Chapter Ten | Which, even as it plays into the night,

"These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old."

3.2, 2-3 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

The Capitol is lonely without him. The next time she's invited to venture into the city, Gloss is not there. He's presumably back in District 1, and Elara is left alone in the slate grey streets, feeling aimless and ghostlike.

It isn't a rare occurrence for them to miss each other by several days. Despite their frequent visits to the Capitol, their schedules don't always align. She tells herself that it's just as well. She doesn't need Gloss – she shouldn't need him. Becoming dependent on his presence in her life is a recipe for disaster. But she can't deny that a part of her, however small, sorely misses him this time around.

She's not sure why this time is different than the others. Maybe it's the fact that her schedule is insanely busy, and that so far, her clients have all been rougher than usual. Most of them seem to have very peculiar tastes, and the humiliation of Elara's forced deeds is even stronger than it usually is as a result. She shouldn't compare her time with Gloss to her clients. It's a perversion of everything she's been through. But – she can't help it, sometimes. When she wakes up to sore thighs and deep bruises and welts that raise up from her skin like curses, she can't help but remember how gentle his hands are and how freeing it is to be with him.

She thinks it's funny, sometimes, to think of Gloss as gentle. He's so outwardly domineering, and he strikes such an imposing figure with his brawny musculature and intense eyes that seem to always be seconds away from turning down into a glare. He doesn't look like he'd be capable of soft caresses, or even that he'd be interested in ensuring someone else's comfort. His Capitol image is charming and laid-back, but his Career status follows him wherever he goes.

But he is gentle. His touch is nothing like the groping hands of her clients. His expression when he drags her to bed holds no traces of angry lust. And if he suspects that he's being too rough with her, he stops to ask if she's alright. It's amazing, how an inane little question like that makes such a tremendous difference. She feels completely safe with him. Even when they're not in bed together, his presence has become synonymous with a feeling of intense protection.

She appreciates his body more than she would have thought, in the beginning. She could kiss every inch of him and never tire of it, but physical appreciation is not the only reason she likes to be with him. She finds herself desperately loving the way he laughs. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and his smile makes her feel a little weak at the knees. When he sleeps next to her, her nightmares disappear entirely, as if he drives them off before they can even appear. And sometimes, if he falls asleep before her, he says her name very low beneath his breath, as if he's dreaming of her. The first time it had happened, she'd stared at him for a long time in shock and happiness, wondering what, exactly, he'd been dreaming of. She loves the way he says her name when they're both awake, too. The cadence of it on his voice is addicting.

She'd hoped that she would be able to catch him before he returned to District 1, but their trains had barely missed each other this time, and Elara must spend the week alone, with only her clients as company.

One morning, she's aimlessly walking through the Capitol streets. During the daylit hours, her schedule is rife with interviews and photo shoots. On this particular morning, however, she has some free time to wander. She finds herself taking a walk into the business district of the city, which is nearby her apartment and boasts several nice grassy areas that she sometimes walks through on days such as this, when Gloss is not here and she has nothing to do. She's walking down the main street, passing shops and vendors, when she catches sight of something that makes her pause.

It is a magazine, and on the front cover is a picture of Gloss. He's dressed in a crisp blue dress shirt that makes his eyes shine, and his hair is customarily mussed up. He's got that charming smile he often wears whenever he's dealing with the Capitol. Elara knows it by heart now, because she's privy to his real smiles – the smiles that hold honest happiness. Still, despite his orchestrated expression, the sight of him makes her feel a tiny bit less lonely, even if it's only an image.

She buys it.

She scolds herself for doing so every step she takes for the rest of her day.

But – later on, when she's got some spare time, Elara takes out the magazine and studies his features with hungry eyes, eagerly flipping through it to read the interview and to see if there are any other pictures. She feels utterly ridiculous when she does, but to be honest, she doesn't really care.

She misses him. She feels a little ridiculous about that too, but she can't help it.

"What do you think of this star-crossed lover image?" Gloss asks her later on when they're sitting together in the public viewing room. They've both got a plate of dinner on the table in front of them – a customary thing to do for the Victors, as the room is furnished with all manners of refreshments. Elara's spent most of the day here, though she hasn't helped herself to the spread that's laid out on the other end of the room until Gloss had joined her and reminded her that she should eat something.

In any case, the room is full of other Victors, though most of them are located on the other side of it. Haymitch is taking bets or some such thing. He seems to think that his tributes – both of them – will be victorious. Elara isn't surprised about his confidence. Ever since it was announced that two tributes from the same district may both be winners this year, Haymitch has been utterly focused on keeping Katniss and Peeta alive. They been holed up in a cave for days now, regaining their strength and driving home their supposed relationship. Elara thinks it's all fake. Katniss is an awkward mess every time she kisses Peeta, and Peeta…well, she's not so sure about him, actually.

With a sarcastic snort, Elara mutters, "It's a smart idea, I guess. Sponsors love that shit."

Beside her, Gloss glances up at the screen, where Katniss and Peeta are laying side by side in the cave, talking quietly about their lives in District 12. There's a strange look in his eyes as he watches them, as if he's trying to discern how he feels about their strategy. It's definitely never been done before in the history of the Games, at least not in their memory.

"I don't know," he murmurs thoughtfully, resting his chin on his palm as he watches the tributes. "…I'm not convinced that it's just an act."

With a wry expression, Elara stares at him. She raises her eyebrow and laughs, "Seriously? What else could it be? Katniss looks like she'd rather be anywhere else."

He sends her an amused look and quietly points out, "You looked like you'd rather be anywhere else too, the first time we…you know."

She's a little surprised that he'd bring their affair up, especially to compare it to Katniss and Peeta's. The parameters are totally different, after all. They had never had to pretend to be in a relationship – in fact, they usually pretend the exact opposite. Gloss catches her eye as he leans back, throwing an arm over the end of the couch as he watches her open her mouth a few times. There's a rather obvious look of amusement in his eyes at her hesitance. He smirks.

Stumbling, Elara scoffs, "Well, back then I didn't realize how much I – " She bites the words back before they can come out, and Gloss's expression turns curious in a hungry sort of way, as if he wants nothing more than for her to finish her sentence.

Elara clears her throat and turns back to the screen, crossing her arms over her chest. Her closed off body language does little to deter Gloss, though, who shifts a little closer to quietly inquire, "How much you what, Elara?"

She sends him a scowling look that makes his mouth twitch as he fights back a smirk. The sight of his amusement makes her nudge him with a sharp elbow as she mutters, "You know what."

She reckons he does know. He probably knows exactly what she had been about to say, or at least the gist of it. Back then, she hadn't realized just how much she cared about Gloss. She hadn't realized just how much she would grow to love him.

He hums softly, leaning his head against his propped up hand as he studies her profile. After a gentle moment rolls by, Gloss murmurs, "They're confused, I think. They don't realize it either, yet. Like us."

Again, she turns to look at him, and her expression morphs into surprise. Gloss very rarely ever talks about what they mean to each other. She rarely does, either. It's safer, and easier, to just tiptoe around the boundaries of their affair. It's less dangerous if they don't allow themselves to get overly emotional. But there's something in his voice when he speaks, and in his eyes when he looks at her, that makes her pause. It sounds very much like yearning. Like love.

Feeling suddenly breathless at his proximity, Elara swallows and whispers, "Gloss – "

But he cuts her off, eyes blazing subtly at her when he breathes, "Katniss reminds me of myself. Of the way I was so confused back then, because I wanted you so badly but I didn't know why."

They stare at each other for a long moment, thinking back on the initial years of their connection. They'd been all over each other, as often as possible. It hadn't been until later when they'd questioned why they wanted each other so much. Because of the purposefully undefined nature of their relationship, neither of them had given it much thought in the beginning, and when they had thought on it, they had done so separately and hadn't share their thoughts.

Elara laughs quietly, nudging him again. The touch is softer this time though, playful almost. He grins at her and nudges her back.

"Do you still want me that badly?" she whispers to him, so quiet that only he can hear.

The question makes him chuckle. He gives her a sideways glance. "Sure, but I'm not confused about what I feel for you anymore, Winston."

The use of her last name makes her smirk. He'd called her by her surname almost exclusively during the first year of their affair. Perhaps it had been a way for him to retain some barrier between them, to keep them separated. She doesn't know, and at this point, it no longer matters.

He pauses, then quietly adds, "I wish I could tell you outright."

But Elara just sighs and murmurs, "You don't have to. I already know."

They fall silent, turning their attention back to the screen. There's not much left to say, at this point, so they just sit there together watching the tributes from District 12 skirt around their own love story. It's a long time before either of them speaks. The minute tick by, broken only when Gloss suddenly says, "One day I'll tell you."

And, surprised yet again, Elara looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and smiles. He presses his mouth down to hide his own smile.

"…Is that a promise?" she wonders in an almost idle fashion, but the both of them know that there's nothing idle about it.

Losing the battle of hiding his smile, Gloss grins at her and quips, "It's whatever you want it to be, Winston."

She laughs and says, "A promise, then. That's what I want."

His eyes flash at her.

"…A promise," he concedes, voice spiraling into a subtle cadence of longing.

It's a shame, really, that when Gloss does end up fulfilling said promise, when he does plainly tell her how much she means to him, it won't be in the setting that either of them expect. No, these words are fated to be said in a tone of hopelessness, in the throes of wretched misery.

Matilde dies the next day. Gloss watches the orange haired girl hit the ground, mouth foaming from poison. Her eyes stare unseeingly into the sky as her canon goes off. In the end, it had been her own strategy that had brought her death. And – Katniss Everdeen's accidental mistake.

The sound of the canon isn't new to any of the Victors by now. Gloss dreams about it sometimes, when he's having a particularly bad night. The gonging sound reverberates through his head in perfect imitation, and the bodies of his loved ones begin to crumple to the ground. Still, when it goes off this time, the room falls oddly silent. He knows why. It's because there are only three tributes left standing, and the Games will surely be over within a matter of days.

He glances over at his sister, who sits beside him. They look at each other for a long moment before Gloss stands up and heads for the door. The other Victors watch him leave, but none of them question where he is going. None of them are that stupid.

Before he even reaches the District 5 suite, he can hear the sound of glass shattering. Elara's voice is shouting something. There's a hysteric tone to it that makes him walk faster, pushing the door open with a force that makes it slam into the wall. The scene that greets him is not pretty.

Harley is sitting on the couch in front of the TV looking despondent and blank, as if he's a ghost without purpose, blind to the rest of the world. Elara is the completely opposite. She hovers over him, a furious look etched onto her face. Her eyes blaze, fists clench. She's screaming at him – something about him being useless as a mentor. Gloss purses his mouth at the sight.

There's broken glass strewn all over the floor, no doubt individual targets of Elara's anger. He steps right over the shards to grasp her arm and tug her away from Harley, and she immediately turns her furious eyes onto him.

"Let me go," she hisses, wrenching her arm free from his grasp. She's stronger than she looks. Her wiry frame boasts toned muscles that enable her to pull away from Gloss's strong grip before he can lock his fingers around her. It doesn't dissuade him though.

"Elara," he grinds out, voice hinting at the danger that her fit will result in. She needs to calm down before they send Peacekeepers up here. With a forceful pull, he's got her back into his grip, hands grasping her arms tightly as he urges her to face him. When she does, he growls, "You need to calm down."

But she doesn't want to calm down. The avox workers are staring at her as if she's insane, and Ignatius's mouth has dropped open in shock at her violent outburst. The other stylists have fled the room, twittering with fright. She has successfully scared them all off – except Harley, who sits in mournful silence as if he has any right to. He hasn't even done anything to save Graham or Matilde. Not one single thing.

She doesn't know why she's so angry. Maybe it's because Matilde had come so far. She'd thought, for a brief moment, that District 5 might actually get another Victor this year. That she might actually be able to save someone. But she can't seem to save anyone, not even herself.

"You didn't help at all!" she barks at Harley's prone figure, who is still sitting with his head in his hands as if she doesn't exist. It only serves to make her even angrier. She struggles in Gloss's grasp, trying to wrench herself free as she shouts, "You're so useless – I don't even know how you won your Games!"

"Elara, stop it," Gloss demands, snapping her back into his chest for the sole purpose of restraining her. She struggles against his arms and turns to face him with a snarling expression. His face is equally as firm, jaw clenched tight as he stares at her. She doesn't usually lose herself like this. Even when she's angry, Elara Winston maintains an almost frightening sense of calm realism. All he can do is hold her back until her fury passes, because when it does…

He's bore witness to enough of her tirades to know what comes next.

All the Victors are broken. There are none who come out of the arena the same person that goes in. Before her Games, Elara had been innocent. All she'd wanted from life was to get a job in the Grid and move on with her life. But then she'd been Reaped, and her innocence had been stripped away from her like so many petals on a dying flower. She's been broken for years now, only she knows how to pretend otherwise. It is a game that all Victors must play. She's no different.

That why, when Gloss sees her blue eyes fill with tears, he gruffly says to the other occupants in the room, "Clean this mess up."

He heaves her to her room, practically dragging her behind him while the others stare silently at their exit. Elara shouts more insults at Harley until Gloss firmly closes her bedroom door and shuts out the sound of her yelling, and then he watches as she stumbles into the room and sinks down on the floor. He stands there for a moment, taking in the sight of her hunched form, before running a hand through his hair and sighing.

She hears it and sharply seethes, "You don't have to stay. I can deal with my own crap."

Gloss narrows his eyes at her and snaps, "You're acting like a child, Elara."

She spins around to glare at him. He crosses his arms challengingly.

"How dare you – "

"Just listen to me," he cuts in, voice stern and imposing. "You can't go around throwing tantrums like that. It's dangerous. So your tribute died. It happens every single year, Elara. It's never going to change."

She stares at him in betrayed shock, as if she can't believe that he would say that. But Gloss stands his ground, expression set with a certain stubbornness. He isn't going to back off from his standpoint. In another world, she might even agree with him. But the sorrow of losing another tribute, the anger that she's forced to be a part of it, makes her scowl at him in fury.

"…Twenty two," he suddenly says, seemingly out of the blue. She stares at him, silently demanding an explanation to the abrupt words, and he takes a step closer to her. "That's how many tributes Cashmere and I have mentored together. And out of those twenty two kids, only three of them have survived the Games."

She watches him step closer, until the space between them is nearly gone completely. Usually his presence would calm her, but today it only drives her further away. She takes a step back and snarls, "That's great. Congratulations, Gloss. I've been a mentor for eight years now and I haven't saved a single one. So if that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't."

His jaw clenches. She watches him take a breath and scoffs at him, but he just reaches out to grasp her arms and calmly tells her, "You're purposefully missing my point and you know it. The Games are rigged against us. I won because the Capitol saw something in me that they wanted. You won because you're gorgeous and smart and they couldn't just let you die." He pauses, and cups her face, pressing his forehead against hers and finishing, "This year, they want Katniss and Peeta. They're obsessed with them. They'll do anything in their power to make one of them a Victor, Elara."

She stares at him with watery eyes and brokenly whispers, "I know."

Of course she does. She's known it from the start, during the Chariot Parade when the Capitol audience had screamed out Katniss's name, when they had swooned at Peeta's confession during his interview, when they had tripped over themselves to sponsor them.

And yet…

"I'm so tired, Gloss," she breathes, face crumpling with exhausted emptiness. She falls into his chest and he brings her closer, strong arms surrounding her form as they both sink to the floor.

Clenching her fingers into his shirt, she tearfully says, "I wish I was dead, sometimes."

He tightens his hold of her, ducks his head against the crevice of her neck, and inhales the familiar scent of her skin. Her words would frighten anyone else, but he merely takes them in with a sigh, feeling her cry against him with silent shaking shoulders. She carries with her the weight of the world – they all do. If he could, he would take it from her, but he can't.

Instead, he whispers just as brokenly, "…I know."

Because he does, and he also knows that there's nothing he can say will make her feel better.