I

"Quite a speech."

The District 7 Justice building is old, built with rotting wood and thick with dust.

"I didn't write it."

"I'm sure you didn't," says Blight. "Only someone from the Capitol could possibly thank President Snow that many times in one sentence."

Gloss, newly-crowned Victor, turns to look at him. "Do you have a problem with Snow?"

Blight takes a drink from his glass, eyeing Gloss carefully over the rim with a gentle, knowing sort of smile. "Not if you don't."

"Why would I?"

Blight shrugs. He takes a small biscuit from a tray of food, offers it to Gloss, and takes a bite when Gloss declines.

"You did a good thing for my tribute."

"I killed him."

"You did," Blight says. "Knife straight to the heart. I bet he didn't feel a thing. They got to do an open casket funeral for him. Patched him up, put him in his dad's best jacket. Not many families get the luxury of seeing their kid's face before they put them in the ground."

Gloss hesitates, looking Blight in the eyes and carefully choosing his words. "Then I'm glad I was the one to kill him."

It's an odd thing to smile at, but Blight does anyway. He claps Gloss on the shoulder, gentle, polite. "Me too," he says. "Hope I see you around."

Then he walks into a small crowd, tosses a brown-eyed smile over his shoulder, and pulls another sip from his strange blue drink.

:::

"The first night is always the worst," Blight says. "It gets easier over time. Never better. Just easier."

Refined music leaks from the mansion, creeping from the open balcony doors and quelling with the thick night air. It didn't strike Gloss as too daunting a task, sleeping with his charge for the night. Inside the mansion, the music swelled, other Victors twirling and swinging with nobles, politicians, celebrities. An indescribable hot panic surged through him not upon entering the ballroom, but upon being touched. Roselia Crane smoothed her hand down his abdomen, slipping her fingers between the buttons of his shirt. Then Gloss, like a coward, broke from the dance and rushed to the balcony.

He isn't sure when — or why — Blight followed him into the cover of the stars. Blight holds a glass of ice water out to him, earnest compassion in his warm brown eyes.

Gloss swallows against the bitter alcohol that coats his tongue. "I don't need it."

"Your hands are shaking like leaves."

Gloss watches his hands where they rest on the barrier, clammy, trembling, unable to stop. He takes Blight's offered glass without a word. It's admittedly a relief to let the cool, crisp water wet his tongue, loosen his throat, and calm his stomach. He downs the whole glass in three gulps. Blight looks out at the city, unfazed.

"It's normal to be nervous."

"I killed seven people in my Games," Gloss says. "Sleeping with someone should hardly be a challenge."

"You're right," Blight nods. "And it wouldn't be a challenge at all if you were sleeping with someone you wanted. Someone you chose. But you aren't. So it is."

Gloss faces the man — a mistake, if only because of the raw sincerity in Blight's dark eyes. Inexplicably, Gloss' words stick just behind his teeth.

"You'll get through it," Blight tells him. "I promise."

Gloss sucks in a breath. "What do I do?"

"She'll tell you everything she wants. It's sick," Blight says, "but chances are she'll be thrilled she's your first."

Gloss nods and turns to the balcony doors. The music is overwhelming even through the barrier, the bright lights in the ballroom piercing his eyes. There stands Roselia, tittering at the edge of a large crowd and balancing her third glass of wine in an unsteady hand. Under different circumstances, Gloss might not be jarred by a roaring swell of disgust. Miss Crane would be pretty in One, but for the Capitol, she's plain in her minimal jewelry and long, sparkling red dress. Of all the grotesque Capitolites swirling through the ballroom, she's easily the most classically beautiful.

Gloss tastes bile on the back of his tongue.

"If you need someone to talk to," Blight says, placing a hand on Gloss' shoulder, "I have a short night. I'll be in my room by the time you're finished."

:::

Gloss spills his insides into the toilet, coating it with red velvet icing and booze he was obligated to drink. The alcohol stings coming up, burning his lips and aggravating the chilling ghost of Roselia's demanding mouth. Surging forward, he vomits again.

Blight is still crouched in his periphery, his image hazy through Gloss' burning tears. Blight's hand smooths up and down his spine, warm, comforting — or it should be. Instead, his every touch only exacerbates the aching burn left by Roselia's nails.

"Stop," Gloss chokes, a bead of saliva dangling from his lips by a string. His stomach throbs in time with his head, and when he stills Blight with a look, he sees two of him. "I don't need it. Just—"

"It's alright. There's no need to explain."

Blight rises to his feet. When he backs away, the faint scent of pine and fresh soil moves away with him.

Blight never does leave the bathroom. He leans against the wall at Gloss' back, a hand tucked in his elbow, fingers buried in his beard. Gloss has no energy to concern himself with the fact that Blight sees this fragile, rattled side of him. Gloss lurches forward and spills bile into the toilet, retching and gagging until there's nothing left to vomit.

He slumps against the seat and weeps into the hollow of his elbow.

:::

"Cashmere is going to volunteer no matter what I say."

Blight watches him calmly, a faint glow of moonlight flashing on his eyes. It's far past midnight. Gloss looks as broken as the man in front of him: uneven buttons, tousled hair, a stranger's blue lipstick smeared on his jaw. They've taken to lounging here after assignments: a quiet lounge on the rooftop of the Capitol's finest hotel. There's an entire floor dedicated to Snow's collection of victorious Capitol prostitutes.

"In her mind, every time I visit the Capitol, it's for a party or a photoshoot," Gloss says. "I've told her the truth a hundred times, but she insists that I just don't want her to overshadow me when she wins."

"So she thinks it's a lie."

"That's exactly what she thinks. Nothing I've said or done has changed her mind."

"Then stop," Blight says calmly. He places his drink on the table and leans forward to look Gloss in his eyes. "It isn't good to hold yourself responsible for her decisions. This is out of your control."

"The instant she wins, she'll be sold just like us."

"She's your sister. I'd bet anything she's strong," Blight says. "You're strong."

"She's as stupid as I was."

There's a subtle twitch in Blight's jaw that Gloss doesn't miss. "You weren't stupid, you were indoctrinated. None of this is your fault. She'll get through it. It's not easy, but it's not impossible."

"I don't care what is or isn't impossible," Gloss raises his voice. "I don't want her in that goddamn arena. I don't want her to be turned into an object. A fucking toy."

"She's already made up her mind, Gloss. There's nothing more you can possibly do," Blight says.

"Fuck you."

There's a faint flash of hurt in Blight's dark eyes, quickly replaced by hard conviction. "You can curse at me, hit me, rant until you're out of breath, but she's going to volunteer, Gloss. She will. And when she does, chances are she's gonna win."

"I hate when you do this."

"I never said you had to like me."

"I like you plenty," Gloss says immediately. "It's just that you—"

"Tell you what you don't want to hear. I know. I know that."

Gloss sucks in a deep breath. "Cashmere volunteers and wins the Games. Then they sell her. When that happens, what do I do?"

Blight's smile is joyless. "You do what I did for you," he says simply. "Just be there."

:::

"Cashmere has always been better about the subtlety," Gloss thinks aloud. "She treats it like a seamless night job. Doesn't confront it, doesn't complain. She had me fooled until I saw her tonight. She was crying in her room with the lights off, sitting on the edge of the bed and ripping the straps off of her heels. She tore her stockings straight off. Just destroyed them. When I tried to hug her, she flinched."

Blight takes a shaky breath. "I—"

"Can't imagine it?" Gloss interrupts. For an instant, he feels the creeping impulse to laugh. "They're insatiable. They squeeze every drop that they can, and when they can't get enough—"

"I want to fix this."

"But you can't."

"This is wrong."

"But you can't."

"Then what can I do?!" Blight snaps.

"Just fucking kill me. You're just as much a killer as I am. You can do that, can't you?" Gloss breathes an empty laugh. No joy, no soul. A choked, miserable sound.

"Be honest. You don't want that."

"I know."

"Now tell me what I can do."

The room sinks into an uncomfortable, wordless silence. There's nothing for it. No solution. No escape. Just Gloss, Blight, and the Capitol that owns them.

"Nothing," Gloss finally says.

Then he turns around, takes Blight by the shoulders, and kisses him. It's a first. It's the only thing he can control.

It happens up against the window — that wide, overwhelming thing that overlooks the city and its stars. The glass is cold on Gloss' palms; probably colder on Blight's bare skin. If not for the blinding reality of their powerlessness, Gloss might have taken them to the mattress instead.

Just as well. The snowflakes flurry like glitter in the dark.

Blight doesn't seem to mind.