Blight stands with his feet firmly planted in a fighter's stance, his dummy axe propped against one shoulder — bared in a sleeveless green top, because they both knew that to teach Johanna hand-to-hand, they'd have to do a demonstration. Flexing his fingers around both of his dummy knives, Gloss tries not to let his eyes linger on Blight's lean muscle while he contends with whatever barrier is keeping him from beginning the demonstration. Blight smiles, calm and the tiniest bit impatient. The barrier grows stronger. Gloss takes a deep, heavy breath.

When Johanna heaves a melodramatic sigh, it's Gloss' first reminder that she's in the room at all.

"We only have one hour, Gloss," says Blight. "You need to attack me at some point."

"I…" Gloss shakes his head and tightens his grip on his knives. There's a reason he doesn't spar with Cashmere anymore. Sparring takes him right back to the Games — right back to the wind in his hair and the scream in his throat as he swung his blades and charged at helpless children. Looking back up at Blight, Gloss can only imagine a bright red smile splitting his neck. "I don't want to hurt you," he finally manages. It makes him feel raw; naked.

"You won't. It's just a demonstration," Blight says gently. It's the tone he uses when they're naked together in the dark and all that's left to do is hold each other. With a quiet breath, he takes a step closer and lowers his voice, his eyes soft and thoughtful. "We're not in the arena, sug—" His gaze shoots to Johanna, who is mercifully distracted with picking the polish off of her nails.

Gloss breathes a laugh. Red-faced, it takes Blight a moment to process his own relief before he regains his focus, looking up at Gloss and adjusting his grip on his axe. "Would you feel better if I started instead?"

"It's a demonstration of defense," Gloss says. "Not offense."

"We'll get there," says Blight. He takes a step back — then another, then another. "Or maybe we won't. And that's okay. But we have to show her something."

Biting his lip, Gloss looks down at his knives. "You're not wrong." He flips one in the air; catches it. "I wonder if I—"

He looks up an instant before Blight swings his axe down on his neck. Instincts kicking into gear, he ducks down into a crouch and lunges straight at Blight's gut, sending Blight spilling onto the mat and his axe clattering to the ground. On his knees between Blight's thighs, Gloss raises an arm to plunge a dummy knife into his heart, thwarted only by the fact that Blight sits up and meets it first. The plastic blade jabs harmlessly against his sternum. Gloss, who should be mortified, laughs at the wide grin on Blight's face, the latter looking down at the blade as if it's little more than a minor annoyance. "Damn it, Gloss. I thought I had you."

"Oh you did, did you?" Gloss says, slowly drawing the blade down Blight's chest and towards his stomach.

Meeting Gloss' eyes, Blight chuckles and murmurs under his breath, "I'm reminded of… that one time."

Gloss runs his tongue across his teeth. "Which one?" he whispers. "There have been many."

Blight opens his mouth to speak, a familiar spark igniting behind those warm brown eyes, but thinks better of it. Gloss climbs to his feet with ease, his body hot with blood and adrenaline. He slips one of his knives into his belt and offers Blight a hand, which he takes without hesitation, picking up his axe on the way to his feet.

Johanna, with a tilted head, looks like she's about to ask a question that's decidedly off-topic and inappropriate. Gloss shuts it down by tapping Blight on the shoulder with a faux blade and gesturing with his opposite hand to indicate the event in its entirety. "Lesson one: never rush someone who's bigger than you."

Blight barks a laugh. If Gloss isn't mistaken, that might be the ghost of a smile on Johanna's pursed lips. It turns into a proper smirk. "I could've told you that."

"Oh, well." Blight shrugs and assumes his position. "I took a chance."

"And look what good that did you," Gloss says with a chuckle, stepping back into place and unsheathing his second knife. "Just like that, you ended up flat on the ground with a knife in your chest."

Blight rolls his eyes with a good-natured smile. "I'd tell you it was all part of the demonstration, but neither of you are credulous enough to believe it."

Johanna snorts.

Blight steadies his axe over one shoulder and firmly plants his feet, exuding strength. "Johanna, pay close attention. This is about using your weapon defensively."

Johanna makes a non-committal noise, but her owlish eyes are on them both, drinking in Blight's stance from head to toe. Her fingers twitch as if arranging themselves on the handle of a phantom axe, mimicking Blight's grip.

"Ready?" asks Gloss.

"Ready," says Blight, his voice low, serious. His eyes bore into Gloss' with an intensity that would be scary on anyone else. "Attack me."

Without wasting a moment, Gloss surges forward, knives flashing in a sequence as familiar to him as the mountains in One. He aims for Blight's vulnerable spots, lunging at his sides, his throat, his wrists. Blight, holding his ground, responds with formidable blocks, the sheer strength of his weapon repelling Gloss' onslaught. Gloss breathes a growl, a bolt of frustration surging through him as his intricate combinations fall flat in the face of Blight's defense. Blight's strategy relies heavily on the use of his handle as a shield, Gloss' blades and wrists catching on it until he is forced to step back, turning the battle into a dance.

Changing tactics, Gloss feigns a low sweep, a deliberate distraction. Blight, ever watchful, evades and counters with the axe; it's a close thing, but Gloss manages to adjust, turning the feint into a spinning attack that forces Blight to retreat. Without warning, Blight spins and unleashes an overhead swing, his axe descending with primal force. Despite the simplicity of Blight's attack, its impact is undeniable, and Gloss is forced into a somersault to avoid the blade. As Blight fumbles with the axe's weight, hefting it back up from where its blade hit the ground, Gloss attempts to tackle him to the floor by his legs. It's a failed attempt; Blight stops him with a forceful kick to the chest, sending Gloss crashing to his back, his knives scattering across the mat.

Before Gloss can leap to his feet, Blight straddles him, planting his knees on either side of his waist and pressing the plastic blade of his axe against Gloss' neck. Johanna actually whoops.

Blight's eyes are locked on him, dark and dilated with a mixture of emotions Gloss is in no condition to interpret. For the first time, Gloss catches sight of the sixteen year old that shoved the blade of his hatchet into a tribute's throat, deep in the throes of a manic frenzy. A tremor of fear rolls down Gloss' spine, as hot and dark as the rush of blood that pools below his waist. Holding Blight's gaze, Gloss feels around with his left hand, his movements slow and quiet so as not to draw Blight's attention. "Oh, Blight," he says softly, his throat shifting against the blade that pins it down. "You wouldn't actually kill me, would you?"

A bolt of confusion tempers the fire in Blight's eyes, and he smiles, tilting his head. The mixture of fear and adoration in Gloss' chest nearly overpowers the private triumph he feels when he wraps his fingers around the handle of his knife. "Of course not, Gloss. I couldn't if I wanted—"

Gloss jabs the false blade into Blight's arm hard enough to make him drop the axe, and with a practiced motion, he slips out from beneath him and mounts him from behind, his ankles crossed around the front of his waist with one arm holding his back tight against his chest. Blight could roll them sideways, pivot his hips, and slide out from between Gloss' legs, but Gloss' knife is pressed tight against his throat.

From somewhere nearby, Johanna makes a disappointed sound at Blight's new predicament. Evidenced by Blight's soft laugh when he turns against Gloss' blade to look at him, Blight is well aware of Gloss' length throbbing against the small of his back. "I hope you're not getting more out of this than I am," he whispers.

"Focus."

Blight chuckles, the vibration of it making Gloss' cock twitch. "Whatever you say, big guy."

Gloss immediately releases him. Blight, in one swift motion, rolls to his feet, picking up his axe along the way. There's a clear pep in his step that wasn't there before, as if the demonstration itself has fed his energy. Still propping himself up on his hands, Gloss eventually looks away and wills his erection to settle down, disguising his deep, shaky breaths as exhaustion.

"Now, Johanna," Blight says, placing his axe in her hands and adjusting her grip. "What did we learn?"

Johanna looks at him with mischievous eyes, quiet for a moment, as if contemplating saying something snarky. Instead, she refocuses on the grip Blight has given her and rests her axe against one shoulder just as he did minutes ago. "It's important to use the handle to block knife attacks," she says, "and maintaining the upper hand isn't as easy as it looks."

Blight gives her a nod of approval, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Exactly. The handle is your first line of defense. Keep it between you and your opponent. And don't…" he casts a wry glance at Gloss over his shoulder. "Don't let yourself get distracted."

With a small smirk, Gloss rises to his feet, confident that his predicament is no longer obvious. "Remember, Johanna," he begins, twirling a knife. "If someone's coming at you with knives or a sword, never let them get too close. You've got a longer reach with that axe. Use it to your advantage."

Johanna nods, her gaze darting between the two of them. Gloss can see the wheels turning in her mind as she processes the demonstration she just witnessed. The defiance is still written all over her face, but now it's tinged with two things Gloss admires in any of his tributes: curiosity and determination. Gloss readies himself, assuming a fighter's stance, and as if on instinct, Johanna does the same. It's a perfect reflection of Blight's earlier stance, and Gloss is more than a little impressed to see how closely she paid attention.

"Now, let's see how you handle an attack," Blight says. He steps back, creating a bit of space between them, and meets Gloss' eyes. "Take the offensive, Gloss. Slowly, until she gets the hang of it."

Johanna scoffs. "Slow? I can't learn if he's going easy on me."

Gloss laughs, and the resulting squint of Johanna's eyes is murderous. "Think of it this way, Johanna. Do you bake bread by throwing a ball of dough into a fire?"

Johanna scowls and grinds her teeth. "...No."

"Exactly." Gloss smirks. "You're catching on."

"Gloss, come at her before she throws something at you."

Gloss bites back a laugh and holds up his knives, beginning a slow circle around Johanna, his movements fluid and precise. He evaluates her stance — tense, tight — and comes at her slowly enough to give her a window, but quickly enough to give her a challenge. Still absorbing the earlier lesson, Johanna mimics Blight's blocking strategy, the dance beginning anew. Her initial attempts are rocky; Gloss easily penetrates her guard a few times, exploiting the openings in her technique. The shadow of frustration in her eyes blossoms into anger, but she doesn't back down.

Sensing the girl's struggle, Blight steps in and falls into sync with her, whispering things like "Good, Johanna. Keep your stance wide; don't be afraid to step back." As Gloss swipes and twists, Blight calmly adjusts Johanna's stance, turning her shoulders and fine-tuning her blocks. Gloss continues his assault, pushing Johanna's defenses, which become slightly more firm, more coordinated, evolving by the second. He feints left and then strikes from the right, forcing her to pivot and adjust.

"Nicely done!" Blight says. It's intended for Johanna, of course, but Gloss can't help but smile at the sound of his praise. He turns up the heat and attacks more forcefully, the clinks of his plastic blades filling the air as he closes the distance and forces her to step back. Johanna stumbles, frustration threatening to get the best of her, but Blight's steady presence at her side keeps her grounded. He whispers encouragement, offering subtle clues to help her anticipate Gloss' next move. It might be to Johanna's detriment, because Gloss, too, adjusts, making his attacks more unpredictable, challenging Johanna to adapt.

It's a struggle, but gradually, Johanna catches on. She begins to read Gloss' movements, her blocks becoming more precise. There's determination in her eyes, a fire kindled by the challenge.

Then, in a moment that surprises even Gloss, Johanna parries a particularly swift strike and maneuvers her axe to catch him off-balance, sweeping his legs out from under him. Gloss hits the mat with a thud, his knives clattering beside him. He hardly manages to conceal his disappointment. Despite the very nature of training and the fact that he's objectively going easy on both of them, his ego laments the fact that this is the second time he's been disarmed in one night. He's getting rusty, it says. He's losing his touch, it whispers. It irks him. But this isn't about Gloss — and he'll never have to enter an arena again.

Johanna stands over him, a triumphant glint in her eyes. The victory is written all over her face, a mix of accomplishment and pride. It's an expression Gloss is quite familiar with; one he's observed and admired on various television screens following a particularly skillful kill. It's almost scary how well she wears it. Gloss chuckles, genuinely impressed, and she glares at him. "Well done, Johanna."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," says Blight, beaming with pride. "You're catching on quickly."

Blight claps Johanna on the back and offers Gloss a helping hand once it's become clear Johanna has no intention of doing so herself. In one swift motion, Gloss takes it and rises to his feet. He meets Blight's eyes, reluctant to release him, but drops his hand away in favor of picking up his knives.

"Remember, Johanna," says Blight as Gloss returns his blades to the rack. "It's about adapting and finding openings. Defense is not just about blocking; it's about turning your opponent's strength against them."

Johanna nods, absorbing the wisdom. Gloss, not for the first time, finds himself admiring Johanna's tenacity. With each passing day, Johanna is becoming a force to be reckoned with — not just a survivor, but a skilled and strategic fighter. But there are a few blind spots left. She won't just be facing opponents equipped with knives.

Gloss picks up a sword, testing the weight of it, steadying it in his hand. He was originally intended to mainline swords; objectively, someone of his size and build is better fit to handle them than throwing knives. It was his own passion for shorter blades that drove him in the other direction. He enjoyed the spin and slice, the toss and stab; loved the way that throwing a knife used so many muscles at once. Swords were too blunt, too straightforward, too simple. But that doesn't mean his trainers didn't force him to learn them, too. Just in case, they said. But he never needed that skill until today.

Twirling the blade, Gloss commands the attention of the room, his eyes on Johanna. "Next, you'll need to know how to fight someone with a sword," he says, thinking of Twinkle. "Then you'll need to know how to disarm them."

Predictably, Johanna glares. Blight watches him, curious. "Up for a demonstration?"

Gloss glances at the digital clock. "Think we can show her in twenty-eight minutes?"

"I think we can show her in ten."

"Optimistic."

Blight breathes a chuckle and stretches his arms over his head, his muscles slick and bright with sweat. When Gloss bites his lip, the man's eyes glint with a hint of mischief. "I figured we could use a bit of positivity."

Johanna hands Blight the axe and watches him ready it, something like dark excitement glittering in her eyes. The process, despite Gloss' rustiness with a long blade, goes smoothly and without incident. Blight struggles at times, his less refined technique evident, but he compensates for it with raw power. There's an artistry to it, a dance that requires precision and grace.

It happens in threes: Gloss takes Blight down with his blade, parrying his attacks and eventually sending the man on his knees, where he swipes the plastic blade across his throat. Then, with a silent understanding that Gloss will go easy on him, Blight demonstrates how to take down someone with a sword, jumping out of the way of Gloss' swipes and eventually catching him in the neck with the blade of his axe. Finally, both of them jumping to their feet, Blight seizes an opening and disarms Gloss with the hook of his axe in a swift maneuver, sending the sword clattering to the mat. Grinning, Gloss retrieves the sword and catches his breath.

"Now, Johanna," Blight says, handing her the axe, "let's see what you've learned."

With a nod, Johanna wields the axe as Blight showed her, and Gloss attacks. He adjusts his tactics, slowing down to allow Johanna the opportunity to find her rhythm. Her struggle is evident as Gloss presses with calculated attacks, and she soon stumbles, the axe slipping from her grasp and falling to the ground. "Damn it!" she groans, her choppy hair flying as she tosses her head back in anger.

Blight steps in. "You can do this, Jo. Use the axe as an extension of yourself. Keep your distance. Make him work for it."

Johanna, eyes rich with determination, picks up the axe and squares off against Gloss once more. The room rings with the clash of plastic against Johanna's handle, wild as they engage in the dance of combat. With controlled intensity, Gloss challenges Johanna to adapt. She struggles, but after a series of clashes, she manages to parry Gloss' strike with a well-timed move. Gloss finds himself disarmed once again, his sword on the mat. Johanna, panting but victorious, grins at her accomplishment.

"Great work, Johanna," Blight says, clapping her on the shoulder. "Remember, it's not just about strength. It's about outthinking your opponent, anticipating their moves, and using every tool at your disposal."

Gloss picks up his sword and turns to Johanna, who listens to Blight with rapt attention even as she struggles to catch her breath. "I'm impressed with your improvement," he says genuinely, flashing her a smile. "You're a natural."

Johanna's face falls before it tightens, and when she cranes her head up to look at him, her eyes have turned to pure steel. "I only have one thing to say to you," she says, her voice low and dark. "I don't want to be anything like you or your tribute. I don't want to be a 'natural' at killing children. You disgust me," she spits, and the words pierce Gloss like a blade to the chest, cold and sharp and poisonous. "You're disgusting."

Blight takes a long step forward. "Johanna—"

Overwhelmed by a wild chill of emotion — insult, sadness, bemusement, rage — Gloss raises a hand and Blight stops. For a moment, Gloss thinks he might do something terrible. Instead, he leans down to look Johanna in the face, close enough to count the wrinkles on her lips. "Yet you're here, Johanna." He tuts once, a mockery of sympathy that only she can hear. "In the arena, it doesn't matter what you want. Not even a little bit. You may not want to be a killer, but in order to make it out alive… you're gonna have to be."

Johanna, wide-eyed, is silent.

Gloss flashes her an ingenuine smile and places his sword on the rack, turning away from the two of them in one swift motion. In a few wide steps, he reaches the elevator, calmly keying in his destination. So far, he's managed to avoid arranging any sponsorships on Velvet's behalf. In this moment, cold with fury, he considers it — if not to give the boy an advantage, then to drown himself in booze and sex to counter the thoughts roiling in his head.

"Gloss. Gloss." Gloss only manages to get one foot into the elevator before Blight's hand is on his elbow, his grip firm and his eyes dark with worry. He lowers his voice, glancing at Johanna, who stands right where Gloss left her with her eyes glued to her feet. "I'm sorry. She's — I'm sorry."

"Forget it." Gloss moves to turn away, but Blight steps in closer. He smells like sweat and pine oil and chamomile — always chamomile — and for the first time, Gloss doesn't want it anywhere near him. "Let me go, Blight."

"Gloss, what if I—"

"Blight." Gloss fixes the man with hard eyes, firm, unmoving. With a shaky breath, Blight releases his elbow and takes a step back. Gloss steps inside the elevator and shakes himself off, his skin tingling where Blight touched him. The feeling, this time, is unpleasant.

"I'm truly sorry," says Blight, but Gloss is in no mood to hear it. "Thank—"

Gloss presses a button to shut the doors, and Blight's voice is silenced immediately, soon replaced by the quiet whoosh of the elevator racing to the floor belonging to District One.

:::

Pouring himself a drink in the kitchen, Gloss tries not to acknowledge how much booze he's already had in less than twelve hours. His first glass was after he chewed out Velvet: a hulking espresso martini because the coffee technically made it a breakfast drink. His second was while he strategized with Blight, catching him between his sponsor visits to work out what they'd be teaching Johanna. (Gloss, as always, offered Blight a glass; Blight, as always, turned it down in favor of a glass of fizzy blue soda, the very drink he sipped on when Gloss first met him.) His third drink was a sweet red wine to pass the time in his bedroom before his early evening appointment. His fourth was during said appointment, a shot of vodka straight from the bottle to rinse his mouth of his client's sour breath. His fifth splashes into his cup as he pours it, a light and fizzy papaya chardonnay he's adored ever since the night he stole a bottle of it from his mother's cabinet. He downs it in two gulps and pours his sixth. Downs that in two gulps and pours his seventh.

Beginning his trek to his bedroom, where he'll set the glass on his bedside table and bury his face in his pillow until the stench of his own sweat forces him to shower, Gloss has half a mind to share this chardonnay with the avox he passes along the way. If only the man still had his tongue, Gloss imagines he'd have some very interesting things to say. No better way to pass the time than engaging in a little bit of treason. Yet another thing I can't change, Gloss thinks, and he quirks a smile at the avox instead; doesn't bother to wait for a reaction.

Body buzzing with chardonnay — sweet and strong, burning straight down to his gut — Gloss presses his hand to the palm-pad lock of his bedroom, drawing in a deep breath. The door opens to the sight of Cashmere waiting for him on the loveseat, her legs tucked under herself and her golden waves flowing over one shoulder of her nightgown. There's a mug in her lap — some hot red beverage that issues a thin trail of steam. She looks him up and down, skepticism in her eyes, and Gloss' chest thuds with a jump-start boom.

"Must have been one hell of a client if they left you looking like that," she says, her gentle-smooth voice loud in the room's utter silence. "But you're not dressed for an appointment. You're modest. Everything fits. And you're… god, you're so sweaty."

Gloss steps inside and the door slides shut behind him. "I went for a run."

"For an hour?" She squints for a moment, then cracks a small smirk. "Why, to burn off all three slices of cheesecake you stuffed down your—"

"Oh, fuck off," Gloss says, and turns to leave.

"No — Gloss," Cashmere calls after him, her voice apologetic. "Gloss, come here. Please."

Gloss stops, takes a long breath, and turns to look at her. "What do you want?"

"I came to tell you that we have to stop fighting. This dispute going on between us… it's hurting our tributes. You're slacking, I'm distracted—"

Gloss rolls his eyes.

"Yes, Gloss! You're slacking." Always a fucking mind-reader. "You can't be bothered to offer a word of advice to Velvet, and your sponsor acquisitions are lower than they've ever been. Ever. I'm just trying to make sure we—"

"Why is this so important to you, Cash?" Gloss asks, his voice cracking on the sudden peak in volume. "Why does any of this matter? Even if Velvet or Twinkle win, the Capitol will still whore us out to whoever—"

"Because I want to retire from this stupid job, Gloss!" Cashmere snaps. "Or at least one of us. Is this enjoyable to you? Being stuck here watching all these tributes try and fail to be like us? It's pathetic, it's depressing, it's—"

"Look who's starting to sound like me."

"I know, and I feel like I'm losing my mind!"

Gloss breathes a laugh. Cashmere, not noticing, continues. "I don't want to be a mentor my whole life, Gloss. I don't want to do this forever. They'll always whore us, nothing can stop that, but I want — I want to put on my ice skates again. I want to get back to doing the things I love."

Gloss' gaze falls to his shoes. Until now, he's been able to avoid confronting his betrayal of her trust. Now, Cashmere has cornered him, frantic and driven to her wit's end because of what he did. Is doing. Will, in all likelihood, continue to do, because Blight is Blight and Gloss made him a promise. But it's a futile endeavor, mentoring career tributes year after year just to send them to their death or prostitution. Odds are, if it hadn't been for Blight, Gloss would still be like Cashmere, willing beyond anything to serve the Capitol new victors in the futile hope of being spared this sad existence. Gloss has told her all this before; has tried to make her see, if not through direct challenges, then in other, smaller ways less likely to provoke a screaming match. But if there's anything Gloss knows about her, it's that Cashmere never listens. She wouldn't be here if she did.

"I just… I just can't believe that after all this time, you still don't fucking get it," says Gloss, meeting her eyes. "We're attractive, we're strong, we're marketable — and so is Augustus, but if that mattered, he'd be in my place right now mentoring Velvet. We fucked ourselves, Cashmere. We're sibling mentors. The Capitol loses their shit when we so much as hold hands; they're not going to let us retire from mentoring no matter how many fresh little fuckdolls we pump out for them to consume." He gestures wildly, the chardonnay in his glass sloshing dangerously. "Every time one of our tributes wins, we're feeding them flesh. We're giving them gifts. We're creating… products!"

Cashmere sits back, slack-jawed, and stares at Gloss with cold eyes until his skin begins to itch. "Gloss… those aren't your words."

"Yes they—"

"And I never want to hear them again."

Gloss stares at Cashmere for a long time, baffled, and can do no more than shake his head and breathe a bitter laugh. In one gulp, he downs his chardonnay and slams the glass on the dresser, otherwise he just might throw it. Cashmere flinches at the impact, her shoulders going high and tight. She places her mug on the coffee table and leans forward to look at him closer, her eyes roving his face.

"How much did you drink?"

Gloss laughs, small and breathy. "That chardonnay is mother's favorite. Just like you," he says in a syrupy voice. "Did you know that for every bottle—"

"I said how much did you drink?"

Gloss narrows his eyes, but the world doesn't come into focus. "If I told you, would you even believe me?"

Cashmere scoffs. "Of course I would."

"Oh. Interesting that you'd believe me now of all times." Gloss taps his nails on the dark wood dresser and glares at her. "If I'm being honest, Cashmere — if I'm being really fucking honest — every time we speak, I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall. For years, I've tried to get through to you. Years, Cashmere."

She sighs. "Gloss…"

"Do you remember? Eight years ago—"

"Don't you dare—"

"—when I returned from the Capitol with what remained of my innocence gone, I begged you — I got on my knees and begged you — not to volunteer for the Games. But you didn't believe me. You thought I was lying." Gloss heaves a breath, his voice raising an octave. "When have I ever—"

"What the hell happened to you?!"

"I was just trying to protect you! I tried to protect you, and you didn't listen and now we're both — we're both fucking miserable, we both want to die, and this all could've been avoided if you'd just fucking—"

Gloss raises his eyes and sees Cashmere curled up on the loveseat, her feet on the ground, elbows on her knees, covering her ears and shaking. "Cashew, diamond, no, no, no…" On unsteady feet, Gloss crosses the room and falls onto the cushions beside her, wrapping his arms around her shaking body and covering her with his own. Her whimpering breaths consume him, break him, tear him apart, and in an instant he feels every bit as disgusting as Johanna told him he was.

Gloss presses his lips to Cashmere's hair, drinking in her warmth, whispering apologies and squeezing his eyes shut to hold back his own hot tears. The tears come anyway, running down his face and into her hair which smells like blueberry — always blueberry, her favorite fruit since the first time she tasted it. To Gloss' shaky recollection, she picked them herself that day, returning home from a friend's house with a basket full of them and asking their mother to bake them into a pie. There weren't enough, so instead of pie for dessert, they had muffins for breakfast. Gloss laughs shakily at the memory, breathing in the scent — not quite perfect, too sweet, too Capitolized — and thinking of home.

Cashmere's voice is so wet and quiet that Gloss nearly doesn't recognize it. "I want my brother back."

"I'm right here, Cashew."

Cashmere sniffs, head down, still hiding behind a waterfall of hair. "Then why are you…"

"Such an ass?"

Cashmere gasps; it might be a laugh. "Yes."

Gloss weaves his fingers into her hair and gently scratches her scalp, something their mother used to do for them after a bad dream. "I… I don't know. I think I'm just tired. So fucking tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of acting like everything's okay."

"It is okay," Cashmere says, a child's words, a child's voice.

"It's not," Gloss says softly. "None of this is. But you already know that, Cashew. Deep down, you do."

Cashmere slowly raises her head, meets his eyes, and nods. It destroys Gloss to see her like this; reminds him of the night he entered her room and found her in a wild storm of tears, ripping off her clothes and flinching when he tried to hold her. The night he told Blight to kill him. The night everything changed irrevocably.

"But we can't do anything about it," Cashmere says quietly. "If they hear so much as a word of this conversation, they'll kill us both."

Gloss clenches his teeth. "I'd like to see them try."

"Gloss, don't be stupid," Cashmere breathes with a bitter laugh. "No one can stop Snow. No one."

Biting his lip, Gloss searches her eyes, feeling fresh tears run down his face. Cashmere pulls him down to press a kiss to his forehead, sweet and tender. It reminds him of a time before either of them picked up a blade. A time when they were just children and children was all they had to be. She pulls Gloss close and wraps her arms around him in a hug he hasn't felt from her in ages. No eyes, no cameras. Genuine. "You can't give up on them, Gloss," she whispers. "I know what they'll go through if they win. I know it. But they're people. They deserve a chance to win and we have to give it to them."

Gloss crumbles, breathing a sob into her neck not for the reason she thinks, but because he sees Velvet, sees Go, and feels disgusting.

"I know it hurts," Cashmere murmurs, rubbing circles into his back, "But they'll be okay. We'll be okay. Everything will be okay, treasure."

Unable to stand it any longer, Gloss pulls away, slowly, gently, and nods. Cashmere wipes her tears on her sleeve and turns back to the coffee table, retrieving her mug and taking a dainty sip. Uncannily, it's still hot, billowing steam and the scent of cherries. Gloss rubs his eyes, the tension in the room turning the silence uncomfortable. Regrettably, the first words that come to his mind are of Velvet.

"I suppose now that we're speaking again, I should tell you that Velvet accosted me in the hallway yesterday morning to shower me with praise. He told me it would've been an honor had I beaten him for it."

Cashmere breathes a laugh, lowering her cup to her lap. "Oh god, he's in love with you."

"Tell me about it."

"No, I mean he's in love with you. He looks at you like you're a work of art. If he survives the arena, he'll probably propose."

Gloss smiles bitterly, his mind wandering once again to their predicament, the prostitution, the hopelessness of it all. Even if Velvet were in love with him, there would be nothing for it but furtive glances and guilty, stolen moments if Gloss ever took interest — which he wouldn't, considering how uncomfortable the boy makes him. Still, it's sad to imagine him winning and falling victim to the world of booze and drugs and prostitution that awaits every victor with a pretty face. When Gloss speaks, his voice is dark. "I've thought a lot about that. If he wins. How he'll handle it."

"Me too," says Cashmere, passing Gloss her mug for a taste. Gloss immediately takes a drink. "Imagine how heartbroken he'll be when he finds out you're not into men."

Gloss spits his mouthful back into the cup.

"Gross, Gloss. I was drinking that."

"Sorry, I—" Gloss wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. "I hate cinnamon."

"You love cinnamon rolls."

Gloss passes the cup back. "I hate it with cherries."

Cashmere stares at him with curious eyes for a long moment. Then, when Gloss does nothing, her expression relaxes, immediately replaced with exhaustion. "Well, now that my drink is ruined, I suppose I should go to bed," she says, patting his knee and rising in a whirlwind of blueberry and cherry. "Get some sleep, Gloss. And take a shower. Not in that order — the other way around."

Gloss cracks a smile. "That bad, huh?"

"Terrible." Reaching the door, Cashmere turns back to look at him, her lips pursed in thought. "It isn't too late to get Velvet a few sponsors. I just… I don't know what they'll do if they think you've given up."

Gloss sits up straighter. "You think they'll punish me for it?"

"If not both of us. They're fond of collective punishment," Cashmere says, and suddenly, Gloss wonders if she really has been listening. "You can't give up, Gloss. It just isn't an option."

Gloss takes a shaky breath and nods. "I love you."

A smile, soft and sweet and thoughtful. "I love you, too."

"Goodnight, Cashew."

"Be good."

Gloss chuckles. "No promises."

Cashmere raises her hand to the palm-pad and the hallway swallows her whole.