceful shove, and the man retaliates by ducking out of the way of his oncoming punch and throwing his fist into Gloss's abdomen. Gloss falters for only a moment before coming forward again, only for the man to throw a punch into Gloss's face. Unlike most of his brethren, this Capitolite client seems to know his way around fist fights. His head turns from the punch, face bloodied by the ring on the man's finger, and Elara shoots to his side and doesn't let him shove her off this time.
The man sneers. "You've both got a lot of nerve. I'm not going to let this go. You'll be hearing from me very soon, you little slut," he spits at Elara, straightens his jacket, and steps away with one last scowl sent at Gloss. And Gloss, who physically bristles at the man's words, steps forward threateningly – only for Elara to forcefully grab onto his arm and drag him back.
"Stop it," she hisses at him, and he turns to glare at her with those furious eyes.
"He was going to fucking rape you," he growls, but she doesn't respond, just frowns and lifts her hand to touch the bleeding bruise that's spreading over his cheekbone. He cringes at the touch and grabs her hand, pulling it away from his face.
"It doesn't matter," she mutters, dragging him down the hallway. He clenches his hand in hers and glares at her again.
"It doesn't matter?" he repeats incredulously, voice shuddering with anger. "Are you fucking kidding me – "
"Gloss for once in your life, shut up," she snaps at him, and pulls him towards the doors quickly, trying to get them outside as fast as possible and preferably without anyone noticing. She hails a taxi and nearly shoves him into it.
"I can't believe you're okay with the idea of being – "
"I'm not okay with it," she growls, as annoyed as he is. "I'm frustrated that you got involved. Remember what Snow said? No complications. Well you've just complicated things, Gloss."
He scowls out the window of the taxi and mutters angrily, "Well I'm sorry that I care enough about you to save your ass from disgusting, prowling Capitol men."
She purses her lips and crisply responds, "I don't need you to save me from Capitol men, Gloss. You couldn't even if you tried."
His scowl only gets deeper at this. They fall into a terse silence that is broken only by the sound of the car as it dives in and out of late night Capitol traffic. They don't look at each other or say another word even as they arrive at Gloss's apartment complex and enter the building. The trip up the elevator is just as silent as the trip in the car. It's only when they walk into Gloss's apartment that the silence is shattered.
"You don't have to stay," Gloss mutters, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. He lets it drop right there on the kitchen tiles as he heads to his bedroom, wrangling the rest of his clothes off on the way. He needs a shower. He doesn't expect Elara to follow him, but she does.
Annoyed, he cuts a glance at her. "Just go back to your place. I don't want you here tonight."
Elara glares at him, and stubbornly unzips her dress. His eyes darken, but it isn't with lust. He scoffs and walks into the bathroom without giving her a second glance, and she rolls her eyes.
"For the record, I'm not trying to seduce you," she tells him briskly, following him yet again. He turns the shower on and ignores her, but watches out of the corner of his eye as she riffles through his cabinet and to grab some ointment and a bandage.
With a glower, he mutters, "Could've fooled me," and gets into the shower without another word. He doesn't argue, though, when she joins him. Instead he just impatiently sighs and tells her, "I don't need you to take care of me, Elara. I'm a grown man."
She just sneers at him, "We're both adults. We don't need to have a reason to want to take care of each other."
Right now she isn't sure why she loves him at all. He's an obstinate idiot half the time and sometimes, he treats her like she's made out of glass. It doesn't usually bother her, but tonight they're both stressed and annoyed.
He takes the soap and starts lathering himself up, muttering, "You're such so fucking stubborn sometimes."
She hums in dry agreement and snarks, "Right back at you," then steps forward and grabs the soap from him, continuing where he'd left off. Gloss just tips his head back and sighs as if he thinks she's the most difficult creature on the planet.
The atmosphere between them curdles like the steam and the hot water. All Gloss can think about is where she might be right now if he hadn't stepped in. How she'd be underneath some disgusting stranger whose only intention towards her is to take advantage of everything she is. All he can think about is how she belongs to him, not to anyone else.
Conversely, all Elara can think about is why she's in the shower with him, completely bare, and not doing anything about it.
She steps closer and kisses his jaw. He tenses but doesn't move away, hands flexing at his sides as he feels her touch spiral over his body, soapy fingers tracing patterns against his chest and downward. It's a strange feeling, this straining tension that creases the barriers between them. Gloss can only stand there when she slides her fingers around his cock and pumps him into her hand. He hardens against her, but the rest of his mind is still spinning with frustration.
"I thought you said you weren't gonna seduce me," he grumbles to her, then catches his breath when he feels her sink her teeth rather roughly against his neck. His hands fly to her waist. He can't help it, despite his annoyance.
She has a power over him that no one else does. Sometimes it frightens him, sometimes it amazes him. This time, it perturbs him.
"Elara, for fuck's sake," he mutters, grabbing her hand and wrenching it off of him. She opens her mouth to snap at him, but he shuts her up by dragging her head back and giving her a very thorough kiss, all angry teeth and bites and nips that travel from her mouth to her neck to her collar as he towers over her and presses her into the wall.
"You piss me off so much," he tells her, nipping at her breast and shoving a finger inside her. She's not quite prepared for the move, but it doesn't stop her from gasping and clenching down on his shoulders with tight, clawing fingers.
With a grumble, she responds, "Yeah? Well so do you."
He growls and abruptly reaches over to turn the shower off, nearly tearing the curtain open and herding her out of it. He grabs her, lifts her up, and carries her over to the bed without warning. Elara lands roughly on the mattress, only for him to drag her to the very edge of it and immediately thrust his head between her legs, dragging his tongue over her clit with such immediacy that Elara can only arch into him with a surprised moan and grasp the sheets. They both drenched from the shower, skin glistening with water, but neither of them cares. They far too busy pretending that their love is hate to care.
And pretend they do. Gloss isn't gentle with her, and Elara is strangely addicted to it. They wrangle with each other on the mattress like starved beasts, biting and clawing as he enters her, grasping each other so tightly that they leave bruises in their wake. He thrusts into her hard and fast, growling at her when he grabs her wrists and shoves them over her head. Her body goes taut beneath his, legs tangled around his waist, moaning and gasping as he fucks her into the bed with aggravated intent. And when he climaxes with an animalistic growl, Elara pushes upward and rolls him over, clawing her way to her own end as he braces his body beneath hers.
When it's all over, they lay side by side, silently gasping. The clock shudders through the silence.
"You belong to me," he tells her after a while, arms beneath his head as he stares up at the ceiling and just breathes.
And she just tells him, "I belong to you in every way that matters."
He laughs. It's a bitter sound. They both know that they don't really belong to each other, not truly. Their bodies belong to the Capitol, their souls belong to the Games, and their hearts…
Well, sometimes, they wonder if they even have hearts anymore, or if they're just puppets being forced to act out a play in which the script always changes, eternally circling like deep waves in an ocean that they cannot cross.
"Come here," he murmurs, because at least here, in this room, he can pretend.
And – she goes.