Chapter Thirteen | If you are a storm, then let me say this:
"If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this;
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
1.5, 94-97, Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
Elara has grown accustomed to the second life she lives in the Capitol. She doubts she'll ever get used to it, really, but she no longer wanders around the city aimlessly when she is there, confused about what her purpose is in this vast place that is so different from her home. The people no longer make her cringe. Their flamboyant fashions have become almost normal to her. Sometimes, she even finds herself amused by what these creatures come up with. So far, the most bizarre trend has been the ostrich features that they'd been obsessed with a few months back. They were everywhere on the streets, making every Capitolite appear like giant colorful birds prancing around in an otherwise slate grey world.
No – she hasn't gotten used to this strange city and these shallow people, but they no longer shock her. She still gets shocked by other things, though.
She's cringing every other step as she walks down the hall to where her apartment awaits, nestled high in one of the skyscrapers on the East End where most of the wealthier citizens live. Most of the Victors live in this part of the city because of their vaulted social status, though as far as Elara knows, she's the only person on this side of the neighborhood. To be fair, she only knows the location of one other Victor's apartment, so she's not entirely sure.
She's been in the Capitol for about two weeks now, and has another four days to go before she can return to District 5. This is one of her longer visits. Usually, Snow only invites her for a week or so at a time, but it's pre-Games season and the Capitol is already preparing for the upcoming Hunger Games. The Reaping is still a ways off, but it hardly matters to these creatures. They are already hosting parties left and right, eagerly chattering about what this year's Games will bring and what sort of Victor will be crowned at the end of them. Like clockwork every year, the Capitol turns its attentions to the one event that they've all been waiting for, excited to watch yet another round of children meet their deaths in bloody and horrific ways. And, like clockwork, their attention is drawn not only to the upcoming Games, but also to the current Victors as well.
That's why her current stay is so long. Her number of scheduled clients is already long as it is, but Snow gives allowances during this time of year so that last minute clients can be accommodated for around her schedule. She knows it's the same for the other Victors who are forced into this life, but she still loathes it, primarily because many of those last minute clients are…different.
It's odd, really, but Elara has noticed that there are a few variations in the types of clients who buy her. Many of the scheduled ones are high ranking socialites or CEOs. Those are the types who turn to her for pleasure because they don't get it at home. Then there are the ones who do, but buy her services just because they want the experience of bedding a Victor. And then – there are those whose peculiar tastes make them sexual pariahs, and they turn to the Victors because they know that they can't be turned away.
Unfortunately for her, she had one of those tonight.
They aren't all bad. Sometimes their strange tastes extend merely to lingerie or dirty talk or barking orders. Those, she can handle. But sometimes their preferences are darker, fouler, and involve a sort of physical pain and humiliation that leaves her scarred in ways that don't just mar her skin.
She swallows back a wave of disgust at the recent memories that pluck at her mind. Her client tonight had been one of the worst she can recall. Her body screams in pain with every step, and it takes her far longer than usual to make it to her apartment door. When she finally gets there, it takes her a few minutes to focus on remembering her passcode. Her mind is in shambles just like her body. Hours of the particular torture she had underwent has taken its toll, and she's so exhausted that she can feel it all the way down to her bones.
Somehow, she manages to open the door. She doesn't get very far though.
"Elara?" Gloss's voice sounds, and she holds her breath as she raises her eyes to the living room. He's sitting in front of the television, presumably waiting for her. She no longer asks why. Their relationship is somehow more than just casual sex, though she couldn't say with much clarity what it is, exactly. It isn't out of the ordinary that one of them lets themselves into the other's space without being specifically invited. They come and go whenever they have free time, and she's grown accustomed to walking into her Capitol apartment and seeing him there. It is a form of comfort, she reminds herself, thinking on that night when Gloss had used the word to explain their connection.
He is gentle when he reaches her, tilting her chin up to look at her. His eyes are soft when he catches her gaze with his, and far more expressive than she's ever seen them before.
He clenches his jaw as he looks at her. She's got bruises everywhere – along her cheek, around her neck, against her calves – and he knows there are far more of them beneath her dress. She's bleeding, too, though he can't tell where yet. He can see the traces of blood against her clothing, small droplets that have just barely managed to stain the fabric, but there are enough of them to make him even more cautious of his handling of her.
At once, he's glad he had decided to stop by – and at the same time, wishes that he could be anywhere but here. Seeing Elara in this state is a firm reminder of how many other men have touched her and it makes him furious. He knows he's not the only one and that it's the same on both sides. He's got clients, too. Women who come to him, who drape themselves against his body as if they have the right to get so comfortable. There's only one woman who has that right, though he doubts she realizes it. He hadn't realized it either, for the longest time.
"Come on," he murmurs, and then carefully hooks his arm under her knees to lift her up. Elara lets out a confused squeak when he does it, clearly not expecting the move, and flaps her hand against his chest as if she's trying to make him put her down.
He doesn't. Honestly, this obstinate woman would probably never make it to her damned bedroom in the state she's in. She can barely walk, and the knowledge of why that is makes a dark, furious storm blaze just beneath the surface of his skin.
He's been here before, with his sister. Cashmere can take care of herself, or so she likes to tell him, but he's seen her in similar states. Bruised and tormented, with those distressed eyes and shaking hands. He knows why she can't walk a straight path and why she cringes with every step. He's not an idiot.
He's also not about to let her deal with this alone. He tells himself it's because he's already here anyhow, but he knows there's more to it than that. He hasn't fully admitted it to himself yet, but he knows there's more to Elara Winston than his heart has outright told him. It's a little scary, to be honest, but it doesn't stop him from carefully depositing her onto her bed and sighing out as he reaches for the zipper of her dress.
She cringes back from him and Gloss immediately stops. His first reaction would be to continue on without pause, but he knows that this situation requires a defter hand to navigate.
"Hey. Elara," he breathes, taking her face and turning her towards him. Their eyes clash, and he forces down a shiver of anger at the broken way she stares at him. After struggling for a moment to ensure that his voice is bereft of that fury, Gloss murmurs, "Let me help you. I just want to help you."
Something in her expression softens at his words. Her eyes recognize him. That's something at least. It's enough for her to quietly ask him, "Why?"
It's a fair question, he supposes. So far, their relationship has been strictly sex – or, at least, those are the parameters that he has tried to keep them to. But he can no longer deny that there is something else there too, lurking just below the surface of their connection. Something far more potent than just the need to escape into each other every once in a while.
He quips her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and responds, "Because I want to. Why do I need a reason?"
She shakes as she sits there, just a little, just enough to make him clench his jaw again as another wave of fury rattles through his frame. God, he hates this city. He hates this life. He hates that she has to go through the very same demons that so many before her had dealt with. He wishes he could save her from it. He knows he can't, but he can at least try to pick up the pieces of her that she has currently lost, and put her back together enough for her to regain herself.
"I'll get a shower going," he tells her, pushing a strand of her hair out of her eyes. She nods dully and looks down at her hands, clenching them in her lap with tight, clawing fingers. He wants to hold them, wrap his fingers around hers and show her that she's not alone. Instead he stands up and walks to the bathroom.
He turns the shower on and pulls his shirt off, then his pants, until he's only wearing his boxer briefs. When he returns to the bedroom to collect his broken friend, Elara is trying and failing to pull down the zipper of her dress. She's shaking too much to successfully reach it, so he pushes her hand out of the way and does it himself.
She seems more willing to follow his instruction now, for she doesn't complain when he slides the dress off of her body. It lands on the floor in a heap of forgotten fabric as he pulls her towards the bathroom, maneuvering her over the tiles floor before shedding the last of her clothes. There's nothing truly sexual about it. Though the sight of her body is usually enough to press passion to his soul, tonight he is only focused on the technical side of things. She's thankful for it. She feels comfortable in his presence, even when he steps into the shower with her and starts soaping her body up, removing the traces of the night's torment.
But there are many traces that cannot be removed so easily. Bruises and scratches that he'll have to patch up later, because there's something in him that can't stand the sight of her hurt like this. He doesn't know what it is or why he feels it, but it isn't an instinct that can be pushed aside so easily. Not when he can see the starkness of black and blue skin against the light of the bathroom and the red marks that mar the skin of her thighs and hips and breasts.
He's furious – beyond furious – that a man would treat her like this, like a ragdoll to be used then tossed away once her purpose has been fulfilled. She looks like she's been beaten several times over. Hard punches and clawing fingers. It makes him a little nauseous, but he battles it down as he reaches for the shampoo.
"You probably shouldn't be here," she mumbles to him as he tips her head back and starts washing the auburn strands. It feels strange, having him take care of her like this. The great Gloss Augustine, a sex symbol in his own right, adored by the Capitol for more than just his Games. He's a beloved Victor from District 1, trusted and loyal, or so they think. And he's in Elara Winston's apartment, a Victor from a district that rarely produces winners, at a questionable hour of the night, as if it's totally normal.
In a way, it is totally normal. Yet there is something irregular in the gentle way he massages her scalp and begins to wash the shampoo out of her hair. She can't remember him ever being so…attentive. Not like this, for no reason but to give her some small sliver of comfort.
She can see that he has no ulterior motives. His eyes are honest and clear, his expression open. She can see the anger there, but she knows it isn't directed at her. She sees a lot in his gaze – probably more than he means her to.
Gloss scoffs. He's completely focused on washing out all remnant of shampoo when he answers, "That's never stopped me before, has it?"
No, it hasn't. They've gotten a little lax in their secret trysts. Her mind drifts to Finnick's subtle warning at the Gala almost a year ago, now, and she wonders how many other Victors have caught on. She hopes that no one else has realized the extent of her relations with Gloss, because she's honestly not sure if she could go on without him. It's funny, how comfortable she's gotten with someone like him. He's a man she never thought she'd ever want. He's blunt and crass sometimes, and his imposing reputation should be enough to keep her away. But – he's also soft and gentle, and when he makes love to her, it feels different from every other experience she's ever had. When he holds her, she feels like she's in an unbreakable circle of protection.
Suddenly she craves that feeling more than anything else in the world, and Elara pushes herself forward to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. If he's surprised by the sudden embrace, he doesn't show it. There's only a subtle hesitance in his actions when he pulls her into him, coiling his arms around her waist firmly. He tucks his face against her hair as the water washes over them, and something inside of him feels at once whole in a way he's never felt before.
How does she do it? He's the one who's supposed to be comforting her, and yet suddenly it feels like she's healing him, fitting the broken pieces of him together with an ease that should frighten him but…it doesn't.
"Thank you," she breathes against his neck.
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just holds her tighter.
A week goes by before Elara receives her schedule. It comes in the form of a thick beige envelope that arrives on her doorstep. Her name is written in fanciful calligraphy on the front of it, as if they think that this pretty looping version of her name will make up for the horrors that await her inside the pages. It doesn't.
It's a Saturday when it arrives. Amelia is still asleep. That girl could sleep till noon if Elara lets her. Usually she doesn't, but today Elara doesn't have the energy to berate her sister for staying up so late every night. She lets her sleep, and when the younger girl struts down the stairs several hours later and sees the envelope that Elara has put on the dining room table, the reason for the leniency is fairly obvious. Amelia has seen enough of those envelopes to know what they mean, and what tidings they bring. She's seen that expression on Elara's face enough to know that for once, a softer approach is necessary.
She heads for the coffee, which is still hot even though it's almost one o'clock in the afternoon, and as she pours herself a cup she carefully asks, "When are you leaving?"
Elara doesn't look at her. She's staring off into space with a cold mug between her hands, half full and mostly untouched. She's been alternating between staring at the envelope and staring at the rain splashing the windows for the past two hours, battling with demons that shouldn't exist in this small sliver of peace that she is afforded. Yet, as always, they somehow find a way to weave their way into her home in the form of detailed lists of names that are ready to snatch up the remaining dregs of her humanity.
It never gets any easier, no matter how many years she's been through this process or how many envelopes she has received.
"…In three weeks," is her belated response. She turns her attention to Amelia and watches her stir sugar into her coffee. Three teaspoons. That girl has a sugar addiction. It's no wonder why she's so difficult all the time.
Amelia stares at the envelope and frowns. She hates those envelopes. She hates what the Capitol makes Elara do and how often Snow calls her to his city. Elara had tried to hide it from her in the beginning, thinking that it would be better for her not to know exactly what goes on in the underbelly of Capitol society, but Amelia had found out. She's too nosy to leave the matter alone, especially when Elara travels back and forth so often. And besides, despite their sometimes difficult relationship, Amelia has a protective streak a mile wide for her sister. Not that it does much good in this case. There's nothing she can do to save Elara from this hell.
"Did you call Gloss?" she asks after a beat of silence. She knows about them, too. Elara has always been more logical and realistic, but when it comes to Gloss Augustine, she's a total idiot. It wasn't very difficult to figure it out. Amelia knows her too well, and Elara doesn't have to hide her feelings here in this house, where there are no Capitolites to fool.
Elara sighs and turns her gaze back to the window, staring sightlessly through the pane at the grey skies overhead. The rain is a fitting eulogy to the dread she feels in her bones. It's almost funny, but then again, there's nothing really amusing about being forced to sell your soul to strangers who don't really care if you live or die.
"I'll call him later," she mutters. In truth, she's been putting it off. It's only been a week since the end of the Games and their last phone call. She hasn't heard from him since then, and she's slowly been adjusting to her routine here in District 5. The routine that is as dull and lifeless as the rest of her, when she's forced to confront another long absence without him.
She wants to gather herself a little before calling him. Patch herself up, so to speak. The envelopes always leave her shaken, as if the paper itself has the potential to strip more parts of herself away. He knows her well enough to hear the cadence of that in her voice. She doesn't want to worry him.
Amelia grunts, taking a sip of coffee as she turns to stare out of the window, too. She hates when Elara gets like this, but she knows from experience that there is little she can do to help her. This time of the year is always the hardest, it seems. The Games season allows her to fall into a sort of expectation regarding her relationship with Gloss. She sees him every day, talks to him often, kisses him as much as possible. It's a cycle that lasts for several weeks straight – a rare thing, for them, that she wholeheartedly embraces. But then, when it's over and she returns to District 5, she breaks all over again as if for the first time, and Amelia has to watch it happen because she doesn't know what she can do to fix her. Victors are broken creatures, and there's no real way for them to be anything but broken.
"How about we go grocery shopping together?" Amelia asks, trying not to sound hopeful. She doesn't want Elara to think that she's only asking to make her feel better, to provide some small distraction. They rarely go shopping together though. She only asks during this time of year, and she knows that Elara is far too intelligent to be fooled. It doesn't stop her from agreeing though.
She gives Amelia a cringing smile and shrugs, "Fine. We should probably restock the fridge anyway."
Amelia nods and quickly says, "I'll go get dressed. Be down in a few!"
She takes her coffee mug with her to change out of her pajamas, and Elara watches her leave. She knows Amelia too well to not realize what she's trying to do, but it does make her feel better to know that her sister cares enough to at least try. Having her around, even though she drives her crazy half the time, is a blessing that she will always be thankful for. She knows she's hard on her sometimes and she knows that Amelia doesn't always appreciate the fact that her sister is both a sibling and a mother figure in one, but they're a pair nonetheless, and they're far more similar than either of them wants to admit.
They head out of the quiet Victor's Village, both dressed in sweatshirts with the hoods drawn up over their heads to keep of the rain. Their umbrella seems to have gotten lost somehow – probably a result of Amelia not putting it back where it belongs – so they run through the rain until they reach the next street, where the roofs of the buildings extend outward over the sidewalks and shield them from the elements.
The grey city seems all but abandoned today. Even though the rain is one of the few constants in this place, it still keeps people off the streets. They pass a few souls who linger on the sidewalks, though. One of the shopkeepers is standing in the doorway of his store with his arms lazily crossed over his chest as he waits for potential customers. He nods to them as they pass, and Elara greets him.
"How are you, Ernest?" she asks, pausing briefly as she drags her auburn hair off her forehead. The rain had made it stick there in what is probably an unattractive manner, not that she cares. She doesn't have to be perfectly put together here. Outside of the fancy dresses and expensive clothes she wears in the Capitol, her usual fashion sense in District 5 is far more laid back. Sweatshirts and jeans take up the majority of her closet, and she rarely wears jewelry.
It's normal in this place, where most of the population can't afford nice clothes or fancy necklaces. She fits right into the grey slate streets. The only feature that sets her apart from the rest is the auburn color of her hair as it peaks out of the hood of her sweatshirt. That, and the dull, lifeless look in her eyes.
Ernest is a tall man, about middle aged, with a wife who works down on the lower levels of the Grid and two kids who are still in school. Elara used to babysit his children when she was younger, back before she was Reaped and lost any credentials she might have had to look after children.
Ernest shrugs, "Same as ever. Business is slow today. Don't suppose you two need anything?"
Ernest owns a hardware shop. He's very mechanically minded, same as most of the people around here. He sells all sorts of items and usually does pretty good business. District 5 isn't as impoverished as some of the outer districts in Panem, and he's been able to scrap out a decent living for his family. Unfortunately, though, Elara doesn't need anything from him today.
She gives him an apologetic look and he waves her off with a, "You know where I am when you do. You girls stay out of the rain, you hear?"
Amelia rolls her eyes and quips, "I don't think that's possible, Ernest."
Elara sighs.
"See you later!" she calls as she follows after her sister, who has began walking in the direction of the grocery store. All the shops are fairly close to the Victor's Village, on a stretch of road that cuts down the middle of the district. If you keep walking straight ahead, you'll reach the huge lake that surrounds District 5. There's a pier that someone had built on it decades ago, and a lot of citizens go swimming there during the summer months when the air is far more hot and humid than it is now.
You always know where you are within the district. The Coriolanus powerplant is as much a landmark as it is a way to orient yourself on the streets. It stretches far into the sky, above every other building. Today, it is a dark and imposing structure in the distance, made all the darker with the rain that splatters against its walls.
Amelia reaches the store first. She doesn't hold the door open for Elara and Elara doesn't expect her to. The pair enters the store silently, only pausing for a moment to say hello to Gregory and his daughter, Paula, who are both working behind the counter. Paula is in her thirties now with a husband of her own. She alternates between working at her parent's store and at the little farm that her husband owns just outside of the district, where they produce vegetables and some varieties of fruit. They don't ship their harvests to the Capitol, though. All of the food either ends up here at the grocers, or at their local farm stand.
"What a day we're having," Gregory says in passing, nodding out at the rainy skies. It's funny, how often people complain about the rain despite it being so common around here. Still, it makes for an icebreaker of sorts no matter what time of year it is.
"There's a thunderstorm brewing," Paula adds as she shoots a gentle smile at Elara. "Make sure you've got everything you need for the next couple of days. You know how crazy people get during a storm."
Elara hums dryly and mutters, "You'd think they'd be used to it by now…"
Gregory laughs. "It's the only interesting thing that happens around here. I think people just like the drama of it all." He idles with the register and adds, "I'm not complaining, mind you. We do great business during storms."
Amelia snorts from the end of a nearby aisle and calls, "Do you have any more of those fruit drinks, Greg? The strawberry ones?"
Before he can respond, Elara jumps up to firmly say, "No way are you wasting our money on overpriced drinks." She grabs the basket Amelia is already stuffing with drinks that they don't need to be buying, and the girl sends her an aggravated frown.
"Why not? We've got money to spare," she complains, much to Elara annoyance.
She's right. They do have more money than they really need, but most of that money comes from places she isn't proud of, and most of it goes towards paying off Amelia's education. She's been putting money to the side for years now, hoping that Amelia might turn herself around and show an interest in going to one of the technical schools that litter the district after she graduates from the primary school she's in now, which is required until the age of nineteen. Amelia is eighteen, but she only has a few months to go until she has to start thinking about what she's going to do with her life.
A large portion of kids who don't immediately get offered jobs at the Grid or the powerplant end up going to one of the technical schools to further their knowledge of a certain subject. Most of the schools are two year programs that specialize in certain specifications, like electrical engineering or hydroelectricity. Some of them are geared more towards handyman-type work, like plumbing or construction or masonry. Those are the brunt of the jobs here in District 5, which is far more of a mechanical district than many others. Unfortunately, Amelia hasn't shown much interest in becoming an electrician, but Elara isn't about to let her sit around the house for the rest of her life doing nothing.
With a sigh, she takes the basket from her and starts putting the drinks back. She leaves one as a peace offering, though it doesn't seem to make Amelia's frown any less pronounced. The younger girl rolls her eyes at her and ambles further down the aisle, probably looking for more junk food that they don't need to waste money on.
Honestly, money doesn't come from the sky. Elara works hard for her paycheck…it just isn't the sort of work that she can talk about in polite conversation. If she was in Amelia's shoes, she'd jump at the chance to do something else – anything else. She always used to want to be an engineer like their parents. If she had the time, she wouldn't hesitate to start taking some classes and learn more about the subject, but as it is, Snow's schedules keep her far too occupied for such pursuits.
With another sigh, she follows Amelia down the aisle, gathering some produce while she goes and wondering what sort of life she might have led, had she not been Reaped eight years ago. But even though a large part of her yearns for that mundane, beautifully normal life, another part of her wouldn't trade her circumstances for anything. Because – despite the horrors that she has to face every time she goes into the Capitol, and the clients she has to please even when they ask her to strip away her humanity and her dignity, there is one golden highlight of this life she lives.
A warm hazel gaze flashes at her from her mind's eye, and her hard expression softens just so. No, she wouldn't trade him for anything.