"Calm yourself, Felicity. The floor is renovated every year; they can just buff it out."

Felicity's mouth falls wide open, not unlike a viper unhinging its jaw. "Buff it out? Even the most talented of craftsmen cannot simply buff an inch-long knife mark out of walnut—"

With a flick of the wrist, Cashmere sends a steak knife whizzing from the kitchen into the sitting room, smirking as it buries itself into the wall just beside the knife mark of Felicity's nightmares. Like a child, Felicity shrieks.

Gloss squints, examining the blade's distance from where his own landed minutes ago. "You're about a quarter of an inch off-target, Cash," he says simply, and resumes pouring a glass of wine for Velvet's stylist. "Do better."

Cashmere wrinkles her nose and shoves his shoulder, nearly causing him to spill the wine as he hands it off to the stylist. "I wasn't aiming for your mark, jackass. I was aiming for the…" She gestures vaguely across the room, then swipes the bottle from Gloss before he can pour his own glass, handing it to an avox who puts it away. "The dark circle in the wood. I don't know what it's called."

Glancing back up at Cashmere's knife, Gloss finds that she did hit her mark. The blade rests precisely in the center of what Blight had once explained was called a wood knot. He can't recall exactly why he'd asked Blight about it in the first place. Most likely, he'd examined a client's headboard while dissociating from an appointment and become curious.

"It's called a knot," Gloss says, leaning back against the counter and watching her pour herself a mug of coffee. "It's just the base of a branch that was cut from the tree."

Cashmere drops two lumps of sugar into the mug and stirs it with a tiny spoon, casting him a curious look. "How do you know that?"

Shrugging one shoulder, Gloss picks up the coffee mug and leaves her with the spoon.

"Gloss, what—"

"You stole my drink. Now I'm stealing yours."

Cashmere groans and grabs another mug. "You're a child."

"I apologize, Cashew. I can't hear you over the smell of this delicious coffee," Gloss says, strolling into the sitting room. Cashmere complains about how that doesn't make any sense, but Gloss ignores her, placing the mug down on the coffee table and seating himself on the couch in front of the television. Velvet immediately stands and sits close enough for Gloss to pick up his scent: a dessert he can't quite name.

"Mister Rosewood—"

"Thank you, Twinkle," says Felicity from an armchair, nursing a headache with a cold pack. Velvet looks up towards the wall, and Gloss follows his eyes, where he finds Twinkle removing Cashmere's knife from the wood and looking at it like it holds some kind of secret.

"So," Twinkle begins, tossing the knife and catching it in her opposite hand, "Why do you both specialize in throwing knives?"

For the sake of avoiding talking to Velvet, Gloss decides that she's addressing him. "Cashmere copied me."

"No, you copied me," Cashmere insists, entering the sitting room with a fresh mug of coffee. She sits down on a loveseat next to the stylists and crosses her legs, holding the mug on her lap. "You were supposed to specialize in swords, but—"

"I joined the Academy first. How could I possibly have copied you?"

"I was just about to explain it."

Gloss rolls his eyes performatively, lounging back across the couch as obnoxiously as his proximity to Velvet will permit. "Don't believe anything she says, Twinkle. Her favorite color is pomegranate."

Cashmere holds out both hands in bewilderment, immediately taking the bait. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Pomegranate is a fruit, not a color. Just say burgundy."

Velvet's stylist holds up her glass of wine. "The difference between burgundy and pomegranate—"

"For the love of everything good, would you all just stop it?!" Felicity skrieks, sending a ripple across the floor that silences them all in an instant. Somewhere in the kitchen, an avox drops a fork. "Stop it or I'll make sure none of you gets a single bite of dessert during the afterparty. As a matter of fact, I'll have it canceled."

"I don't think you have the authority—"

Felicity's head whips in the direction of Twinkle's stylist, her eyes wild and furious. "Watch me."

In the following silence, Twinkle gingerly takes a seat. Mercifully, Cashmere commands the television to power on. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith appear on the screen, speaking excitedly about bets and score projections. The room, to Gloss' private amusement, remains thoroughly shaken by Felicity's outburst. They all drink their beverages and watch the screen in silence, impatiently awaiting the moment Caesar Flickerman announces the tributes' training scores.

Second only to the arena launch, tonight is always the most lucrative. The afterparty is only for the benefit of the escort, tributes, and stylists. Immediately following the scores' announcements, most mentors will be heading for the betting square to scoop up as much Capitol money as they possibly can. While much of the donations will be made remotely from citizens watching from home, often the most money is made as a result of in-person marketing in the square. The richest, most involved Capitol citizens will be there this very moment with hundreds of thousands of Panars, thirsty to donate to the tributes with the highest odds of winning.

It's an odd feeling, wishing for his own tribute's score to be dismal. Odd and sour and guilty — guilty because the boy sits right beside him, watching Caesar's face with wide eyes, his posture stiff and nervous. Velvet's teeth worry his bottom lip, and he scratches his wrist with his fingernails, aggravating an angry red trail of skin beneath his bracelet that looks about ready to bleed. On impulse, Gloss leans forward and places a hand over the boy's own, stopping him instantly. Velvet draws in a sharp breath, whipping around to face Gloss. It's almost frightening how immediately his face turns scarlet.

"Velvet," Gloss says quietly, careful not to draw anyone's attention. "Take a breath."

Velvet nods, eyes wide and blue and painfully vulnerable, but doesn't breathe.

"Do it now. In and out."

Velvet draws in a breath, slow and deep, and without thinking, Gloss rubs his thumb back and forth along the back of his hand, a comfort, an encouragement. Velvet's eyes flutter shut, his breaths slow and deliberate, for a moment that stretches on like an eternity. The scarlet seeps out of his skin, slowly returning to a healthy bright porcelain that glows beneath the heavy smattering of freckles that dot him all over. When his eyes finally open, they're just as achingly blue as before — and Gloss wonders how a kid like this ended up here of all places.

"Something's bothering you," Gloss says, barely a whisper. "What is it?"

Velvet bites his lip and breathes a laugh, averting his eyes. "It's stupid."

"Maybe it is," says Gloss, "But here I am. Listening."

The boy's lips quirk up into a smile at the corners, and he peeks at Gloss sideways, a faint dust of redness resurfacing on his cheeks. "I promised Go I'd get an eleven."

Gloss presses his lips together, trying and failing to conceal a silent chuckle. Gloss himself was awarded a ten when he was Velvet's age, a score which was all but considered the highest score one could achieve barring some grand, exceptional performance. In writing, the maximum score a tribute can earn is a twelve. In reality, only five tributes in history have earned any higher than a ten. Gloss has always wondered why the Gamemakers capped the scores at twelve instead of ten — obviously some stylistic choice that only serves to make the betting system unnecessarily complicated. It comes to Gloss as no surprise that an immature aspiring Career would make such a promise to his impressionable little brother. Gloss only partially manages to snuff out a spark of warmth in his chest, a misplaced fondness in response to the boy's naivety. It's dangerous to see himself in Velvet. Yet here he is.

"Velvet, no one gets an eleven."

"Brutus Fotos did."

Gloss barely manages to restrain himself from rolling his eyes; if he did, it would only make the boy feel worse about himself, which, for some reason, Gloss actually cares enough to prevent. "Brutus is a monster wearing human flesh. The man can crush boulders with his mind."

Velvet pulls his hand out from under Gloss' to stifle a laugh against his knuckles.

"Go isn't going to be any less proud of you if you don't get an eleven," Gloss says, keeping his voice low enough for only Velvet to hear it. "In all likelihood, he's already forgotten you made that promise."

Velvet nods, closing his eyes and soaking in his words. "You're right. I know you're right. He won't care what my score is." He gulps, opens his eyes, and looks at Gloss head-on. "I guess all that really matters to him is that I come back home."

Gloss feels a pit of sickness sink into his stomach, cold and dark and heavy. It's a miracle that he manages to force a smile. He murmurs something meaningless and leaves the sitting room to get himself a real, stiff drink.

The boy gets a ten. At least twice, he says something to the tune of, 'I couldn't have done this without your inspiration, Mister Rosewood,' before Gloss shuts him up with a firm hand on the shoulder and a smile he isn't entirely certain looks genuine.

Johanna Mason, on the other hand, scores an impressively low three. Observing the picture the Capitol displays next to her score, he almost fails to contain a laugh. Her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in a silent plea, her thick brows pulled up in a mixture of shock and fear as if the picture were taken at gunpoint. Gloss imagines her picking up an axe and pretending to stumble under its weight, haplessly chucking it at a wall and only managing to throw it a few feet. Her score is only one step up from Timothy Stillwater's unfortunately predictable two.

Cashmere, of course, subtly turns her head to look at him. Gloss manages to school his features into pure indifference just in time, and, mercifully, she quickly bores of scrutinizing him.

No sooner does the program end than Felicity bounces to her feet, headache seemingly forgotten, clapping her hands together to draw the room's attention. "Two tens in one night! I say we celebrate!"

Barely concealing an eye-roll, Gloss stands and makes merry with the team for all of three minutes while the avoxes fill the table with desserts and the stylists argue over which insufferable Capitol artist to play far too loudly on the speakers. In no time, Cashmere takes him by the elbow and leads him to the hallway, where they part ways to prepare for an evening of brown-nosing drunk and manic Capitolites.

:::

In the betting square, the only effective method of communication involves no small degree of yelling over incomprehensible sugar-pop music ('Do you know what glitter tastes like? Have you seen the glitter of my heart?') and leaning far too close to Capitolites that reek of booze and sugar. At this very moment, Cashmere cranes her neck so a filthy rich slimeball can yell into her ear and peer straight down her low-cut dress. Under the guise of hearing better, Gloss wedges himself between them and successfully manages to block the man's view.

"A little louder, sir?" Gloss yells straight into his face. "I didn't quite catch that."

"Of course you didn't," the man bites irritably. Gloss grins a little harder. "I said I want to donate ₱25,000 to the black one and ₱30,000 to the twink."

Gloss, smiling like a shark, grinds his teeth. "Ah, nicknames. How quaint," he retorts, his tone dripping with mockery. "But I do believe you've forgotten something. Let me refresh your memory: their names are Twinkle and Velvet." Cashmere shoots Gloss a subtle warning glance, but he continues, his voice taking on a colder edge. "Delightful names, aren't they? Very unique, very One. Certainly more fitting than your uninspired suggestions, wouldn't you agree?"

The man raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed.

"₱35,000 each. No less," says Gloss, leaning back far enough to escape the man's sour breath. The man doesn't dare look at Cashmere's breasts again. "After all, it's not every day you get the opportunity to support such talented, promising tributes as ours. I'm sure you understand the value of investing in greatness."

For a long, pregnant moment, the man eyes him, his expression shrewd as the same insipid pop singer drones about glitter and the taste thereof. Gloss knows he's blown it. Between them, he and Cashmere have managed to accumulate nearly ₱200,000 only halfway into the night — but he still won't hear the end of it if a cash cow like this gets lost at his hand. Still, Gloss maintains his smile, tilting his head and batting his lashes in slight impatience.

The man slowly grins and claps him on the arm with one meaty hand, laughing boisterously. "You've got me, Rosewood. I'm sold. For a moment there, I thought you were gonna stab me with your lapel pin." Gloss fakes a laugh, briefly disappointed in himself for not having thought of it first. The man whips out his card and taps it on their communicuffs, sending the Panars directly into their tributes' pools.

"Might I add, you Rosewoods look brilliant tonight," the man says in parting. "You know, usually I don't go for blondes, but next time, I might have to buy one of you for a night."

Gloss' grin falls, and Cashmere catches him by the arm before he can think about acting, her nails biting through his suit jacket and straight into his skin. The man smirks, just out of reach, and winks one nasty little eye. "Or both of you. Make your little sister get on her knees and—"

Cashmere gives Gloss' arm a powerful yank and pulls him into a corner, away from the cameras and throbbing crowds of victors and Capitolites. Gloss bites his tongue hard enough to bruise, powerful enough to kill but powerless to do anything with it. In One, speaking such filth about someone's sibling would've rightfully earned someone a broken nose. Here in the Capitol, Gloss is merely someone else's tool, a one-and-done weapon to be used in an arena and played with thereafter as Snow sees fit.

Cashmere places both hands on his shoulders, but he can't look her in the eyes, his mind invaded with sick visions of her being forced to—

"Look at me," she tells him, her hard voice somehow still comforting. "Gloss, look at me."

"Fuck. I need a drink," Gloss mumbles, running a hand over his face and shaking his head against the images. "I need a drink. I need—"

"Gloss, stop it. You can't just gorge yourself on liquor every time—"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why shouldn't you?" Cashmere breathes a bitter laugh; it sounds exasperated, brittle. "Because you'll end up like Haymitch or Chaff, or — or the fucking morphlings from Six. I don't want to see you drink yourself into an early grave."

Gloss cracks a bitter smile. "If only it were that easy."

"No, Gloss. You don't get to say things like that." Cashmere cups Gloss' face with both hands, forcing him to meet her eyes, wide and green and worried. "You don't want to die. You don't want to…" she takes a deep, shuddering breath, her mouth pulling down at the edges like she might cry. "You want to stay here with me. You want to get better. You want to stop drinking. You want…" She purses her lips; looks away. She can't go on.

He wants Blight. He wants to turn around and scan the crowd and find him and… and he can't. Cashmere's hands still cup his face, holding him still, frozen. When she finally pulls them away, her nail catches on his ear cuff. Brows furrowing, she reaches back up to his ear and rolls the cuff between her fingers, looking at it closely. "Where did you get this?"

"Get what?"

"Shut up," she bites, but entertains him anyway. "This cuff. I've never seen you wear this before."

Gloss licks his lips, searching his mind for an out, an excuse.

"It doesn't matter," Cashmere decides, and drops her hand away. "I just want you to do better, Gloss."

"I know. I just…" Gloss gulps, takes a breath, andlooks away. "I need some time. Just a few minutes alone. I can get my own sponsors, let's just—"

"Split up so you can get a drink where I'm not around to judge you for it?"

Gloss winces, his eyes squeezing shut, and feels his body go tight. He doesn't have it in him to lie to her. Not now.

"Do what you want," Cashmere tells him. Her voice sounds empty. "I can't stop you."

When Gloss opens his eyes and raises his head, she's already turned and stepped into the crowd, the lights of the square shimmering on her bubblegum-pink dress.

Scanning the square, Gloss' throat aches for the bitter taste of alcohol; his body yearns for the sizzle-burn deep in his gut. He tries his damndest to find Blight from among the glittering Capitolites; scans for his brown beard, his soft eyes, his wide, warm smile. He finds nothing but strangers and victorious acquaintances. From somewhere in the center of a gaggle of multicolored women, Finnick Odair tosses him the sleaziest smile imaginable and it's precisely then that Gloss gives up on avoiding that drink. He tells himself that he tried. All things considered, it's likely for the better that he didn't find Blight; at best, he would've distracted him from sponsor-hunting for Johanna, and at worst, he would've risked exposing their entire arrangement.

He finds the bar quickly. It's virtually impossible to miss, nestled off to the side of the betting counter. From afar, one merely sees a wall glittering with bottles, brews, and crystal glasses for Capitolites to guzzle in between fraternizing with victors and throwing away their money. Adjusting his velvet blazer — blue because he's so predictable, it's become his signature — he stands near the bar and allows two Capitolites at the counter to make way for him on their own. With big smiles, they quickly pick up their glasses, shower him with compliments, and find somewhere else to occupy while they sip on their colorful drinks. It might be the only perk of being a victor.

Gloss takes a seat on a stool and waits for the bartender to come to him herself, immediately ordering his mother's favorite. Just one glass for now, because ordering two just for himself wouldn't exactly be flattering should a picture of it make the magazines tonight. Prostitutes have images to maintain. He sucks down half of it in one gulp, willing himself to drink like a normal human being while he's in the presence of so many eyes.

Setting down the glass and closing his eyes, he notices a soft, airy scent of vanilla and spice emanating from right beside him. Opening his eyes, he finds that he's sat next to a woman — a stranger — who, unlike most of the Capitolites he's ever encountered, is decidedly tasteful. She has a regal air about her, her rich, dark natural hair framing her face in wild, puffy curls like a crown. Her dark skin glows under the bar's soft lights, set off by a burnt orange dress that looks soft as silk. She's not shaped like most other Capitolites he's seen — Capitolites who purge themselves after meals to maintain their bird-like figures. Instead, she's plump, with round curves, a soft stomach, and healthy, dimpled cheeks. Cashmere would call her fat. Gloss would call her beautiful.

The woman politely hails the bartender and points at Gloss' drink, presumably requesting one of her own. They share a laugh as the bartender pours her a hearty glass, the woman's perfect teeth glittering in a brilliant smile. She takes a delicate sip, ponders the taste, and meets Gloss' eyes. Only then does he realize he's been staring — and that her eyes are so deep and dark, they're nearly entirely black.

"That's my favorite drink in the world," Gloss says, and immediately realizes that it sounds ridiculous. "My mother loved it, too. Still loves it, actually. She's alive." Instead of banging his head on the counter, Gloss decides to grin even harder and steels himself for the woman to laugh in his face.

"I can see why you two like it so much," she says, lifting the glass and appraising it with a sweet smile. "It's very light and bubbly. And it's so sweet. Almost like soda."

Gloss smiles, briefly looking away. "Most drinks from One are like that. I've found that most of us have a preference for sugar over the more bitter drinks. There's something about One that invites—"

"Luxury," says the woman, running a finger around the rim of her glass.

Gloss laughs softly. "Obviously."

The woman smiles and takes a healthy sip of the chardonnay, turning in her seat to fully face him. "I assume you didn't strike up a conversation with me just to discuss delicious chardonnay," she says, a playful glint in her eyes.

Gloss chuckles, barely managing to conceal the edge of nerves that spike through him. He isn't quite certain whether she's propositioning him; isn't certain what he'd say if she were. He'd say no, of course. Of course. Because of Blight. But that relationship is undefined, has been for years, and Gloss never thought he'd willingly sleep with anyone other than him. This is new, this is strange. So he says, "Would you believe me if I said I did?"

Her laughter dances in the air, soft and melodic. "No. There's something you want from me, mister Rosewood."

Gloss breathes a sigh of relief. She's recognized him and expects him to pitch Velvet to her. He can do that. Holding up a finger, he drags another gulp from his drink and adjusts himself in his seat to begin the pitch. It comes easily to him. He boasts his tribute's qualities, gives a little background about his accomplishments in the Academy, and cheeses up things here and there for a little added appeal. He vaguely alludes to his weapon of choice, leaving her on the edge to draw her own conclusions. With a bit of convincing, she agrees to contribute a generous ₱50,000 to Velvet's pool. Only then does Gloss realize that he was so enraptured, he forgot to make a bad pitch.

"I hope that'll suffice until the Games get started," says the woman, tapping her card against Gloss' communicuff. "Generally, I wait until the tribute pool narrows to make such large contributions, but I sense something good about Velvet. Once he makes it to the final eight, I'd love to make a follow-up donation. Based on your pitch alone, I'll likely bet on him this year."

"I'm glad to hear it, miss…" Gloss looks down at his communicuff and reads the name that appears next to her donation — Ayodelle Wycliffe. He tilts his head, reading it over and over, recalling the name from his literature classes back in One. Since before the Dark Days, Tendaji Wycliffe has been a household name in Panem, his legendary works committed to the memory of the nation and quoted ubiquitously. Not a year ago, he passed away, his death regarded nationwide as a tragedy. It was all over the news when his granddaughter, Ayodelle, inherited his estate in her mother's stead. It was unclear why her mother was passed over in the inheritance, but the controversy was short-lived, with the Wycliffes returning to a life of relative privacy. Gloss wasn't entirely surprised by that. Envies it, actually. If he had the option to live in peace, away from cameras and Capitolites and rabid fans, he would take it in an instant.

"Ayodelle Wycliffe?" Gloss looks back up, seeing her anew.

Ayodelle dabs her lips with a napkin and smiles, a faint blush rising to her dark cheeks. "Just Delle, if you don't mind."

Gloss smiles. "Delle it is then," he says. "Thank you, Delle, for your generous contribution. I'm sure Velvet will be thrilled."

Delle returns his smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and genuine interest. "You're quite welcome, mister Rosewood. I must admit, you're quite persuasive. Velvet sounds like quite the remarkable tribute."

Gloss feels a surge of pride at Delle's words. He's always been skilled at charming people when he needs to, but there's something about Delle's genuine interest that feels different, more meaningful. "He certainly is," he agrees. The chardonnay in his stomach has long turned warm, heating his stomach and traveling to his head. "But I must say, meeting someone like you has been the true highlight of tonight."

Delle's smile widens, and she raises her glass in a toast. "To chance encounters."

Gloss clinks his glass against hers, the sound chiming loudly even among the bustling atmosphere of the bar and the square beyond. "To chance encounters," he echoes. As Delle pulls a sip from her drink, Gloss chances a glance at her hand and notices the glint of an engagement ring adorning her finger. It's a stunning gold piece with an emerald in the center, elegant yet understated, and Gloss finds himself intrigued by its beauty. "What a lovely ring."

Delle's eyes light up, and she offers a gracious smile. "Why, thank you." She offers her hand for a closer look, and Gloss leans in, examining the intricate swirls carved into its surface. "It belonged to my fiance's grandmother. Sometimes I still can't believe he gave it to me."

Gloss glances up at her, watching her gaze at the ring with an adoration the likes of which he's seen very rarely in his life. Absently, he reaches up and grazes the cuff Blight gave him, the silver cool and solid beneath his fingertips.

"Did yours give that to you?"

Gloss sits up straight, refocusing on Delle and pulling his hand away from his ear. "Pardon?"

Eyes on the cuff, Delle moves slightly closer, a soft smile on her face as she looks it over. "Your lover," she says, her voice almost dreamy. She sits back quickly, looking sheepish. "Unless… I was too presumptuous?"

"It was a gift, yes." Gloss breathes a chuckle; it comes out uncomfortable, and he tugs at his earlobe, feeling his face turn warm. "It was just… I'm sure it was mostly an apology, really, but I…"

"You don't know?" Delle's face is sober, curious. It invites Gloss to open up to her. Gloss, tongue loosened by the chardonnay, gives in.

"No. No, I don't." Gloss averts his eyes towards the crowd, worrying his lip with his teeth. "I don't know what he is to me. Or what I am to him. It's been a decade." Nearly a decade. It feels like more. With Blight, each moment feels like an eon, tender and warm, leaving him cold on the ground when it's over.

"But you love him," says Delle. "Don't you?"

Gloss can't bring himself to respond. But Delle keeps her eyes on him, her expression soft and thoughtful. "My grandfather had a gift for expressing the complexities of the human heart," she says, breaking the silence between them. "Many of his books contain lessons about the importance of seizing love before it's too late. They've always resonated with me. Inspired me. If it hadn't been for his influence, I don't think I ever would've told my fiance I was in love with him."

Gloss meets Delle's gaze, searching her face for truth. "Are you glad you took that leap of faith?"

Her answer is simple. "Yes. Very."

Overwhelmed by the weight of Delle's words, Gloss takes a deep breath and gestures for the bartender to bring them both another drink. "You've given me a lot to think about," he says, because she did — which is why he needs more chardonnay.

"I can tell," she says calmly, just this side of a tease. She accepts the fresh drink from the bartender with a glowing smile and a quick, quiet joke that evokes another laugh between them — the kind of laughter that's easy, gentle, and sounds like a secret between strangers. She turns back to Gloss, both hands wrapped around her glass. "You know, mister Rosewood…"

"Call me Gloss."

She smiles. "Gloss. This man — whoever he is — is lucky to have someone like you. Most people might look at you and see… what is it they say in the districts? A Career. But I can tell that isn't all you are. You're much more than the young man you were in the arena." She takes a dainty sip from her glass and lifts one finger to point at him. "But you hide it."

"Do I?" Gloss speaks carefully, making his voice smooth to compensate for the pitch of nerves in his chest.

"You try to," she says, tapping her golden nails on the glass. "But really, you remind me a lot of a character from one of my grandfather's stories. Feid the huntsman. You're a big, strong man with knives and trophies, but on the inside, you're compassionate and… soft. You wear the furs of the beasts you've slain, but beneath them, you're more human than most of us."

'They were hardly beasts,' Gloss thinks unbidden. The comparison still strikes him nonetheless, and he flashes her a soft smile, not quite managing to maintain eye contact with anything other than his fresh glass of chardonnay. "You gleaned all of that just from this conversation?"

Delle tilts her head. "Yes. I did," she says calmly. "It's all in your eyes."

'Open your eyes, sugar. Look at me. Goodness, I wanna see your eyes when you—'

In one motion, Gloss picks up and drains his glass, letting the booze spill straight down his throat without pausing to gulp or taste it.

"Wow." Delle raises a brow. "Color me impressed."

"I'm a professional," Gloss says, flashing her a grin that looks more playful than he feels. He taps his card on a touchscreen, paying for them both and leaving a generous tip. With a gracious smile, Delle offers her hand. Gloss raises it to his mouth for a gentle kiss, her skin soft and warm against his lips. "I'm glad to have met you tonight, Delle."

"Oh, Gloss," Delle says with a gentle laugh, her cheeks a shade darker, stained with a faint blush. "The pleasure is all mine."

Gloss' lips still tingle with the warmth of her skin when he stands, adjusts his jacket, and turns away, returning his focus to the still-bustling crowd. The noise of overlapping conversation and loud music returns to his senses, flooding him in the cacophony of the betting square and breaking the spell of Delle's presence. It only takes him a moment to spot Cashmere, who stands with a group of girls who look reaping age, eager to spend their parents' money on a few moments with their favorite victor. Gloss moves to join her, already amused at what promises to be a ridiculous interaction with a group of younger fans, but stops in his tracks when he catches sight of Blight.

He looks stunning in a three-piece suit as deep a green as the forests of his district, complete with a vest that dips down to his middle. Beneath it, he wears a white button-up that he leaves slightly unbuttoned, revealing a smattering of dark hair that draws Gloss' eyes immediately. The very sight of him makes Gloss' mouth go dry. He's always looked brilliant when he laughs, genuine-looking even when in the presence of those who only intend to milk him dry. Men and women alike fawn over him, and a pang of jealousy strikes through Gloss' chest when a woman kisses his cheek and he pretends to enjoy it. Gloss nearly turns away, but they meet eyes — green on wise, deep brown. Blight's smile turns soft, brilliant as ever. He lifts four fingers and taps his communicuff with a wink. 4:00 AM.

Gloss will be there at 3:45.

:::

Blight breathes a tired sigh as the door to their hotel room slides open, the weight of the night's endeavors evident in the slump of his shoulders. "It was like pulling teeth, of course," he says as he steps inside, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair. Gloss follows closely behind, and the door shuts itself behind them, locking with a digital ping. "Obviously, Johanna and I both knew that a strategy like hers would make it nearly impossible to get her sponsors, but goodness. Four days of nonstop brown-nosing with so little to show for it."

Gloss lays his jacket over the same chair, running a hand through his hair before working at the buttons of his shirt. "₱150,000 for a tribute with her presentation isn't something to scoff at," he says, which is both true and also an attempt to raise Blight's spirits. "I'm just wondering how you did it without revealing anything."

Blight undresses himself quickly, working the clothes off of his body with all the skill and grace of someone who's done it as a profession for his entire adult life. "Honestly? Most of it was pity donations. I talked a lot about her life at home, but left out much of the truth of it. Told them how much her family would miss her, how important she is to her father. 'Even a few Panars will make a world of difference, ma'am, believe me.'"

Gloss chuckles. "And they bought it?"

Blight chuckles too, tossing him a brown-eyed grin. In the light of the moon beyond the window, his skin is blue-silver, shadows playing on his lean muscle like light on the surface of a river as he bends to remove his socks. "Some of them did. But most of them dribbled about how tragic it is that a 'little girl' like her won't get the chance to experience true love or sex or… ridiculous stuff, the last things on her mind. One man even cried."

"For fuck's sake."

"You said it." Blight scoffs, stuffing his socks into the holes of his shoes and lining them up against the wall, neat, tidy. "I spent five precious minutes calming him down, and all he donated to Jo's pool was a measly ₱5,000."

Gloss actually laughs, folding up his pants and tossing them onto the loveseat. "That's about enough for an empty water bottle."

"Or a glove," Blight says drily. "Just one glove — the other is a luxury." He crosses to the minibar, all slender muscle and dark fuzz and silken underwear, and Gloss spends an inordinate amount of time admiring his body in the moonlight. Blight plucks a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water from the tap. "Water?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Not tonight," says Gloss, crossing the room to join him. "I think I'll have… this." He pulls a bottle out of a crystal cabinet — something heavy and sweet with a blueberry taste and a strong base that he knows from experience will sink into his bones like a comet with every sip.

Blight eyes him over the rim of his glass. "Gloss, how many glasses have you had tonight? You're gonna drink yourself into an early grave."

Gloss cracks a smirk, uncorking the bottle with a pop that rolls down his spine like warm water. "You know, Cashmere said the same thing to me tonight."

"She has a good head on her shoulders," says Blight, and Gloss grimaces as he pours himself a glass. If only he knew what she thought of him, perhaps he wouldn't speak so highly of her. "You should listen to her."

"Perhaps," Gloss says. He sets down the bottle and looks him in the eyes, tossing him an easy smile. "But you know what I said? 'If only it were that easy.'"

Gloss expects him to chuckle. Instead, Blight stares at him, sober-eyed and straight-lipped.

"That was funny and you know it."

Blight shrugs a shoulder, placing his glass of water on the counter. "It was. But what kind of friend would I be if I encouraged your wistful thoughts of death?"

Gloss pulls in a breath, swirling the dark wine in his glass. "Friend?"

Blight's expression doesn't change. He just watches him, eyes heavy and dark. Gloss raises the cup and tries to down it, but Blight takes it before it can reach his mouth, pours it into the sink, and kisses him. Gloss groans in surprise, the man's scent and taste enveloping his senses in one measure. The soft, velvet heat of Blight's touch bleeds into him, the fuzz on his chest and stomach tickling Gloss' skin and turning him red all over.

Blight slides a hand up the side of his neck, his coarse palm leaving a burning trail up his skin, and fingers the cuff on the shell of his ear. He pulls back to take a breath, teeth flashing in a soft smile that Gloss' vision is almost too blurry to catch. "You wore it."

Gloss smiles, soft and sweet. "Of course."

"Of course," Blight whispers, almost to himself. "It looks lovely on you."

With a low breath, Gloss smooths his hands up the sides of his waist, pressing his lips to his shoulder, his collarbone, the hollow of his neck. He presses their waists together, an explosion of friction and heat that makes them both gasp. "God, I needed this," he breathes. "You. I need—"

"Yeah." Blight's fingers weave into his hair, his breath hot against his cheek. "Yes."

They're both incomprehensible.

Minutes pass in a blur of heat and light and breathless laughter, and Gloss is crowding Blight against the shower wall, picking him up by the ass and bracing him by the backs of his thighs. The water is silky-hot, coating them in heat and pouring from the ceiling like rain. Blight wraps himself around Gloss, bracing his arms around his neck and locking his ankles around his waist. Gloss kisses him for a long time, then pulls away and meets his eyes, dark and smoky. "Ready?"

Blight nods; pulls in a long, deep breath.

"Let me hear it."

"Yes, sugar," Blight breathes. "I'm ready."

Gloss lines himself up with one skillful grind of his hips and pushes into him, slow and steady, hissing through his teeth. Blight's jaw drops in a moan that surrounds them both, and his head falls back against the shower wall, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Use your words," Gloss says in a tight voice, just to tease him.

Blight breathes a laugh. "Goodness, I'm just — I'm shocked every time."

"Mmm." Gloss dips his head and runs his tongue along the tree rings on his shoulder, slowly canting in and out, head spinning with the sound of Blight's shallow breaths. "You flatter me."

Blight's hands climb up the back of his neck, burying themselves in Gloss' hair. They kiss, slow, sloppy, the shower water turning their lips and hands and noses slippery-wet. With every thrust, a current of pleasure runs through Gloss' body, turning his muscles tight and hot, hardening his grip on Blight's thighs. He sucks in the scent of his beard and hair and wants to possess him.

"Goodness, sugar… yes, yes, yes," Blight pants, loud as anything. "Right — oh, please, there, right there." He lets out an agonized moan and clutches Gloss close, panting hard against his ear as Gloss fucks him hard and deep.

"Fuck, diamond," Gloss breathes, but his voice is rougher now, more labored. He pulls almost all the way out and slams in again, making both of them cry out together. He lifts Blight a little higher, sliding him up the wall, and gets right up against him, pressing his lips to his ear. "You're mine, treasure. Oh god, you're so perfect. You're fucking incredible and you're all mine." His voice is a growl, animalistic, and he thrusts harder, faster, Blight's hungry moans echoing off the tile. "Come for me. Come on my cock and let me feel it, diamond. Oh god, let me—"

Blight tightens around him and comes like a rolling wave, his cock throbbing between their stomachs, pulse after pulse smearing hot and wet. Gloss doesn't let him finish, pounding his prostate with heavy thrusts of his cock until Blight throws his head back and gasps for breath through the brilliant agony of an orgasm dragged on and on. He makes a noise Gloss has never heard from him; a deep, animal moan pulled from deep in his chest. The sound goes straight to Gloss' cock, and he buries himself deep inside him, shuddering and moaning into the crook of his neck as he climaxes.

"Fuck," Gloss groans.

Blight pulls Gloss up to kiss him, wet and sloppy and deep. Hands hot and slick, he cradles Gloss' cheeks like he's beautiful, like he's special to him, like he's everything. Overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, Gloss pulls slowly back, the shower water turning Blight's skin glittery as they both struggle to catch their breath. He can't contain it. Can't stop it. Gazing into Blight's dark, warm eyes, he'll say anything.

"I'm in love with you, Blight."

Blight's eyes, hooded and soft and dazed, clear up in an instant, going wide in pure shock. "Gloss…" he shakes his head. "It's the endorphins."

"I promise you, diamond, it isn't," Gloss says quickly, his heart plummeting into his gut. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

Blight's chest shudders with a giant breath, his eyes closing with it. When at last they open, he leans forward and kisses Gloss' nose. "Put me down, sugar."

Gloss obliges, helping Blight to his feet before immediately clutching the wall for support, feeling like he might vomit. "Blight, I—"

"It's alright, Gloss." Blight turns off the shower, opens the door, and steps onto the mat, grabbing a towel off of the counter. "It's fine. We're fine."

But all Gloss can do is repeat himself, his thoughts urgent and white-hot and screaming at him to act, to save it, to— "I've loved you for years, I think," he blubbers, hearing his own frantic voice dig him deeper into the hole he foolishly fell into. "It's been tormenting me, and I—"

"Gloss, this wasn't supposed to happen," Blight says calmly, drying himself off. "I never wanted to make you—"

"Well it did happen. It's done." Gloss steps out after him, grabbing a towel and tying it around his waist, too anxious to dry off. "I didn't mean to for it to go this way either, it just—"

"Gloss, this is dangerous now."

"What?" Gloss feels struck, white-hot pain coursing through him as if Blight had slammed a knife into his chest. The first thing he feels is rage, but he snuffs it out — just barely. It might still show on his face. "Blight, for fuck's — what could possibly be more dangerous than what we did for Johanna?"

Blight shakes his head, his eyes on the ground. "I don't know."

"Tell me."

"I don't know, but we can't just let it get worse!" Blight bites, swiveling to look at him with eyes so hard, he hurts him all over again. Gloss steps back, mouth falling open, eyes stinging and blurry. Blight's gaze turns soft. Remorseful. "Gloss... I'm so sorry."

"For — for what?" Gloss asks. His voice is as small as a child's, filled with fear. "Blight, don't… please don't go. Please. You can't—"

"Sugar… Gloss, I have to," Blight says gently. "I have to." It sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

Gloss stares at him, feeling empty, numb, broken. Blight takes one last look at him, his red-rimmed eyes glittering with unshed tears, and leaves the bathroom. The door closes itself behind him, mocking Gloss' agony with that digital ping. Gloss vomits in the toilet, his skin cold, hands trembling, vision blurry with tears. By the time he makes it into the bedroom, Blight — and his jacket and his shoes and his voice and his scent — is long gone.

Gloss loses track of how much he drinks. When he falls asleep nude on the mattress, too drunk to remember his own name, the silver cuff remains on the bathroom counter, cold and forgotten.