Chapter Three | In gentle skies, a fury misinformed;

"The time and my intents are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far

Than empty tigers or the roaring sea."

5.3, 37-39 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Her parents had been hard working and realistic. They had instilled within Elara a certain level-headed foundation for which their daughter had grown from. With plenty of wit and common sense behind each and every action, Elara Winston is rarely described as being silly or ignoramus. She prizes intellect before humor, and has paved her way into the high ranks of Capitol society with her feet planted firmly on the ground.

It's funny how all of her common sense just flies out of the window the moment they reach the Tribute Center.

Keeping one hand on Graham's thin shoulder, Elara and Harley march their tributes inside. They had already explained to the kids that it's far easier to let the stylists do whatever they want, within reason. It won't be a nice experience, but it's important that they don't struggle. Elara had paid special attention to Graham, patting him on the back and telling him to be strong. He hadn't responded to her words, and it had made her feel like a lousy mentor. She's doesn't say anything else while the two tributes are whisked off by their stylists.

Harley grunts, "Come on." And the two of them start down the hall. It'll take a good hour, at least, for the tributes to be done over. Most of the mentors gather in the parade room while they wait, exchanging greetings and getting caught up with each other. Elara heads that way, too, with an eager gleam in her eye. Harley gets ahead of her, no doubt to go find Haymitch or Chaff, but Elara has someone else in mind.

She's turning the corner when a hand suddenly reaches out, grabs her, and throws her into the wall. The room careens for one split second as she gets slammed into the concrete, heart hammering in shock and fear, until –

Lips converge on hers before Elara has a chance to even see who has so roughly grabbed her, and the familiar scent of Gloss's cologne wafts over her.

"What the hell, Gloss – " she tries to say, intent on scolding him for his backward handling of her. He grabbed her and threw her into a freaking wall for God's sake – but he only drags her bottom lip between his teeth and mutters, "Shut up, Winston."

Well. She does shut up, but only to drag him closer with clawing fingers, getting him back in other ways. She rubs against him, hooking her leg around his waist and kissing him back with feverish intent. By the time Gloss groans and pulls away from her, his eyes are gleaming and his face is flushed just so, and the look he's sending her makes it fairly clear that her form of retribution has worked.

Leaning over her with his fingers pressed tightly into her waist, Gloss murmurs, "We have a lot of catching up to do."

She hums in agreement, fingers grasping the collar of his expensive looking suit, and breathes, "God I missed you."

The words make him soften, somewhat. At once, he transforms from the lethal, muscular Victor from District 1 into someone that only she knows. His eyes melt to a smoldering hazel, and the planes of his face relax as he reaches up to caress her cheek. She really has missed him. So much more than she can put into words.

"Me too," he whispers, so quietly that she barely even hears him. But she does, and Elara trails her hands over his chest with a sigh and looks up at him, wondering if her own transformation is as obvious to him as his is to her.

He leans down and kisses her again, slower this time. The haphazard desire that had fueled their previous movements seems to drop away now, as he draws her into his arms. She melts against him, and she's sure that she's messing her lipstick up but she doesn't care at all, not now. She doesn't care about anything but the safety and the warmth of his body pressed against hers.

It's been so long. Weeks without him. Without his voice or his strength or his love. Now that she has him again, it almost feels like she's been starved of him, and she's suddenly ravenous with a hunger that only he can quell. She's not surprised at her own reaction to him. This is how it always is, and she fears that this is how it always will be.

A voice interrupts them.

"You two might want to stop. Some stylists are heading our way," Cashmere drawls, and Elara pulls away with a gasp because she hadn't realized that the woman had even been there to begin with.

She shouldn't be surprised about that, either. Cashmere has become their ever-present look out, intent on protecting her brother and her friend from the eyes of the Capitol. Their relationship is dangerous and they need to keep it hidden as much as possible. If it got out to the public, Snow would be furious. They both have images to maintain – reputations that fuel the undercurrent of their places within Capitol society. If they upset the balance then the repercussions would be catastrophic.

Gloss frowns and pulls away from Elara with a muttered curse, but can't help the smirk from overriding his face when he catches sight of Elara's blush. He nudges her, and she scowls over at him.

"Why're you blushing?" he chuckles, eyeing her up and down with a cocky smirk. It is a rare sight, she supposes. She hardly ever blushes.

Scowling deeper, Elara hisses, "I hadn't realized that your sister had a front row seat to that kiss." Then she adds, "If you can even call it that."

He laughs and pulls her over to said sister with a wide grin. Cashmere rolls her eyes. "Please. I've seen way worse between you two."

The sarcastic edge of her voice doesn't exactly make Elara's blush lessen. She shoves Cashmere playfully, and the woman snickers before pulling Elara into a hug.

"Missed you," she tells her, and asks, "How's District 5?"

With an annoyed grunt, Elara drawls, "Same as ever. Amelia drives me insane half the time. The other day I was even called to her school to talk with one of the teachers. It was so mortifying."

Gloss chuckles, throwing an arm around her waist and then pulling his sister to his other side, and wonders, "What did she do this time?"

As the three of them walk down the hall towards the parade room, Elara explains the latest family drama, much to the amusement of her lover and friend. The District 1 Victors are mischievous in their own ways. They've always liked Amelia, though in truth, they've never actually met her. Her constant bouts of trouble make for amusing tales, though, and both Cashmere and her brother enjoy the stories that Elara weaves about her wayward sister. But by the time they reach the room where the chariots are being readied, the topic takes on a darker tone.

"Got any promising tributes this year? We haven't watched the Reapings yet," Gloss murmurs. They stand over to the side watching the avox workers prepare the horses and the other Victors greet each other as more of them enter the room.

Elara shrugs, trying to maintain a careless expression when she responds, "I've got a sixteen year old and a thirteen year old this year. The girl might have a chance." The other half of her sentence isn't voiced, but it's pretty obvious regardless. The boy doesn't have any chance in the world of winning, unless he's some kind of progeny like Finnick Odair, who is the youngest winner in Panem's history. Elara highly doubts that though.

There must be something in her tone – some errant sadness that she can't completely hide, because Gloss tucks her into his side quietly and whispers, "Hey. This happens, right? It's the Hunger Games." His voice is calm and gentle, but it doesn't make her feel any better.

She edges closer to him and sighs, resting her cheeks against his broad shoulder. On his other side, Cashmere murmurs, "We just have to get through the next few weeks, that's all. Look, I'm gonna go say hi to a few of the others. Don't get into any compromising positions over here." She says that last bit with a joking tone, but there's a serious gleam in her eye. She clearly doesn't trust them to keep their hands off each other.

Both Gloss and Elara roll their eyes at Cashmere. As she walks away, Elara playfully scoffs, "As if I would be caught dead in a compromising position with you."

She can't see his face, but she can tell he's smirking when he drawls, "Well you do apparently think of me as your brother, so I guess that'd be pretty awkward, wouldn't it?"

She laughs against him and gives him a sideways glance. There's a teasing look in her eye as she responds, "Well I couldn't very well tell the entirety of Panem that I occasionally jump into bed with you, now could I?"

He laughs and sarcastically asks, "Occasionally?" With a squeeze to her hip, he turns his head to murmur in her ear, "Should we make tonight one of those occasions, Winston?"

She shoots him a look and mutters, "You know we have to be careful. This whole building is bugged like no tomorrow."

He smirks, "Well that hasn't stopped us before, has it?"

Memories of rooftops and maintenance closets bombard Elara's mind before she can stop them, and she snickers, "My head still hurts from when that damned broom fell on us."

He chuckles too, but his expression takes on a slightly more serious edge when he sighs and whispers, "I wish we could just go back to my apartment. Or stop sneaking around altogether."

Elara raises an eyebrow at his tone and sarcastically tells him, "Careful, Gloss. If our relationship gets out, Snow might make you marry me to keep up appearances."

She means it as a joke, honestly, but Gloss only hauls her closer turns his mouth to her ear and drawls, "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

She freezes against him, shocked at his words. But Gloss only smirks wider, shoots her a wink, and lets her go. He ambles off to the District 1 chariot, where Cashmere is speaking with another Victor, but Elara can't look away from him.

What makes you think I wouldn't?

She smiles, but it's low and sardonic and a little hopeless. Even if he wanted to – even if she did – marriage is just not in the cards for them. It could never be. Snow would sooner finish off the rest of their families than ever let them obtain even the smallest shard of happiness.

She sighs, thinking of Amelia and District 5, the home she had grown up in and her parents. Maybe things would be easier if she doesn't have to constantly think of Amelia's safety. Maybe she wouldn't have to be so careful about meeting up with Gloss. Some parts of her life might be fuller and more perfect, but the majority of it would darken. Amelia gives her hope. She doesn't usually let it show, but Elara loves her so much.

"Hey, Winston, looking sharp as ever," Johanna from District 7 calls, and Elara glances up at the woman. As usual for these types of events, Johanna is dressed in casual but crisp looking dress slacks and a silk shirt. She hates wearing dresses unless she absolutely has to, and she isn't afraid of biting off her stylist's head whenever he suggests it.

"Johanna!" Elara exclaims with a wide grin, and walks over to give the other Victor a hug. Johanna grumbles about the mark of physical affection as she pulls away, but overall doesn't seem to mind. The two have been friends for years now. They're just alike enough to have plenty of similarities personality wise, and different enough to make their friendship interesting. It hadn't been a surprise to any of the other Victors when they had become friends.

"You looked pretty cozy just now," Johanna drawls, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow. Elara scoffs at her but doesn't reply. It's not like there's any point in trying to deny her closeness with Gloss. Most of the other Victors are pretty much aware of their clandestine relationship, but none of them have ever spoken about it outright. Such is the strange connection that all Victors have.

Johanna's eyebrow juts ever higher at Elara's silence. "You know, falling in love is just gonna get you hurt in the end."

Elara sighs and elbows her friend in the side with a hissed, "Would you keep your voice down? And who said I'm in love?" When she glances over at Johanna's wry expression, Elara quickly adds, "My relationship with Gloss is strictly sex, no strings attached."

It's not entirely a lie. To be quite honest, they've never defined their relationship as anything deeper; never talked about their feelings beyond the occasional brush of affection. What's the point? It isn't as if they would ever be allowed to solidify any possible feelings that they have for each other. It would hurt all the more if they admitted them aloud, when nothing can actually come of it.

Johanna doesn't look convinced though. She snorts and mutters, "That's such bullshit. You two look like lovestruck idiots whenever you're in the same room."

Elara glowers at her friend, but again doesn't reply. Johanna's right, after all. She, for one, is a lovestruck fool. As for Gloss…

His surprising comment from before whispers at her again as she glances across the hall to where he's standing.

What makes you think I wouldn't?

Her eyes soften.

Had he meant that? Does he actually want more from her, or had he just been saying that to make her feel better?

His head turns in her direction as if he can feel the weight of her stare, and his eyes clash with hers. He sends her a smirking wink that makes her purse her lips at him. Beside her, Johanna scoffs again, watching the whole thing with barely contained disgust.

Love isn't really her thing.

"Like I said – lovestruck idiots," she mutters, and pushes Elara playfully as she struts off. Elara huffs at her and turns towards the chariots, but instead of being upset, she feels a grin work its way over her face.

Being able to be with Gloss, in any form, is something she's waited so long for. It doesn't matter that they can't be a normal couple. It doesn't matter that they can't even admit to each other the depth of their feelings. As long as she's here now, with him, she doesn't care.

But – she knows all too well what the long nights will feel like, after this is all over. When she goes back to District 5 and he goes back to District 1, and the nightmares plague her, and the other side of the bed feels cold and empty without him. And her smile slowly falls from her face, because the mere thought of living without him is poison to her. The long stretch of weeks bereft of his presence is a weight that drags her down like nothing else.

When she lifts her eyes to look at him again, she realizes with a start that he's staring at her with a careful expression, as if he can see right through her – right into her thoughts. He tilts his head like he's silently asking her if she's alright, and she smiles at him.

It's a bland smile. He knows.

Maybe the whole world knows.

There's a sudden commotion on the other side of the room as tributes in full costume step into the room. Elara turns her attention to the large doors, looking for her tributes. Harley makes his way over to where she stands, searching as well. When she sees the kids, Elara heaves a sigh.

They've been dressed up as lightbulbs again. What were the stylists thinking? How hard is it to use electricity as inspiration?

With a wry glance towards Harley, Elara lifts a hand and gestures for them to step over to her. Matilde, the girl with the bright orange hair, grabs Graham and pulls him forward. Graham looks out of his depth in this great hall – and in the ridiculous silvery costume he's wearing. Of course, there are plenty of other comical looking tributes walking around, but honestly. Sometimes Elara thinks that the stylists have a contest every year, betting on who can come up with the most absurd look.

"Alright, now remember what we discussed on the train," Elara says, grabbing hold of both her tributes as Harley lingers beside them silently. He's not much of a mentor. To be honest, he hadn't even been much of a mentor when Elara was in the Games eight years back, but he'd been a little better than he is now, at least.

"I want you to stand up straight with your heads up," she tells them as Harley steps forward to hel them into the chariot. Their costumes are cumbersome things, and it isn't easy to maneuver around in them. As Harley helps Matilde up, Elara looks at Graham with a serious expression and says, "And Graham, I want you to smile. I want you to charm that crowd."

Graham's lip wobbles a little. He looks at Elara with eyes that are quickly filling with tears. Beside him, Matilde stays very quiet.

Elara has never been very good with kids, but something strikes her then as she looks at Graham's expression. A certain hopelessness that makes her own eyes water, too, even though she forcefully pushes her tears away. Crying will do her no good, despite how little hope actually exists for this young boy to survive.

"Listen to me," she murmurs, grasping his shoulders and leaning closer. She studies his face carefully and sighs, "Just get through this parade and you'll be finished for the day. I promised I would help you and I will. But for now, you have to be as strong as you can."

He nods quickly, bites his lip, and swallows back his fear. Elara watches him compose himself with a tight expression. She already knows that this boy's death will haunt her forever. She can already feel it coming.

"Go on then," she whispers, nudging him. He turns and clambers up just as the District 1 chariot starts rolling out of the huge gates, where millions of Capitolites eagerly await the first glimpse of this year's tributes.

The parade begins, and suddenly Gloss is taking Elara's hand and grasping it firmly as he pulls her over to the elevators that will take the Victors to the other end of the tribute center. If she's surprised at his presence, she doesn't show it. And if the other Victors think it's odd that Gloss would pull her into an elevator and hit the button before anyone else can board, none of them remark on it.

Gloss doesn't say a single word as he pulls Elara into his arms. She collapses against him in exhaustion. The thought of watching Graham die is physically taxing. He must see some of that in her eyes, because he just holds her closer and buries his face against her neck as they get whisked to the other end of the center.

They don't say a single word to each other. It isn't necessary. Gloss has been a Victor and a mentor for longer than Elara, having won his Games before her. He's had his fair share of younger tributes, and he knows from experience how hard it is to watch them die and to wonder if he had failed them somehow.

Elara grasps him tightly, drawing from his strength. He gives it to her freely, clenching his hands around her waist as if he's trying to propel it into her with physical force. He's practically holding her up as she leans into him, but the moment the elevator beeps and slows to a stop, Elara pulls away and they straighten themselves out silently.

Before the doors can open though, Gloss quickly whispers, "Meet me on the roof tonight? At ten o'clock?"

She barely has time to nod before their moment comes to an abrupt end.

And then, as if the whole thing had never happened, they two of them step out into the room full of stylists and shut back their emotions are easily as if they didn't exist at all.

And – that's the part Elara hates the most. The ease of it all. The way she can just pretend that she doesn't care about the man by her side. The way she can pretend that they're just best friends, and that's all they've ever been and all they ever will be, when in reality it couldn't be further from the truth.

She loves him. She thinks she might love him with everything that she is, but…

In a way, Johanna is right. Victors are not allowed to love. It will only hurt them, in the end.

If only she could stop herself from falling for him.

She can't though. She falls deeper every time they're together. It's like the undercurrents of a large ocean that pull her further down, and she can't escape its clutches no matter how hard she tries.

"Gloss," she murmurs against his neck, the shard of a moan wavering through her voice.

He hikes her up against the wall, hips fluidly moving against hers. Their love is pressed into the cement. Their muffled moans are the backdrop of hastened desire that has no beginning and no end and cannot be drawn out any more than it already is. The dark night rushes to greet them and whispers at the cadences of their love.

"Shh," he hushes, fingers grasping and tight as he heaves her up. Her legs hook around his waist, skirts thrown up haphazardly. Lips arch together. It's quick and rough and perfect in its own way; imperfect in another.

This is what they settle for. This quick coupling is all they're allowed for now.

"Gloss…Gloss…"

Maybe it's all they'll ever be allowed.

She wants to tell him she loves him, but…

She doesn't.