Chapter Seven | Within your eyes, a seething moonlit prayer,

"Therefore pardon me,

And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered."

2.2, 104-106 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Gasping pants fill the apartment. Their skin glows with the faint sheen of sweat, and the air is heavy with an emotion that has slowly morphed into something resembling familiarity. Elara supposes they would have to be familiar with each other at this point. By now, she knows Gloss's body better than she knows her own.

His fingers idle over her skin, spinning circles against her hip. Her frame is comfortably nestled against his, chin tucked into the crook of his shoulder. It strikes Elara that the last time she'd felt so at peace with the world had been the last time she was in his arms. The realization gives her mixed emotions.

She knows that she's not allowed to love him. She doesn't think it's gotten to that point anyway, but her brain still whispers warnings at her and plucks red flags into existence. Even this simple feeling of familiarity is a danger sign that blares at her and steals away the slices of peace that have surrounded them.

Gloss exhales calmly, his chest evenly rising and falling as he regains his breath. The sheets have fallen down to their ankles, where they have twisted into a mess of unrecognizable fabric. Neither of them cares. Elara has abandoned the crisp feeling of awkwardness a long time ago. When it comes to Gloss, she no longer gets embarrassed over her nudity.

This realization, too, comes as a sharp flag that makes her pause and look up at him. Eyes clouded with the remnants of pleasure that she is still spiraling down from, Elara quietly asks him, "Gloss…what are we doing?"

The question is in itself a conundrum. Quilted confusion and even subtle guilt parades over her skin like goosebumps. She frowns against his shoulder and listens to the sound of his heart, wondering when it had become such a familiar tone to her.

Gloss shifts a little, turning his head to look down at her. She turns to catch his eye, and for a long moment they just stare at each other silently, as if they are both testing the waters of emotion that seem to have randomly sprung up between them. But in truth, there is nothing random about the way she feels so at peace with him, and it confuses her.

Does she like him a little more than she'd thought? Is she falling for him, despite constant reminders that she cannot?

There is something in his eyes as he looks down at her, studying the familiar crease of her brow and the wary expression on her face. She doesn't know it, but the same thoughts are thudding through him, too, dragging him into the depths of internal confusion. They seem to have finally reached a barrier that they have not yet broken down. It is a boundary that they have carefully avoided from the very beginning. To define their strange relationship would be to admit just how much they have come to care for each other.

Gloss brings her closer and turns his eyes to the ceiling. He exhales again – a long, slow breath that almost sounds like a sigh – before quietly responding, "…We're finding comfort in each other. Even Victors are allowed that."

Comfort? Yes, Elara supposes that he is right. She always feels ten times more comfortable with him than with anyone else. He has always been gentle with her. He's never asked anything of her. He's never assumed that she would go out of her way for him. And he's never treated her like a client to be bought or sold. Not like the other men she is forced to be with.

It's the same for him, she hopes. She has never acted like the women he is made to please when he comes to the Capitol. Never asked anything of him that he wouldn't readily give.

Comfort – yes, that is a good word to describe it, but she thinks that it is only the shallow surface of their odd relationship. The comfort they feel with each other, the ease of their intimacy, the simple way they can banter back and forth even outside of the bedroom…surely there is more to it than that.

Elara doesn't question it though. It would be foolish to call attention to the blank spaces of his words. Foolish still to allow herself to think that there is more to explain. It will only hurt her, in the end. Gloss in unattainable to her, and she to him. Victors are allowed some small comforts, but never more.

Elara buries herself against him with a sigh, enjoying the way he pulls her closer. His muscles flex beneath his skin. She feels his lips brush against her forehead as their legs tangle with each other. She thinks she's never felt safer than when he's got her shucked up against him, holding her close.

With a soft sigh, she breathes, "You make me feel very comfortable."

He doesn't respond for a while. It's okay – she doesn't need a response. Gloss just lays there with her pressed against him, thinking back on all the times they've been in this very same position throughout the last six months. It hadn't been planned or orchestrated. A better way to describe their relationship is that it had been purely accidental. He never would have guessed that they would be together so many times after that first run-in with her in that bar months before. Elara Winston has rather snuck up on him.

At first it had been sex and nothing more. He had reasoned with himself that, as long as he didn't feel anything but desire towards her, that there would be nothing wrong with this particular indulgence. They'd spoken about it plenty of times before – how exhilarating they make each other feel, and how sex is the backbone of their union. How there can't be anything else. He had agreed with her, but now…

Now he wonders if perhaps they were too idealistic. He wonders if it is even possible to be intimate with someone so many times and not feel something more than lust.

Turning towards her, Gloss gathers her closer and presses his chest against hers, sighing out in sleepy peace as the dim light of midnight plucks over their entwined bodies.

In a very quiet voice, he whispers, "You make me feel comfortable too."

Elara's eyes flutter open, and they stare at each other for a long moment that seems to recede into forever. Then, silently, she leans in and presses her mouth to his, and they share a kiss that surpasses the outer shell of their confessions. A kiss that makes the word 'comfort' fall very short indeed.

Elara isn't blind to her own emotions. She is ever realistic about where she stands with Gloss Augustine, but even though she knows that it is impossible to love him the way a large part of her wants to, she cannot help but fall ever deeper with each pass of his lips against hers.

Their mouths seem to whisper words that their voices do not utter, that their ears will not hear spoken aloud for many long years to come, but…

It is enough.

It becomes startlingly clear that, the more time that passes in the arena, the more the Capitol seems to adore Katniss Everdeen. It's all the sponsors talk about, whenever Elara makes her rounds among them. For the first time in years, District 12 seems to have a fighting chance.

Elara's been in this position before, many times over. She's been a mentor for eight years now. She is only too used to the feeling of uselessness when it comes to being able to help her tributes. Matilde is smart, though – far smarter than the others. She keeps to herself, foraging and stealing from other tribute's food supplies to make sure she doesn't starve. If it isn't for Katniss Everdeen's rise to fame, Matilde might actually be able to win. But though Elara wishes that she could bring home a Victor, a large part of her doesn't feel very hopeful.

Matilde has a strategy, but that strategy keeps her away from the public eye. She works behind the scenes and this doesn't allow her to forge ties with the sponsors, who hardly even remember she's there. To them, Matilde is just that girl from District 5 who doesn't have any real skills and therefore isn't worth investing in. Elara has to go above and beyond to procure sponsors for her, using tactics that graze the blurry lines of morality.

Well she's never been the most straight-lined person alive.

She stumbles back to the Tribute Center late one evening, sore and tired. She's successfully secured a rather wealthy sponsor for Matilde, though her methods hadn't been typical. Well – she's sure they were typical for some. Finnick Odair undoubtably uses the same tactics when the situation calls for it.

Her thighs are aching when she pulls herself to the elevators and hits the button for her floor. She drags her fingers through her auburn hair, trying to smooth it out as she thinks back upon her evening. The man she had been with hadn't been the worst she's experienced, but he hadn't been gentle either. They were both using each other for their own ends, and that type of situation rarely ever calls for any emotion besides a frantic drive for satisfaction. He'd gotten his pleasure, and Elara got the sponsorship that Matilde needs.

It's about one in the morning by the time she heads to her room. There's no one else awake. All the lights are off save the one in her bedroom – something that immediately gives her pause, as she distinctly remembers it being off when she had left that afternoon.

She lingers for a moment near the closed door. When she quietly pushes it open, the sight that greets her on the other side is one that doesn't particularly surprise her.

"You shouldn't be here," she immediately hisses, quickly shutting the door behind her lest she wake up anyone else in the suite. If anyone were to see Gloss Augustine in her bedroom at this hour, the rumors would be impossible to stop.

But Gloss just leans back against the headboard of her bed and eyes her figure silently. There's a knowing gleam in his gaze that makes her distinctly uncomfortable. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where she's been, with her disheveled appearance. He can see the hint of bruises forming over her collarbone and fury sets in at the sight of them.

Elara sets her shoulders back and raises her chin stubbornly, staring back at him in a challenging way, as if she's daring him to call her out on the obvious reason for her disappearance.

Gloss sets his jaw and grumbles, "You were gone for hours. I was worried."

She knows he's telling the truth. She can see it in his eyes, the way they blaze out his concern. She can also see anger there, and discomfort, and despair, and a blend of other emotions that frankly, she's far too tired to figure out at this moment.

Heaving a sigh, Elara tosses her purse to the floor and starts shuffling out of her dress, intent on getting into the shower and washing away the night. As she struggles with the zipper, she says, "You should go back to your floor before someone realizes you're here."

It's dangerous being together in this place. The whole building is bugged. Someone could be listening in on their conversation even now.

Gloss doesn't respond. Elara's about to tell him to stop being stubborn when suddenly he's right behind her, pushing her hands out of the way to help her with the zipper. It's caught on some of the fabric, no doubt a result of the hasty way she'd thrown her clothes back on before hightailing it back to the Tribute Center. Gloss probably realizes this, but he doesn't say a single thing as he tugs the zipper down and silently shucks the dress off of her figure. As it pools at her feet, he slowly turns her around to face him.

He turns his attention to the line of bruises at her collarbone. Whoever she'd been with, the man seemed to have enjoyed marking her flawless skin. The mere thought makes him so furious he can hardly breathe.

His eyes blaze into hers and some of that fury leaks out into his voice when he asks, "You needed sponsors that badly?"

There's a slight note of judgement in his voice that makes Elara immediately stiffen, caught between shame and the justification of her actions – between her love of him and her duty to her tribute. Nothing is easy.

Pulling away from him, Elara snarks, "District 5 never makes it this far into the Games and you know it. So yes, I did." She swallows thickly and adds in a slightly softer tone, "I didn't plan it, Gloss."

It's true. She hadn't gone to find sponsors with the intent of selling her body for the night. She had just picked a bad person to try to convince, that's all. A man who had seen her and had immediately made her into a conquest. Elara Winston is an attractive prospect to most of the men in the Capitol.

The explanation doesn't seem to make Gloss feel any better though. He purses his mouth and inquires in a clipped tone, "Did you get the money you needed?"

The judgement is still there, like a dull fire that burns behind his eyes. It makes Elara uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of it. He of all people knows how it feels to be sold for the night. He's been there before too. It isn't as if she had wanted things to go in the direction they did. It had ended up being her only option, in the end. No one is interested in sponsoring the unknown tribute from District 5.

Elara doesn't answer him. Instead, she sends him a frown and turns towards the bathroom, where she longs to get into the shower and wash off that man's touch. Gloss doesn't let her get away from him so easily though. He follows her into the bathroom and, the moment the door closes, he tugs her into his arms.

There's something uniquely blissful about being pressed against his muscular frame. She immediately feels protected and safe from the whims of the Capitol, as if he could shield her from all the horrors that await them. She knows he can't, not fully, but Elara still melts against him anyway because he makes her feel as though everything is going to be okay.

"I don't like the thought of you with those men," he mutters into her hair, and tightens his holds of her as if he thinks she's going to be torn away from him.

Elara sighs. His words are dangerous. They make her heart beat loudly in her ears. They make her yearn for him in ways she knows she should not.

"Gloss…" she starts, but trails off because she doesn't really know what to say. She knows what she wants to say, but the three taboo words that they've skirted around for so long get stuck in her throat like they always do. It's okay, though, because he seems to know exactly what she's thinking. It is a language that only lovers know; a silent exchange in which words are needless.

He doesn't speak as he turns his head and kisses her cheek. His lips are soft and gentle as they capture her lips. She could cry at the strength he presses into her, as if he's trying to impart some of himself into her. Being with him, in any capacity, is such a stark difference compared to the other men she's forced to lay with. Where they destroy, he heals.

When he starts peeling back the layers of his clothes, Elara murmurs, "You shouldn't stay, Gloss. What if someone realizes you're gone?"

But he just shakes his head and grumbles, "I'll make sure I'm back before they find out." And, because she wants him so damn much, always, Elara doesn't complain any further as he takes her hand and leads her into the shower.

Even now, his touch is something out of a dream. Cognizant of the night she's had, he keeps his hands chaste as he washes her skin. As always, he never asks for anything she wouldn't already give. The minutes trickle by like the water droplets that cling to their bodies, and after a while, Gloss just brings her back into him and holds her. The safety she feels is poignant and beautiful. She wishes it would last.

They don't speak again when they turn the water off, dry themselves, and tumble into her bed. She wants to tell him that he should go back to the District 1 suite, but she doesn't. Her own selfishness prohibits her from sending him away. When he brings her close and pulls the covers over them, Elara really can't bring herself to do it. All she can do is curl up against his body and wish that things were different. That, maybe someday, the world will change and they will be able to love each other properly – without hiding their affections from the Capitol.

Without hiding it from each other.