Chapter Twenty Six | But, angered, being built up all the more.
"Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out."
2.1, 1-2 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
Elara can't even remember how many times she's found herself panting in this bed, coming down from the high that Gloss had just instilled within her. His bedroom is as familiar to her as her own. Blue walls, cherry furniture, gauzy curtains that she knows he hadn't bothered buying himself. It's a small haven that has seen many a night of their affection, from the awkward cadences of its beginnings to the bolder, passionate couplings of its present.
She buries herself further into his sheets and turns her head to look at him. He's got one knee crooked up while the other leg hangs off the side of the bed. His chest is rising and falling quickly as he catches his breath from their recent activities. When he notices her looking at him, he turns to study her, too. The warmth behind his eyes makes her feel incredibly soft. She smiles at him, feeling luxurious and wanted. There's just something about laying like this that feels so wondrous. It's something she can't explain, really – just knows it to be the truest thing she's ever felt in her life.
They lay there for a long time, basking in the afterglow of their love. After a while, Gloss pushes himself up the mattress to lean against the headboard. He sighs out, stretching as he tilts his head back. Elara rolls over to face him, closing her eyes as she nestles into the pillow and draws the blankets up her body. He watches her, taking in every curve of her form beneath the sheet.
Then, chuckling low in his throat, he wonders, "Have I tired you out, Winston?"
Against the pillow, Elara smiles. She hums sleepily and murmurs, "Yes."
Gloss smiles crookedly. He reaches down to brush away a strand of her hair. As he tucks it behind her ear, he drawls, "Then I guess I did a good job."
Elara cracks her eyes open to send him a playfully narrowed look, scoffing, "Your ego is truly a thing of legend, Gloss."
He just smirks. She closes her eyes again and snuggles deeper into the bed. They fall silent, listening to the faint sound of raindrops against the window. Gloss hates the rain – it's cold and wet and foreign to him, for it rarely ever rains in District 1 and he loathes the feeling of its droplets against his skin – but he doesn't find it so very disagreeable tonight. It lends a calm, almost surreal element to the atmosphere, bathing the room with a gentle ambiance that seems fitting after the way they had just made love.
He wonders, quietly, if he should allow himself to think of their actions in such a way. Surely, he hadn't thought of it like this before, in the beginning, when Elara had been nothing more than a source of comfort and a way to stave off the cold cling of loneliness. Yet he doesn't think he can think of their connection any differently, now. They've seen too much of each other's souls for their relationship to be anything but an extension of that.
He sighs out and listens to Elara breathing. It's calm, almost melodic, and in this moment, after the insanity of the past week, he gravitates to it like he's never done before. It's been a hectic time for them both, with their busy schedules keeping them apart, and this little sliver of serenity is more than just a balm to the most recent wounds inflicted by the Capitol during this visit.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, but the more time passes, the more he realizes that he's running out of it. It is another layer of their bittersweet connection. Time is always against them, even when they are together. There is always an expiration date to their unions, even though Gloss sometimes thinks that he can see the whole of eternity in the glimmer of her blue eyes.
It's a conundrum, to be sure, and one as bracing as the cold shift of the midnight breeze that rattles beyond the window.
Elara is beginning to drift off to sleep when she feels him slip something around her neck. It's just the lightest brush of his fingertips – the brief chill of cool metal before it warms against her skin. It pulls her out of the light sleep she's drifting into, catching her attention enough for her to reach up to feel the foreign object that's now laying against her chest.
Gloss doesn't say a word as her fingers curl around the pendant. He rolls over to face her, studying her every movement with a close gaze, as if he's pressing her reaction to his memory and feeling her out at the same time.
Her eyes flutter open as her fingertips alight upon the necklace. She seems surprised. She stares at Gloss with eyes that are not so sleepy anymore, as if she's seeing an entirely new side of him. Had they not already seen so very many sides of each other, the look she now gives him might have made him uncomfortable, but he just stares back as if he's expected such a response and is merely waiting for it work itself out.
She lifts the pendant up to look at it, shifting up a bit so that she can twist the piece in the light. It's smooth to the touch, and surprisingly heavy for something so delicate. But what amazes her most of all is the myriad of color encased within the sheen of what appears to be glass. Crimson, azure, magenta, gold – all glittering up at her from beneath the surface as if it contains within its depths secrets too great to be hidden for very long.
"Crushed gemstones," Gloss murmurs abruptly, and she looks up to see him watching her very carefully. There's an almost hesitant look on his face. Perhaps it's because he's never given her anything before. Perhaps he's wary about the lines that are being crossed – that had been crossed when she had given him that sweater several months before. Maybe he's afraid of having yet another wall come down between them, or the way he is finding it more and more difficult to allow there to be any walls at all.
He reaches forward to take the pendant, holding it between his fingers and turning it at different angles. Each angle reveals another color; a kaleidoscope of glimmering hues.
"It's a technique we use in District 1, where we make glass from the desert sand. The sand is melted at such a high temperature that the individual grains melt together." He smooths his thumb over the surface and smiles wryly as he adds, "Our jewelers put gem dust inside the glass as it's heating up. They make all sorts of jewelry and trinkets. You can find them everywhere back home, on every street corner."
She isn't blind to the subtle reminder that his words bring. Of the shard of a promise he had given her months before, when he told her he'd bring her something from his home. It had been a thoughtless request on her part, borne only because he had seemed a little uncomfortable at receiving a gift from her and not giving one in return – another line, half crossed but still existing, until tonight.
She'd completely forgotten about his promise. It had slipped from her mind like the sand in the desert of his home, lost to separation and time. But for him to make a gesture like this – for him to bring her something that truly is a facet of his world, in so many ways – it is far more than she had ever expected.
Gloss is a man who lets his actions speak for themselves, but he never takes action needlessly. He does not make gestures like this without reason. It's been years since their fatal first night together; a night that had thrown them into each other's paths for good or bad. Maybe it was fate, maybe just coincidence. Regardless, he has never done anything like this before. It says something that words alone could never hope to say.
Elara watches as he leans forward to silently press his lips to the pendant. When he lifts his head, he is just inches from her, and she can feel his breath on her skin and the heat of his body and the press of his hand against her collar as he drops the pendant back against it. A smile burgeons over her mouth. She exhales with a short laugh that makes him smile too. It takes her only a moment to wrap her arms around him, and before Gloss can prepare himself, she is pushing him onto his back and following him down, curling her legs around him as her lips seek his.
He makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat and drags his hands over her to clench around her ass, pulling her flush into the cradle of his body as their lips move seamlessly together. She doesn't thank him or say anything at all. Words are silly things, really. They are not meant for lovers.
No – they don't say anything at all as she takes him inside her and they paint the room anew with silent words that come forth as gasps and moans and laughter. That line, too, has been crossed.
Later that night they lay together, wrapped up in sheets, skin pressed to skin. It's a familiar embrace, made all the more heart wrenching at the thought that it could very well be one of their last. The darkness is nearly absolute, but for the soft light of the alarm clock as it idly spins by. The District 1 suite is as silent as a grave. They've been bundled up together in his room for hours now, ever since Gloss had boldly dragged her inside without a care of being seen. Apparently, he's of the mind that since they're probably going to die anyhow, openly flaunting their relationship is the least of their concerns.
She'd argued a little bit about it, but to be honest, she's never been all that good when it comes to denying him anything. Besides, if they really are going to die, then she wants to have as much of him as she can, while she can.
"I'm worried," she whispers to him through the darkness. Her voice is muffled against his shoulder, where he had pulled her. He's holding her close to him, one arm tight around her waist, the other cushioning her head. They've been silent for a long time, but she knows that he's still awake. His breathing is choppy and uneven, far from the deep restful passiveness of his dreamworld.
When he hears her words, he sighs and edges closer, nestling their bodies together in a tangle of limbs. "Hey," he murmurs, "have a little faith. You're forgetting how much the Capitol loves me."
Elara swallows tightly. A feeling of deep sadness overcomes her. Even in the protective circle of his arms, it's almost overbearing. She cannot imagine a life without him.
"…And you're forgetting how much I need you. Gloss…I don't think I can live without you," she whispers, and cringes a little bit at the way the words come out. She sounds like a needy child, but it's true. He makes her feel as though she's alive, and that is a difficult feat indeed for a Victor. She bites her tongue to prevent any further admissions that might embarrass her, and starts to move back to put some space between them. Gloss doesn't like talking about his feelings, and she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. Not now.
But – he doesn't let her. His arms loop tight around her waist, hauling her against his chest as if she weighs no more than a feather. When he speaks, his voice is shredded, almost, as if he's struggling with darker emotions that have no place between them. And yet, as always, they find ways to creep up. Like vines, they spread through the spaces of their connection and taint all traces of innocence.
"Promise me that you will," he demands firmly. His tone is outwardly strong, but she detects the hint of shuddering weakness wrapped up in each syllable. It brings tears to her eyes, and she's horrified at that. Elara Winston doesn't cry, least of all over a man. But Gloss isn't just a man. He's so much more.
It's almost amusing, how she had to be Reaped for another Games – had to be forced to face death and a life without him – for her to come to the dire realization that she cannot.
Shaking her head, Elara stubbornly says, "No. I don't want to live in a world where you're not alive."
There's something about the obstinate reply that does something to him. Even through the darkness, she can see the change in his eyes. A certain softness overcomes him. She feels it in the brush of his fingers against her back, hears it in the quiet exhale of his breath. And suddenly, she realizes that he is crying. Gloss Augustine, the strongest man she knows, is in tears.
Elara makes a surprised sound and pushes closer, cupping his face and bringing him against her chest. He practically crushes her into him, pressing his face against her neck as shivers wrack through his body. All she can do is hold him tightly with grasping fingers, knowing that she won't get the chance to for much longer.
She's seen him cry before. Victors are broken things, shadows of their former selves. He isn't exempt from the monsters that lurk just beneath his skin, but this time, it's different. He isn't breaking because of his own nightmares. He's breaking because of hers.
"I'm going to make sure you live," he growls through his tears. Even now, his voice is strong despite his pain. She isn't surprised about that, either.
Elara drags her fingers through his light brown hair and responds, "Save your sister instead. She deserves to live, not me."
She's not sure why she's so adamant about this. She certainly isn't making him feel any better and she knows it. But he also has to know how little point there would be, if she lived and he did not. It would be like throwing his life away, for that's what would happen if he forced victory upon her shoulders. It wouldn't be a victory at all; it would be a curse.
She knows she's being selfish about this. She has Amelia to look after, who is waiting for her back in District 5. But – Amelia is eighteen now, on the cusp of womanhood. She is no longer the needy 10 year old girl that couldn't take care of herself. With time, she will be alright without her older sister.
Heaving himself up with a sudden push, Gloss glares down at her and growls, "For God's sake, Elara, stop being so stubborn for once in your life – "
She lifts herself up too and exclaims, "Would you be able to survive? Tell me the truth, Gloss."
She's not sure she wants to know, really. It's a tricky question, after all. Could he live without her, or is she the only one who feels this way? Has she become the weaker link between them?
He stares at her for a long time, and she thinks she already knows his answer. Silence is telling, especially when it is the response to such a delicate question.
"You'll be fine," she whispers with a nod, and looks away. Her heart clenches. She knows it's not rejection, not really, but it still hurts.
He watches her expression with an exasperated look and staunchly says, "I'd be a wreck without you, Elara. Don't you know that by now?" She glances up at him and he sits up further, shuffling close to her as he mutters, "How about we make a deal?"
She searches his face, wondering where he's going with this. He explains it all when he says, "Let's agree to put Cashmere first, since we'd both be so useless without each other."
Elara's surprised, not because of his selfless desire to see Cashmere survive, but by his willingness to reach an ultimatum with her. She knows it must be hard for him – harder than it is for the rest of them, even. Both his sister and his lover are going into the Games with him, and he can't save them both.
She sighs heavily and loops her arms around his neck, falling into his chest. "We'll save Cashmere, then," she murmurs against him. He pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and exhaling softly against her hair.
They fall silent. There is little else to talk about, and the quiet of the room is somewhat peaceful, if you can forget the fact that they are days away from entering the arena for the second time. Gloss breaks the silence though, when he pulls back to look at her, and she sees his emotions written plainly on his face and in the hazel of his eyes. For once, his barriers are completely gone.
"Elara," he whispers.
She swallows. His eyes flicker to her lips before darting back up. He pauses, and the silence seems to ricochet through them like atoms spinning endlessly together, expanding and growing heavier with every fluttering second. And then…
"…I lov – " he starts to say, but she rushes forward before he can finish, smashing her mouth against his in a desperate effort to halt his words.
She doesn't know why she does it. Maybe it's because it would hurt, hearing those beautiful words being brought to life in such a way, only for them to be ruined when one of them, or both of them, inevitably dies in that arena. Maybe she's always been afraid of hearing him say those words, because in her heart she has always known that they could never come to fruition.
"Don't say it," she pleads against his lips, feeling her eyes prickle with anxious tears. "Please don't say it."
Instead of getting angry, Gloss just snorts, "You must be the only woman alive who doesn't want a man to confess to you."
Elara, slightly surprised by his response, laughs brokenly and presses her lips together in a firm grimace. He sighs, softly reaching up to cup her cheek.
"I do though, Elara," he mumbles.
She feels tears prick at her eyes. She knows. She's known for a long time now.
He studies her expression calmly, despite the way his heart beats wildly in his chest, and whispers, "I never thought I ever would, until I met you."
His voice is so soft that she can barely hear him, and she's only inches away. But she does, and her tears leak out, rolling down her cheeks with angry insistence even as she tries to keep them at bay. Gloss brushes them away and sighs out, coming forward to rest his forehead against hers.
In a very quiet voice, Elara breathes, "I do too. For years now."
His eyes flash up to hers. The smile that catches his lips is tainted by the cruel twist of sorrow that seems to haunt their every movement. She used to think that, maybe, they would one day be rid of that sorrow. That maybe they could be together after all, after Snow had used them to his heart's content and no longer needed their services; once new Victors came along to replace them and buffeted their popularity into far more forgettable levels. Now she knows that those dreams had been wishful thinking, nothing more. She won't even be alive to see her old age, let alone be able to exist in a world like that.
Gloss chuckles haltingly. From the way his eyes gleam with unshed tears of his own, it seems that he is on the same wavelength.
"We've wasted a lot of time," is all he says in response. "We should've had this conversation a long time ago."
Elara smiles brokenly. "It wouldn't have made any difference."
Her reasoning has him shaking his head and whispering, "Still…it would have been nice to know…maybe it would've been less lonely, when we had to part."
She exhales quietly and edges closer, fitting her body against his and breathing, "Or it would've made it even harder."
He brings her closer and doesn't respond. There's no point in thinking too hard about the past. Not now.
They should be far more concerned about their future.
The next morning dawns too early for Elara's liking. Gloss too, if his tight grasp on her is any indication. When she makes an attempt to sit up after one harried glance at the clock, he merely pulls her back down and practically rolls on top of her, nestling his face into her neck with a mumbled sigh and a groaned, "Don't go."
She might've laughed at the sleepy insistence of his voice, had it been any other morning. But they are not bunkered down in either of their Capitol apartments, and it isn't an interview or a photoshoot that calls them out of bed today. No, this morning, it is something far more serious than even their forced lifestyles at the hands of President Snow.
"It's already eight o'clock," Elara says, pushing him off of her with a force that makes him grunt. He rolls back onto his pillow and cracks his eyes open, giving her a surly glower. She raises an eyebrow at him and reminds him, "We have the initial interviews today, and we're going to be late for training."
She makes no mention of the fact that she's long overstayed her welcome, at least in this place. The nights they spend together in the Training Center, when they're mentoring their tributes and watching innocent children getting killed from behind a screen, never last this far into the morning. They always part ways before the sun can crease the morning sky, always aware of the fact that they cannot be seen together in such a way. That she had slept right through the dawn would normally be disastrous, but…
Well, this time around, everything is different.
Gloss mumbles out a sigh and groans, "Who cares about training? We've already done all that."
She sits up, pushing her back against the headboard of the bed and looking down at him. The sheets have fallen low to his waist, exposing every muscled inch of his back and the curve of his rear. His face is buried into his pillow between the crook of his elbow, body stretched out in a way that makes her yearn for a little extra time. But – time is the one thing they've never had. The one grace they're never been afforded.
With a sigh, she reaches out to drift her fingertips over his shoulder, and murmurs, "This is dangerous."
It's not like it hasn't been said before. The constraints of their relationship have never been easy, nor has it been without consequences. So naturally, Gloss is a little confused by her sudden words.
He raises an eyebrow at her and mumbles, "What is?"
She purses her lips at him. "I shouldn't have stayed this long. Someone might see me leave."
It's true. The dull clinking of pots can be heard from the kitchen unit off the hallway, and she has to walk past it to reach the door of the suite. The inevitability of someone catching sight of her exit is imminent, but Gloss doesn't look very concerned. He just sighs and snuggles back into his pillow, snorting a little bit at all of her constant worrying.
"I already told you it doesn't matter," he says, voice still groggy from sleep. "We're going to die soon anyway. Someone seeing us together is the last of our concerns."
She knows he's right – she just wishes it didn't have to be like this. In a way, she wishes they could go back to the way things had been before, when they had to sneak around and keep their relationship under wraps. Despite the singular heartache that it had brought to them, at least they knew they'd be alive the next day.
Now, even that knowledge is lost to her. What had once been painstaking but constant now turns to ash in her fingers.
She sighs again. They've been doing that a lot lately. Sighing.
"Still. I should go," she murmurs, and swings her legs over the edge of the bed to collect her clothes from the night before. Gloss doesn't argue, at least not entirely. He sits up too and watches her get dressed, pulling on the shirt he had been only too happy to tear off in the heat of the moment. As she's buttoning it up, he stands too and roots around in the drawers for the training outfit that each tribute is expected to wear.
It's a stretchy fabric that hugs his figure perfectly, blending against his impressive musculature flawlessly. He pulls the clothes on quickly, then looks down at himself with a raised eyebrow and drawls, "It seems different than how I remember it."
The musing quality of his voice makes Elara laugh. She gives him a very thorough look over and smirks, "Well you've filled out since the last time." The innuendo in her voice is obvious, and he gives her a crooked smirk in return.
"Have I?" he murmurs, edging closer to her and sliding his hands over her waist. And really, even though she knows she needs to return to the District 5 suite to don her own training outfit, she doesn't stop him from pulling her against him to press an equally thorough kiss to her mouth. In fact, she doesn't make any attempt to push him away whatsoever.
She is, after all, a selfish creature, made all the more selfish over the course of the last few days.
Smiling against his insistent mouth, Elara kisses him back exuberantly, running her hands against the spandex material that curves over his chest. She presses herself closer to him, wicked thoughts racing through her mind as he lowers his hands to her ass and hauls her against him. His body is a furnace that she falls right into, and when he rolls his hips into hers with just the perfect amount of friction, Elara's head tips back with a low moan.
His mouth immediately follows the curve of her neck, teeth roving over the soft skin with abandon as their bodies fall into a familiar pattern. It's almost funny how easy it is to feel this way for him, to allow this heat to envelope her. Her hips shift into his almost without thought or direction. The growing hardness between his thighs is startlingly apparent through the thin layer of spandex, and she's suddenly craving dark things that whisper promises of more lost time.
Unfortunately, they are interrupted before such things can be further explored.
A loud knock sounds at the door, followed by Cashmere's impatient voice as she calls, "Training starts in an hour. I made an omelet, Gloss. And Elara, you should probably leave before everyone else wakes up."
The two of them immediately break away, their brief passion coming to a stuttering halt as Elara's cheeks fill with red. She's not necessarily embarrassed that Cashmere knows of her presence here. Cashmere isn't an idiot. Still. She feels a tiny shot of horror at the amusement that taints the other woman's voice, and Gloss only makes it worse when he snorts out a laugh at her expense.
"That's what you get for trying to seduce me out of my clothes," he sniffs, and she gapes at him with exasperation. He laughs. "You heard her. Breakfast."
There's nothing in the world that effectively inspires Gloss more than the promise of breakfast. Elara rolls her eyes at him and straightens her clothes, clearing her throat as she gives him one more longing glance that only makes him smirk even wider.
"We'll finish this later," he tells her, and the promise in his voice tells her that he means it, and then some. After all, she knows of one other thing that inspires Gloss to such an extent. She knows it intimately.
She hums and strides to the door with him on her heels, walking out of his room. Before she can make it to the end of the hall, though, his hand slides around her arm and he drags her back into him, pulling her into a kiss that surprises and invigorates her with equal measure. He's insistent and aggressive as he reaches up to capture her face between his hands. His lips move swiftly over hers; one last moment of affection stolen between the hidden templates of their lives. Elara can do nothing but grasp onto his waist and kiss him back, wishing for more time. But time is exactly what they have never had, and even now it slips away from them far too quickly for either of their liking.
"See you at training," Gloss whispers with one last nip to her bottom lip. Then, pulling away, he gives her a piercing glance that makes her long for him all over again. Just one kiss, and he can bring her desire back to the surface as if it had never left. Just one look, and she is lost to him.
She exhales heavily and leans in to kiss his cheek one last time before pulling away. They're lucky that the escorts and stylists are still in their rooms and haven't yet ventured out into the main living quarters. Still, she doesn't want to push said luck.
With one last nod to Cashmere, Elara sweeps from the suite and heads to the elevator, hoping that the District 5 suite is just as empty. She isn't quite that lucky though, for when she steps inside several minutes later, Ignatius is in the kitchen eating a croissant and Harley is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. When she steps inside, Ignatius looks up in surprise, clearly not expecting to see her. His surprise quickly morphs into a critically raised eyebrow when he notices the fact that she's still wearing her dress from the night before, and he purses his lips.
"Where have you been?" he asks carefully, only for Elara to breeze past him with a shrug.
"As if I would actually tell you," she says on her way to her room. "Stylists are huge gossips."
Ignatius flaps his mouth at her back and exclaims, "That's not true!", but she's already closing her door and working on removing her clothes.
He humphs and mutters to himself, "…Well, I suppose it is."