Gloss returns from breakfast feeling overfull, the previous night's chardonnay manifesting in the form of a dull, buzzing ache behind his eyes that turns his thoughts dark and heavy.

It seems everyone on team One was starved for his contributions. Even his meager input (simple things, like self-awareness in the arena and which stations the tributes should visit on this, their third and final training day) was met with rapt attention from everyone at the table. Velvet was by far the most enraptured, his big blue eyes reading Gloss' every move and his smile glittering like jewels as he spoke. Perhaps Gloss accidentally fed into it by tossing him a smile and entertaining his anecdotes about training before the others arrived for breakfast. Thankfully, Gloss was able to avoid being cornered by him afterward. The only person who managed to catch him was Cashmere, who squeezed his arm and thanked him for 'getting back on track.'

"You've got plenty of time this afternoon to gather sponsors. Use it," she said, her calm green eyes a perfect mirror of their mother's — and his own. "Okay? I'm proud of you."

Leaning on his palms in front of his bathroom mirror, freshly shaven, impeccably dressed, Gloss avoids his own reflection and breathes a bitter laugh. She's proud of him. If she knew what he's up to — the true reason for his neglect of Velvet's interests — perhaps she'd kill him herself and stomp on his grave. But he loves her. Desperately. They share the same parents, the same upbringing, the same blood. He'd forgive her for almost anything. And it occurs to him that maybe, if his arrangement with Blight was somehow exposed, she'd have it in her heart to forgive him. It's a curious question, but he can't afford to risk the answer. None of this is about him, anyway. It's about Blight.

It's why Gloss regrets having to blow off their meeting today — the one where they sit and strategize about Johanna's training before Blight leaves to collect sponsors and Gloss returns to his floor to drown his anxieties in a glass of booze or jerk off in his bedroom to the memory of Blight's hand or elbow brushing against him. It's pathetic, but Johanna's thrown a monkey wrench into the calm and quiet arrangement they've had for years, and frankly the absence of their routine has turned Gloss desperate. It was a good routine — not a great routine, but a Capitol prostitute takes comfort where they can. Until now, Gloss had no clue how badly he'd come to rely on it. He misses it, misses midnighting with Blight at the hotel to talk and fuck until they both remember how to smile again.

Sliding a navy overcoat over a tight black sweater, Gloss glances in the mirror, tidies his hair, and distanly thinks that if he were going to Blight's floor, Blight might make a subtle comment about how nice it would be to take it off of him. Then, of course, he'd clear his throat and refocus on the subject at hand, leaving Gloss to will his blood to return to his brain. Gloss has always appreciated fashion — has an eye for colors and fabrics and clothing — but Blight has traditionally been more concerned with how difficult Gloss' suede belt is to take off when he's in the middle of trying to bend him over the couch and—

Gloss presses a button on the wall and kills the lights, dousing his reflection in shadow. Regrettably, he won't be informing Blight that he's missing their meeting. There are no methods to contact him that won't be tracked, and Cashmere, who has clearly decided to dictate his every move this afternoon, will likely notice if he takes the elevator anywhere other than the lobby. Gloss was illogical to believe that he could go the whole Games without gathering at least a few sponsors to create a believable alibi. Perhaps Cashmere saved his hide. If Gloss doesn't at least pretend to play the game, she won't be the only one to get suspicious.

Gloss arrives at the betting square just in time to be accosted by a handful of Capitolites, some with familiar faces, others he's never seen. He smiles and shakes hands and bullshits his way through introductions. One thing these peacocks have in common is that they've all apparently been looking for him.

"Where have you been, Mister Rosewood? I've been so eager to see your face."

"Your tribute is beautiful, so cherubic! Velvet has the arms of a—"

"Oh yes, Velvet! Is he an archer, perchance? I've only ever seen muscles like those on—"

"Gloss! Gloss! Does Velvet have a girlfriend back home? Or maybe even a… boyfriend?"

Masking his disgust with a laugh, Gloss swallows a wave of anger. Each one of these people, if given the chance, would buy Velvet's body a hundred times over. Without speaking a word, the boy has managed to market himself. His big blue eyes, blinding red hair, and the near-nakedness of his chariot costume have made him an overnight sex symbol. Gloss hates himself for the thought that snakes into his brain: the boy is lucky Gloss' responsibility this year involves letting him die. A lifetime at the mercy of wolves like these is a fate worse than death.

An older woman with midnight blue hair and all-black eyes forces herself into the center of the crowd none too kindly, ignoring their glares and protests. "Ignore them. They're all practically bums." With taloned fingers, she flashes Gloss a golden card emblazoned with a silver eagle with outstretched wings: the emblem of the Capitol. "Marcia Price. I'd like to contribute thirty thousand Panars to the pool of Velvet Rissel."

It's a close thing, but Gloss manages not to tell her to fuck right off. Thirty thousand Panars is a stupid high pre-Games contribution, even for a Career tribute, and Gloss has no doubt what she wants in return for it. Obligated to play the part, he offers Marcia his arm and graces her with a glittering smile. Together, they walk through the crowd and into the shadow of a tree Gloss doesn't recognize. For a fleeting moment, Gloss wishes Blight were here to identify it.

"Thirty thousand Panars," Gloss begins with exaggerated awe, forcing himself not to gag at the powerful scent of cigar smoke emanating from her black rabbit fur scarf. Judging by her cosmetic surgeries and arrogant disposition, she's likely a narcissist, which is no surprise for a Capitolite. He chooses a humble approach. "Quite a generous offer. I'd be remiss not to accept."

"Yes you would, Mister Rosewood," Marcia declares, looking up at him past her nose. Gloss flashes his teeth and hopes she mistakes it for a smile. He may be a victor, but to this piece of work, he's nothing but district. "Which is why I'm sure it will be no trouble at all for you to pay my dear sons a visit on July 10th at 11:00 PM. They'll be at Volumina Lawn. Price residence." Lifting a bejeweled chain clock, she checks the time. "Two days, eleven hours, and twenty-three minutes from now. It will be an all-night endeavor."

Something cold sinks into Gloss' chest. He's had his share of multiples, but that doesn't make them any less horrific. Even just one pair of hungry hands is more than enough to make his stomach curdle. "I'm sure that can be arranged," he manages to force past his lips. "How many people require my entertainment?"

"Three," says Marcia, a foul glitter in her smooth black eyes. She pats his hand, her talon-like nails cold against his skin. "But don't worry yourself sick, my dear. It's only a dinner party."

Gloss raises a brow in mock-interest. "I do enjoy a good meal."

"I'm glad to hear that, Mister Rosewood." She smirks with yellowish teeth. "After all, you'll be the main course."

Gloss stares speechlessly at her for a long moment, frozen solid. The trainers at the Academy would often repeat the four instincts hardwired into all humans in response to danger: fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. As future Careers, one of their duties was to eradicate their 'freeze' and 'fawn' instincts entirely. It's times like these that Gloss feels like a failure, cowed in the face of monsters with money. Seven kills. Seven dead tributes whose blood drips from his hands. He's supposed to be powerful.

"You didn't come down to the betting square without your communicuff, did you?"

Gloss returns to the moment with a soft shake of his head. "Of course not, Mrs. Price," he says, and is slightly relieved when she offers no complaint. He was correct in assuming her marital status.

He lifts his left wrist and pushes up the sleeve of his overcoat, revealing a black, watch-like band with a touchscreen face. Issued to all mentors, the communicuff is used to accept donations and launch sponsor gifts from outside the mentor room, among other things. Blight's got one just like it.

"Type in fifteen thousand Panars," says Marcia.

Gloss looks up from the communicuff and meets her eyes. "Our arrangement was—"

"Fifteen thousand now, and fifteen thousand after a job well done. If you find that unacceptable, I can schedule our dinner party with Snow's secretaries instead. Velvet Rissel won't see a single coin."

Gloss grits his teeth so hard, they nearly break. Without a word, he types fifteen thousand into the donation screen. Marcia taps her golden card against the tempered glass with a musical beep, and in an instant, the transaction is complete. Seeing Velvet's pool for the first time, Gloss finds that the boy has accrued nearly fifty thousand Panars, all of which had already been donated by various Capitolites who saw the boy's body and didn't need convincing. It's beyond what the majority of outer-district tributes can expect at this stage in the pre-Games, but by the third day of training, most of Gloss' previous Career tributes had already accumulated over three times as much on account of his ceaseless marketing. In spite of himself, Gloss feels a wave of disappointment at this meager number, as if it were a personal failure and not his intention from the moment he promised his help to Blight.

"Wonderful," Marcia says with a sly smile. Gloss tries to find comfort in the fantasy of chiseling out those yellow teeth with a knife. "Mister Rosewood, it's been a pleasure."

"Likewise," says Gloss. He turns on a heel, but she places a hand on his forearm. It takes every drop of his restraint not to snap the talons off of her fingers. "Mrs. Price?"

"Do remember to wear something pretty, my dear. Bailus likes lace." She glances at his overcoat. "Go with blue. You wear it well."

:::

Evening comes more quickly than Gloss expects. After so many years of schmoozing with Capitolites for their money, the routine of fake smiles and handshakes has become almost muscle memorym, passing the time with almost scary efficiency. Checking his communicuff on the ride back to the Tribute Center, Gloss finds that Velvet's pool has accrued ₱101,310. It's a mediocre number for a tribute like Velvet. Gloss supposes he should consider it a job well done.

He arrives on One's floor shortly before dinner. Avoxes set the table, the tributes prepare themselves in their rooms, and Cashmere, Felicity, and the stylists congregate in the sitting room, everyone but Cashmere fawning over a shirtless picture of some man on Felicity's tablet. Gloss manages to slip out of the elevator unnoticed. Upon entering his room, he finds a small wooden box at the foot of his bed, unmarked and unsigned, presumably placed there by an avox in his absence. Gloss briefly looks around as if the culprit might be hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush him. The room is empty. Removing his overcoat and laying it across the back of an armchair, Gloss approaches the foot of the bed and picks up the box. He turns it over in his hands. Small, sturdy, made of wood the color of Blight's eyes. There's a tiny silver latch at the front of it, and Gloss opens it carefully.

Nestled into a black velvet cushion is a tiny metal cuff that glitters in the faint light of the city beyond the floor-to-ceilng window. If it's a ring meant for a finger, it would only fit an infant. Pinching it between two fingers, Gloss removes it from the box and brings it up to his face to look at it closely. It's bright silver engraved with elegant rings and divots that make it look as if it were a piece of bark shaved from a platinum tree. Gloss walks to the window to watch the lights of the Capitol flicker on its surface. Biting his lip to suppress a smile, he realizes that before tonight, he's never received a gift from Blight. He's also never given him one. Occasional letters from their respective districts have always sufficed, and anything else would have almost been… too soon. As if their circumstances would ever afford them a proper time to take whatever it is they've been doing any further.

Holding the cuff in his hand and still unsure what exactly it does, Gloss wonders at the implications of this gift from Blight. Pessimistically, he briefly considers that it could be an entirely shallow gesture intended to sweeten him up so he'll continue helping Johanna. Gloss doesn't believe it for longer than a second. Blight — thoughtful, considerate, kind — has more integrity in his little finger than anyone Gloss has ever known.

He presses the cuff to his lips and lets the cool metal warm up against his skin, closing his eyes and imagining Blight's distinctive scent, his hair between his fingers, the warmth of his breath against his neck. It's an apology. Gloss made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him immediately after Johanna's outburst, a thing which he still regrets, recalling the hurt in Blight's eyes. He never meant for it to last long, never meant for it to be permanent — but how was Blight to know that? It suddenly becomes clear to Gloss that the gift in his hand is Blight's way of reaching out and touching him in the only way he thought he could.

Gloss tucks the cuff back into its box and gently snaps it shut. In District One, it's a faux pas to let a gift go unreciprocated. In the past, walking past various stores on the way through the Capitol, he had occasionally spotted stray items he would've purchased and given to Blight had he ever felt it appropriate. A fountain pen, an ornate mug, a crystal hairbrush. At the time, those things struck Gloss as thoughtful gifts. Now, in Blight's time of need, they feel utterly shallow. 'Thanks for the hairbrush, it'll come in handy while I'm trying to keep my best friend's daughter from getting disemboweled.' It's too bad, really. Gloss has always liked Blight's hair, especially when they were younger and he wore it long enough to reach his shoulder blades. After his stylists made him cut it — according to them, it had become unprofessional for a man of his age and was confusing his clients — Gloss immediately grieved its length and texture. He missed the way it parted like water between his fingers; the way it brooked their faces like a waterfall when Blight was on top of him; the way he had to push it out of his face when it snuck into his eyes.

Gloss gasps when it comes to him.

Dinner is mostly uneventful. Gloss smiles and laughs and entertains the tributes' questions with generic answers they could've gotten from any trainer back in One. He does a passable job of avoiding giving explicit advice for their private sessions with the Gamemakers the next morning. He boasts about the day's sponsor acquisitions when Cashmere puts him on the spot and questions him in front of everybody. It seems to put the team's mind at ease. Cashmere tells him later that she had to ward off their questions and complaints about his lack of initiative in the past few days, something for which Gloss is beyond grateful. He much prefers an unexpected, tearful visit from his sister to a chewing-out by Felicity, one of the most insufferable people he's ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Long after dinner, when everyone else has fallen asleep, Gloss emerges from his bedroom in light, mobile clothes and quietly makes his way to the small prep center on One's floor. It's where the stylists do the tributes' hair and makeup in the morning, because the first priority for any training session is looking fabulous. It takes a minute of digging, but he finds what he's looking for. Then he shuts the drawers, kills the lights, and slips into the elevator quiet as a mouse.

:::

The training room is crystal clear beyond the glass doors of the elevator. Gloss isn't sure what he expected to find, but it wasn't Blight and Johanna sitting in the corner of the room, two rocks and a cord in front of them as Johanna whittles down a stick through the middle with a knife. The instant the doors slide open, Blight looks up from the conversation and spots him, the immediate surprise in his eyes melting into a soft, relieved smile. "Welcome in," he says, and it sounds like he's inviting Gloss into his home.

Johanna places the knife down and admires her work for a moment before meeting Gloss' gaze. There's something different in her eyes now, quiet and neutral, devoid of much of the hostility they bore for him only a day earlier. Gloss wouldn't be surprised if Blight had a discussion with her. It's unnecessary, but the thought makes him smile in spite of himself.

Gloss walks to the nearest rack and picks up a knife on his way to join them, looking down at the pile of tools in their possession and trying to make sense of it. "You two look like you're up to something."

"I'm—"

"Blight's showing me how to make an axe," mutters Johanna, setting down the stick in favor of the two stones. Blight looks just as stunned as Gloss is at the fact that she voluntarily addressed him.

"Good thinking. You can't always guarantee that you'll have access to the weapon you want," Gloss says. He sits down cross-legged in front of them. "Blight, do you remember—"

"The Games with no weapons?" Blight picks up the stick and analyzes it, completely missing the glare Gloss shoots at him. "I don't think they'll make that mistake again. The Capitol didn't care for those Games. Lowest ratings in decades."

"I remember seeing those when I was little. So much strangling," Johanna says under her breath, using one of her rocks as a hammer to chip at the other one. Blight reaches over and guides her hands for a moment, perfecting her striking motion. She strikes again, and a thin slab of the rectangular rock slides right off.

Gloss hadn't previously considered that Johanna might not immediately gain access to a weapon. Careers generally have their choice of the Cornucopia's bounty. It makes him wonder what Johanna's strategy is for the bloodbath. Makes him wonder whether she'll run in the opposite direction or fight for access to the weapon she needs. Gloss doubts either of them would tell him if he asked, but Blight's current lesson might be all the indication he needs. Then again, it could be he's just covering his bases, preparing his tribute for all possible scenarios. Blight has always been resourceful. Gloss has always admired that about him.

"You stare at each other too much," says Johanna, not bothering to look up from her rocks as she speaks. Gloss immediately realizes that he has been looking at Blight — quite openly, in fact. He averts his attention to his knife and begins tossing and spinning it like a circus act. "Keep it up, and people might think—"

"You're gonna want to find a cord made of jute or rawhide — something thin and flexible, but not breakable," says Blight in an impressively casual tone. "You might have to cut a strip off of something, like your belt if it's made of leather. You'll want to twist it, too, before tying it on." Blight lifts the cord to get her attention and begins to twist. "Like this."

Johanna smirks, but listens to him anyway. Gloss is under no illusion that she buys Blight's deflection, but for the moment, she seems to allow it.

Once the rock is properly shaped, Blight teaches Johanna how to use the cord to secure it onto the stick as tightly as possible. They each stand and have a turn at swinging and testing its durability. It's impressively strong. Gloss directs Johanna to do a few exercises with it, and she attacks a dummy, causing some impressive damage. It isn't as durable or effective as the Capitol's version by any means, but it'll do in a pinch — and that's all they can really ask for. She'll just have to get her hands on a knife.

"Blight," Gloss calls in a half-whisper. Blight turns away from Johanna to look at him, and it's as if he still can't quite believe he's actually here. Crossing his arms, he comes closer, leaning in sideways to hear him over the crash and bang of Johanna's exercise. This time, his scent is welcome. Gloss has missed it. "I say we show Johanna some ranged work. She may not get her hands on an axe, but she'll need a knife anyway if she wants to be able to make one. It'll help her to know how to throw it."

Blight nods, taking his eyes off of his shoes to meet his gaze. "I like that idea. We also need to show her how to dodge things. Not just hand-to-hand, but things like throwing knives and arrows and bolts. I—"

"Blight, I'm sorry," Gloss says, the words slipping out unbidden. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I left."

Blight looks at him for a long, heavy moment, his eyes roving Gloss' face. He nods, a gesture of forgiveness. "If you hadn't come tonight, I would have understood."

"I made you a promise; I was always going to come." Blight smiles at this, small and genuine. "But I just needed some time alone. Some time to get Velvet some sponsors. I have to keep up appearances; make it look like I'm invested in him winning."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Gloss," says Blight. "I trust you."

It lights a fire in Gloss; burns him inside-out every time. He chooses not to divulge his conversation with Cashmere. Chooses not to tell him that the One team had begun to complain about Gloss' negligence. It's in the past now. Gloss smoothed it over, is making it up, is covering his tracks. Besides — if he tells him, Blight might stop looking at him the way he is now, like Gloss is as stunning as a sunset through the trees.

Johanna takes another hack at the dummy, the strike loud enough to draw Gloss' attention. Its head is about two hits away from coming off.

"You don't think she… knows, do you?"

Blight makes a sound that might be an aborted laugh. "Oh, I'm fairly certain she's figured it out."

Gloss squeezes his eyes shut and sighs.

"But that isn't why she treats you so badly," says Blight. "She has a girlfriend back home. Ivriel. Ivy transitioned, what, three years ago? Jo's no stranger to this kind of thing. She just…" his mouth turns down at one corner. "She hates where you come from."

Gloss smiles, flat and joyless. "So do I."

Blight squeezes his shoulder. His touch alone makes Gloss feel desperate for more. "Gloss…"

"Fuck!"

Gloss nearly jumps out of his skin. Blight, as always, handles the interruption far more casually, turning to face Johanna without skipping a beat. The girl holds out the axe in two parts, the head in one hand and the stick in the other. Behind her, the dummy is all but destroyed. If it were a tribute, it'd be dead three times over. "It fucking broke, Blight."

Blight takes the axe pieces from her and crouches to pick up the cord that fell to the ground. "Wow. With the way you were manhandling it, I'm surprised it didn't break sooner."

"You mean it's supposed to do that?"

Gloss breathes a laugh; this time, Johanna doesn't glare at him like she wants to choke him. "It's a rock on a stick, it was going to break eventually. But look." He points at the dummy, and Johanna turns, looking it up and down as if seeing it for the first time. "It's no Capitol weapon, but it's a weapon. If that dummy were a tribute, it'd be gone."

Johanna hums and raises her brows, apparently impressed with her own work. Blight, who left to throw the axe pieces away, returns with a knife. He hands it to Johanna with the blade facing away from her, a perfect mirror of how any parent would teach their child to hand over a knife. Johanna holds it imperfectly, her grip incorrect for throwing.

"Knives are by far the easiest weapons to come by in the arena," says Gloss. "Not to mention that if you're gonna make an axe, you're gonna need one anyway." He approaches Johanna, who takes a step back, then stops in front of her and holds up his hands, a signal that he's not up to anything untoward. "I just want to adjust your grip. We have some work to do before you can throw these things."

Johanna's shoulders ease down, and she lets him adjust her fingers on the handle of the blade. Her hands are sweaty from all of her work with the axe, and Gloss directs her to wipe them on her clothes before adjusting her grip again. "Good," he says. He meets her gaze, darker than Blight's in more ways than one. "Have you ever thrown a knife before?"

"Not really," she says. "But I'm up for it."

Gloss flashes her a smile. "That's the spirit."

Unsheathing his own knife, he stands in front of a target. Blight steps back, giving them space. Gloss begins by demonstrating the technique, the smooth release, the flick of the wrist. He throws the knife with precision, and it lands in the dummy's sternum with a thud that makes Johanna jump. Grabbing another knife, he shows Johanna his form. She mimics him, lets him adjust her arms and stance. She mimics Gloss' throw, but the blade veers off-course and clatters to the floor. She glares at it, frustration evident on her face.

Gloss picks up another knife. "Again."

The routine begins – Gloss throwing knives, Johanna attempting to replicate the motion. The first few tries result in missed targets and frustrated expressions, but they don't stop until she gets the hang of it, Blight stepping in when her frustration threatens to boil over. Over the next twenty minutes, her throws become more accurate, her eyes becoming more determined and her face lighting up with every small success. She never quite lands the blade in the dummy's head, but she eventually manages to land it in the heart — again and again.

In no time, Johanna exchanges her knife for an axe. Gloss continues throwing knives — this time, plastic ones — but this time, Johanna has to evade them. Blight and Gloss direct her to draw from the techniques Gloss taught her on the first day. She gets hit a few times, yelping as the plastic jabs into her body and clatters to the ground. It takes time, but these failures become fewer and farther between as she grows faster and more resilient. Blight joins in, offering tips on evasion techniques.

By the end, Johanna evades a series of Gloss' knives and hurls her axe straight at his head, the weapon arcing through the air in tight, perfect circles at a speed Gloss just barely manages to duck. Slowly standing up straight, Gloss looks behind him where the axe hit the wall and smashed to the ground. The world turns slow, silent, and transforms into the arena he left eight years ago. He remembers this moment. He remembers that axe and he remembers having ducked it. Exactly now, he turned around, unsheathed a knife, and threw it right into the heart of the boy from Seven. 'You did a good thing for my tribute,' Blight told him months later. Gloss doesn't remember the boy's name. Suppressed it like he did all the others.

"Johanna," says Blight, his voice cutting through Gloss' memories, "I think you're ready."

Johanna breathes a massive sigh of relief, her choppy hair flying through the air as her chin falls to her chest. "Finally."

"Not yet," Gloss says, pulling his eyes away from the axe and turning to face them.

Johanna barely contains a groan.

"The most crucial lesson I learned in my training as a Career," Gloss begins, "is hypervigilance. Never allow a blind space behind you, make a mental note of the directions the other tributes run off to, and know every possible escape." He lets the weight of those words settle before adding, "We have a tool for scanning your surroundings. If you look closely at any Games past a certain year, you'll start to recognize Career tributes doing it. It's called the Seven Point Sweep."

Johanna tilts her head. "Alright."

"It's simple. Soak in your surroundings in seven steps. One to two seconds each. Left, forward, right, behind," he says, swiveling his head in each direction. "Then do it again in the opposite direction. Right, forward, left." Completing the sweep, he turns back to face Johanna. "Now try it. Verbalize each direction you're looking in as you do it."

Johanna obeys, looking in every direction on a smooth swivel for one second each. "Right, forward, left, behind. Left, forward, right."

"Good. Now practice that. Practice it in your bedroom, practice it at breakfast, practice it every few minutes before you enter that arena. Each time you do it, make a mental note of the things I mentioned earlier: where people are located, where people are going, and every single escape. Got it?"

"Got it."

Blight, standing beside Johanna, nods in agreement. "You also need to know the arena like the back of your hand. Or at least your section of it. Know where you've been, and anticipate where you're going. Before you run in any direction, quickly assess it. Otherwise, you might run off a cliff or into a trap."

Johanna nods, closing her eyes for a moment, committing their words to memory. When she opens them, she does it again: "Right, forward, left, behind. Left, forward, right. Like that?"

Gloss smiles in spite of himself, earnest, genuine. For a moment, he almost forgets that he's doing this for Blight. "Yeah, Johanna. Like that."

The subtle twitch at the corner of Johanna's mouth might be a smile. Gloss glances up at the digital clock. Six more minutes.

"Oh," he says, scrambling for his pockets. "I brought you something."

"Oh, Gloss," Blight says, "You didn't have to."

"I did," says Gloss, meeting his eyes. "You know I did." Gloss nearly forgot what Blight looks like when he blushes.

Gloss draws a small velvet pouch from his pocket. "A gift, Johanna. For you."

With a skeptical glint in her eyes, Johanna holds out her hands and lets Gloss place the pouch in them, looking at Blight for a moment before he nods, a silent gesture to open it. Slowly, Johanna loosens the drawstrings and pulls out a stretchy black band about an inch wide, subtle enough not to draw attention, small enough to be brought into the arena as a token. She holds it up and looks at it, turning it around and letting the subtle silver sparkles in the cloth catch the light.

"It's a headband," says Gloss. "I've seen you push your hair out of your eyes, and I thought it could—" he clears his throat. "I thought it could help. In the arena."

Johanna pushes the pouch into her pocket and fixes the headband onto her head. Though her hair looks a bit awkward, short enough to circle her face like a halo, it's safely out of the way of her eyes. She moves her head from side to side, but her hair stays in place. "It's… nice."

Gloss smiles with pursed lips. "I'm glad you think so."

"I just have one question."

Gloss' breath catches in his chest.

"Eight years ago, you volunteered to murder kids like me," says Johanna. "What changed? Why did you help train one?"

Pulling in a deep breath, Gloss resists the urge to grind his teeth. "No one leaves that arena the same person, man or woman."

"So you've changed." Johanna scoffs. "All those guts you spilled in your Games, all that blood on your hands—"

"Johanna—"

"—and all you have to say for yourself is that it changed you? Do you expect me to forgive—"

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness," Gloss snaps, his voice too hard, too sudden. "Yes, it changed me. When it was over, I was fucking traumatized. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't live with myself. But you wanna know what really made a difference, Johanna?" He takes an unsteady breath and meets the eyes of the man behind her. "Blight. Blight changed me."

The room drops into a long, heavy silence. With two pairs of eyes on him, Gloss begins to feel claustrophobic, naked.

"It sounds like you're in love with him."

"Johanna, that's enough." Blight's voice is strong, authoritative, and Johanna stiffens when she hears it. "Help me put up these weapons. We're almost over time."

Gloss considers staying behind to help, but finds he can't quite meet Blight's eyes. Not now. Not yet. "Goodnight, Johanna," he says, a subtle message to Blight that their night isn't over. "And good luck."

On the elevator ride, Gloss closes his eyes and counts his breaths.

:::

On the roof of the hotel, the lounge is relatively quiet tonight. There are small groups here and there, most of them hovering around the bar or leaning against the glass barrier, staring out over the midnight Capitol. Most Capitolites aren't night owls. Back at home, away from all these responsibilities, Gloss isn't a night owl either. He wakes up at dawn, follows his workout routine, finds something to do all day, and retires at a godly hour. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Blight looks every bit as worn out as Gloss feels. They had a silent agreement that they'd return to their floors to shower and re-dress before meeting here, but standing under the water doesn't seem to have done either of them much good. They're as close as they can be in public, sitting on a couch together and facing the skyline with their knees touching in the dark. Blight's fingers wander onto Gloss' thigh, warmth blooming beneath his touch. When an avox passes, he moves away.

"I can't change Johanna," says Blight, finally breaking the silence. "I can't make her like you or respect you or even appreciate the things you've done for her, but I want you to know that I do. I appreciate you. Immensely."

Gloss turns his head and looks into Blight's eyes, the man's approval soaking into every inch of him and making his insides glow. He needs that feeling like he needs air. "I did it for you, diamond."

Blight tilts his head, a soft, bemused smile slowly blooming across his face. "You've never called me that before."

Gloss winces, cringing at himself. "It's a term—"

"Of endearment, I know. In One."

Gloss narrows his eyes at him. "That's the second time you've done that today."

"Damn it," Blight says with a quiet laugh. "Sorry, I — goodness, I'm terrible about that, aren't I?"

Chuckling, Gloss feels a heat rise to his cheeks. Suddenly, the air turns strange between them. Electric. "I'm afraid so," he says, and barely restrains himself from taking a sip of his wine to escape the hot buzz in his chest.

"I heard you call Cashmere diamond once. In an interview, if I'm not mistaken."

"I remember that. It was during her victory interview," Gloss says, looking out at the skyline and drinking in the glitter of streetlights and stars. Letting his eyes unfocus, the image of the city blurs into a perfect replica of her shimmering dress, floor-length navy blue, clinging to her body like leather. Gloss had never seen her in something so revealing, the neckline plunging deep between her breasts and baring her chest for all the world to see. It was difficult to look her in the eyes. A shame, really. All he'd thought about since she left for the Games was how much he missed her long-suffering glare when he tugged her braid or called her Cashew. "God, I missed her. I missed her like you wouldn't believe."

Blight's gaze falls to his hands. He fidgets; wrings them between his knees. "No, I… I believe it. Been through it. A few months every year, actually." He bites his lip, seeming to consider his next words carefully. "But once in a while, I get letters from him. From… you. It helps ease the ache."

And that… that turns Gloss' bones into ash. Observing Blight's profile, dark against the slowly emptying backdrop of the rooftop lounge, Gloss considers how simple it would be to tell him he loves him. Three simple words, a flick of the tongue, fuck the world, fuck the consequences. When Blight turns to look at him, his dark eyes are so soulful, so earnest, that Gloss opens his mouth to actually say it. A cold wave of terror barrels into his chest with all the power of a shotgun blast, and the words turn to boulders in his throat. He chokes. Fight, flight, freeze.

Blight sets his hand on Gloss' thigh and gives him a soft, comforting squeeze, his expression tinged with concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You didn't," Gloss says quickly. He flashes Blight a smile, but it dies as soon as he conjures it, crumbling like a sandcastle in a storm. "I just… do you wanna get out of here?"

Blight licks his lips, examining Gloss' face with thoughtful eyes. "Yes I do."

:::

Head thrown back in laughter, Blight shuts the door of the hotel room, locks it, and tosses his suit jacket over the back of a chair, careless as ever. "You still don't know what it is?"

Gloss snaps the wooden box shut and slips it into his pocket, shooting him a put-on glare. "You said you wouldn't laugh."

"I said no such thing," Blight says with a grin, working off the buttons of his dress shirt with one hand. "Besides, I thought you'd be familiar with all kinds of jewelry."

Gloss raises his brows in faux-shock, trailing his eyes down Blight's chest as his shirt falls open. Thick, black tree rings bleed onto his chest, a shadow on his freckled skin. "Blight Bythesda, buying into district stereotypes? I never thought I'd see the day."

"We're all capable of making mistakes," says Blight, the most flippant admission of guilt Gloss has ever heard. He crosses the room and silences his retort with a searing kiss, melting Gloss' thoughts and turning his knees to water. For a long moment, Gloss is paralyzed, helpless to do anything other than unbuckle his belt and let it fall to the ground. The man tastes like blue soda and mint and a dozen other sweet, colorful things that make his mouth tingle.

Blight steps back when Gloss reaches for his belt, stilling him with a soft smile.

"Fuck," Gloss breathes.

"Give it to me."

Gloss blinks, more than a little dizzy. "I will."

"I mean the box I gave you," Blight says with a breathy laugh. "I'm gonna show you how to put on the ear cuff."

"That's what it is?"

Blight pats Gloss' cheek with one hand and uses the other to pluck the box from Gloss' pocket himself. Intentionally, he grazes the hard line of Gloss' cock along the way, softly chuckling when Gloss gasps. "I thought it would be subtle," he says, opening the box. "Not too flashy, not obnoxious. Elegant. Sophisticated." He meets Gloss' eyes. "Perfect for you."

Careful not to drop it, Blight removes the cuff from the cushion and tosses the box onto the same chair he threw his suit jacket on. He isn't usually so hurried, so careless. Gloss privately finds it amusing. Evidently, he's just as pent up as Gloss is.

Blight presses the cuff just right, and it opens right through the middle, its two halves spreading apart on tiny hinges.

Gloss draws in a breath of surprise. "I can't believe I didn't notice that."

"Don't beat yourself up over it, sugar," Blight says quietly, stepping in close and turning Gloss' head to the side. "Now you know."

Blight has to stand on his toes to gain proper access to Gloss' ear. His fingertips are warm, calloused from the past few days of practicing with weapons. When he clasps the cool metal cuff on the shell of his ear, Gloss shivers. "There," Blight says softly. He stands up taller and presses a kiss to Gloss' ear, his breath hot and smoky and setting Gloss' skin on fire. "Just like that."

It's impulse, it's obligation, it's the truest kind of muscle memory. Gloss grabs him by the waist, pulls him close, and kisses him hard, swallowing Blight's deep and hungry moan.

"Who's on top tonight?" Gloss growls against his lips.

Blight laughs, silky-rich. "I am," he whispers, and pushes Gloss toward the bed.

Nothing matters after that. Nothing but Blight.