Chapter Twenty | Though mortal souls do wildly exert;

"Find written in the margent of his eyes,

This precious book of love, this unbound lover."

1.2, 53-54 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

In all honesty, she doesn't know how they always end up like this. Skin against skin, lips searing paths over each other's body, desperate clawing fingers – fire burns them to dust and it doesn't even matter that they had been an awkward mess only moments before, when Gloss had appeared at her apartment and had swept her up into a brash, beautiful kiss that had left Elara breathless.

They don't even exchange any words until after they're sated, gasping together on her mattress with the sheets shucked off somewhere at the bottom of the bed and the room full of the scent of their lovemaking. They both sweaty and exhausted. Gloss had been surprisingly patient, dragging her into the high of sex with an almost smoldering slowness, and she hadn't been able to complain in the face of it. She hadn't even been able to ask him what his verdict is.

The last time she'd seen him, after all, she had unwittingly told him that she likes him far more than she had ever meant to, and he had left her quickly because he needed time to 'think about it'. The words had left a sour taste in her mouth for weeks afterwards, in wake of another absence. She had gone back to District 5 with a heavy heart, convinced that he would want nothing to do with her again. She'd broken his rules and he wasn't the type of man to fall in love, or so she has convinced herself for the better part of three years.

However – her worries had been completely blown over when Gloss had shown up like he had, unexpected and overpowering in his desire of her. She'd barely been able to greet him before he had her pressed against the door, dragging her shirt up and off of her without even a 'hello'. After that…well. She's surprised they had even made it to bed at all.

Gloss still hasn't said a single word to her since he's arrived. In truth, it's making her a little fearful. She's used to feeling nervous in this sprawling city, but never around him. His silence is as heavy as the leaden way her heart ricochets through her chest, pounding out the intricacies of her feelings for him, which she is still trying to understand.

She loves him. She's fallen for him so completely and so silently that she hadn't even realized it, before. She hadn't used that word when she had last spoken to Gloss, but it's clear that he understands that it's what burns through her whenever she's with him. Just now, when he'd been inside her, making her feel things that she never thought she'd ever be able to feel, his eyes had been clear and knowing as he'd taken her. Gloss might be an emotional idiot, but he isn't blind when her love for him is staring at him in the face.

Still. He hasn't said a single word since showing up at her door. He hasn't even moaned her name like he usually does. His lovemaking had been entirely silent on his part. She'd been the one to sound her pleasure, and he had merely embraced every noise she'd made.

She turns to look at him. He's lying on his back beside her with his eyes closed. His breathing is deep enough where he could be asleep, but Elara knows better. His expression is tense in a way that tells her he's far from sleeping. He seems to be thinking about something very deeply, and she's loathe to interrupt him. She doesn't want to be the one to break the silence, because what if he's going to tell her that this had been the last time they'd ever be together? That he isn't planning on continuing this strange relationship now that he knows she's got feelings for him that she isn't supposed to have?

Instead, she just watches him, her head turned in his direction. She'd like to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't. There's something very delicate in the air between them. A certain subtleness that she feels she needs to skirt around. So she just lays there and takes him in, studying his profile in the dim light of her bedroom while they lay bare together on her mattress, not touching at all.

The air is thick with unsaid words, but Gloss breaks it when he mutters, "Stop staring at me."

He turns his head and opens his eyes to look at her, and Elara's breath gets stuck in her throat. There's something in his gaze that's soft and beautiful and she's a little bit afraid to see it there. After all, she's forced herself to become resigned to the likely event of her feelings not being returned, but the way he's looking at her now – and has looked at her all evening – seems to go against that assumption.

She doesn't listen to him. She can't stop looking, and her gaze seems to have dragged him into some kind of spell because he can't stop looking at her, either. Together they lay side by side and simply stare, as if they're seeing each other for the first time.

"I've thought about it," he whispers. His eyes rove over her face, from her eyes to her nose to her lips, which are currently flushed from his kisses. He studies her like she's a painting in a gallery. It's a strange thing, being studied like this. It makes her want to hide indefinitely and boldly unfurl for him at the same time, like a flag on a ship that the wind has claimed. Every beat of its bolstered fabric is a beat of her heart, battering like an uneven drum.

She doesn't say anything. A part of her is afraid that she is seeing something in his eyes that isn't truly there, as if the emotion that colors his gaze is only a figment of a dream that she yearns for so desperately, it springs to life even in a barren landscape where it should not. She doesn't want to be wrong about what she thinks she sees – what her mind is, perhaps, conjuring – so she just waits.

She waits with baited breath, because she doesn't know what she wants him to say, either. Gloss is like a summer sky, arid and cloudless, and the only thing that exists in his sky is the bright blinding desert sun. She has been blinded by him before. The sun does not exist without the moon, but she does not know if he would allow her to be such an integral part of his world in such a way.

Gloss pushes himself onto his elbow to look down at her. His hand threads through her copper hair gently, playing with a strand of it. His silence is both calming and unnerving. She looks up at him through half lidded eyes, and he looks down at her with that strange, mysterious gaze that she just can't place. What emotion burns through those hazel eyes of his?

It's killing her, this not-knowing.

"…You make me nervous," he tells her. Admittedly, it isn't what she's expecting.

With a confused frown, Elara raises her eyebrows, staring up at him as if she's trying to pull that mysterious emotion into plain sight so that she can study it properly. She can't, of course, and that is the problem.

"Do I?" she whispers, not sure if he's joking or not. But his eyes are completely serious, solemn in a way they rarely are. Gloss does not mince his words. He doesn't like to talk about his emotions, but when he does talk about something, he does so with far more honesty than she is accustomed to. Something in the atmosphere of his eyes tells her that he is being honest now.

His fingers lightly caress her cheek, running over her cheekbone and cresting her ear. It is almost as if he's mapping her features. He gently draws his fingertips over her jaw and down her neck. His eyes follow his touch, as if it's easier this way, not looking into her searching gaze.

"Sometimes you do," he says, voice low and burning with that strange emotion. He swallows. The muscles of his neck shift as he does.

"When you look at me the way you're looking at me now," he murmurs, sounding so close and yet so far, "it makes me wish we had never gotten involved."

It's strange, the way you can feel your heart shake when you think it's breaking. Elara feels it then, shuttering in her chest like a timebomb counting down to detonation. She expected this rejection. She's resigned to it. A part of her even wants it. It would be easier this way.

"…But then I realized that I would still be that angry, broken man who regretted his entire life up until you came along, who hated everything and everyone because I had absolutely nothing to live for," he finishes, his voice dropping to such a soft pitch that it's barely coherent.

She stares at him and this time, he doesn't avoid her eyes. Her breath catches once more. She forgets that oxygen is important. She forgets everything except him.

"Elara…" he murmurs, swallowing thickly. "I don't know what you see in me."

His tone is so sorrowful that she almost wants to cry.

She pushes herself up, pushes him down, and hovers over him in much the same way that he'd been doing moments before. He stares up at her like he's still that broken man, but she thinks quite differently. Gloss is the strongest person she's ever met. His strength astounds her, sometimes.

"Do you really not know?" she asks, matching his tone. Her voice is quiet, breathy, as if they have an unspoken rule to keep the delicate atmosphere intact. She can follow this rule of his, at least.

She pushes her fingers into his hair and watches his eyelids flutter at the feeling. She tells him, "I see a man who infuriates me half the time and amazes me the other half, because somehow, everything you do for me is so heartbreakingly perfect. And I have no idea what I've done to deserve it, but I'm so grateful that you think I do, because I've never felt as beautiful or as worthwhile as I do when I'm with you, Gloss."

He stares at her in baffled silence, and Elara laughs softly and sits up, wondering if she's just crossed yet another line, broken yet another rule. This thing she feels, brimming up in her chest, is complicated. It's a tangled mess of roots and thorns and blossoms, and she doesn't know if she should let it grow wild or if she should try to cut it down.

"…I'm sorry," she whispers, pushing the palm of her hand against her eye and turning her head. "I said too much, didn't I? I'll stop."

Suddenly he pushes himself up with a short, "Don't – don't stop." He catches her head and turns her to face him. "Don't stop," he whispers again. When she gives him a watery smile, he returns it.

"Aren't I making you nervous?" she wonders quietly, reaching up to lay one hand over his as it rests on her cheek.

Gloss chuckles breathily and admits, "Yes." Then he inhales slowly and adds, "But to be honest, I'm starting to think that it isn't nervousness at all."

They stare at each other for a long moment, both grappling with his admission as if it's a source of confusion for not only her, but him too. Their foreheads brush together, lips close but parted, breathing in as they sit in their own little world.

"Did you mean all that?" he whispers, eyes closed.

She sighs peacefully and responds, "Yes."

He exhales and slowly, carefully tells her, "…I went back to District 1 thinking that it would be best to call this off. But when I knocked on your apartment door and saw you again, I…I couldn't do it. I don't want to, Elara. You're the only good thing in my life and…I'm a selfish man."

She laughs softly, tearfully, and murmurs, "We're both selfish."

He hums, then opens his eyes to look at her with that solemn intent, and whispers, "Will you stay with me? Even though I can't promise you anything – "

"I'll stay with you, Gloss," she cuts in, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. She lingers there for a moment and adds, "For as long as you want me."

He looks at her very seriously, thumb brushing over her cheek. He pulls away a bit and says, "I'll always want you. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

She looks somewhat surprised by this and he chuckles, scooping her closer to him and pulling her to his chest as he tells her, "If I could, I might even let you make me an honest man, Winston."

Elara grasps at his shoulders as his words sink into her. She pushes her face against his neck and holds him tightly, and he buries his head into her hair and breathes in the scent of her.

"Maybe one day," she whispers very quietly against his skin. She wonders what that theoretical day might be like, if they both lived in a world where such a thing could exist, where they might be able to be with each other without an entire city breathing down their necks and a president manipulating their every move.

One day – it is a mantra for them. Both a blessing and a curse wrapped up together, coinciding side by side. It is such a beautiful promise that can never truly be a promise, because they do not belong to themselves. They do not have the freedom to say such things.

Fate would not give them their day. Not for a very, very long time.

Elara is in bed when her doorbell rings. She sleepily groans and looks over at the clock, only to see that it is almost two in the morning. With a frown, she lays there and wonders if she's just dreaming the sound…until an impatient knocking thunders through the small apartment and she knows that she isn't.

She gets up with a muffled curse and blindly reaches for the bedroom light, flicking it on and dousing the room with sudden brightness. Cringing slightly, she hastily throws her bathrobe on over her nightshirt and heads into the kitchen. She's not sure if she should be wary about this late night visitor, so she opens the door very slowly in case she has to throw it back into place.

But she doesn't, because the man waiting for her in the hallway is not a wayward client come to stalk her at odd hours.

"Gloss!" she gasps, and throws the door open. The first moment he's able, he crowds towards her form and heaves her against him, shuddering into her body in a way that almost makes Elara think he's crying. She frowns and brings him inside, shutting and locking the door behind her before she can get a better assessment of him. When she lifts his head to study his face, though, she feels stricken.

It isn't just the scratches and cuts that litter his skin, from his face to his arms and probably elsewhere too. It's not just the fact that he's a shivering mess and seems to have lost some sense of himself. The worst of it all is the way he's looking at her, as if he thinks she's about to disappear on him, like she's made out of smoke and ash. His eyes are full of desperation, and the redness around them tells her that he has been crying before he had arrived, though she doubts he would ever admit to it.

She clenches her mouth at the thought of what horrors he has clearly been put through tonight but doesn't say a word. Instead she merely leads him over to the couch and goes to flick on a few more lamps, bathing the room with dim light. All the while, Gloss sits on the couch and doesn't move, his head bowed over his knees. He's still hunched over when Elara returns to his side, kneeling down with a medical kit in one hand and a change of clothes in the other. He's practically got a whole drawer to himself by now, he stays here so often.

When he sees the clothes, he deflates a little. She isn't entirely sure, but she thinks its relief that colors his eyes, as if he had thought that she might turn him away once she was finished with him. The thought makes her pause, knowing that she needs to tread carefully.

"Your shirt," she murmurs, but Gloss just frowns and doesn't make a move to take it off. She sighs. "Gloss…if you've got scratches on your chest too, we need to clean them."

He runs a hand through his hair, glances at her, and sighs. After a moment, he lifts the shirt up and off, and she's shocked to see the state he's in. The glorious skin that she knows so well is marred now by dozens of scratches and small cuts. They're all minor and will heal quickly, but they look like they sting something awful. It seems that no part of him is left untouched, as if whoever he'd been with tonight had made it their personal duty to scratch him into shreds.

Her eyes raise to his, only to realize that he's staring at her with those quietly desperate eyes again. She studies the emotion behind them silently.

"…What happened?" she asks, not sure if he'll actually tell her. Gloss doesn't like talking about this kind of thing to her.

He clenches his jaw and looks away from her, eyes angry now. He looks furious all of the sudden, as if her question has sparked the memories that he's been trying to ignore. Nostrils flaring, he growls, "She looked exactly like you."

And – perhaps it is the way he says it, or maybe it's the fury that tears into his every word, but Elara stares at him in blank shock. Has she heard him right? Did he just say –

"You client…looked like me?" she repeats with a confused frown, and opens the medical kit to start cleaning his cuts.

She doesn't notice the desperate way he looks at her until he purses his lips and hoarsely says, "It was done on purpose. She even asked me if I wanted to fuck 'Elara Winston'. She pretended to be you."

The bottle of iodine she's holding clatters back into the medical box with so much noise that it seems to ricochet through the living room. She turns to stare at him, but Gloss has turned his attention to the table in front of him, staring at the surface as if he's locked away in some dismal memory that she somehow has a role in, despite not being there herself.

She's shocked and disgusted and sad all at once. It's a combination of emotions she's become accustomed to feeling, whenever the Capitol is involved, but she's never felt them so starkly before this moment. To hear that someone has stolen her very identity and used it against him in such a way…she doesn't know what to say in the face of this revelation, so she just sits there on the floor with wide eyes and tousled hair, and the sleepiness she'd been struggling with only moments ago seems to vanish entirely.

"She even dyed her hair," he mutters with a cutting, humorless laugh. "I fucking hate these sick bastards. They ruin every single good thing they can get their fucking hands on."

Elara swallows tightly and carefully edges forward, as if she's approaching a wild animal. An angry Gloss is a tempestuous thing, a creature made of hate and loathing, but she isn't afraid of him and she proves it when she slowly pulls him into her arms. He breathes out like he's been waiting for her touch and buries himself against her, hunching over the couch to grab her tightly and pull her against him.

It's a little awkward, this position, but Elara doesn't complain. It isn't often that Gloss needs her like this. He wears pain like it's an accessory, preferring to laugh it off rather than admit that it shakes him to the core. But tonight is different. Everyone breaks every once in a while, after all.

She doesn't say anything. She just holds him as tightly as he's holding her and lets him shake against her as the adrenaline of his anger washes into something that resembles heartache. His fingers grasp at her bathrobe, wrinkling the fabric like it's made of crushed paper instead of silk, and the way he breaths his pain against her neck tells her that he is far from okay. As if that isn't already obvious.

Perhaps it had been silly for them to assume that what they share is beyond the reach of the Capitol. This city destroys everything in its path, and they are not exempt from that destruction.

It is that wreckage that Elara focuses on most of all, when she whispers, "She hurt you…" She swallows, stroking her hands over his back. Then in a quiet voice, she tells him, "I would never hurt you."

The words make him shudder, and he responds in a hoarse voice, "I know, Elara."

She closes her eyes and breathes out.

Pulling back a bit, he looks down at her and tersely says, "I wanted to kill that woman. I wanted to." He says it like he's wondering if the words will frighten her, that she'll draw herself away from him and leave him to his own devices. Instead, she just narrows her eyes and agrees with him. If he's surprised by this, he doesn't show it. There's only a faint glimmer in his eyes that is quickly doused, and he sighs out too.

"Let me clean these cuts," Elara says after a moment, and reaches for the iodine again. Her jaw is clenched as she pushes him back enough to see the full extent of the cuts. Like him, she's feeling a similar fury at the thought of some random woman pretending to be her and then hurting him like this. It's sick. It makes her want to scream.

Gloss must notice the emotion in her eyes, because he chuckles humorlessly and tells her, "I like when you're all protective. It's sexy."

She rolls her eyes at him and starts wiping a bit of cotton over his scratches. "Someone needs to look out for you."

This time, the smile he sends her is a little more genuine.

"I guess if anyone should look after me, it should be you," he murmurs after a moment, then winces a bit when she starts cleaning a deeper cut on his abdomen. His muscles clench at the pain and she gives him an apologetic look that he ignores in favor of muttering, "You've got the credentials for it."

Elara laughs at this. It's a stilted sound that's full of heartache at seeing him like this, but it's a laugh nonetheless.

"Credentials? Is that what we're calling it now?" she asks wryly, quipping an amused smile his way as she puts down the cotton swab and turns her attention to the button of his pants. She starts undoing it with an obviously clinical intent, but Gloss naturally has to take things a step further.

In a suave voice, he murmurs, "Why Winston, how brazen of you."

She huffs and swats his leg as she unzips the pants, then gestures for him to stand so that he can kick them off. When they're on the floor, the lighthearted atmosphere that they'd managed to cultivate dissipates like a breeze, and she stares at the many scratches that literally cover his entire body.

"I'd like to kill that woman too," she says tightly, jaw clenched, and Gloss looks at her with an almost soft expression. "Sit down," she tells him, and goes to kneel between his legs so that she can tend to the scratches that blister like angry red marks over his thighs.

Gloss leans over her and threads his fingers through her hair as she does. He watches her intently, studying the curve of her face. In a low voice, he quips, "I do like the sight of you kneeling in front of me."

Elara sends him a dry look full of exasperation and he smirks.

"Be quiet," is all she says, but of course Gloss doesn't listen. He rarely ever does.

With a chuckle, he drawls, "I'd prefer it if you were wearing less clothes, of course, but – ow, Elara, that hurts!" He winces as she goes to clean a particularly nasty looking cut and pushes himself back against the couch, recoiling from the pain.

She sends him an apologetic look and sighs, "I'm almost done." The words immediately make his eyes blaze with amusement, and she huffs, "You're incorrigible. Stop thinking dirty thoughts."

The order only makes him chuckle again. "I'm not sure that's possible when you're nearly face to face with my – ow, Christ! Would you be careful?"

This time, the look she sends him is a little less apologetic.

It takes her only a few more minutes to clean the last of the deeper cuts. She bandages a few of them, but there's little to be done about the scratches. Those are shallow enough to heal on their own, so she leaves them be and starts gathering up the medical supplies. As she does, Gloss pulls on the clothes she'd retrieved for him. He forgoes the shirt entirely and just pulls on the sweatpants before stepping towards her liquor cabinet. She doesn't question him or his late night drink. After the recent events, she'd much prefer joining him.

Gloss happens to be rather masterful when it comes to mixing the perfect blend of alcohol and whatever else she's got on hand. She rather enjoys what he comes up with. She can never seem to replicate his spontaneous recipes even when she tries, but this time it seems that he isn't in the mood to be creative. He pours them both a glass of brandy, straight, and sits back down on the couch with it cradled in his hand. Once she puts the medical kit away, she joins him and he passes her the glass he'd poured for her.

"What a pair we make," she says with a bitter smile, and clinks her glass against his as she settles carefully against his body. She doesn't want to upset the cuts that span all over him, but Gloss just heaves her closer regardless. He winces just a little as her weight falls against some of said cuts but ignores the slight sting of them in favor of her.

He turns his head into her hair and hums, "I'm sorry I woke you up. You don't get enough sleep."

Elara laughs softly and replies, "No thanks to you."

He smiles lightly, but his eyes flicker with a peculiar darkness that only Victors possess, hewn from endless days of manipulation and anguish. Neither of them makes mention of the other reason she never sleeps. The topic of their clients has grown stale and far too vulgar for the delicate spaces between them right now.

"You know you can come to me whenever you need me," she tells him, turning her face into his shoulders and inhaling the scent of him. He smells like iodine and iron. It's strong enough to counteract the lingering scent of sex that shrouds his person, for which she is grateful.

He doesn't respond, just presses a kiss to her temple and takes a sip of brandy. It's the expensive stuff, and even though it's undiluted, it's smooth. She only has it because of him. She doesn't usually drink hard liquor herself, unless she has a particularly terrible night and he isn't there to lend her some comfort. Liquid comfort isn't nearly as potent as what he offers, but sometimes she has to settle.

"…You never told me what Snow wanted to talk to you about," he says after a long silence. The words make her tense a little, which he immediately notices. It's hard not to, when she's strewn against him like she is.

She considers making something up. Gloss has enough to worry about without being concerned on her account. Except that this isn't just her problem – it's something that impacts them both. And besides, she doesn't want to lie to him. It wouldn't feel right to do so now.

Elara looks up at him. He catches her eyes and his own gaze narrows with concern. With a sigh, she murmurs, "He knows about us. Which isn't really that surprising, I guess, seeing as this is his city."

The information makes his eyes narrow even more as they fill with worry. He sits up and turns to face her, clutching his glass in his hand. His voice is strained when he says, "We're discrete enough to fool the entire Capitol into thinking we're just really good friends."

Elara purses her lips and points out, "Yes, but Snow is a little more observant than the rest of his people."

His jaw clenches. He seems to agree with her, because he doesn't argue. Instead he asks, "What did he say to you?"

Her response is carefully worded. She doesn't like to see him so worried. It shatters the illusion of the protection that he offers her, which in the light of day is really not very strong. He can't truly protect her from the whims of the Capitol, as much as he'd like to.

"He spoke a lot about Katniss and Peeta. And he told me that…I should be careful not to sully your image." She laughs at this, even though it's fairly obvious that she doesn't really find it amusing. Gloss certainly doesn't.

"Sully my image?" he repeats, eyes hardening into slits. She places a hand on his arm in hopes of calming him down, but his anger seems to be growing with every breath he takes. He shakes her off and stands up, leaving her cold and lonesome on the couch as he starts pacing. She sits back and purses her lips. She's been in the center of his anger before. It isn't usually directed at her, but she's seen it plenty of times regardless. When he's angry, Gloss can be a formidable force, and only when he can get a handle on himself does he ever truly calm down.

If she had known her words would have this effect on him, she wouldn't have said them at all.

"Sully my image?!" he hisses, and barks out a laugh before suddenly throwing his brandy at the wall. She flinches a little as the glass immediately shatters and the brandy leaves a wet trail down the paint, pooling on the carpet below. Gloss doesn't even seem to notice. He's too busy sneering, "What, like I'm some kind of fucking dog?"

Elara swallows and sits back, rubbing her forehead. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, unafraid but also unwilling to say something that might turn his anger towards her. She's far too tired for this right now. At least Gloss seems content to have his tirade without dragging her into it.

Until, of course, he turns to her and firmly growls, "You would never sully my image – you know that, don't you? You're the only good thing I've got in my life."

His words are slightly calmer, and she gives him a shaky smile. "You're the only good thing I have, too," she tells him quietly, looking into his eyes from her perch on the couch. The words drain his anger away just as quickly as it had come, and Gloss collapses beside her again and pulls her into his lap, all but heaving her body against his without a word or warning.

She doesn't need one anyway, and just buries her face against his neck with a heavy sigh. He grasps her tightly and pulls her as close as he possibly can. Together they sit there, stewing in anger and pain and all manners of dark things, trying to figure out where the heartache begins and where it turns into love. It isn't so easy, when their lives as so complicated.

"Is he ordering us to stop seeing each other?" he very quietly asks her, as if he's afraid of what her response will be.

But she just whispers, "No. I mean, he didn't say that specifically. He just told me to not get in the way. To not complicate anything."

At this, he chuckles. It's a sound filled with anguish and strained relief – so much relief that he can barely breathe around it. Against her cheek, he replies, "You complicate everything you touch, Winston."

And, maybe it's just the atmosphere of the room and the desperate way their hearts beat in tempo, like two notes spinning together into their own private symphony, but – Elara suspects that the complications he's speaking of now are not ones that he minds terribly. After all, he did say that she's the only good thing in his life, so that's something.

That's something.