Chapter Thirty One | And often in their pity do they sound
"If love be rough with you, be rough with love,
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down."
1.4, 27-28 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
Gloss is sitting on the edge of the mattress, towel in hand as he dries his hair, which is still damp from the shower, when he hears Elara murmur his name. At first, he thinks she's talking directly to him, and he glances over his shoulder at her. But she's just staring up at the ceiling, her worn nightgown slipping down one shoulder and her hair a reddish halo strewn over the pillow like copper silk gleaming in the morning sunlight. It's early yet, barely midmorning. They both have appointments in the afternoon, but once those are all wrapped up, they'll meet again for dinner. It is their usual cycle here in the Capitol, when the city pulls them apart; a continuous wave that is constantly shifting back and forth, tugging at them endlessly.
Elara has a client tonight, but Gloss tries not to think about that. His method of clinging to ignorance doesn't always work, but sometimes he finds that it is easier to pretend. It doesn't make it hurt any less, though. Later tonight, when he is alone in this room and she is gone, his mind will play tricks on him. He will feel her phantom touch, the ghost of her warmth beside his body, and it will plague him because he'll know why she is not there. He'll wonder whose arms she's lying in. He'll wonder if she's okay, or if the immorality of their lives is dragging her to rock bottom.
He can deal with the loneliness of their partings, but the nights where they are both in the Capitol but not together is a thorn that tears at him because he knows that she is with another man and he can't do anything to stop it.
She murmurs his name again and this time her expression flickers in a strange light as the syllables of it roll from her tongue. In her voice, still creased with sleep, his name sounds like sin itself – all smooth and dry like finely aged whiskey.
He stares at her for a long moment, pressing all other thoughts away for now, and demands, "What?"
The look she sends him is equally as sinful, simply because she looks so irresistible in his bed.
A faint edge of a smirk captures her mouth with such potent singularity that he can only stare at her, half tempted to return to bed despite his efforts to start the day. He has seen that smirk many times over, in multiple situations. It is mischievous and daring; emboldened like a streak of flame that thunders its way beneath his skin. He knows, instinctively, that he will regret asking her what she's thinking about. When she's smirking like that, all bets are off.
"…It's such a strange name," she says breezily, and shifts onto her side to face him. Her smirk widens when he raises an eyebrow at her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
Regrets – what a funny thing they are.
With a roll of his eyes, he repeats, "Strange?" He says the word as if he isn't sure if he's okay with the usage of it when it is couple with his name, and grumbles. Then, eyeing her for a bit longer, he purses his mouth and ultimately seems to decide that she isn't worth the effort of responding further, for he just scoffs and goes to stand up.
Elara watches him with growing amusement and rolls onto her back. As she pushes her arms over her head and stretches in a rather indulgent manner, she murmurs, "District 1 comes up with such odd names for their children. I've never understood it."
Gloss just strides over to his dresser and starts riffling through it, dragging out a pair of jeans and a white tee. As he pulls the clothes on, he drawls, "It's just a part of the culture. Stop thinking so hard about it."
His nonchalant reasoning makes her chuckle. She watches as he buttons his jeans. Her eyes are studious with close inspection and narrowed in such a way that makes her appear more cat-like than usual. He notices, of course, but merely changes the subject to ask, "What do you want for breakfast?"
The question is obvious a distraction. Elara laughs at it and sits up. This time, it is Gloss who watches her as he leans against the dresser and studies the contours of her body in the bright haloing sun. The ratty old sleepshirt she's wearing is one of her favorites, and even though it really should be thrown away by now what with all of its holes and torn seams, he thinks it looks distinctly appealing this morning as it drapes over her frame – ripped seams and all.
She catches his eye with a twinkling, mischievous smile and purrs, "Scrambled eggs."
The response throws him back in time for a split second. Memories of their first morning together filter through his mind. The awkward cadence of a time gone by is dredged to the surface, and he can't stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up. She had been so modestly prudish back then, so unwilling to bare herself to him despite the lavish night they had spent together doing just that. He had made her scrambled eggs upon her request even though he hadn't ever made a girl breakfast before, and he'd spent the morning marveling at her dry humor and the way the sun had turned her hair to spun copper.
His heart beats to betray him. It shows in his eyes.
Exhaling with a laugh, Gloss shakes his head at her and pushes off from the dresser. "How about an omelet? I'll make it like they do back in District 1 – hot peppers, salsa. Maybe some chipotle?" He raises his eyebrows at her questioningly and she wrinkles her nose right back as if the suggestion isn't appreciated. But – it's a lie. He can see it in the way her eyes gleam at him as she slides to the edge of the bed.
"I don't know. I wasn't that impressed with that other dish you made last time," she airily responds in a subtly teasing way.
Gloss rolls his eyes and petulantly grunts, "That's because they don't have the right peppers in the Capitol. It ruined the recipe. Not my fault."
She chuckles and shrugs, "Cooking isn't really your thing anyway, Gloss. You're far too impatient."
He gives her a look and immediately shoots back, "Please. I'm way better at it than you are. The only thing you can make is pancakes."
Her mouth drops open at the insult (though her eyes twinkle with mirth even as her expression turns haughty) and she scoffs, "Ha! See if I ever make you anything ever again!"
She pushes past him on her way to the kitchen, playfully nudging him out of the way, and he laughs and follows her. This playful, easy banter is the result of a hard won battle that they have been in the midst of for years now. It is a constant loop of conflicted feelings that are like the tides; always overlapping the shore over and over, sometimes nearly reaching the sea grass, other times barely covering the shells.
He's tugging his shirt on when Elara opens the fridge to see what's inside. He hasn't done any grocery shopping for several days now, but there's enough to make breakfast at least. He joins her in her search after a moment, hovering behind her and circling an arm around her waist because he can't help himself. She's so warm and real and alive and he finds that lately, his willpower has been rather weak where it concerns her.
She pulls out a carton of eggs and a block of cheese. Then, opening the vegetable drawer, she sends him a dubious look over her shoulder and dryly asks, "What goes into this omelet of yours, anyhow?"
Gloss just snorts and pushes her out of the way. She raises an eyebrow at him as he pulls out ingredients, and crosses her arms with every addition.
"Let's see…" he mumbles, rubbing his unshaven jaw in contemplation. He hasn't bothered shaving yet – another breach of willpower, perhaps, that has kept him from leaving the warmth of her arms until absolutely necessary.
Elara's mouth tilts up at him. She goes to make a pot of coffee while he gathers the ingredients on the counter and retrieves a cutting board. When she returns a minute later, coffee brewing in the background, Gloss pauses to grab a bowl and nods to her, "Eggs." The short order makes her smile wryly.
"Yes sir," she murmurs, eyes flashing at him. He sends her an amused look in response and chuckles as he starts chopping up a red pepper.
They work together in companionable silence, broken occasionally when Elara asks him why he's putting jalapenos in, and when Gloss tells her to stop questioning him and complaining about his methods. It's an easy feeling that captures them this morning; as easy as breathing.
Before long, they are sitting down at the small table by the floor length windows that overlook the city. Beyond the glass the Capitol awaits, but its clawing talons have not yet sunk into the light hearted atmosphere around them. Elara glances up at him as she takes the first bite. She had been exaggerating before, when she said that Gloss isn't a good cook. He doesn't cook often (his impatience truly is a thing of legend), but he has an innate talent in the kitchen that she sometimes teases him for when the mood calls for it. This morning, though, calling him a housewife isn't something she gravitates towards.
"It's good," she tells him, smiling that mischievous smile from across the table. Gloss studies it for a moment, enjoying the halo of sun that serenades them with a singularly dusky intensity, like musky kisses and the headiness of a desperate touch. Memories of the night before flutter through him within the space of time it takes for his eyes to meet hers. Before he knows it, he is imagining the way she had pressed him into the mattress had unfurled for him in the process. He will never tire of those moments when she decides to take him like that, with all the striking potency of her desire shucked up into the contours of her eyes.
"Of course it is," he responds after a moment, giving her an imperious look that makes her smile widen. If she sees the passage of his memories being recalled in the shade of his expression, Elara doesn't make mention of it. She just studies him in same lazy, catlike way that she always seems to possess in the mornings, and chuckles.
Then, reaching for her coffee, Elara tilts her head and wonders, "Why did your parents name you Gloss, anyway?" Her voice is a mixture of soft curiosity and poignant demand.
He gives her a look and rolls his eyes. "I don't know. They thought it was a good name," he shrugs, barely taken aback at her abrupt question. At this point, her stubborn curiosity is just another aspect of her that he knows a little too well. When he's in a good mood, it's perfectly endearing to him; when he's in a bad mood, it frustrates him like nothing else.
Elara raises an eyebrow. "Well, why did they name your sister Cashmere?"
He raises an eyebrow right back and drawls, "Maybe they liked cashmere."
This morning, he's in a good mood, so he'll humor her.
Elara laughs at his flippant response. "You never thought to ask them?"
He shrugs. "It's a common practice in District 1, Winston. You're the only one out of the two of us that thinks it's weird."
She hums and takes another bite of the omelet.
After a moment, Gloss glances at her and asks, "Do you not like my name or something?" The question is really more of a demand. He eyes her as if he's ready to do battle with her, and she snorts.
"I like your name just fine," she tells him with a shrug.
He grunts, leaning back in his chair as he mutters, "You should. You moan it often enough."
At his petulant voice, Elara bursts into laughter and nudges him under the table. He finds himself smiling before he can stop it, and crosses his arms.
"When will you be finished for the day?" she asks, sipping at her coffee again.
He pauses to think, and then says, "Around four." Then, pausing again, he murmurs, "Will I see you tonight?"
Elara sends him a humorless smile that is response enough, and returns, "My first client is at eight. We could have dinner, if you want."
He barely hears the last sentence, though. He is far too swept up in the rest of her words. Staring at her hard, he repeats, "…First client?"
The real inquiry behind the question is obvious; he is asking how many clients she has tonight. It is rare to have more than one, but not unheard of to have several. This time of the year though, when the Games are still months away and the Capitol's demand for the Victors has not yet been stirred…
Elara looks away from him and doesn't respond. Her silence is telling.
He swallows tightly and stands up, collecting their plates. His movements are firm, almost stiff. He isn't happy to hear about her schedule. Suddenly, the lighthearted atmosphere of the morning seems to come crashing down, as if it had been only a fake glamor constructed on a whim. Maybe that's all it was. Maybe that's all it ever is between them.
Elara watches him from her seat, idly grasping the handle of her coffee mug as he takes the dishes to the sink and starts cleaning up. The room feels tense in a way it hadn't before, back when they were pretending that these sorts of lazy mornings are normal and common. They aren't. She can't remember the last time they had a morning like this one, but she's sure it's been months at least since they had enough time to spare for something so seemingly trivial.
Gloss is strangely protective of her. Maybe it's because they've been doing this for so long now. He knows her better than anyone else. He knows her scars and her fears; her nightmares and her dreams; the sides of her that are hidden even from herself. He knows how to comfort her when she has a nightmare, and how to make her feel human again when she feels anything but. The ins and the outs of her character are laid out to his eyes, and every cadence of her nature is a force that he has felt a hundred times, by now.
Sometimes it scares her that he knows her so well. Other times…
She stands up and steps over to him, running a hand over his arm. He glances at her, but doesn't move until she draws her body into his and wraps herself into the crevice of his form. And then, sighing, Gloss finally drags her closer. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, until…
"How many?"
The question is dragged into existence almost reluctantly. He's not sure if he really wants to know, yet something rises up within him and he feels that he must; that if he doesn't have a solid answer, he'll go crazy.
Elara hesitates. He holds his breath.
"Two? Three?" he asks, insistent.
She sighs, "Gloss – "
"Just tell me," he interrupts, and she heaves an impatient grumble that gets muffled against his chest.
"Two. But the second one is a regular and he doesn't like it when I leave before he falls asleep."
She can practically see the tension that rises from within him. The details of her clients have him holding her tighter, crushing her to him as if he's afraid that she might float away on an errant wind any moment now. Inside, he is seething.
A regular. The ones who, for some reason that he just can't understand, have this twisted feeling of ownership towards the Victors they see, as if they think that spending more nights with them means that they are more important somehow.
Elara curves her arms around his back and sighs, "Should I come here when I'm done, or – "
"I'll be waiting," he cuts in, holding her even tighter. His brow is furrowed with the strain of holding his anger back. She doesn't deserve to deal with that side of him right now, not when it isn't her fault that she is forced to do the things she does. She has no say in where she goes or who she sees. If she denied Snow again, the consequences would be even worse than the first time.
He knows all of this. He's been a Victor for nearly ten years now. He understands the system almost too well. The dark corners of it feed into his nightmares and make him question at his own humanity.
But sometimes it's so hard.
Elara doesn't respond. She just turns her face against his shoulder and exhales slowly, breathing in his familiar scent and wondering if they'll ever be allowed to be together in the way she so desperately longs for.
He's a good man, even though he has a temper that is a sight to behold. When Elara crawls into his bed later that night, freshly showered and stricken by another evening of losing all the sides of herself that she shouldn't have to lose, Gloss takes her into his arms immediately. He presses her to his heart and buries his face against her neck and breathes, "You're back."
And she spins her fingers through his hair and hums, exhausted, "I'm back."
She wonders if there will ever be a time where they have to part at all.
Elara isn't entirely sure that she's surprised to hear Gloss's reaction to Haymitch's plans. In fact, if she's being honest with herself, she would say that she isn't surprised at all, and that she's been expecting it.
"Absolutely not," he immediately growls, staring at her with hard, serious eyes. They're leaning against the railing on the far side of the roof. Gloss is grasping the iron with tight fingers, fists flexing as he frowns at her. Concern colors the edges of his gaze, and she knows why. She knows him well enough to understand. That doesn't mean she isn't going to argue about it though. They're both far too stubborn than they have any right to be, sometimes.
She sighs impatiently and murmurs, "Gloss – "
"No, Elara," he swiftly cuts in, turning his whole body to face her. His brows are furrowed and his voice is firm when he hisses, "That's a sure way of getting ourselves killed."
She huffs, "Well according to you, we're going to die either way, so why shouldn't we go with a fight?"
He stares at her. The scrutiny of his gaze is singular in its effect. She shifts a little but she's even more obstinate than he is most days, and she doesn't back down.
Edging closer, she grasps his sleeve. Her fingers circle his forearm, brushing over his skintight training shirt. "If there's a way to survive this, then shouldn't we try? Don't we deserve that? Imagine, Gloss – living in District 13, being free from the Capitol. We'd never have to part ways again, or be manipulated and sold, or have to hide our relationship. We'd be free to do whatever we want."
There must be something in her gaze – some emotion that makes him waver. She sees it in the way his hand loosens from the railing, sees it in the slump of his shoulders and the way he closes his eyes, as if he's imagining the life she describes so easily. As if he yearns for it even more than she does.
She stares at him imploringly, but he just reaches up to scrub at his face and shake his head. In a gruff voice, he hoarsely says, "Freedom? In some underground hellhole miles away from the sun? We're Victors, Elara. How do you know that we wouldn't be watched – even manipulated just like we are here? And if this plan fails, then what?" He opens his eyes to stare at her, and whispers, "You know what Snow does to rebels."
She swallows. He's right, of course, in a way. It isn't as if she hadn't thought about that or considered the many repercussions that would befall them if the rebellion fails. And even if it doesn't, even if it does work, there is no guarantee that the perfect life she envisions will ever come true. She knows well enough not to set her hopes too high. Her life has been far too heavy for such pretty expectations. But – the other side of the coin is even more dismal.
It is like deciding between a rock and a pebble. The rock could hurt you, scratch you, break your bones and make you bleed. But perhaps, perhaps, it might also split open and become a geode, and all the sparkling edges of it would be worthwhile to witness, even though it won't be easy to get to it. But the pebble will always be a pebble, no matter what. When broken, the center of it is exactly the same as the outside.
She slides her hand into his and quietly says, "I know that." Then, setting her shoulders, Elara murmurs, "But at least we'd have a chance. That's more than we've ever had before."
He sighs and squeezes her fingers. His grasp is almost too tight, but she doesn't mind. There's something hurtling through his eyes, catapulting over his face, and it looks an awful lot like fear. Gloss is not the type of person to give his emotions free rein, but right now she can see them clear as day as she looks up at him.
"Explain it to me again. All of it," he demands, and pulls her into his arms. She huddles close to him, grasping his shoulders, and he tucks his face against her hair and breathes her in.
Quietly, she whispers to him, "We team up with Katniss and the others. Haymitch will send us bread to mark the time. Depending on how many loaves we receive, that's how many hours we have left before District 13 will make their move. Beetee is in charge of setting off a small explosion to break apart the arena. I'm not sure how he's going to do it yet, but I'm confident that he'll find a way. And then it's just a matter of getting the trackers out of our arms and getting on board one of the hovercrafts, and we'll be in District 13 by morning."
It's just a brief summary of course, but she's already explained it all in depth to him. Throughout her words, Gloss remains utterly silent, pressed against her. His arms are tight around her waist, and he seems to almost huddle himself over her form as if he's trying to blend them both together. Elara continues talking, mainly about how Katniss is to be the face of the rebellion and is going to rally the districts together. She weaves her words in such a way the Gloss almost feels as though perhaps this plan could work after all. Perhaps they could be free, if only they have the courage to claim it.
Perhaps.
But there are some aspects to this plan that he cannot count on.
When she falls silent and waits for him to speak, he holds her tighter and sighs out. It's a weary sound, heavy and burdened, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. She's heard it before. The weight of the world is often on his shoulders. It's a familiar heaviness, by now.
Finally, after several long minutes of silence, he murmurs, "I'm a Career, Elara. I can't just abandon the Career pack. People would be suspicious."
She frowns and pulls back to stare at him, grasping his shoulders harder until the fabric of his shirt bunches up beneath her fingertips. "If we're doing this, we're doing it together."
He purses his lips at her. "I want that life with you. I want it so much that I would kill for it. But if we all ally with Everdeen's group, half the tributes would be hanging out together for days. That's not how the Games work and you know it. Every Games needs a strong Career pack or the Capitol will get bored."
She sighs at him and insists, "But this Games isn't like any other. Everything's different this time."
He continues on as if he hasn't even heard her and mutters, "Besides, I still don't like this. If this plan fails, every Victor will be a suspect in the eyes of the Capitol. We've managed to sneak around for years now, but if we get caught trying to rebel against the system, that's the end for us. Snow would put a stop to this."
She pauses. She's thought of that too. Last night she hadn't slept at all, for thoughts such as these had been ricocheting through her head endlessly and keeping her awake. She knows this too, but…
"But if we succeeded…" she hedges, tilting her face up to look at him. Her fingers drift around the back of his neck, curling into the dusting of soft hair at the base of his skull. She trembles a little, and he absorbs the shivers into his body as he stares down at her, studying the contours of her expression.
Longing, desire, hope. Those are the things that burn her gaze. But it is the love that shines through all of that which really catches his attention and makes his breath shaky and his body tremble. She absorbs that as well, pulling him closer to brush her lips against his with a yearnful sigh.
Against his mouth, she whispers, "This relationship that we have…it has an expiration date. We both know it. We always talk about being together one day in some future that doesn't exist, but we both know that's never going to happen."
He swallows and pull her closer as if he's physically trying to refute her words with his body alone. As if, by holding onto her so tightly and burning his warmth into her, it might keep them safe from the many dangers that have always circled them like hawks – forever spiraling above their heads, ready to dive at the first moment of weakness. But he knows she's right. He's always known.
She shudders against him and breathes, "Eventually, we'll get so sick of waiting for each other that we'll stop. We'll force ourselves to stop feeling what we do. Maybe we'll even grow to hate each other. It doesn't matter how it ends – one day it will, unless we do something to fight for this."
She pulls back, stares at him with determined eyes, and says in a low, fierce voice, "I'd fight for you, Gloss. I would."
His breath shudders out. He's at once overcome by her words and the ferocity of them. He's so overcome by it all that he just pushes his forehead against hers and drags her back against him, swallowing tightly as he tries to collect the shattered pieces of himself that suddenly seem so apparent to him.
How is it that he deserves her? That she can look past all of the abhorrent parts of him and love him anyway? He thinks she's maybe a little crazy for it, really. No one in their right mind would accept the broken slivers of his soul and not care if his heart is just as shattered, but he's so glad that she does.
"I wish you'd let me say it," he whispers after a long moment, looking down at her with eyes that feel suddenly watery. He wrangles his emotions down as best he can, but he isn't stupid enough to think that she doesn't know what he's feeling – or what he's referring to now.
He wants to tell her he loves her. He thinks it's funny, in a way. The great Gloss Augustine, confessing his love like he's some chivalrous knight who lives and breathes romance. He's the furthest thing from that, and yet the words still crowd along his tongue, waiting to be said, yearning to be given power. The very air seems to draw them forward, suckering them into existence.
Elara just smiles and ducks her head closer to his, lips skimming over his jaw as she breathes, "If we do this and succeed, then we could say whatever we want to, every day."
He sighs. A moment later, he concedes, "I need to think about it. And I need to think about how to tell Cashmere."
Elara looks up at him, hardly daring to hope, and nods. She'll give him time – but he doesn't have a lot of it. The week is already half over. In just a few days, they'll be entering the arena for the second time.
As they loiter there on the rooftop for a while longer, their thoughts converge. Images of what could be threaten to keel them over, displacing them in so many ways – for good, and for bad.
If this plan works, they could have everything they've ever dreamed of at their fingertips. But if it fails, well…
President Snow is not a forgiving man.
It's almost poetic, how much Gloss has changed since Elara Winston walked into his life. If he's being honest, it isn't just her influence that has changed the course of his fate. He hadn't exactly been a stellar citizen of District 1 before his Games. His was born into a middle class family who could afford the comforts of living in the luxury district, with all the bells and whistles that it allowed. Certainly, in other's eyes, Cashmere and him were seen as arrogant rich kids who took everything for granted. More than once, he had fully lived up to that supposition.
The truth is that Gloss Augustine hadn't known what it meant to truly live until he volunteered for the Hunger Games and was forced to understand. It was only when everything was torn from him – all his dignity, his pride, his freedom – that he realized how lacking his life had become. Indeed, how lacking it had been already. And perhaps it is too sentimental and too tender a thought, but it wasn't until Elara Winston had entered onto the pages of his fate and marked his life with her bold personality that he truly acknowledged how bland and colorless his world was.
Sometimes, over the course of the last eight years, he has wondered why he's done it to himself – love her, that is. Why did he allow her to get under his skin with such permanence and power? The man he had been before would never have let it happen. He was raised with the understanding that love is weakness, and yet he feels anything but weak when he thinks upon the moments he has shared with the sardonic Victor from 5.
Truly, everything he thought he knew about love had been itself weak and paltry. It is nothing like what he now knows. There is no comparison. And – there is no black and white, either, but a multitude of greys, shading the spaces between them with a potency made up entirely of her effect on him.
What had begun as an act of mercy, at best, and a poor excuse to feel something other than pain and manipulation, at worst, had turned into something inexplicably powerful. He's had many opportunities to break it off with her throughout the years. Their clandestine affair has had its share of challenges. Impatience and prudence, secrecy and fear of being caught, and – the panic produced by the realization that what it is between them had not been as casual as they had initially imagined. He has spent eight years cultivating something that he did not truly understand, until recently.
And now? Now, he understands his heart a little too well. Far too well for his own good.
Elara's words haunt him. As much as he'd like to be with her – take her into his arms and sleep with her body pressed to his – he says goodnight and drops her off at her floor. She just kisses the corner of his mouth and leaves him to his thoughts. It used to frighten him, how well she knows him, but now it only makes him realize just how deeply they have tread down this path, and how desperately he wants to stay the course.
Surviving the Hunger Games? Is it even possible? Should he even entertain the notion?
He shuffles into his suite and is at once grateful that his sister is not around to question him on his whereabouts. He immediately heads for his room and ducks into the bathroom to shower, pulling his clothes off idly, in a thoughtless way. His mind is spinning far too much to linger on anything other than the prospects ahead of him. It is difficult to fathom the idea of District 13 not only existing, but existing is such a way as to provide the level of assistance that is necessary to alter the course of events.
He's always known that the Capitol keeps its secrets tightly bound, away from daylight, but to think that the government has managed to hide the fact that District 13 is as powerful as they apparently are is baffling to him. And he thinks, as the hot water from the showerhead pours over him, that it is all a huge form of manipulation against not only him, but also the entirety of Panem. He has been a part of this system for so long; an unwilling recipient of that very same manipulation. His life has never been his, and he had thought that it never would be. But all of the sudden, he feels inexorably angry that he has been so repressed. That everyone in this nation has been pushed down to such a degree.
He goes into the shower feeling hesitant and unsure. He comes out of it feeling determined.
Surely he deserves more than the life he has lived. Does not every man deserve freedom? He thinks back upon his life and can think of only a few things that have made him truly happy. His sister, his family, his lover. And then he wonders what would make him happier – what dreams he might have had, if he was allowed to have them. What sort of life he would like to live.
As he sits down on the side of his bed, the picture in his mind is only too clear.
Of course, he's never outright admitted that he'd like a family of his own, but somewhere deep inside of him, he'd like to be a father someday. To provide for a family. To buy a home and have a real job that requires real work, and not just a few visits to the Capitol every few months to flaunt his celebrity status. It is only too easy to picture such a life and to imagine Elara there with him.
At the thought of her, her words spiral through his head, tumbling one after another as if they are granules of sand in a desert storm that tear across the landscape with the very same vengeance that had captured her eyes when they had spoken on the rooftop.
I'd fight for you, Gloss. I would.
He leans over, rubbing his eyes with his palms and exhaling loudly. He thinks now of the repercussions of their actions, pitting one potential outcome against the other. The life he can so easily conjure is only one side of the scale, but it could easily seesaw into darker possibilities should they fail.
Physical torture and pain, he can handle. But a life without her? To never see her again, to know that she is in pain as well, and to know that he cannot do anything to help her? He would be powerless to lift her burdens, because surely Snow would put an end to their connection the very first moment he could. Surely, he would make it so that neither of them was in the Capitol at the same time again. They would never so much as see each other, let alone hold or kiss or be with each other in the ways that they have grown accustomed to – indeed, that they yearn for with every fiber of their souls.
Yet this life that they live, this connection that they share, it is a figment of something greater. A shadow of something unattainable. As they are now, they have only scratched the surface of their feelings. They live in a dream that will never be fully realized unless something is done to bring it to life.
If Gloss is being truthful, he had already made his decision back on the rooftop when he had looked into Elara's eyes. His heart has a terrible tendency of shifting to fold into hers – it is not something he can stop or control, nor does he wish to. He has long ago stopped trying to pull his desires apart where she is concerned.
He sits there for a long time, head in his hands and mind spinning. And then, after what feels like an age, he stands up and walks to the door.
Elara is lying in bed when he storms into her room. His entrance is sudden and unexpected. She had not thought she would see him tonight. But to her great surprise, Gloss shuts the door firmly and doesn't say a word as he pushes her back into the bed, following her down and capturing her lips with his in an insistent kiss. It's fiery and shaky all at once, but she does not question him.
He slips between the sheets, nestling his body over hers, wrangles her clothes off her hips and reaches up to spin fire into her skin. Neither of them says a single word as they push clothing away and join their bodies. Nothing is exchanged besides the truth of their eyes and the beating of their hearts and the desire the plucks at their skin – desire that transcends all earthly ties and branches out further than the physical lust that haunts them now. No, this desire is deeper than that, rooted in a desperate yearning that cannot be so easily expressed in words alone. It spans out over their future, plays behind their eyes with unspoken solemnity. It is a desire for something more than just late night affairs and painful goodbyes; more than silent love that has never been voiced; more than aching hearts that long for each other when they are apart.
And it is not just those desires that they exchange as he presses himself into her and claims her yet again (he will never tire of her body, or the way she makes love to him or the way he feels himself shatter against her each and every time), it is also a promise. A pledge. An oath.
And by the time their bodies still, and their breaths even out, and he drops down beside her and buries his face into her neck and pulls her tight against him, he says only one thing.
"I'll fight for you, Elara."
Elara just swallows thickly, eyes swimming with unshed tears that are both happy and fearful, and she turns her body into his to kiss his forehead.
She doesn't say anything else.
For now, her silence is enough.