A/N: This chapter does contain a somewhat graphic scene with a client, so feel free to just read the flashback if that bothers you!
Chapter Fifteen | You are an open ocean swept aside;
"Some grief shows much of love,
But much grief shows still some want of wit."
3.5, 73-74 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
Elara Winston has been a Victor for a total of six months, and so far, it hasn't been so bad. Well, actually it has, but the sleepless night that result from her nightmares are the only horrors she has to deal with, for now. She doesn't know, yet, what sort of life Snow is planning for her. For now, she is still a new Victor fresh out of the arena, and she is just trying to get through her Victory Tour with some semblance of courage.
District 3 had been her favorite district so far. It's similar enough to her own that she had felt more at home there than she does here, at her second to last stop. The Capitol awaits her after this, where Snow will be hosting a party in her honor. She knows the drill. She's watched plenty of other Victory Tours to know how this works. But for now, she's just got one more stop before she can wrap this up and go home, where she longs to be. Amelia is only ten years old and even though her parents are looking after her, Elara feels strange to be away from them all for so long.
They've never been very good at dealing with their second child. Amelia is a wild kid even at a young age. She's got a spirit that reminds Elara of an unbroken horse, and legs to match. She's always running off into some kind of trouble, and with their parents working long hours at the Grid, Elara's always been the one to take care of her and make sure she's not terrorizing the whole district.
It's a job that she hates to love. Amelia makes her want to laugh and yell at the same time.
"You look lovely, my dear," Ignatius fawns, beaming proudly at her as he fixes her already perfectly styled hair. Even though she's only eighteen years old, he's dressed her up in a gown far more scandalous than she's ever worn. Of course, in the years to come, she'll wear dresses that go above and beyond what she's wearing now, but the plunging bust and the back that drops low to her waist makes her extremely uncomfortable.
She doesn't feel like an eighteen year old girl anymore. In the last six months, she's felt like she's become very old indeed.
"…Thank you," she mutters, not really trying to sound sincere. If Ignatius notices, he doesn't show it. She thinks he does though. There's a subtle, sharp expression that's hewn through his gaze when his eyes lock with hers, and from the way he purses his mouth just slightly, he looks like he feels a little underappreciated. Well good. So far, she's hated nearly all the outfits he's put her in. It's as if he's trying to make her appear more womanly than she is and the discomfort is evident in the way she wears his designs.
"Stand up straight and look confident," is all he says, as if he's tired of having to deal with her. She snorts in response, a derisive sound, and he sighs. Apparently uninterested in what he probably sees as her own pettiness, Ignatius makes his exit promptly.
Maybe she is being petty. She doesn't care. She doesn't care about any of it. She's in the middle of not caring when a voice suddenly drawls, "You know, you should try smiling. It does wonders."
Surprised at the fact that she isn't as alone as she'd thought, Elara turns swiftly to see none other than Gloss and Cashmere Augustine standing arm in arm in the middle of the foyer of the Justice Building. District 1 is her last stop on the tour, and she's been dreading it. Mainly because she hasn't heard very good things about this place, but also because she's been anticipating this meeting for quite a while.
Gloss and Cashmere have always intimidated her a little bit. On television, they're both so put together and confident. People adore them. They're the Capitol's Golden Children, and it's almost like they don't even have to try to be popular – they just are. Elara's never cared much for popularity or the opinions of others, but their reputation precedes them, and it's not necessarily a good one.
Both their Games had been brutal, by their own hands. Cashmere had won first, and she had been utterly merciless as she cut down the other tributes. Elara had cringed at the final days of it. It was as if the woman had turned into a ferocious killing machine with no soul. Gloss hadn't been much better. He'd been completely animalistic throughout the entire two weeks of his Games, which was relatively short really, because he had practically rushed through the entire arena fearlessly.
By comparison, Elara's games had been completely boring, at least in the eyes of the Capitol. She's quite sure that if she had been Reaped simultaneously with one of these two, she wouldn't be here right now. They'd have cut her down like the weaker tribute she is.
With a scowl, Elara raises her chin and sarcastically asks, "It does wonders for what, exactly?"
The question seems to amuse Gloss, who had been the one to speak. He raises an eyebrow at her and slowly drawls, "Making people like you, Winston."
Elara purses her mouth and doesn't reply. She doesn't care if people like her or not, least of all the people in this district. She hadn't been the one to kill the tributes here. If that isn't enough of a peace offering, she doesn't know what is.
"He's right, you know, as much as it pains me to admit it," Cashmere says, eyeing Elara's dress with a gaze that looks partially appreciative but mostly derisive, as if she thinks that Ignatius had tried a little too hard.
Unlike Elara, Cashmere looks as much the woman she is. At twenty one years old, she's still young enough to be considered an adolescent in some ways, but old enough to be seen as a woman in the eyes of the Capitol. In comparison, Elara feels like a total child.
She shifts a little in discomfort and Cashmere rolls her eyes and snaps, "Stand still already. You have to own that dress if you're going to pull it off."
Elara scowls at her, and Gloss chuckles a little. Her eyes blaze over at him, only to find that he's giving her a thorough look over. He's completely unabashed at the way he's staring at her, slowly perusing her dress as if he's trying to decide what he thinks of it. If anything, it only makes Elara feel even more uncomfortable, which is fairly obvious from the way she continues shifting from foot to foot.
Gloss is ridiculously handsome. Anyone with eyes would agree. Both him and his sister possess a magnetic beauty that makes people notice them. Gloss himself has a rugged appeal that is currently being tamed in the polished suit he's wearing. He doesn't have his jacket with him, but he doesn't really need it. He looks crisp and suave in his button up shirt and dress trousers. The first few buttons are undone, showing off the hint of his chest, and when Elara's eyes lingers on it, Gloss laughs.
"Checking me out, Winston? I'm not sure you could handle me," he smirks, eyes creasing in patronizing amusement. Elara laughs too, a snippy sound, and it seems to surprise him for a moment.
He's further surprised when she quips, "Since you were just looking me over, I think I have the right to do the same. And I wouldn't want to handle you anyway." She says the word with a hint of disdain, but instead of offending him, it only seems to make him more amused.
At his side, Cashmere rolls her eyes. "We should get going. See you on the stage, Winston. Don't mess up your lines."
Elara grumbles a little as they walk away. She can't help but stare at the perfect silhouette of Cashmere as she strides off in her high heels, looking as if she was born in that dress and those shoes. Gloss sends her a wink as he passes, much to her dismay. She feels her cheeks heat up a tiny bit as a result, but luckily his back is already turned so he doesn't see. She's only just met him, but she can already picture the hell she'd receive from him catching sight of her blush. He seems like the teasing type.
After a few minutes idling in the foyer of the Justice Building, Olive comes teetering over to her in her customary five inch heels. The District 5 escort looks like she might fall at any moment, and Elara raises a skeptical eyebrow at her, wondering if she'll have to catch her. Thankfully, the woman somehow manages not to slip on the polished tiled floor.
"It's time," Olive says, voice all full of excitement, as if this is some kind of incredible event that she's honestly thrilled to take part in. Elara wouldn't consider it to be incredible, but she does suppose it's pretty rare. District 5 never wins the Hunger Games, after all. Olive probably never thought she'd have the opportunity to usher her Victor around like this.
As she leads Elara over to the large doors, she says, "Now, you have your cards. Just read them if you need a few prompts and you'll do splendidly. And remember – after this, it's the Capitol! I know you're so excited about that! Do our district proud, my dear!"
Elara would like to ask Olive when she'd started considering District 5 to be her district. Olive has always loathed District 5. Elara distinctly remembers her complaining about the dust and the dirt during one of the past Reapings, when she thought her microphone was turned off. It had been embarrassing for everyone who had heard her. Instead of snarking at her though, Elara just sighs and nods. It isn't worth the energy, trying to figure out a creature like Olive.
The doors swing open, and Elara steps out onto the landing of the Justice Building, in front of a crowd of people who look nothing like her own. She's seen a lot of people in the last few weeks since her Victory Tour had begun, but none of them have ever looked like this. There are no rugged workers in sight, no impoverished families or dirty beggars. At first, Elara thinks she's looking right into a group of Capitolites, with their garish fashion statements and polished clothing. Everyone looks like they're wealthy. And expectant.
She feels a tiny bit nervous as she walks up to the microphone, but Elara is nothing if not good at pretenses. She lifts her chin up. She's not going to bend to the whims of these people. Or, at least, that's what she tells herself as she cautiously walks across the stage.
Olive takes her place beside Gloss and Cashmere. They're standing on the side of the stage, in the public's eye but slightly removed from it, as if they're there to give Elara some semblance of support. She thinks it's a little funny, really, the prospect of garnering any kind of support from a group of has-been Careers. There are a lot of them, though. Far more than most districts. Even more than District 2. The Capitol loves this place, and it's clear in both the wide display of wealth and the fact that so many of their tributes survived their Games.
She doesn't really mean for it to happen, but her eyes drift over Gloss's as she passes the siblings. Their eyes clash momentarily. It really only lasts a matter of seconds, if that, but the little smile he sends her makes her feel strangely comforted. It's such an unexpected feeling coming from a man like him that it unnerves her a little, and she walks faster.
Her speech is delivered point blank. She doesn't try to appease the crowd by weaving some kind of intricate story about her feelings regarding their tributes. She doesn't care about their tributes and they don't expect her to. She knows that Olive isn't very happy with her when she finishes the speech on a dull note, but Elara is too exhausted to care about that, either. She's just happy that she hadn't messed up her lines so that Cashmere can't annoy her about it later.
Later. God, when will this day end? For the last few weeks, it's all been the same. Arrive at the district that she's scheduled to be in, get wrangled into a dress by Ignatius and his group of insane stylists, say her speech as fast as she can without sounding overly rude, attend a banquet in her honor that same night, finally get some sleep, and head off to the next district in the morning to do it all again.
All she wants to do is collapse into bed and try to sleep without any nightmares, but she knows she can't do that. The moment she steps off the stage after saying her speech, Olive and Ignatius descend upon her and drag her off to 'fix her make-up' and 'go over the schedule for the evening'. As if they haven't already done that a million times.
Several hours later, she's sitting down at a lavish table in a garishly decorated room while the mayor of District 1 welcomes her. She's surrounded by people she doesn't know, by Victors who she can't remember, and by décor that honestly makes her head spin. The centerpieces on the tables look like they're made out of solid gold. She's not entirely sure, of course, because she's never actually seen gold before. If that isn't enough, she doesn't recognize any of the dishes in front of her and it's making her feel extremely out of her depth.
"Cat got your tongue, Winston?" a voice drawls to her left, and she jerks in surprise because she hadn't heard anyone approach. Gloss Augustine is standing next to the empty chair beside her, raising an eyebrow as he studies her skeptically. He looks a little surprised that he had caught her off guard.
With a smirk, he pulls the chair out and sits down. "I asked if this seat was taken, but I'm going to assume that it isn't. Your frown is scaring everyone away, I think."
Elara grabs her water glass and mumbles, "Too bad it isn't scaring you away."
He laughs and starts loading his plate with food. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, very much wary of this hulking man beside her who could so easily snap her throat. Gloss isn't a man to be taken lightly. The fact that he's paying attention to her is unnerving.
"Your speech was really awful," he tells her bluntly as he reaches for a bottle that's filled with a rose looking wine. It's smells really sweet. Gloss gives it a whiff, makes a face, and immediately puts it back down.
She scoffs and returns, "I know. I don't care."
Her tone makes him look at her with eyes that are surprisingly serious. He stares at her for a good long minute before he slowly says, "You should care. You don't want to get into any trouble, do you? You're a part of the system now. You've got to follow the rules."
She looks confused, and he chuckles. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," he mutters, finally settling on some dark burgundy wine. He seems to dislike wine. Elara isn't surprised. He seems more the type to favor beer.
She doesn't know what he's talking about or why he's talking about it to her, but Elara does know that the sooner she finishes eating, the faster she can make excuses and head off to bed. So instead of answering him or questioning him on this so-called 'system', she starts digging into her soup with zeal. Gloss looks eternally amused as he watches her, like he can't believe that she's as hungry as she seems to portray.
"So, Winston," he says as he leans back and casually takes a sip of his wine. "You seem to hate dresses, speeches, and the other Victors. What do you like?"
Her eyes slant over to him. She raises an eyebrow and swallows her soup gracelessly. When her mouth is empty of liquid, she narrows her eyes at him. "I like silence," she curtly responds.
Gloss's mouth curves upwards. "Well aren't you a feisty creature. Have you always been this prickly, or is this the new version of you?"
Her eyes fill with confusion. "New version?" she asks, unsure as to his meaning. Gloss raises an eyebrow.
"You know. The version that can't sleep. That wakes up from nightmares every single night. That dreams of the arena. The version of you that's broken and ruined. That version," he says in an offhanded manner, but the way his eyes flicker into hers makes it apparent that he isn't joking around.
She stares at him, not sure if she's feeling shocked or disgusted or maybe something else – a sort of unnerved realization that he's just pegged her so precisely that it's almost as if he knows exactly who she is. And yet he does. He's a Victor too.
"…Do you…" she trails off, clears her throat, and quietly wonders, "…Do you get the nightmares too, then?"
They both stare at each other for a long moment. He looks like he pities her, almost. It makes her wish she could take the question back.
"You know," he murmurs, "the one good thing about District 1 is that there's a whole lot of other Victors who can show you the ropes of your new life. But the bad thing about it is that you never get any sleep." When she sends him a baffled expression, Gloss smiles humorlessly and explains, "The Victor's Village is never quiet at night. One of us is bound to wake up screaming."
Well. If that's not an answer to her question, Elara doesn't know what is. She looks down at her soup and swallows thickly. Gloss just sighs.
"Like I said, Winston, you're a part of the system now. We're all broken around here," he tells her, but she thinks he's wrong.
The Capitol might have shaken her, and the Games might have ruined her, but they didn't break her. There's only one person who can truly break you, and that is yourself.
Perhaps it is just as well that she doesn't yet understand how much that philosophy will be tested in the years to come.
"You like that, girl?" the gruff voice of her current client murmurs in her ear. His body covers her, pressing her into the mattress as his hands rove her skin. The posh Capitol accent that forms the cadence of his tone is heavy. The pleasure in his voice is like weights. It drags her down, and down, and down.
His fingers brush against her clit, and Elara tries to close her eyes and imagine that someone else is hovering over her, burning pleasure into her, asking her if she's enjoying herself. Only, Gloss would never ask her that. He knows her so well by now that when he makes love to her, it's almost as if he's a musician and she's his instrument, and he doesn't need words to know the notes of the song he plays into her heart.
He wouldn't touch her like this either, with these groping hands. Not that Gloss can't be grabby, but he's never made her skin bruise on purpose before. Oh, she's woken up plenty of times with love marks and bruises from him, but he had never put them on her skin with the intention of hurting her.
And – he doesn't smell like this. He doesn't feel like this. He doesn't sound like this.
It's impossible to pretend that this man is Gloss, and even as she makes one last attempt at doing so, Elara feels a little sick that she's trying at all. It's just a coping mechanism. She doesn't have a choice when it comes to her clients. She knows what happens when a Victor refuses President Snow. But, God, she can't help but feel like she's betraying Gloss somehow, by being with someone else like this. Even though it isn't by choice, and Gloss understands, and he's forced to do it too sometimes, and besides, he's a million miles away right now in District 1 and she won't be seeing him for weeks.
She still feels like she's betraying him. She thinks it's strange, how they've purposefully kept their relationship as objective as possible, at least verbally. Yet they feel so much, want so much, love so much. They've never spoken their affection aloud, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Above her, her client groans. He grasps onto her breast and squeezes tightly, and she tries not to cringe at the rough touch. This client isn't as bad as some. He doesn't seem to get off on the sight of blood. He mainly seems to live for his own pleasure. He's selfish, greedy. She is okay with that. She prefers the selfish ones who don't try to give her pleasure in return. It is unwanted.
"Fuck, you're so hot," her client whispers in her ear, hips shuddering faster against hers. His fingers, slick with her juices, move to grasp onto the pillow beside her head as he races forward, thrusting with a sort of haphazard haste that tells Elara that he's almost done.
She does her best to spur him on, not because she wants to, but because the thought of returning to her apartment is the only thing that's keeping her afloat right now.
It's so much easier when Gloss is in the Capitol at the same time. Even if they're not together like this, on this side of intimacy, just being in his presence is soothing and calming. He could hold her all night and she wouldn't grow tired of his arms around her. Enveloping her in the scent of his skin, holding her to his chest, tracing patterns into her skin…
She misses him. She hopes that the stagnant feeling of her sentimental mind will diminish after her client falls asleep and she's able to slip out of his apartment, but it doesn't. She returns to her place with the same heavy heart, and even after showering and wrapping herself up in her bed, her thoughts are full of him.
A million miles away his thoughts are full of her, too, but there is nothing that can be done about it. Such is their life. Fate is a strange mistress, bandying its captives here and there, uncaring for the repercussion of its whims. And yet, it works in mysterious ways, and inexplicably, Fate may yet hold out some hope for the two of them, in the future to come.