Chapter Twenty Four | This wave that breaches Heaven's gleaming doors;
"One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun."
1.2, 86-87 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
The next time she's in the Capitol, Elara has quite a lot of things to concern herself with besides her clandestine affairs with Gloss. When she returns to the city during her next trip, she has a full schedule. Not only are her nights sold off to clients, but she has quite a few interviews and photoshoots as well, and she finds that she barely has any free time at all. Which is quite a shame, because her time in the Capitol rarely overlaps with Gloss's for so long.
They have two weeks together before he returns to District 1. Once he leaves, she'll have another week before she is allowed to go home. Already, a week and a half has passed, and she has only seen him for a handful of minutes before one of their appointments had called them away. That's why tonight, she intends on taking full advantage of the fact that neither of them has any prior engagements.
It's strange, how comfortable they are with each other. How quickly they can both surrender to the relieving peace of being together in whatever capacity they are afforded. Tonight, Gloss doesn't immediately sweep her up when he steps into her apartment as he's done in times gone past. No, tonight, he arrives with a bag of takeout food and a crooked smile, and when he steps inside, he gives Elara a kiss but doesn't stop to linger in her caress.
"I'm starving," he proclaims, sweeping into the kitchen to set the bag down on the counter. Elara smiles wryly as he shrugs off his jacket and promptly begins to lay the food out, wasting little time about it.
She goes to retrieve his coat. As she's laying it over one of the kitchen chairs, her eyes catch sight of one of the labels on the food containers and asks, "Is that from Bella Donna's?"
Bella Donna's is the Italian takeout place that's located on the corner of the block Elara lives on. It's become a place she frequents when she's in the Capitol and isn't in the mood to cook herself a meal, which if she's being honest with herself, is most nights. The testament to this is the fact that she knows all the workers on a first name basis.
He grunts. "I got you a sub." By the looks of it, he's also gotten lasagna and some meatballs on the side. There are also some cannoli for dessert. They sell divine ones, all made by hand with the ends dipped into delicate little chocolate swirls. He knows she has a sweet tooth for them.
Elara raises an eyebrow at the extensive array of food and drawls, "You must be starving," to which Gloss scoffs and replies, "I had three photoshoots today. Barely had time to eat anything."
She hums, stepping over to grab a few plates out of the cabinet. Together, they fill them up and Gloss takes them to the living room while Elara pours some wine. Once she joins him, he starts filling her in on what's been going on back in District 1 and what Cashmere has been up to. They've barely had time to share more than a few words to each other over the last week and a half, let alone sit down and have an actual conversation, and his words are a balm to her. She could listen to him talk all day and never tire of the low lilt of his voice.
With an expressive light in his eyes, he tells her about the sandstorm that they'd had a few weeks ago in District 1 and how it had lasted for nearly two days before settling down again. When she asks him if it's common to get sandstorms where he's from, he tells her that small ones are very common, but they're rarely as bad as the one that had swept through the district most recently.
As they finish their meal, she smiles and turns to face him, curling her legs up and resting her elbow on the back of the couch. He asks after Amelia and District 5. She informs him that her sister is just as rebellious as ever and tells him about the latest drama that Amelia has managed to get into. Gloss laughs at the stories and at the exasperated way Elara tells them. When she finishes explaining how she'd been called to meet with the principal of Amelia's school only a few days before leaving for the Capitol, Gloss reaches out to brush a strand of her hair out of her face and says, "You'd make a good mother."
The words make her pause. Gloss just raises an eyebrow at her.
"What? You would," he says, as if it is nothing at all to say such a thing.
She stares at him for a long moment, looks into his fearless hazel eyes, and shrugs, "I don't know about that."
Gloss only hums and stands up, collecting their plates and stepping into the kitchen. As he puts them into the sink, he pauses and slowly asks, "Do you want kids someday?"
Elara, who had followed him into the kitchen with the wine glasses and napkins, gives him a startled look. She's surprised that he would ask such a question. Surprised, also, to hear the soft sweep of yearning flowing through his voice. He is truly a man of many contradictions – a fierce, imposing Career on the outside; a soft, careful man within. Several years ago, she wouldn't have ever believed that she'd have such a conversation with Gloss. It just shows how much their relationship has changed since its beginnings. How comfortable they've become with the other, that baring their souls has shifted from being a frightful, tempestuous thing to something simple and effortless.
Hesitantly, she puts the wine glasses down and responds, "If things were different, maybe. If I didn't have to go to the Capitol so often…"
If she could be with him without consequence, she also thinks, but keeps those words to herself. There is no other man that she could possibly imagine having such a life with.
She stares sightlessly at the wall, brows furrowed, imagining what it might be like to have a child or a real home to return to every day or a real relationship to lose herself in. If she imagines Gloss there too, holding their would-be child and grinning his crooked smile, well…she says not a word of it. But to be honest, she doesn't really need to.
Gloss studies her silently as he dries his hands with a towel. She looks like she's imagining such a life, and he dares not interrupt whatever scene her imagination has conjured, for she looks so very soft and weary at the thoughts that pluck at her mind.
Then she turns to look at him, piercing him with the sharpness of her blue eyes. She can't help but imagine him as a father. She could see him in such a role. The thought frightens her.
Gloss stares right back for a long moment before slowly exhaling, "I'm gonna take a shower." He doesn't move though, just waits to see if she's interested in joining him or not, and tilts his head at her with the silent question blazing through his eyes. When Elara hesitates, he chuckles, "You can say no, Elara."
At this, she breaks out into an amused smile. He can't describe the relief he feels at the sight of it and the way it immediately shatters the thin veil of awkwardness that had perforated the kitchen only moments before.
"As if I could ever say no to you," she tells him, pulling him towards her bedroom with a smirk. Gloss laughs, twisting their hands together until their fingers entwine. By the time they reach the bathroom, he is already unbuttoning his shirt, his movements stilted with only one hand. Elara quickly turns to help him the first moment she can, pushing him against the bathroom door with a coy smile and reaching up to undo the buttons with graceful fingers.
He watches, hands lowering to grasp her waist. After a moment of silence filled only with twinkling eyes and eager fingers, Gloss whispers, "You would, you know."
She's in the middle of tugging his shirt off, smoothing the fabric from his broad shoulders, but his words give her pause. It's clear that he's referring to the conversation they had only just come away from. That he is so adamant about proving this to her makes her wonder at his true motives, but when she looks into his eyes she sees only glimmering honesty there in the hazel depths.
Gloss's mouth tilts up. He taps her chin, lifting her face up to his and leaning down to kiss her. His fingers flex around her waist as he draws her closer, letting his lips speak unspoken words that even he dares not say aloud – words of a future that he can almost touch, for he can see it play out before him so easily. A life with her. A home with her.
It's incredibly surreal, sometimes, how one kiss can speak a thousand words all on its own. How just one glance can fill the pages of a book with sentences too intricate to vocalize. How the firm press of his hands against her and the breathless way they sink into each other speaks volumes all by itself.
Against her mouth, Gloss chuckles and breathes, "You coming?"
He looks over at the shower, and she bites back a smile.
She turns the water on and follows him in, pulling him against her and back into that kiss before the water even has a chance to heat up all the way. The lukewarm stream soon turns hot, and the occupants of the small space reform as well. The kiss breaks, but they linger close, lost in thought and each other…
Until her hand begins to move over his chest, trailing down his body with an intent that is rather hard to ignore. Well, Gloss has never been good at ignoring this anyway. When she wraps her hand around him, he tightens his grasp of her with a shaky breath that soon turns into a groan as he hardens in her palm.
"Elara," he murmurs, hands ducking over her, too. Before long, she's gasping into him just as surely as he's gasping into her. Pleasure bolts through them with an earnest urgency, and when they finally sink into each other later on, they don't pause to wonder at the strange current of it.
Some things are not meant to be questioned. Sometimes, blind faith is all the answer they need.
Ignatius's arrival to District 5 a week later is a wake-up call that Elara is not prepared for. She'd spent the week doing her best to ignore the upcoming events, with little success. The announcement of the Quarter Quell hangs over her head like a raincloud. She's afraid to enter the arena again, but there is no question at all that she will. There are only two Victors in her district: her and Harley. District 5 rarely wins the Hunger Games, after all. They will both be going back in. They don't even have the small possibility of hope like the others do, where there are multiple Victors who might be Reaped.
Honestly, she's not even sure why the Reaping has to happen at all. It's the formality of it. Everyone already knows that there will only be one slip of paper in each bowl: one for her, and one for Harley. The idea of having to stand there and wait for the inevitable sound of her name is a hell in and of itself, especially when Ignatius and her stylists drop in on the day of the Reaping to ensure that she looks like Elara Winston, the Victor and heartthrob, and not Elara, the unlucky girl from 5 who dresses in sweatshirts and jeans most days and rarely makes an effort to look presentable.
What's worse is that when Ignatius does arrive, he's in tears.
"My darling," he rushes forward, throwing his arms around Elara's shoulders and hurtling her against his chest. He pats her hair as if he's trying to console her, despite the fact that he's the one who's a sobbing mess, and tearfully exclaims, "Don't worry, I'll make sure you look absolutely stunning before you enter the arena! You can count on me."
Elara quips him an empty smile that only makes him cry all the more. He pats his face, wiping at his tears and bemoaning at how they've ruined his perfectly done make-up, and she just sighs.
"Thank you, Ignatius," she tries to say as genuinely as possible. It isn't his fault he's such a creature, after all. Her attempt at kindness only makes his tears fall faster, and she pulls away before he can ruin her shirt with wet mascara.
"Oh sweetheart, you're welcome," he sobs, patting her shoulder as he guides her towards the stairs. The other three stylists twitter quietly to the side, sending Elara mournful glances that, despite the circumstances, she knows to be genuine. Capitolites might not be the sincerest of people, but Elara's been around these ones for years now, and they've all gotten to know each other fairly well. The sadness that captures their eyes is real, but she isn't silly enough to assume that it will last. Once the Games begin, their emotions will translate over to excitement as always. The Capitol does so love its Games, and the addition of the Victors this year is bound to be far more enticing than usual.
Despite Ignatius's tears, he still berates her upon seeing the state of her unshaven legs. When he lifts up her arm and gasps in horror at the fact that she hasn't shaved her armpits, either, his tears immediately dissipate into utter panic. The stylists seem to share his alarm, for they abruptly flitter into the bathroom to fill the tub with water and start laying out supplies. Razors, shaving cream, lotions, oils – it all makes Elara cringe a little, but she knows better than to complain.
Ignatius claps his hands, sniffling the last of his sorrows away as he delves into his stylist mode, and insists, "Clothes off, please! I must see the extent of how much you've let yourself go in my absence!"
Elara huffs but doesn't argue, pulling her sweatshirt off with one fluid movement and then wrestling with the remainder of her clothes. She throws her jeans and underwear in a messy pile by the wall, no longer embarrassed as she once was to stand in front of Ignatius naked. He eyes her unshaven body with a critical eye, sighing and muttering to himself as he walks around her.
Occasionally, he reaches out to touch her, lifting the tips of her hair to check for split ends, checking the softness of her skin as he brushes his fingertips over her shoulder. As he does, the other stylists bustle around the room, spewing their usual gossip. Only this time, what they're gossiping about is the upcoming Quarter Quell, and who they think will be Reaped. They're careful enough with their words to not mention who they want to be Reaped, but Elara gets the gist of the conversation as she watches Ignatius.
It's not like there's much else to talk about, really. Half the Capitol is no doubt in an uproar about this Quell, though Elara isn't sure yet if they're pleased or not about it. Surely not every Capitolite will shed tears for their Victors, like these silly stylists have. She can think of one man who is probably feeling quite gleeful about it all.
They say that the Quarter Quells were pre-written at the start of the rebellion, and opened only when that Quell was to be announced, but Elara knows better. Perhaps that had been the case for the first two, but the 75th Hunger Games is different. President Snow would do anything to get rid of Katniss Everdeen and her fated lover. She poses too great a problem to his perfect world.
"We have a lot of work to do," Ignatius sighs, ending his examination of the state of her and pushing her gently towards the bathroom. The other stylists quickly take charge, leading her to where her bath awaits and preparing their various forms of torture as they assign themselves different things to do.
Elara sits through it all, occasionally gritting her teeth when they pull too hard at her hair or press the razor too firmly against her skin in their pursuit of trying to get every single hair off of her. They lather her with softening oils, put a face mask on her, and vigorously clean the dirt from her nails as she sits there in the tub. All the while, Ignatius chatters over his gossiping retinue, pulling out various gowns he'd brought with him and showing them off to her in the doorway of the bathroom. Apparently, he's been crazily designing dress after dress since the Quell had been announced only a week or so prior, for he is intent on ensuring that she stands out. Unfortunately, his designs are a little more extravagant than she prefers, cutting figures that showcase far more skin than she appreciates.
Her gown for the Reaping is a satin number. It's a lush emerald color that compliments her hair very nicely, but the sides of it are cut all the way up to her thighs and decorated with a see-through lace that makes her distinctly uncomfortable. When viewing her from her profile, her entire leg is on display. Luckily, the rest of it is relatively modest, with a neckline that Elara doesn't mind terribly. When Ignatius zips it up, she has to admit that it does look good on her figure, despite the show of leg.
"You look ferocious," he tells her with a wink. While she had been bathing, he'd reapplied his makeup and looks as pristine as ever. Standing beside her in a matching emerald shirt, Elara can appreciate his show of loyalty – though she knows it isn't likely to get her very far. Or him, for that matter.
"Come, the Reaping will be starting soon and we don't want to be late," he tells her, sweeping his hand in a grand gesture at the door. She sighs, runs her hands over the dress one more time, and swallows.
She wonders, suddenly, if she will ever be inside this room again, if she'll ever sleep in that bed or brush her teeth in that bathroom. They are mundane things. Silly, really, to think about right now, but – the thoughts still pull at her, and she knows why.
She likely won't survive.
They make their way downstairs, and Elara catches sight of Amelia, who is dressed in a nice dove grey outfit that she only wears when she absolutely has to, for she hates dressing up. The two sisters have that in common, at least.
The moment she sees her, Elara rushes forward to embrace her, and Amelia – stubborn, arrogant, impulsive Amelia – swallows tightly and throws her arms around Elara in return. They stand there at the center of the kitchen, beneath the eyes of the silly stylists, for what seems like forever. And yet, the seconds slip by too quickly, and all too soon they draw back.
"Come on," Elara whispers, wrapping an arm around her sister's shoulders and guiding her to the door. Amelia curls her arm around Elara's waist as she does, and together they walk in front of the stylists on their way to the district square, their heads high despite the curdling grief that already shudders through the air between them.
Amelia is an intelligent girl. She hopes for the best, but inside she must know that this may very well be the last time she will walk down these streets with her sister beside her.
The square is already bustling when they arrive. Harley stands on the stage by himself. Elara goes to join him after saying goodbye to Amelia. It is hard to drag herself away from her sister, the girl she had practically raised upon the death of their parents. She doesn't really know how she does it, but somehow she walks onto the stage and takes her place beside her district partner, sending him a nod as she does. He nods back, giving her a rare smile that looks strange on his normally blank face. It is a show of unification, in a way. A sign that he will stand by her – at least, she hopes he will. Harley and her have never been that close, but he's still a part of her home, and she a part of his.
Olive, the escort of District 5, goes through the motions. It's strange. Elara has listened to the introductory video that's always played at the Reapings for years now. She could repeat the words verbatim by now. And yet, hearing them on this day, at this hour, with the knowledge of what comes next bearing down on her shoulders…it all feels distinctly different, as if she has never stood here on this stage before.
When Olive finally reaches for the bowl, Elara takes a deep breath and wills her expression to fall into blankness. The cameras will be on her and Harley now, and she knows that this will be an important moment. She cannot appear weak. She does an awfully good job, all things considered. When Olive reaches into the bowl and pulls out the only piece of paper that it contains, Elara sets her shoulders back.
The escort unrolls the paper and says into the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Elara Winston, the female tribute for the 75th Hunger Games." The words are strangely blank, not nearly as eager as usual. Olive isn't as silly as some escorts, but she's still a Capitolite through and through.
Elara's mouth quirks up into a smirk as she steps forward, smiling sarcastically to the silent crowd. Really though, her smile is mostly for the cameras – for the Capitol. This is a game, a part to play, and she knows how to play it.
"Congratulations, my dear," Olive intones, pasting on a false smile as her eyes water just slightly. She swallows thickly and pats Elara's shoulder as she comes to stand next to her. Elara doesn't respond – she just glances at Olive, pretending that her heart isn't ricocheting around in her chest, pretending that the panic that scrapes at her throat is only excitement. It's a fool's errand though, trying to convince herself of such a fallacy.
Olive clears her throat and reaches for the bowl that contains Harley's name. Like Elara, there is only one slip of paper in the bowl for the male tribute, for there is only one male tribute in District 5. It's almost amusing, in a dark, disturbing way, as Elara and Harley stand up there on that stage and allow the Capitol to go through the motions. They already know what will happen. Everyone knows what will happen. There are only two tributes from this district, and they are both going back into the arena.
It's still something of a shock though, when Olive's voice rolls over the names that everyone is already aware are on those slips of paper. When she calls, "Harley Balstrod!", Elara's partner pauses for one long moment, staring hard at the floor of the stage as silence perforates the space. Then, fists clenching, chest rising, Harley steps forward to occupy the space beside her, and in a rare show of comradery, he lifts a hand to her back.
Olive turns back to the mic and exclaims, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the tributes of the 75th Hunger Games!"
If Olive had expected for people to cheer at the proclamation, she is sorely let down. The crowd is so silent that Elara can hear the wind that constantly blows through the city from the lake on its parameter, rustling through the people as if it is pushing leaves from an overgrown pathway. No one makes a single sound, or says a single word.
Olive swallows tightly and wrings her hands in front of her with nervous energy, but she is saved from having to do something about this strange silence when the doors of the Justice building are thrown open and a group of Peacekeepers appear at the entrance.
Elara turns to stare at them in confusion. This is odd. Peacekeepers have never barged into the proceedings in such a way. When they gesture for the two Victors to follow them, muttering something about escorting them to the train, it falls into place. Snow doesn't want to give anyone any time to plot against him. Those few minutes spent saying goodbye to family and friends are minutes that could be spent exchanging dark plans against his reign.
She turns her head as a Peacekeeper impatiently snatches her arm and pulls her forward, eyes frantically searching the crowd to catch sight of Amelia. But the girl is lost among the sea of people, and Elara has only a few scant seconds before she's being pulled forcibly into the Justice building and the doors are slamming behind her.
"Train's this way," the Peacekeeper grunts, and tightens his fingers around her upper arm when she tries to rip it out of his grasp.
She can do nothing but follow him, stumbling in her heels at his fast pace and turning to send Harley a pursed expression. He frowns back, but doesn't say a word. There isn't much to say, after all, in a moment such as this.
There is no fanfare whatsoever as Elara and Harley are shuttled off to the Training Center. Oh, the crowds are enormous, cheering at them the moment they see the District 5 train pull into the station despite the fact that District 5 isn't nearly as popular are some of the other districts. Victors are viewed in an almost god-like way by these people though, no matter where they come from.
Elara knows that sponsors are important, so she tries to wave at them as they are led to their car, tossing her smiles to these creatures who yell her name with such maddening voices. The moment they are in the relatively safe confinements of the car, however, her smile drops away so quickly that it might have been discomfiting, in any other circumstance.
She knows the drill. She's been a mentor for eight years now, after all. When they arrive at the Training Center and are immediately snatched up by the stylists, she doesn't argue. Ignatius and his group wait for her in one of the curtained sections where all the tributes go to for initial beautifying. When he sees her, he lets out a garbled exclamation and throws his arms around her, as if he had not seen her for an age. It's a little silly, considering how it hasn't even been a full twenty four hours.
She inclines her neck, trying to catch sight of the other Victors. She sees Enobaria from 2. The fierce woman throws her curtain open with a vengeance and struts into her designated space without a backward glance. Chaff and Seeder from 11 are just walking into the room, and a few other Victors are idling around while their stylists set things up, but Elara doesn't see the one person she longs to see most of all. Perhaps he has not yet arrived, or perhaps his stylists are already working on him. In any case, she doesn't have time to look any further, for Ignatius gestures to her section with a tearfully amicable expression and she sighs, walking over to the chair and sitting down as one of her stylists close the curtain and separates them from the rest of the group.
"Hair, make-up, and nails – hurry now!" Ignatius orders, clapping at the stylists. The creatures immediately obey, each veering off to do their selected task. Despite the fact that they had done the exact same thing only a few hours ago, they bear down upon her as if she is a blank canvas in need of serious work. Their hands are aggressively earnest as they pull her hair down and begin to wash it again, scrub off her make-up so as to reapply it, and start redoing the nails that they had only just put on. All the while, Ignatius rattles on as he is wont to do, telling her about the inspiration he had regarding the Tribute Parade and how she'll look absolutely magnificent in the costume he'd designed for her. If he's trying to impart some of his excitement into Elara, he'll have to try a lot harder. Her stomach is roiling with nerves and tension. She feels like she might be sick.
Still, she doesn't complain and she doesn't move throughout the long process. After an hour of sitting in that chair, her hair is looped up over her skull in braids, twinkling with little lights that the stylists had woven through the strands. Her make-up is almost iridescent, flawless in a way that she has grown used to since her victory eight years prior. Her nails gleam with a dark color that looks bluish-emerald when the light hits it just right.
The stylists step back and coo at her, reaching out to touch the edge of her robe with fawning eyes as they look down upon their creation. Elara just stares at the curtain blankly, hardly noticing them. Her thoughts are whirling, ricocheting with the nerves that she had thus far managed to contain, just barely. Now that she's here in the Capitol, going through the motions she knows so well, battling with the knowledge that this week may very well be her last, the nerves press at her like demons clawing up her throat, and she can barely even breathe.
She is so afraid.
Ignatius distracts her, though, just a bit, when he approaches with the costume he had designed for this very moment. Her eyes flit to his figure, watching as he winks at her and unzips the black fabric covering to pull the gown out. And, even though Elara is not interested in dressing up for any reason, even she has to admit that Ignatius is truly talented.
It's a gleaming thing, with yards of chiffon undulating down the skirts in different layers. Blues and whites and blacks shine at her, hinting at darker emerald tones beneath the chiffon fabrics. It reminds Elara of the lake that presses out at the edges of her district. The way the fabric falls, it looks almost like water.
When she steps into it and Ignatius zips it up for her, he tuts, "Ah, that's not all, my dear. This is a costume, you know."
He reaches behind a panel of fabric at her shoulder blade and fiddles with something for a moment. Then, quite suddenly, the entire outfit begins to shine with dozens of tiny lights that cascade from her corseted torso down through the chiffon skirts. They get shadowed by the different colors, making the lights appear emerald and blue and a myriad of other shades that Elara is not quite eloquent enough to express with words. Coupled with the lights woven through her hair, she looks like some strange water fairy. It's remarkable. Overdone, of course, but remarkable.
Ignatius beams proudly at her through the mirror and says, "I thought the lightbulbs were a bit overused. You deserve more."
Elara barks out a laugh and sends him an amused glance. "I'm grateful you think so." She truly is. She's always hated the lightbulb costumes that the stylists often use for her district. She had to wear one during her Games eight years ago and it was absolutely awful.
But this…this is not awful. This is incredible.
"Ah! Shoes!" Ignatius exclaims, and snaps his fingers to the nearest stylist, who immediately rushes to procure a box. Ignatius pulls it open and sets a pair of heels on the floor by Elara's feet. He holds his elbow out so that she can balance herself while she steps into them, and gives him a little laugh despite the sickening clench of her nerves trying to get the better of her.
Ignatius smiles. "You look wonderful. Absolutely gorgeous." They idle there in front of the mirror for a long moment before Ignatius suddenly jolts out a shocked, "Oh dear – the parade will be starting soon! Off you go my dear, hurry now!"
She squeezes his elbow one last time in silent thanks and obeys, walking to the curtain to pull it open. There are a few more Victors on their way to the hall, but she doesn't see Gloss or Cashmere anywhere, so she assumes that they are already at their chariot. She heads to the doors, feeling a bit ridiculous for the twinkling gown she's wearing, and also oddly beautiful at the same time. Granted, it's a lot better than wearing a lightbulb on her head and the awful silver vinyl fabric that she'd been forced into the last time she'd made this walk. She passes several familiar faces of a few of the other Victors as she makes her way to the parade hall, and decides that she is actually quite lucky that Ignatius is as talented as he is. Not all of the costumes are as extravagant as hers, nor do they look as nice on some of the others, who are frankly too old to be able to pull off such ridiculous outfits.
Her pace quickens. She's excited to see how the District 1 stylists had decided to dress Gloss and Cashmere. A teasing insult is at the tip of her tongue as she enters the hall, eyes immediately scanning for the two figures she knows are here. Before she can catch sight of them, though, Johanna appears, and she makes such a sight that Elara completely forgets who she's looking for.
"Is that…?" she slowly asks, only for Johanna to give her a menacing grimace and a not so friendly shove. Elara honestly can't help but snicker a little at the reaction. Johanna looks pissed.
"Yeah, I'm a fucking tree, big surprise there," she snarks angrily, and tries to cross her arms over the hard shell of the tree that surrounds her figure. Only, the shell is too problematic and it gets in the way, making Johanna's glower deepen as she just drops her hands to her sides instead.
The sight makes Elara burst out into laughter, which makes Johanna glare and put her hands on her hips…but with the costume's barriers, she looks incredibly ridiculous, and Elara laughs even harder because of the sight she makes.
That's about the time when another voice drawls, "Your costume actually looks half decent, Winston."
Elara chokes back her laughter and turns to see Gloss's tall figure pressed into the space behind her. His arms are bared and crossed, showing off his impressive musculature, but it is the rest of him that really catches her attention.
He's…sparkling. Her eyebrows shoot up and she steps forward in fascination, reaching out to lightly touch his chest, which is covered in a gauzy, see-through fabric and studded with gemstones. His muscles are on clear display beneath the fabric, which does very little in the way of modesty. At least he's wearing actual pants. A small favor.
He's decked out in jewels from head to foot, no doubt representing this particular aspect of the luxury district from which he hails. He's wearing a large sapphire necklace around his neck and several rings on his fingers. It's a little amusing to see him like this, really. Gloss is always so masculine. He usually dresses very nicely when he's in the Capitol – he has an image to cultivate, after all – but he isn't the type to gravitate towards fashion. In fact, he usually complains her ear off whenever he's forced into clothes that he dislikes, which is most of the time.
But now, seeing the sparkling, iridescent image he creates, Elara can't possibly hold back the shards of laughter from coloring her voice.
"…Where's your tiara?" Elara inquires, voice tinted with teasing sarcasm. She glances up at him and snickers, brushing her fingers over the many gems sewn into the fabric of his costume. He really is sparkling. She wonders how blinding he'll be outside beneath the sun.
Gloss rolls his eyes with a grunt and mutters, "I'm just happy I'm not dressed like Odair."
Behind them, Johanna adds, "He's wearing a net."
Elara, who hasn't seen Finnick yet, turns with a raised eyebrow and questions, "A net? What do you – oh." She sees him alright. It would be hard not to. He's the only person in the hall who is practically naked, and his bronze skin is like a beacon you can't help but stare at. Elara hums, dropping her eyes to the net that wraps precariously around his hips, and says, "Mm…doesn't leave much to the imagination."
Gloss sends her a raised brow, looking perfectly unimpressed. Elara takes one look at his narrowed eyes and laughs, shaking her head and murmuring, "I didn't say I was imagining him, Gloss."
He just grunts, scoffing to himself and glancing back down to her figure, which is wrapped up in gauzy fabrics and miniature lights that twinkle whenever she moves. After a moment of studying her, he tells her, "You look nice."
It's her turn to send him a raised eyebrow. In turn, Gloss gives her a confused look as she laughs, "Nice? That's the word you're going for?"
He snorts. "Stop fishing for compliments."
She pauses, then snickers a bit as she steps closer to him and whispers, "I think I'll need Finnick's net for that."
Gloss's responding glower is enough to spark her into a fit of snickering laughter all the way to where her chariot awaits.