A/N: More smut in this chapter. Skip the flashback if you'd like! It does feel strange to post smut on this site. I hope I'm not scaring you all away ;D
Chapter Seventeen | This stormy tempest perforates the skies,
"I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind."
1.4, 96-100 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
"How was your photoshoot?" Elara wonders as she flips a couple of pancakes with a spatula. She's got her hair pulled back this morning, twisted into a messy bun that would make Ignatius utterly horrified. Gloss likes it, though. He likes the way it makes her hair frame her face when small tendrils escape the style to curl around her cheekbones. It softens her in a way that makes her astoundingly lovely, especially when she stands in the little patch of sunlight that slants into the windows of her kitchen.
He grunts, filling a mug with some coffee. His own hair is just as mussed up, mainly from her running her hands through it in the way he loves so much. He's thrown on a pair of boxer briefs but nothing else, and the appreciative little glances Elara's been sending him all morning makes his heart do funny things in his chest.
"Fine," is all he says, leaning against the counter to give her a thorough look over. Her back is turned to him, so she doesn't notice the way his eyes linger on her ass. The short nightshirt she's wearing just barely covers it. He knows for a fact that she's got nothing on underneath it, which only makes him crazier.
"I've got an appointment at three today," she says. "But it's only for an hour. We could have dinner if you want?"
Dinner, breakfast, sometimes even lunch – their relationship has definitely become something more than just an occasional romp. Luckily no one seems to think it's strange for them to sometimes be seen entering and leaving each other's apartments. The tabloids like to make a fuss of it, but they've both adamantly denied any feelings that people speculate they share. The fact that they're both seen going out on 'dates' with other high ranking Capitolites certainly helps make their story more believable. That, and Cashmere's occasional presence also helps. No one has really questioned them when they claim friendship.
They are friends, after all. They're friends who sometimes have sex. There doesn't have to be anything more. Right?
Behind her, Gloss grunts, puts down the coffee mug, and steps up to her. "I've got a client tonight. Dinner and a date."
He says the words casually on purpose. He doesn't have to explain anything to her. It isn't as if he loves her or anything. Just because they sometimes turn to each other for comfort doesn't mean anything.
His body nestles behind hers, and he fits his hips against the curve of her ass with a faint smirk. She stiffens just a little bit at the feeling of his arousal jutting up against her, and drawls, "Really? I thought we were eating breakfast. I'm hungry."
He chuckles and slips his hands around her hips, pushing his fingers beneath the fabric of her shirt. "So am I," he says, but the tone of his voice makes it apparent that he isn't talking about the pancakes she's making.
"So not tonight then," she says, trying not to sound disheartened. It's relatively easy actually, because his hand is skimming down her body and cupping her between her legs, and the breathless cadence of her words help to cover up any lingering disappointment she may or may not be feeling. The prospect of spending the night alone is just boring, that's all. She likes sleeping beside him. He makes for a wonderful distraction.
Gloss hums, sliding his fingers over her flesh. He watches her shoulders shudder just so and leans down to kiss her neck.
"Maybe tomorrow night," he tells her, sinking his teeth gently into the crux of her shoulder. His free hand tugs down the shoulder of her shirt so that he can trail his mouth over her flesh more freely.
Elara sighs, tilting her head back and shifting her hips up against his cock. The hard press of him against her is addicting. Around her moan, she responds, "Can't. Seneca Crane is taking me out."
He growls a little bit, annoyed at their conflicting schedules, and sinks his fingers into her clit. She gasps, spread her thighs a bit to give him more access, and barely manages to remember to plate the pancakes and turn the stove off before she feels him pull his briefs down his legs and kick them away.
"What about the night after?" he inquires as he thrusts his fingers into her, one hand reaching up to grasp her breast. He nips at her earlobe and spins his thumb around the top of her clit, enjoying the little sounds that she's rewarding him with. She makes the most addicting noises…
Breathlessly, she answers, "Maybe. I can't remember if I have someone that night – Gloss, god I want you."
He chuckles into her ear. He doesn't know why he likes it when she tells him things like that. Maybe it plays on some sense of masculinity. Maybe he just enjoys the sound of her honesty when it's captured like this. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that he's got a wanting woman in front of him.
"Yeah?" he murmurs, and catches her waist to hold her as he wraps his hand around his cock. A moment later, he's pushing himself into her easily. She's still wet from earlier that morning, when he had woken her up with his head between her legs, and he fills her without any problem whatsoever.
She moans, holding onto the counter tightly and arching her hips into his. They've never done it like this before, which is saying something. Gloss is nearly insatiable and Elara has a weak constitution regarding his desires, which are profound when he's in the right mood. This morning is apparently one of those moods.
He starts thrusting at a fast pace, but she's so ready for him that all Elara can do it hold onto the counter and moan. The tops of his thigh brush the backs of hers. She bends over a little and he growls appreciatively, holding onto her waist tightly. His thrusts pick up to an even faster pace and she mutters a particularly foul curse because she can't remember ever feeling so good. Every new moment with Gloss is even better than the last, it seems.
"When are you going back to District 5?" he asks her, his voice just as breathless as hers is. His eyes hungrily take in the arch of her back, the perfect ass that he's holding onto, the angular lines of her shoulder blades. A part of him still has no idea how they got to where they are now. Their relationship is one that he can hardly define, most days. It's only when they're together again that he decides they don't really need to define it after all. Some things aren't meant to be caged into words alone.
She moans loudly and haltingly responds, "Mm – I'm leaving on Friday. Gloss – ooh!"
She raises herself up and he gathers her in his arms, pulling her body so that it aligns with his. He's not able to thrust as quickly like this, but he makes up for it by grabbing her breasts and moaning into her shoulder as he bites down on her flesh. One hand lowers to spin at the top of her clit, pressing against her and making her moan even wilder at the pleasure that shakes through her body. His touch is fire and it makes her wonder how she can live without it.
She's been missing him much more lately, when they part ways. They never say goodbye. Sometimes their departures from the Capitol are sporadic and haphazard. Even when they get the spend the night together before one of the leaves, though, their relationship isn't something that requires greetings or goodbyes. She tells herself she doesn't want it to be, but she's not really sure of what she wants, anymore.
"Spread your legs a little more," he tells her, squeezing her breast teasingly as she lowers herself back down and shifts her feet further apart. He growls at the pleasure it brings him and moves faster.
"You're so perfect," he mumbles with a groan, and he can't stop himself from thundering faster as his end catches up to him, sweeping him off into the cadences of more undefined feelings he'd rather ignore, for now. He's not quite ready to see her in a different light yet. She's not quite ready to either, but they both know that there's something else there, skirting around the edges of their purely physical relationship and making it into something more.
She moans when she feels him fill her, his heat blistering through her with such potency that she can barely breathe. And then, even though he's spent, his hand hooks around her body to rub against her clit, his cock still inside of her, and he brings her to her finish with a careful touch that is so unlike any other man she's ever been with.
Maybe that's why she can't get enough of him. Maybe it's because he wants her to feel just as satisfied as he does. Her clients don't care about her pleasure. They take and take and take, and Gloss takes too, but he also gives. He's given her so much over the last few years that sometimes she wonders at the mismatched feelings that linger in her chest whenever he's around.
After she climaxes, he chuckles and pulls away, squeezing her ass as he looks down to see the remnants of his finish glistening against her. There's something strangely appealing about the sight of it marking her.
When she straightens up and catches her breath, Elara gives him a wry look and says, "Are you gonna let me eat breakfast now? The pancakes are probably cold."
He laughs and pulls her against him, shucking off the shirt that's still loosely hanging from her frame. It falls to the tiled floor with a flourish of fabric.
"I'd rather take a shower first," he says with a shrug of his brawny shoulders, and looks down at her flushed, satisfied body with a proud gleam in his eyes. "Besides," he adds as he glances up at her face, "If you're leaving on Friday, we should probably make the most of the time we have left."
Elara's mouth twists into a smile. She rests her hands on his chest and quips, "Well I can't entirely argue with that."
He grins crookedly at her and drags her back into the bedroom. The pancakes are completely cold when they finally sit down to eat them, hours later.
Elara is soaked through when she returns to the house several hours later. Amelia is nowhere to be found, and she's somewhat grateful for it. The harsh words they had exchanged earlier still ring in her ears. Guilt eats away at her. She wants to be alone for as long as she is able.
She's shivering and feeling altogether sorry for herself when she pads into the kitchen. A quick trip to the closet, and she rummages around for the bottle of wine she'd hidden in the back, away from Amelia's prying eyes. It's still where she'd left it. She takes the whole thing upstairs with her, cradled in her arms like its suddenly her most precious possession. Some part of her is aware that it's rather pitiful of her, but she's feeling too sorry for herself to care. In any case, it isn't as if she's a drunkard who relies of alcohol to get her through her nightmares. She's got other cures for those. It just that right now, none of those cures are in District 5.
Images of sheets and skin trickle through her mind as she steps upstairs and enters her bedroom. She misses him, but then, that's not exactly new. Will she ever not miss him? The thought only makes her feel even more pitiful, and she tries to turn her mind to other avenues.
She places the wine bottle on her nightstand and starts shucking off her wet clothes, not caring that they're dripping with water. Usually she'd be more careful, but she doesn't have the energy to clean up after herself today and so they just get thrown into the far corner and are promptly forgotten. After a quick shower in which she uses up most of the hot water, Elara steps back into her room and pulls on an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable cotton pants. The misty skies from earlier have long since tapered to a concentrated rain. It hits the windows hard, pelting against the glass as an angry wind makes it rattle in the frame. She's not sure where Amelia has gone off to, but she hopes the girl isn't out in that weather.
With a heavy sigh, she plops down onto her bed and bundles herself up in her blankets, wet hair and all. Then, uncorking the wine with the bottle opener she'd brought up with her, she takes a large swig of it and gulps it down.
She stares out the window at the grey pallor of late afternoon and tries not to think about how pathetic she is right now. She also tries not to think about where Amelia is or what Gloss is doing in District 1 or if he misses her just as much as she misses him or what her life would be like if her parents were still around. She doesn't do a very good job, on any of those points.
Her mind flies back and forth between her worries like a lightning storm. Amelia, Gloss, her parents. Amelia, Gloss, her parents. She takes another sip of wine and laughs at herself. It's a bitter sound, comprised of bitter tones, and even though there's nothing at all funny about her life right now, for some reason she can't stop.
God, she's so stupid for ever saying no to President Snow in the first place. Stupid for not heeding the words of her fellow Victors back then, when they had warned her about the repercussions of refusing a direct order from the devil himself. She's stupid for being such a coward. She's stupid for falling in love with a man she can never be with. Maybe she's even stupid for thinking that he loves her back.
Does Gloss even know how to love? Does she? Victors can't love. They're not capable of it. They're too broken, like shattered glass that's been halfheartedly taped back together. What if all this time, she's been deluding herself? What if Gloss is having a grand old time over in District 1, fooling around with someone who isn't her and not giving a damn because he's never loved her in the first place? She doesn't know what he does when he returns home. Cashmere says he'd marry her if he had the chance, but maybe she was just being kind to her, telling her things that aren't true just to give her hope that doesn't exist.
She curls into her blankets with a scornful frown. She's being ridiculous. She knows Gloss. She knows what's in his heart. She doesn't need him to say it out loud. She knows.
It's just, sometimes, she thinks she might love him more than he loves her. She thinks she's the weaker link. Every relationship has a weaker link, right? They aren't even in an official relationship, which somehow makes her feel weaker than ever.
She's not sure how long she stays bundled up in bed. The sky begins to darken, until they are black and tumultuous, and the rainstorm begins to pick up with heavy winds that thunder against her window panes. She eventually falls asleep with the bottle of wine on the bedside table, half empty. When she groggily wakes up again, it's to the sound of the phone blaring through the silence. A quick look at the clock tells her that it's eight thirty.
She stumbles up just as her bedroom door opens and Amelia pokes her head in, holding the phone in her hands. Her eyes cut across the room, taking in Elara's ruffled state and the bottle of wine, but she doesn't say anything about either. Instead she just hands Elara the phone and silently takes her leave, for once not making a sly comment. That in and of itself is proof of her regret regarding their argument. Elara sighs, sits back down onto her mattress, and brings the phone to her ear.
"Hello?" she asks hoarsely, wondering who would call at this time of night. Inside, she already knows, but it's better not to jump to conclusions just in case she's wrong.
"You sound terrible," Gloss's voice crackles into existence, and Elara closes her eyes as a harsh wave of pain catapults through her. His voice is both a balm and a curse. It soothes her, yet makes her miss him even more.
She snorts and rolls onto her back, bundling herself back into her blankets as she mutters, "What do you want?"
They rarely call each other. Snow pays close attention to his Victors, especially his popular ones that come to the Capitol more often than some of the others. But it's been almost three months since she's seen him last, and it feels so good to hear his voice again after what feels like an eternity of silence.
"You don't sound very happy to hear from me," he notes. In the background, she hears the sound of a mattress shifting, and figures that he's probably in bed too, most likely trying to get a bit of privacy from his sister.
She sighs and buries her face into her pillow, balancing the phone on her cheek and grudgingly admitting, "I've had a bad day."
He grunts, and says, "Amelia mentioned that. How are you feeling now?"
She's not sure how to answer that question because she's not sure how she's feeling. Her mind is a little hazy from the wine, which helps to dull the whirlwind of her thoughts. She's certainly not feeling good, but perhaps…better.
"…Alright," is her vague response, but Gloss seems to understand. As a Victor himself, he's had plenty of days like the one she's had. Every Victor does. It comes with the title.
"Cashmere told me you went out to lunch," he murmurs after a short silence. There's something slightly wary about his tone, as if he isn't sure he should bring the subject up to begin with.
Elara hums, then haltingly says, "We always go out to lunch."
He chuckles. "She told me what you talked about."
At this, she falls silent. Half of her is mortified that he knows they were talking about a marriage that will never happen. The other half is amused that he is talking about it at all. Gloss isn't really the type to talk about his emotions, no matter what shape they manifest as.
In a careful voice, he tells her, "…I don't think I could get used to that rain, though." She laughs at this, her voice colored with a surprise that Gloss immediately catches onto, and he adds, "You'd have to come to District 1. Amelia would like it."
How is it that he always makes her feel so much better, after just a few sentences? She snuggles into her blankets, conjuring images of a life that she knows will never play out. It's all one big pipedream, terrible and beautiful at the same time. It would be far easier to not consider such a life at all, but…well. She can't entirely blame herself. It's Gloss's fault for bringing it up, in any case.
She suddenly feels so ridiculous for doubting him only hours before. She truly must have been in a bad place to have those thoughts.
"It's a nice dream," she tells him quietly, sobering up to the knowledge that a dream is all it is. Just the wisp of a dream that will never be theirs. A silly desire that will never equate to anything more than sentiments.
He doesn't respond. On the other side of the phone, hundreds of miles away, Gloss stares at window of his bedroom. The sun is fading, here. Some of its rays still linger in the glow of late sunset, slowly morphing the desert into a stretch of dark sand. She's right, it is a nice dream. He's never been interested in marriage, really. He never thought he was the marriage type. It's funny, how she changes so many things. How she makes him yearn for things that he never would have cared about, before.
He glances over to the other side of the bed and imagines that she's there, her auburn hair haloing out around her head, blue eyes twinkling with the tones of mischief that he loves so much. If she was here, he would gather her up in his arms and show her how much he's missed her. How empty he feels without her around. How boring life is without her sarcastic wit.
It is a nice dream, but he isn't foolish enough to think that it is his to claim. They both belong to the Capitol, and they always will.
"You sound tired," he finally says, stretching out his legs and throwing an arm behind his head. He leans back, closing his eyes and listening to the faint sound of ruffling sheets. It's so easy to imagine that she's here in his bed. He can almost feel her warmth.
She hums and murmurs, "…I fell asleep before you called."
In response, he shortly wonders, "Nightmares?"
She tells him, "Not yet," as if she's sure that they'll come around eventually, knocking at the door of her mind to plague her as always. The nightmares are always bad during these long stretches of time between their meetings. It's as if the absences trigger them, turning them darker and more terrible the longer their separation lasts. It's the same for him. The only time he's able to get a full night's sleep is when she's there.
"We'll talk until you fall asleep," he says. "Maybe it'll keep them away."
At this, she chuckles and tiredly quips, "The electricity bill will be huge."
He smiles. "It's worth it," he tells her. At least to him, it is. He'd give away a lot moreif it meant he could be with her for the rest of his life.
Elara hums again. He's not sure if it's a sound of agreement or not, but she doesn't argue with him.
They do talk, though, for hours. They talk about what Gloss has been up to in District 1, what sort of trouble Amelia has been getting into lately, and how Cashmere has been. They talk about Elara's parents a bit, though they don't get too involve in that subject. It's not a smart topic to discuss in depth over the phone. Their conversation is mundane, almost. Anyone listening in on it would probably call it boring. But to be honest, it doesn't matter what they're actually discussing, as long as they can hear each other's voices. And the sound of his voice does wonders when it comes to bringing some semblance of peace to Elara's harried mind.
She does end up falling asleep as their conversations stretch out, peppered with silences that speak to their combined exhaustion. Gloss listens to the sound of her breath over the phone for a long time, silently lying in bed with the phone against his ear and his eyes closed. He drifts in and out of sleep too. It's the most comfortable sleep he's had in months.
At around midnight, Elara wakes up again. The phone is still resting on her cheek and she can still hear Gloss's breath on the other end, deep and slow as if he's also sleeping. She lays there for a long time, before quietly murmuring, "I'd give anything to be with you right now…"
She doesn't think he hears the words. He sounds like he's deep asleep. But she's wrong.
A hundred miles away in District 1, he opens his eyes and stares at the opposite wall. The longing in her voice is remarkably familiar to what he feels in his chest.
He doesn't answer her.
Some things are better left unsaid.