Chapter Twenty Five | Nor made less vast, or vaster by demand,
"I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,
I should adventure for such merchandise."
2.2, 82-84 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
She doesn't know why she's so nervous. It isn't such a strange thing, really, buying someone a gift. It's what normal people do when they're with someone. They think of them at inconvenient times, wonder how they're doing, take notice of their likes and dislikes, their hobbies and dreams. They learn unnecessary things about them. Silly things, useless things. Like the fact that Gloss hates the cold, and the rain, and takes steaming, burning showers and drinks his coffee with cream, no sugar. He doesn't like sweet things.
But he does like sleeping late, and eating big breakfasts, and wearing comfortable clothing. He loves the dawn, even though he usually sleeps through it, and when he has nightmares, it's the only time he drinks tea. He claims that the taste of it drives away his dreams. It's his superstitious cure-all. Superstitious, because it doesn't matter what kind of tea he makes. According to him, any will do.
Elara knows a lot of useless things about him. Things that she doesn't need to know. Yet – all of these things are reasons why she loves him, though she couldn't explain why with words alone. It's just a feeling that rises up within her every time she's near him – an inexplicable wave that crashes through her whenever she learns something new about him that she hadn't known before. It makes her feel that somehow, in some way, there is something real between them after all, and that thought brings her far more comfort than it probably should, for she knows that theirs is a love that can never be.
Even so, they both mean something significant to each other otherwise they wouldn't keep coming back into one another's orbits every time they're in the Capitol. Still, Elara wouldn't characterize their relationship to be normal. If anything, it is as far from normal as it could possibly be.
Maybe that's why she's so nervous. Even though she's been with Gloss many times over – mapped out his body with her hands and her lips and breathed words against his skin and loved every contour of his physical form – she isn't really with him. Even though she knows many useless, unnecessary things about him that most people don't, they aren't truly together. The claim she has over him is a jaded thing, inconsequential and wild. Its unsteadiness is what marks every single one of the moments that they share.
With a hesitant pause, Elara looks down at the box in her hands. The papery edges of the expensive cardboard trim gleams silver in the light. The saleswoman had asked if she'd wanted it wrapped, but she had denied the service. Partially because she wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't return the damned thing, and partially because she couldn't quite decide if she really liked it or not.
What does one get a man who already has everything? District 1 is a place with very little poverty. Gloss has told her himself, plenty of times, that he'd been a spoiled brat growing up, always getting whatever he wanted. What use would he have for anything that she gets him?
She slowly opens the box to look at the contents. The fine woolen sweater that's nestled in the tissue paper is a simple piece, with several cables twisting up the front. The entire thing is a deep forest green, so dark that it's nearly black in the dim lighting. She's not sure that she's ever seen Gloss wear anything like this before, but she knows that he likes comfortable clothes and soft fabric, and the merino wool blend is so soft that it feels like a cloud when she reaches down to touch it.
It had been a spur of the moment buy. She'd been shopping for something to get Amelia for Christmas, deciding to bring her back something from the Capitol rather than venture into the multitude of stores in District 5 that she's already picked through many times over. She hadn't even gone into the men's section – just glimpsed the sweater from the aisle as she was walking by – and a multitude of images had swept through her mind when she had seen it.
It's funny, how a random item can instill such thoughts within you. At once, she was pressed back into days gone by – sunlit moments on the couch of her apartment, sharing jokes and laughter; whispered encouragement in the dark haze of night as they exchanged laughter for other pursuits; last minute kisses, brief but lingering, in quiet hallways…
Elara doesn't have a specific purpose for buying him such a thing. They have never exchanged gifts before for any reason. And as she sits there on her couch and traces the knitted material, she wonders if she needs one.
She doesn't have time to think any further on it, though, before a knock sounds at her apartment door. With a startled jerk, she hastily throws the lid on the box and stands up, a panicked light catching her eyes as she stares down at the gift. She wonders, briefly, if she should just return it after all. What if Gloss thinks it's a silly thing to do and that such an act would take their strange relationship too far into deeper territory – territory that he has carefully steered them away from?
Another knock sounds at the door, impatient this time, and she sighs before walking over to it and thrusting it open before she can allow her thoughts to spin her for a loop. She's already bought the damned thing. She might as well stay the course.
Some lingering trace of panic must show in her face, because when she opens the door and Gloss steps inside, he asks, "You okay?"
She moves aside to accommodate him, shifting a bit so that he can pass. As he does, his hand presses against her waist, catching her as the door swings shut. He doesn't even let her respond to his question before he's leaning down to kiss her thoroughly.
Elara makes a surprised sound against his lips but doesn't pull away. Instead, she draws herself closer, folding her body into the familiar edges of his. He makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat and draws back to pull her deeper into the apartment. They pass right by the couch she'd just been sitting on, not even seeing the white package laying atop the table in front of it. Gloss is far too busy pulling her into the bedroom with a crooked smirk, and Elara is too busy laughing and falling into his plans for the evening without complaint.
It's not until much later that either of them takes notice of it again.
Gloss heads into the kitchen to get a couple of drinks. He knows Elara's apartment as if it's his own, and it takes him only a few minutes to get two whiskeys prepared. He's on his way back to the bedroom, where his lover is thoroughly satisfied (he's made sure of that), when he sees the white box laying innocently on the living room table. It's such an unusual sight that he pauses and steps over to it, head tilted as he studies the familiar stamp on the lid. It's from Gigi's, one of the largest and most expensive department stores in Panem, and it naturally bolsters his curiosity. Elara isn't the type of woman to shop in places like that. Her down to earth, sensible personality is one of the things he loves about her. She is as far removed from the generic Capitolite woman as the sun is from the moon.
As expected, he opens the box. He's too curious not to.
His first reaction to the wool sweater that sits within its tissue paper wrappings is aggravation. At first he assumes that one of Elara's clients had gifted it to her. She's received gifts from them in the past – tokens that are meant to mark her, as some sort of symbolic sign that they own her in some way. She usually doesn't even open them up. He can't stand it when he sees signs of them in her trash, despite the fact that the majority of them are unopened and ignored. It angers him to think that those men believe they have the right to even make such a gesture.
With a grumble, he sets the drinks down and lifts the sweater out of the packaging, which is when his reaction changes.
This is a man's sweater. It's obvious enough just by the cut of it alone, but it's also several sizes too big for Elara. Why does she have a man's sweater in her apartment? He can think of only one reason, and like any man in his peculiar situation, in a relationship that isn't really a relationship, well…he jumps to conclusions.
Grasping it tightly, Gloss heads back into the bedroom with a firm expression drawn over his features. It's an expression that he wears when he thinks he needs to protect himself – tight jaw, wary eyes, taut shoulders. It's an expression that Elara knows fairly well by now, because in their line of work, protecting themselves is something they need to do despite the fact that it rarely does them any good.
She's still laying on the bed, sheets gathered up to her chest with needless modesty. She doesn't need to cover up. Gloss could imagine her form with his eyes closed. In fact, he often does.
She looks up at him when he enters, but the satisfied smile she's wearing slips away when she sees what he's holding. Her reaction to it is not quite what he's expecting. Instead of a plethora of awkward excuses, she merely sits up with an exasperated sigh and says with no small amount of frustration, "You weren't supposed to open it yet, you idiot."
Her words seem to take him by surprise, for Gloss immediately falters. He stares at her, eyebrows pinched, and slowly asks, "…I wasn't?" His voice is as wary as the rest of him, as if he knows he's treading into unfamiliar territory.
Elara rolls her eyes, not noticing the careful way he looks at her. Despite his own reservations, he can't help but let his eyes flicker over her body. He feels the dull roar of desire in the back of his mind – the near constant thrum of it as it sweeps through him, as it always does whenever she is near – but he presses it down.
"You always ruin my surprises," she grumbles, throwing the sheets off and hunting down her robe. All the while, Gloss just stands there with the sweater hanging from his hand, watching her with almost bewildered eyes. It takes her several more moments to notice the spin of it in his gaze, but when she does, Elara pauses and frowns, "What?"
She slowly cinches her robe together and studies him, finally taking note of the cautious way he's holding himself. If she's being honest with herself, this is exactly the sort of response she'd expected from him – that he'd think her crazy to even consider buying him something, when they aren't technically committed to each other. It's a silly thing to do. Thoughtless. Perhaps she should have tucked the box away after all, before opening the door and letting him inside.
Gloss furrows his brow and haltingly asks, "…You bought this for me?"
Though Elara doesn't know it, the reason he is so surprised is because he'd rather thought that she had purchased this gift for someone else. Someone who might claim her in ways he cannot. Someone who, perhaps, she is forging a better relationship with back in District 5. A man who can take care of her for the long haul, who will be there for her when she needs him the most. Someone who won't be a hundred miles away whenever she has a nightmare and needs someone to pick up the pieces of her that has been rattled from all her past deeds.
As much as he wishes it was different, he knows he is not that man. He knows he never will be. They come from different worlds, and no amount of Capitol meetings will change that. It doesn't matter how often they might see each other, or how intimately they know each other's bodies and souls, or how many times they might find themselves in the other's bed, fighting for their sanity within the coil of the other's presence.
He's been wondering when Elara Winston would get tired of all this. The secrecy, the longing, the hellos and goodbyes. And when he had opened that box, he had thought that perhaps that time has finally arrived.
Maybe some of that confusion weaves itself into his words or his tone or simply in the way he's looking at her, because Elara just stares at him for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot figure out what emotion drives through her gaze. It is a mixture of what might be awkwardness, or discomfort, or even pity, but there is something else there too – something so very genuine and gentle, ardent and soft, that makes him feel ragged to be on the receiving end of it. It feels, almost, as if she is looking right through him, right down to the very bones and sinew of his person. Right down into his soul.
It makes him uncomfortable, until he realizes that she is probably feeling just as awkward as he is.
With a clear of her throat, Elara fiddles with the ties of her robe and asks, "…Do you like it?"
Gloss frowns and looks down at the sweater as if the object itself is a foreign thing he has never laid eyes upon before. He lifts it up and studies it for the first time, taking in the color, the texture, the feel of it against his fingers…and he does like it, he supposes, but not because of any of those things. He likes it because she has thought of him, and that in and of itself is a warm caressing notion that takes him aback a little bit, because it's such an encompassing feeling.
And yet…
His mouth twists into an amused expression and he wryly wonders, "You know District 1 is a desert…right?"
The question is almost idle, and the words are a bit thoughtless. He doesn't mean for them to sound ungrateful when that is truly the last thing he feels, but he sees Elara's shoulders stiffen nonetheless, and when she turns to face him, her expression is drawn in a way that speaks of quiet unease. Gloss flounders for a moment, not knowing what to say, and they just stand there in the middle of her bedroom staring at each other – one bare save for the briefs he had hastily pulled on before, the other tightly grasping the stays of a robe that is threatening to slip off her shoulder even now.
"I'll wear it in the Capitol though," he adds quickly, finally finding his voice. He's definitely at a loss. He isn't exactly well schooled with dealing with the fairer sex where it concerns matters that need some degree of guidance. He clears his throat and studies Elara's expression carefully.
She laughs, but he can tell that it isn't a genuine laugh, because he knows what that sound is like in the tones of her voice. He knows how lovely it is to hear it, and this laugh does not compare.
"I can always bring it back," she says with a shrug, then purses her lips and adds, "I didn't consider…District 1."
But Gloss just frowns and folds the sweater carefully before laying it down on her dresser. As he does, he says, "Don't be stupid. I like it. I was just confused because I thought…" he trails off, swallows, and turns back to face her as he admits, "I thought it was for someone else is all."
His voice is strong and clear, despite his discomfort. He hadn't expected to be having this kind of conversation tonight. Neither of them had been expecting it.
Elara raises her eyebrows at him and Gloss shifts uncomfortably beneath her sharp gaze.
"Who else would it be for?" she questions, crossing her arms.
Gloss just rolls his eyes at her and mutters, "Don't be like that, Elara. How should I know what you do back in District 5?" He doesn't say anything more, but the true nature of his words hangs in the spaces between them like solar flares ricocheting through the darkness. It isn't a question about what she does, after all, but who she does it with.
Her mouth drops open. This time, her laugh is incredulous.
"You thought I bought this for someone else?" she demands, and Gloss's jaw clenches down in a sure sign of his discomfort. He has utterly no idea what to say to her question, or what he might do to smooth this situation out. And yet – a part of him does want to know if she spends time with other men back in District 5 when their time in the Capitol is over. Does she look for comfort elsewhere, when she cannot get it from him? That is, after all, what had brought them together in the first place – an endless search for something that might make their lives seem a little less gray.
Squaring his shoulders and preparing for the worst, Gloss catches her eye and asks, "So there is no one back in District 5?"
He does, admittedly, feel a little silly for asking. He isn't sure if he has any right to, after all. He isn't sure what it even is between them, or why he feels so possessive of her or why he keeps coming back to her arms. Sometimes, when he's feeling very sentimental, he thinks there is something that connects them together as if they are two atoms bound together in some eternal race, forever circling the other just as timelessly as the earth orbits the sun.
He does want to know the answer though, with a desperation that claws through him insistently. A woman like her would have plenty of men after her. She's not only pretty to look at, with all her lines and angles, but she also has this magnetic spark that he finds utterly enchanting; a certain way about her that is addicting to him. Surely, if he is as taken by Elara Winston as he is, then others would be too?
Elara just laughs at him. Her eyes aren't as sharp as they'd been moments before. In fact, Gloss might even claim that they seem almost soft now, as if she thinks he's the most ridiculous man in the world and it's endearing to her.
She shakes her head at him and replies, "There's no one in District 5."
The moment the words are uttered, Gloss's gaze darts away as if he's embarrassed for having asked in the first place. He clears his throat.
"Good," is all he says, glancing over at Elara cautiously, like he's waiting for her to start laughing at him. It isn't like he owns her. They aren't together. He will never be able to truly call her his in any way that matters.
Elara just eyes him shrewdly and suddenly drawls, "I thought you were getting us drinks."
He scratches his neck and mumbles, "I was." Then, giving her a reproachful look, he ducks out of the room again to hunt down the two glasses that he'd left on the living room table.
Later, when he brings them back to the bedroom, Elara crawls back under the sheets. He hands her a glass and follows. As he's getting comfortable, Elara slowly murmurs, "I can bring the sweater back if you don't want it, Gloss."
He turns to look at her, pausing in the process of fixing the pillows. She isn't looking at him. Instead, her eyes are turned to the blanket that's strewn over her legs, both of which are curled up beneath her body as she leans against the headboard. When he doesn't immediately answer, she snorts and adds, "I don't even know what came over me. Buying you a gift…you must think I'm ridiculous."
Gloss hums in agreement, and Elara glowers at him. He chuckles at the look and turns to face her, edging closer and throwing an arm over the back of the headboard as he murmurs, "I…like that you thought of me."
He wonders if that sort of honesty will come back to bite him. After all, what he and Elara has…it isn't the type of relationship that allows for such thoughtful acts. It's supposed to be casual sex, but…well, he knows in his heart that there is nothing truly casual about it. She seems to know too, because a moment later she's grudgingly admitting, "I think of you far more often than I probably should."
She doesn't look at him when she says it. Instead, she stares down into her whiskey, as if she thinks it contains all the answers she is searching for. The amber liquid looks darker in the faded light of her bedroom – a room that has borne witness to so many moments between her and the man beside her. It is a sanctuary of sorts. She has never brought any other man to this bed but him.
Gloss studies her profile for a very long moment. He won't admit it, but his heart flutters a bit at her confession. He is at once poignantly relieved and unconsolably bitter to hear the words. Relieved, because it means that he isn't the only foolish one between the two of them. That she thinks of him as much as he thinks of her, when the distance lurches out across the spaces that separate District 1 and District 5. When the cold brush of loneliness jolts through him so hard that he finds it difficult to breathe.
Bitter, because there is nothing he can to do to tame the beast that tears cruelly through their connection.
He exhales slowly and reaches for her hand, twisting their fingers together with a casual idleness that speaks of so much more than mere familiarity. In a quiet voice, he murmurs, "I don't have anything for you, though."
Elara laughs. This time, it is a genuine sound, true and clear.
She glances up at him and turns her body to his, letting him support her weight as she presses her cheek against to chest. She traces his skin with the lightest brush of her fingertips and whispers, "If you want to get me a gift, bring me something from your home." Then, chuckling, she scrunches her nose and murmurs, "But really Gloss, I don't need – "
He cuts her off with a kiss, leaning down to press his mouth to hers. The rest of her sentence is muffled and non-existent, but she hardly dares to complain. Instead, she just raises an arm, slips it around his broad shoulders, and kisses him back.
When he pulls away, he gives her that crooked smile she adores so much and breathes, "Something from my home, huh?"
Elara ducks her head against his chest again, grasping his bicep firmly, as if she expects that he may disappear on her. He holds her tighter – a silent message that he has no intention of doing so.
"…To remember you by, when I start missing you," she whispers very softly, so softly that he hardly even hears her despite their close proximity. He thinks he knows why her words are so stilted and wary, why they are bathed with such dulcet, silent tones. It is because within the entrapments of each wayward syllable is a confession that they have both skirted around for a very long time. And he thinks, in that moment, that it had been very silly for him to make the sort of assumptions he'd had before. It's just that he's not used to wanting someone as much as he wants Elara Winston. He's not used to the stark press of possession that drives through him whenever he thinks of her.
He exhales hard, horrified when he realizes that his eyes are watering up just so. Sorrow punctuates every breath he draws and makes itself known in the heaviness of his voice when he hoarsely murmurs, "…Something from home, then."
He shuffles closer, pressing her tight to his body. And – though Elara hears the unsteady emotions roiling through his voice, she doesn't lift her head. Gloss is not the type of man to showcase his weaknesses in such a way. She grips him harder and lets him pretend to be strong, even though they both know that strength has long since abandoned them.
The Chariot Parade takes no more than half an hour from start to finish, if even. Snow's speech takes up the majority of it, which they have no choice but to listen to as they wait in their chariots below his podium. The crowds, which had been boisterous and deafening, quiets down when their president assumes the microphone, but Elara turns her attention to the man standing four chariots over.
Honestly, sometimes she's surprised at herself. Her constant craving of him is unsettling at times. Her desire for Gloss is like a tidal wave that never ceases, always cresting the parts of her that should by all rights be barren. She's been a part of the underbelly of Capitol society for so long now that she sometimes wonders how she can feel physical pleasure at all. But then she reminds herself that it isn't just physical pleasure she feels with Gloss. They have long since surpassed such a mundane thing.
Her eyes graze over his figure carefully, not lingering long. She doesn't want to draw attention to herself, especially in front of the president. But even dressed in a far more effeminate manner than usual, Gloss is irresistible to her. It's only been a few weeks since they'd last said goodbye to each other and parted ways yet again, but it hardly matters. All she can think about is peeling away the layers of that gauzy gemstone-studded fabric and revealing the tanned skin that she knows so well.
Her mind is relentless, spinning images at her almost senselessly. Gloss, dragging her into one of the closets and lifting her up with those impressive biceps, muscles roiling as he presses her into the wall and hikes her skirts up – kissing a path of fire over her collar, growling out when she breathily moans for him and shifts her core against the hardening bulge of his –
The chariot beneath her suddenly lurches forward, and Elara barely manages to grab onto Harley's arm before she goes toppling off of it. Harley sends her a confused glance but doesn't complain, and Elara purses her lips because really, she should know better than to have dirty daydreams at a time like this.
It's just that she doesn't know how much longer she'll have. Their time together, which had seemed endless and almost stiflingly vast, circular in the push-and-pull cycle of their affections, now seems like it is slipping from her fingers like granules of sand. A week. That is how much time they have now. Perhaps longer, if they are both lucky, but…
Well, the odds have never been in their favor. Not really.
The crowd's cheering starts up again as the chariots pull into the massive threshold of the Training Center. The hall is crowded with stable hands and escorts, other Victors who are to act as mentors, and stylists. When the District 5 chariot comes to a rolling halt, Harley immediately steps off of it and turns around to assist her. As she reaches for his outstretched hand and maneuvers out of the chariot, several stable hands head over to handle the horses that had pulled them across the stretch.
Harley pats Elara's hand and releases her, sending her a brief nod before walking over to where Chaff is standing with Haymitch and the newest Victors from District 12. Elara watches them for a moment before turning, intent on heading to the District 5 suite and getting out of this dress. The longer she wears it, the more uncomfortable it gets.
However, the moment she turns, she inelegantly runs right into Finnick, who has snuck up behind her. She ends up practically face-planting herself into his chest, much to his eternal amusement – which he makes absolutely no effort to hide.
He bursts into laughter and jokes, "Want a taste of me, do you Elara?"
She gives him an exasperated look and pulls away, glowering down at his body with a discerning eye. He purses his lips and steps back, holding his hands out as if he's modeling himself for her perusal. Elara rolls her eyes at him and mutters, "I don't know why the entirety of Panem is so obsessed with you. You're not that great."
Finnick just snickers. "Well, you're biased. You prefer muscular idiots to intellectuals."
Elara's only response is a dry expression and an equally dry, "…Intellectual? Really?"
Finnick only smirks and lifts up a sugar cube, edging closer to purr, "Want one? They're very sweet." For some reason, his voice sounds like it's wrapped up in innuendos. Elara stares at him, then slowly smirks as well. Two can play his little game.
"…I don't like sugar," she tells him, crossing her arms and leaning against the side of her chariot. Finnick raises his eyebrows at her and slowly pushes the sugar cube onto his tongue, making a show of sucking on it as he stares at her with subtly amused eyes.
"What do you like then?" he wonders, glancing up to a spot across the room with a frankly lurid expression. It doesn't exactly take a genius to figure out what, or who, he's staring at. His smirk widens. "Ah…I forgot. You're biased." He winks at her.
Elara presses back an amused smile.
"…Of course, I think that if you indulged a bit, you might like the results," Finnick adds after a moment of intensely staring at where Gloss no doubt stands across the room. Elara hasn't turned around to look, but she isn't stupid. Finnick isn't interested in her like that, but he does so enjoy teasing Gloss and joking around with Elara whenever he gets the chance. It is a little funny, she has to admit.
Elara tilts her head questionably and prompts, "The results?"
The gorgeous District 4 Victor glances down at her, mouth twitching in amusement. He chuckles a bit and pulls out another sugar cube from some pocket inside the net he's wearing (Elara honestly doesn't want to know). As he holds it out for her, he laughingly tells her, "Making him jealous is so easy. You should see his face right now. He's absolutely seething." Then, edging forward just a bit, Finnick leans over Elara and presses the sugar cube to her lips with a sly smirk. "I'll bet you'd enjoy turning his anger into something else…"
Elara almost pushes him away, but only because –
"First tell me where you pulled that sugar cube from," she demands, and Finnick bursts into laughter all over again.
He dramatically wipes his eyes and snickers, drawling, "Do you really want to know?"
Elara makes a face at him. "On second thought, no, I don't. And if Gloss is as annoyed as you claim, I doubt I need to eat a sugar cube to make him jealous."
Finnick pulls back, lifting a hand to his bare chest and spearing her with a mock-offended look. "You're missing the point. I would hand feed you the sugar cube – "
"You'll do no such thing," the annoyed timbre of Gloss's voice suddenly sounds, and Elara chuckles as she turns to look at him. He glances at her briefly, glowering, before turning narrowed eyes to Finnick.
And, as for Finnick, he just raises an eyebrow and snickers suggestively, "No, I guess if anyone's going to hand feed Elara anything, it'll be you."
Elara feels her cheeks redden at the implication of his words, but Gloss just raises an eyebrow at Finnick and rolls his eyes, turning to grab Elara's arm and pulling her away without bothering to respond. Finnick just smirks and calls, "Have fun!"
Elara groans in embarrassment. Gloss purses his mouth to hide his smile. Despite his annoyance towards Finnick, he does have to admit that Elara's blushing countenance is something he appreciates. He pulls her towards the elevators, but Cashmere stops them before he can get Elara alone, as he's been wanting to do since the moment he'd seen her.
"You look nice," Cashmere says as she approaches the pair.
Elara immediately shoots the District 1 Victors a dry look and mutters something about their lack of vocabulary, to which Gloss playfully nudges her with a wide smile.
"So do you. You pull off the gemstone look better than your brother," Elara says, and Gloss's smile turns into a glower.
Cashmere barks out a laugh, eyeing her brother's bedazzled body with a discerning eye. It's fairly clear that she agrees. Tossing her luxurious mane of blonde hair over her shoulder, Cashmere drawls, "You should've seen his face when he stepped out of his room. He looked like he wanted to rip his stylists' heads off."
Gloss rolls his eyes and pulls Elara to the elevator without gracing his sister with a response. Cashmere goes to follow, but her name is shouted by Enobaria from 2 and she pauses, shooting a glance at the approaching Victor and sighing, "I can't believe she had her teeth filed down. I don't know if I'll be able to stand an alliance with her…"
Mention of alliances makes Elara freeze up a little. Of course it would be natural for District 1 to ally with the other Careers. Such an alliance would be expected. These Games are going to be far more intense than any other. The arena will be full of trained killers, instead of innocent children. Gloss and Cashmere are fearsome on their own, but coupled with Brutus and Enobaria, they're bound to make a lethal team.
To be perfectly frank, Elara does not fit into such plans. She isn't a vicious killer. She won her Games because she was smart enough to set a trap for the final tribute, and had managed to sneak around and stay out of sight until it was down to the last two.
Gloss glances at her with a strange light in his eyes, as if he knows what she's thinking. He turns his gaze to his sister, who is now walking towards Enobaria to embrace her, as if they're old friends even though they hardly talk. He looks like he wants to say something, but when the elevator doors open up and Elara pushes him inside, he forgets his train of thought. It's a little hard to remember anything at all when she's pressing herself against him and tugging his head down to kiss her.
She can worry about alliances later. Right now…
Gloss groans against her mouth and scoops her up, hauling her against him as he blindly reaches for the elevator button. As he presses it, he clenches his fingers into her hair and tilts her head to the side, sinking against her mouth with a hunger that leaves her utterly breathless. When he brings his hand to her side and darts his fingers into the chiffon skirts, Elara smiles against his mouth and moans, "I missed you."
Gloss chuckles. "It's only been a few weeks." He drags her bottom lip between his teeth and skims his hand over her thigh, rubbing circles against the inside of it and opening his eyes to watch her expression melt with desire. God, he loves the sight of it on her, creasing the contours of her face with such exuberant expressiveness.
Elara laughs against him and rubs her body over his, breaking the kiss to bury her face against his neck. The scent of him is familiar and wonderful. She could get lost in it.
"I always miss you, no matter how long it is," she tells him, turning her head to kiss his jaw and shivering into him.
It used to amaze her, how quickly he could rile her up, how easily he could stir the lust within her and bring it to the surface.
There's a soft ping in the elevator, and then suddenly the doors are lurching open and Elara is drawing away from him. The air between them seems to simmer almost – a barely distinguishable fire that threatens to overwhelm them both. The fire is dampened, somewhat, when Elara realizes where they are.
Gloss hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her into the District 1 suite, appearing totally nonchalant even though it's the middle of the day. Everyone else is still downstairs of course, but still. They never meet each other like this, in plain sight.
"Gloss – " Elara begins, sounding as wary as she feels. The dull burn of her desire for him fades, only to be replaced by the startled beat of her own heart as it thunders through her ears. They've been sneaking around the suites of the Training Center for years now, but they rarely do it in broad daylight.
But Gloss just drags her against him, shutting the door with a heavy swing and pressing her against it, shutting her up in the most effective way he knows. He succeeds, for several minutes at least, but Elara is far too logical to allow his distraction to truly sweep her away.
She pushes him back, breaking the kiss with a frown and hissing, "What are you doing? I thought we were going to the roof."
Gloss frowns right back and says in a voice that is far too light, "No one's gonna see us. They're all downstairs. Besides, we're going to die in a matter of days so we might as well enjoy ourselves until then."
Elara stares at him, caught between the edges of nervousness and roiling disgust. Not at him, but at the truth of his words. The sincerity laying behind each one. They are going to die. Or, at least, she is.
He's staring at her so intently that Elara feels the need to turn away from him, afraid that he'll see the bright fear catapulting through her eyes. Suddenly, jumping into bed with him is the last thing on her mind.
Pursing his mouth, Gloss steps forward and quietly says, "Elara…I think we need to talk."
She glances up at him, suddenly feeling very wary about those words. Nothing good ever comes from them, after all, especially when they're going to be discussing life and death. It's funny, how desperately she wants to turn and run from him then. How dearly she wishes that this talk might never happen. Thoughts of alliances burn through her head. She wrings her hands in front of her and swallows tightly. The Reaping, the Parade, the reunion of her friends – none of that feels as real as this does, right now. Suddenly the Games seems to loom up over her, towering like tangled vines in the background of her vision.
Gloss reaches out to take her shoulder, guiding her over to the couch. She doesn't argue, even though she'd like nothing more than to delay this discussion. For surely, she doesn't belong in the Career pack. She is not a lethal killer like Enobaria or Brutus, nor is she a skilled fighter like Gloss or Cashmere. Even if Gloss invited her to join, she doubts the others would agree with the move.
No, no. The reason for this talk is so that Gloss can carefully extricate himself from her before the start of the Games. He'll no doubt tell her that they should stop seeing each other entirely. She's been waiting for this for years now, waiting for him to get tired of their affair. She's always known that it was bound to happen, one day. Perhaps today is that day.
She silently sits down, back straight and chin high, clenching her fingers together in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Gloss take a seat beside her, leaving a bit of space between them as he angles himself towards her. He hunches over, elbows resting on his knees, and intertwines his fingers in front of him. And then…
"I don't know how I'm gonna do it, protect my sister and you. It's…an impossible feat. There's only one winner," he murmurs, not even noticing the tension in Elara's body as she perches herself on the couch beside him. She stares at the coffee table in front of them and doesn't move. She's afraid that if she does, she might start shaking and not be able to stop.
Gloss sighs. "I'd give my life to save my sister, Elara. And I'd – "
"I understand," she cuts in, sounding tired and wanting very much to return to the District 5 suite. She smiles bitterly and murmurs, "Of course you should save your sister. I would do the same if our roles were reversed."
He looks over at her with an unreadable look in his eyes, though she barely notices. Her gaze hasn't moved from the coffee table. If it was possible, she probably would have burned a hole right through the wood by now.
It's silent for a long moment, until the couch shifts as Gloss moves, reaching for her hands and drawing them into his own. She looks over at him and he quietly murmurs, "You didn't let me finish, Winston."
She blinks. He raises his eyebrows at her expression of confusion, like he thinks she's being ridiculous.
Squeezing her hands, he tells her, "I'd give my life to save Cashmere. But I'd give everything that I am to save you."
Elara stares at him in surprise, not expecting those words. Gloss isn't much of a talker. He prefers action over words. But – every once in a while, he takes her utterly off guard with his words, and she is reminded of his rare talent for saying the right thing in the right moment. When he's in the mood for it, he can be very verbose.
She opens her mouth to respond, but honestly, there isn't really anything to say to that. He's surprised her so much that all she can do is stare at him in silent shock. The corner of his mouth quirks up at her expression. Chuckling, he edges closer to her and draws her against him, pulling her against his body and threading his fingers through her hair in an idle manner.
"Did you honestly think I would abandon you in the arena?" he quietly asks her, voice muffled against her head as she relaxes into him. He scoffs and murmurs, "Cashmere would have my head if I tried."
At this, Elara laughs a little, but it's a stilted sound, just a crash of noise that wavers with emotion. She lifts her head to look at him, catching his eye as she says, "Enobaria and Brutus won't – "
"I don't give a damn about them," he interrupts staunchly, eyes blazing. "All I care about is protecting you and Cash."
Elara pauses, then frowns. "And who's going to protect you?" she quietly wonders, searching his gaze intently. Her fingers twist with his, clutching onto him as if she's afraid of letting him go. As if she thinks that, if she does, he'll disappear entirely on her.
Gloss looks a little unsure for a split second before he covers those feelings with an expression of determined fire. With a stilted smile, he tells her, "You don't have to worry about me."
His response isn't quite good enough for her, but Elara knows that it's probably the best answer she'll get. Gloss isn't the type of man to spill out his heart, and besides, this is the Hunger Games. But just because he doesn't want her worrying about him doesn't mean that she won't. His safety is just as important to her as her own.
Instead of replying, Elara just buries her face against his shoulder and lets him drag her closer. Against the fabric of his shirt, she whispers, "This isn't fair."
None of it is. Their first Games was hell enough. Fighting for their lives in the arena was already more of a nightmare than either of them deserves. And their lives after that, the hotel rooms and the prostitution, the forced compliance of Snow's manipulation, the years of sneaking around behind everyone's backs just to be together in whatever way they could manage for however long they had…
It's never been fair.
Gloss exhales quietly, turning his gaze to the ceiling as he holds her against him, and murmurs, "No. It isn't…"
There isn't anything to say to that, either, so they just let the silence speak for itself.