The snow burned like fire on Gloss' bare skin, soaking into his bones as he scrubbed a great handful of it into his underarm. His body heat melted it into droplets that streaked through the dirt on his ribcage and snaked beneath his belt, leaking cold and crisp down his thighs. Bracing himself against the freezing cold, he grinded his teeth into the hem of his shirt, which he'd bitten to keep it lifted while he bathed. His own stench had begun to burn at his nostrils every time he moved, so bitter and sour that it'd become a distraction he could no longer stand. He missed the luxuries of One: the embrace of a hot shower, the fine, glittery mist of cologne as it simmered in the air, the scent of marshmallows roasting on an open fire, burning black and melting on his tongue.
Ostensibly, living in One all his life, he was no stranger to the cold. When they were younger, he had trekked with Cashmere up the snowy mountain, loaded with sleds and all the fixings to light a fire once they reached the pit at the very top. In the winter, when the gurgling streams were half-iced and too cold to swim in, they had dared each other to strip down to their skivvies and jump inside for as long as they could stand it. Gloss had always dived in first; always teased Cashmere until she jumped in after him. In the arena, far from One, was Gloss, wading in the frozen stream, goading Cashmere to jump. In a matter of months, when he'd won the Games, she would.
Shaking the snow off of his hand and letting his shirt fall back down to cover him, Gloss rotated his foot, watching the moonlight oscillate on the wet black leather. His boots were still crusted with the vomit of his ally's last kill. On her knees, she had screamed and begged and upchucked her stolen dinner right on Gloss' feet until his district partner fed her a blade through the back. Gloss still couldn't imagine why she'd chosen him to plead with. Still couldn't imagine why, staring into her manic eyes, he'd frozen instead of stabbing her straight through the throat.
Even after the snow bath, Gloss still reeked. Reeked of sweat and smoke. Reeked of that tribute's dinner. In the dark, cold silence of midnight, he felt Cashmere's eyes on him from far beyond the arena, envious of his bravery and the glory that awaited him. Such glory. The glory of killing twelve-year-old girls for stealing a pack of crackers.
The woods were so quiet, he could still hear the girl's begging in his head, underscored by the snowy breeze and nothing else — not even the hoot of an owl. And Cashmere was still looking at him.
Something was looking at him.
There was a crunch in the snow behind him, and, on a wild impulse, he ducked, narrowly missing an axe that screamed through the air and landed in the trunk of a pine tree. In one liquid twist, he pulled a knife from his belt and swung it in the direction the axe had come from, burying it in the heart of a boy whom he could only identify by the long, dark braids that flew out around him as he crumpled to the snow. The instant cannonfire was lost beneath the blood thundering in Gloss' ears as his allies ran towards him through the trees, shouting his name. Suddenly lightheaded, he didn't know what to look at — the dead Seven boy or the axe that nearly took off his head.
'I'm here. I'm fine,' Gloss shouted, strangely breathless. His gaze was frozen on the boy's wide-open eyes, dead and dark as coal. 'I killed him,' he panted. 'He's dead.'
Gloss shook himself out of his stupor, walked to the boy's corpse, and removed the knife from his heart with a squelch of blood. He didn't close the boy's eyes for him; just hovered like a vulture and watched the snowflakes melt on his irises, the boy too dead to blink them away.
Months later, the boy's mentor, sort of smiling at Gloss, said, 'You did a good thing for my tribute.'
Gloss wakes to the blurry sight of two amber eyes hovering over him, floating in a glittery white void that immediately strikes him with a burning agony that splits his head in two. He hears himself groan against the pain and raises his heavy hands to shield himself from the blinding light. The agony is so sharp and vivid that he can hardly breathe, feeling the weight of a thousand anvils pressing on his brain from all sides. It's the kind of pain that makes him want to jump off a cliff just to make it end.
He hears the distant sound of footsteps retreating and a shuffle of fabric that immediately shuts out the light. Heaving a deep breath, he blinks once, twice, and slowly lifts his head to scan his surroundings. Above him, a glittering chandelier; around him, a hotel room with fine gray wooden walls and ornate curtains splashed with wine; at his bedside, an avox with a broom in her hand, looking pointedly away from him; beneath him, a virtually untouched mattress; on him, nothing. He's naked. And… well… he looks cold.
He tries to scramble to cover himself with a pillow, but he bangs his hand on the headboard instead. Mercifully, the avox leans over and grabs it for him, quickly dropping it on his waist to cover his nudity. Even through the thick black cotton of a hangover, Gloss feels pathetic. He murmurs something that's supposed to be an apology, but instead it sounds like nonsense. The avox nods, slow and uncertain. He stares at her. She stares at him.
"Hey," Gloss says finally. "Do you think you could…" He doesn't even know what he's asking for.
With a decisive nod, the avox holds up one finger in a gesture for him to stay put, then crouches to pick up a dustpan full of broken glass. Broom in hand, she leaves the room. Rarely has Gloss been at the mercy of an avox, although his adventures as a Capitol prostitute have earned him some notable encounters. He isn't certain what to expect when she returns — if she returns. Slowly sitting up and scooting back to lean against the headboard, Gloss keeps himself covered with the pillow and looks around the room once more, willing his memories of the previous night to return him. The sight is familiar: his pants are folded on the loveseat, his shoes are near the front door in a haphazard pile. On the ground near the bathroom lies his own discarded towel. Folded up on the bar counter is a towel belonging to…
Blight. He remembers Blight's eyes, sharp and hard and glaring at him, venom on his tongue as he told Gloss they couldn't let this get any worse because Gloss had confessed… everything. Gloss told him he loved him. Blight left. Gloss drank.
With a digital ping and a near-silent hiss of the door, the avox returns with a glass of water and a small plastic cup with a dark blue capsule inside: a hangover pill. Gloss has had them before, and they provide nearly instant relief.. Gloss accepts both and swallows the pill down with a gulp of water. He tries to hand back the glass, but the avox motions for him to finish it, an expression of authority that would likely get her punished by a Capitolite but which Gloss has no capability or desire to oppose. He snorts, amused, and sucks down the water. Spreading the fingers of one hand, she signals for him to give the pill five minutes to take effect. Gloss tries to crack a smile. It might work, it might not. Nevertheless, she turns two shades pinker.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
A nod. She takes the cup. Then, with another ping, Gloss is alone again.
When Gloss stumbles into the bathroom, he finds that the avox has tied a small hand towel into the shape of a rabbit. Clasped onto one of its fluffy white ears is the silver cuff Gloss left behind in the night, the swirls on its surface bright in the artificial light. The sight of it makes Gloss' breath freeze in his chest. Brushing his fingertips along the shell of his ear, he recalls Blight's warm hands clasping the cuff for him; recalls his lips against his ear, the warmth of his breath flooding through Gloss like a tremor.
'We can't just let it get worse,' Blight had told him. Worse. Like every moment they'd spent together was a mistake.
Gloss still smells like him; still reeks of the chamomile scent Blight had chosen in the shower. 'Lovely. Now I'm gonna smell like someone's grandmother,' Gloss had teased him, murmuring the words against his lips. Blight's eyes had crinkled at the corners like they always did when he smiled. 'Then someone's grandmother has excellent taste in tea.'
Gloss showers until the scent has vanished; brushes his teeth until the taste of liquor and vomit no longer stains his tongue. The cuff glitters in the corner of his eye when he spits into the sink, taunting him, teasing him.
He leaves the bathroom, shutting the cuff in the dark. Redressing in the clothes he'd discarded, he wills himself to ignore the subtle scent of Blight's beard oil on his shirt collar. Dressed and clean, he hovers at the front door, bounces on his heels, and tries not to think.
'I thought it would be subtle,' Blight said, opening the box. 'Not too flashy, not obnoxious. Elegant. Sophisticated. Perfect for you.'
Gloss breaks. With a growl, he retrieves the cuff and shoves it deep into his pocket, the cool metal leaving an unpleasant tingle on his palm long after he lets it go. Rushing down the hallway, he tells himself he wouldn't be a true One native if he let such a lovely piece of jewelry go to waste. He could have a jeweler in One melt it down for materials. He could sell it to a collector.
They're all terrible excuses. He feels pathetic regardless.
:::
Gloss usually doesn't allow himself to look this unpolished in front of people — this casual, this ordinary, this basic. Sitting across from Velvet in a tiny meeting room, Gloss feels almost naked in a pair of blue sweatpants and a black muscle shirt, his hair unkempt and falling in all directions. But it's only Velvet, he tells himself — and today, with his mind still clouded by the weight of Blight's rejection, Gloss couldn't care less how he looks. To his chagrin, the pill didn't cure his hangover all the way, and an ache still pulses just behind his eyes like a breathing cancer. It only serves to darken his already sour mood.
Velvet sits folded in on himself, hands clasped in his lap, struggling not to stare at Gloss' bare arms too openly — which Gloss appreciates. Velvet's smile is uncertain, his big blue eyes nervous. Gloss forces a smile, but the edges are brittle, and he can tell that Velvet senses the strain.
"Let's get you ready for tomorrow's interview," Gloss says, his colorless voice sounding impatient even to his own ears. On the side table by his elbow is a glass of wine and a tablet containing Velvet's proposed answers to a list of potential interview questions. Gloss manages to pick up the tablet instead of the glass. It's a very, very close thing. "What you have here is good, but it needs to be polished. There's a lot of anecdotes, a lot of emotional responses, but for a Career tribute, it's all a little…" Gloss looks up, struggling for a word. "Saccharine."
Velvet raises a brow. "What does that—"
"Sweet," Gloss interrupts. "Sentimental. There's nothing about killing here, nothing threatening, nothing to really rile up the audience. In a Career, the Capitol looks for confidence. Conviction. Aggression, even."
Velvet pinches his lips together, his eyes searching the air. "I can, um. I can be confident."
Gloss doesn't manage to swallow back a long, heavy sigh. "Velvet, this could either be the best interview of your life or the last interview of your life."
Velvet's face falls. Gloss, for some reason, feels obligated to turn it around.
"Is there anything that makes you feel passionate?" he asks. "Something you could truly get mad over, something important?"
Velvet licks his lips. "I was thinking… maybe I could talk about Go."
Gloss' eyes narrow slightly. Practically every answer the boy wrote involves his brother in some way. This time, he manages to swallow down the sigh, but what comes out of his mouth instead isn't much better. "Really?"
"Yes," Velvet says, his voice surprisingly firm. "I want the nation to know why I'm here. What drives me."
Gloss sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Velvet, talking about your brother could make you look weak. Vulnerable."
"Indigo is not my weakness," Velvet says, a hardness in his eyes that Gloss hasn't seen before. "He's important to me. He's my strength. And so are all the other kids in One. Some of them don't have homes or families, you know, and maybe I… I dunno, maybe I can…" He stops himself with a slow breath and draws his eyes away.
Gloss studies him for a long moment, reading the emotion in the furrow of his brows and watching him grind his teeth. He sees a bit of pensiveness in him — something solemn and insecure. Something that can't exist in the arena. Biting his lip, Gloss feels the mask slipping; he's exhausted, wrung dry, sick of playing pretend. "Velvet, I think you chose the wrong career."
Velvet's eyes shoot up immediately. "What?"
"In that arena, you will have to kill boys like Go. They'll shit their pants when they die and piss themselves when they look at you. They'll scream for their mothers and grandmothers and you'll be the reason why, Velvet. Are you sure you're capable of withstanding that? Are you absolutely positive?"
Velvet is silent for a long moment. "I… I don't…"
"You don't know," Gloss finishes for him, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. "How long have you felt like this?"
"Since the reaping," Velvet admits. "Since I saw them and… Mister Rosewood, five of this year's tributes are twelve."
Gloss sucks his teeth, his patience wearing thin. "And chances are you're gonna have to put a bolt in at least one of them," he says. "You're in the Games right now. I can't call you a cab and send you back to One. You put yourself here, and now you're going to have to kill people, including little kids, to get out of it."
Velvet pulls in a breath. "I know."
"Do you?" Gloss tilts his head, his eyes boring into Velvet's. "Because I've seen you over the last few days. I've seen how you handle confrontation, stressful situations, unexpected events. You panic, Velvet. You clam up and you turn red and you… god, how did you even pass the psychological exam?"
Velvet's eyes flash with anger, hard and bright. "Did you bring me here just to insult me?"
Gloss winces. "No, I…" He licks his lips. "I just hate seeing…" He hates seeing good people die. But he doesn't want to say that; doesn't want to bring the boy lower.
Velvet gulps down nothing, clearly hurt and struggling to hide it. "I'm not weak, Gloss. My mom called me sensitive, but that doesn't mean I'm useless."
Gloss sighs. "I don't think you're useless, Velvet. I don't. I just think that—"
"I'm going to go out there and freeze up and die in the bloodbath because I can't bring myself to kill someone," says Velvet, voice sharper than Gloss thought him capable of. "Right?"
Gloss' mouth hangs open for a moment, a little speechless, and he scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. "I won't deny it."
Velvet breathes a sad little laugh, licking his lips and shaking his head in something like disbelief. The weak smile fades away, slowly crumbling into a soft frown. He doesn't meet Gloss' eyes, but even with his head tilted down, Gloss can make out a shimmer of moisture on his lashes.
Gloss purses his lips, remorse blooming through his chest like a disease. "I'm sorry," he says, rubbing his temples, and Velvet's expression floods with surprise. "I'm sorry, you're right. Let's, uh — let's go with your angle.
Blue eyes red and wet with unshed tears, Velvet clears his throat. "But you just said you thought it'd make me look—"
"I know I did," says Gloss, sitting up and steadying his tablet on his knee, "but I was being a dick with a hangover on three hours of sleep and no breakfast."
"Oh… wow," says Velvet, raising a brow. He squints a little, tilting his head. "Are, um. Are you okay?"
Gloss looks up from the tablet for a moment and gives him a thin smile. "Don't worry about it," he says, and refocuses on the tablet instead of Velvet's baffled expression, opening a blank page. "We're going to have you talk about Indigo, but we need to find an angle that shows your strength. A feel-good story alone won't work on the Capitol. Not for a tribute in your position."
Velvet nods, relief flooding his features. "I can talk about how I've protected him. What I've taught him. How he looks up to me."
"That's good. We'll tell a story about how you've used your skills to protect Indigo. Show your strength and capability, your resourcefulness. The Capitol loves a good hero narrative," Gloss says, scribbling notes onto the tablet with his pointer finger. It always looks like gibberish, and he fucking hates it. "If anyone looks up to you, it's him. We need to make your brother a stand-in for the audience; make them feel like they're the ones being protected. It won't be difficult," he says, ending the note with a flourish. "Capitolites are extremely impressionable."
Velvet tilts his head. "They are?"
Gloss looks up, realizing he'd spoken without thinking. "Yes," he says after a moment. "Very." Closing his mouth, he searches the boy's face, marveling at his innocence and thinking, not for the first time, about how easy it'll be for the Capitol to manipulate him if he doesn't have the tools to resist it. "Remember that, Velvet. You'll need it for when you win."
He says that on purpose, 'when you win,' just to put a smile on the boy's face.
Velvet does indeed smile, but it's a bit hesitant, a bit confused. "I will," he says after a moment, and his smile turns even brighter. "Thank you."
Gloss manages to lift the corner of his mouth in something that might resemble a smile. "Don't thank me," he tells him, and he means it.
:::
That evening, Gloss discovers that Volumina Lawn is a sprawling gated community of glistening mansions swallowed by gardens decorated with string lights and bushes in bloom. A ways down the winding stone road, shadowed by two massive weeping willows, is a mansion Gloss can only assume is the Price residence, judging by the lights in its windows and the polished vehicles dropping off obnoxiously dressed Capitolites by the fountain.
Gloss sits in the back of a sleek black taxi, wondering exactly when and where the Price brothers intend to share his body. Surely they won't fuck him in front of their visitors, forcing him to his knees and stuffing his mouth with cock while a crowd of peacocks cheers them on. Perhaps that's exactly what Gloss has to look forward to — after all, in the words of the Price matriarch, this is a dinner party and he is the main course.
Drowning out the classical music playing over the radio, Gloss picks absently at the thick garter belt that runs down his thigh, clipped to a sheer thigh-high stocking that hugs his leg like rubber. Velvet's stylist was more than happy to accommodate him for the evening, cheerfully telling him about her girlfriend (which stung) as she danced around him with a tape measure to make certain that his humiliating lingerie fit him perfectly. He managed to convince her to let him wear a coat over the outfit just for the road. After a bit of fussing over color matches, she provided him with a hulking black fur coat with a silk inside and no hood to hide his head and face. She refreshed his memory of how to walk in tall wedge heels (a sleek black velvet pair he could easily imagine being worn by a pole dancer), and by the time he boarded the taxi, he was halfway confident he'd make it through the night with his ankles intact. It was a shame the same couldn't be said for his dignity.
The taxi stops behind a line of vehicles at the decorative fountain, and Gloss presents his card and pays for it wordlessly. He sucks in a deep breath before someone opens the door for him — an avox with kind brown eyes and a tunic that almost looks handsome in the blue midnight. Ducking his head, Gloss steps onto the cobblestone ground and makes sure to pull his long coat out behind him, the thick material nearly suffocatingly hot this deep into the summer. He murmurs his thanks just quietly enough for only the avox to hear, and the young man looks stunned at the recognition, nearly forgetting to close the car door behind him.
"Gloss Rosewood, is that you?" comes a deep voice from somewhere behind Gloss. He hardly has time to turn his head before the man materializes in front of him, dressed in the Price black with eyes so familiar, Gloss can guess the man's name before he says it. "Bailus Price," he says with a polite bow of his head. Before Gloss can respond, he offers his arm as if Gloss were a princess or a noblewoman. "Come with me, won't you? I'd imagine you've never visited this part of the Capitol. You must be unused to the cobblestone road; it wouldn't do for you to trip over in such fine shoes."
Gloss takes his arm, willing his expression not to show his reluctance. The man smells decent, at least. Leather and licorice and hints of blood orange — nothing like his mother, who had reeked of cigars. "Indeed it wouldn't," says Gloss, letting the man walk him down the path through the lawn, the fountain growing louder with every step. "I'm afraid I haven't worn shoes like these in years."
"Really?" Bailus asks, and turns to look at him with a tilted head and eyes that appear genuinely shocked. "A shame, if you ask me. You're tall already. With the added height, you nearly tower over me."
Gloss breathes a laugh, clinging to Bailus' arm a bit harder than he'd like because the cobblestone truly is quite challenging in these shoes. "It certainly wasn't my intention," he says, carefully ascending the steps onto the mansion's deck. "I would've asked my stylist—"
"I believe you have me mistaken, Mister Rosewood," says Bailus, stopping them at the top of the stairs. He turns to face him with an earnest expression, craning his neck to look at Gloss properly. "I quite like it."
A chill runs down Gloss' spine. He forces a smile to conceal it. A pair of avoxes open the wide double doors for them, and Bailus resumes guiding Gloss into the mansion. It's almost grotesquely brilliant, every wall decorated with wide, vast paintings, a chandelier casting twinkling golden light throughout the space as nobles, politicians, and celebrities mingle in the vast entrance. Overwhelmed, Gloss pulls in a deep breath.
"Before we begin…" Bailus swiftly guides Gloss to the left, away from the crowd and through a hallway purposefully left dark, presumably so guests know not to traverse it. He stops Gloss in front of a stained glass door and opens it for him, gesturing him into a room that appears to be an office. With a simple command, the room is bathed in soft golden light. Bailus stops in front of Gloss and tilts his head, eyes wandering his fur coat curiously. "Did you wear it?" he asks, voice deceptively polite.
Gloss knows what he's referring to before he finishes his sentence. He forces himself to smile, tilting down his chin and looking at him through his lashes. "Just for you," he says, sweet and syrupy, and the words make him want to vomit.
"Brilliant," says Bailus, his voice already rough. He raises a hand to Gloss' collar, but stops before he touches it, looking Gloss in the eyes. "May I remove it for you? I'll make certain it goes somewhere safe."
Gloss grinds his teeth. He's always hated when clients play innocent, like they're doing him a favor. "Of course," he says, because whores like him don't get the privilege of denying such men anything.
Bailus takes a deep breath and takes hold of Gloss' collar, his fingers disappearing into the dense, soft fur. He removes it slowly, his eyes heatedly roving every inch of Gloss' skin as it's exposed, and Gloss has the pleasure of watching his pupils dilate in real time, deep black consuming his irises whole. Taking the other side of his coat, Bailus slips it off of his shoulders, his hands brushing Gloss along the way, making him shudder. Once he's slipped the coat from Gloss' arms, he folds it in half and drapes it over his arm like a butler, eyes tracing his body all the way down to the tips of his shoes.
Gloss feels almost entirely nude in a fine royal blue lace thong that leaves very little to the imagination, the shape of his cock more than obvious beneath the fabric. Bailus reaches out with his free hand and runs a thumb along the hem, his touch stinging Gloss' skin through the lace. Gloss suppresses the urge to do something violent. "Beautiful," Bailus murmurs, and his voice is rough as limestone. Gloss can imagine hearing it in his nightmares.
Bailus draws his hand away and produces a bell from his suit pocket, ringing it once and drawing Gloss out of his horror. Within moments, an avox pushes open the cracked door, her bright blue eyes skimming Gloss once before snapping to Bailus. Bailus thrusts the coat towards her without looking her in the eyes. "Coat room," he says through grit teeth. "Don't lose it. Return it to Mister Rosewood at the end of the night."
Ducking her head, the avox takes the coat from his arms and tucks it against her chest. Stopping at the door, she casts a glance over her shoulder at Gloss, her long blonde braid slipping down her back. Above her left brow is a dark birthmark the size of a thimble, something Gloss would remember if he'd ever seen her in person. Still — blue eyes, blonde hair, an upturned button nose… Gloss wonders if she isn't from District One.
"Out," Bailus bites. The avox jumps, then ducks her head again and leaves the room, leaving the door cracked just as she found it. Bailus turns back to Gloss with a smile and holds out his arm. "Shall we?"
Gloss looks down at Bailus' arm like he's just been offered a fresh piece of shit. He takes it anyway, forcing a smile that's almost painful. "Lead the way."
Somewhere along the way through the mansion, passing Capitolites dressed in wild colors, Bailus' hand drifts to the small of Gloss' back. Gloss catches the eye of every Capitolite they pass, many of them gushing over his fame, and many of them simply gawking at his ass, his cock, and his bare arms and chest. Gloss feels more like a platter of luxury meat than he usually does in such company, and there's a part of him — a small, young, vulnerable part of him — that wants nothing more than to turn tail and run.
"My my, honey, aren't you a treasure?" says a woman, purple-haired and golden-eyed, and she reaches out and touches Gloss' ass with all the confidence of someone out of their mind. Gloss immediately jerks, his shoulders going high and tight.
"Ah-ah," Bailus says, like he's chiding a child who's reached for a cookie. "You may look, but you may not touch. Show some manners, won't you?"
The woman purses her lips and walks off to bother someone else.
"Thank you," Gloss breathes before he can remind himself that this man bought him, dressed him, and dragged him to this dinner party for his own enjoyment.
Bailus tilts his head at him, lips pursed in a gentle smile. "No need, Mister Rosewood. She should've known better." Gloss might be convinced by those words if the man didn't follow them by glancing straight down at his cock. "Now," says Bailus, removing his hand from Gloss' back and adjusting his tie, "You're due in the dining room for your presentation in exactly fifteen minutes. I will be doing the introductions, of course, being the host of this affair. You'll be the first of three acts."
Gloss tilts his head and squints at him, a pang of alarm shooting through his chest. "Presentation?" he asks. "What exactly will I be presenting? I haven't prepared—"
"Bailus, dear, there you are! I've been looking for you for ages." A man with orange hair and a comically groomed mustache places a hand on Bailus' shoulder, drawing his attention away. Bailus covers his hand with his own, and it's only then that Gloss notices their matching rings. "Caroline would like to see you. She says—"
"I'll be right with her, then," says Bailus. He presses a quick kiss to the man's lips, and Gloss looks away, suddenly struck with a pang of jealousy he's in no mood to unpack. "Gloss?" Bailus calls, and Gloss snaps to attention like a trained dog. "Fifteen minutes. Don't you worry, you'll be fabulous."
"Bailus, what am I—" Gloss begins, but before he can finish asking what the fuck he's presenting, Bailus is whisked away.
Gloss growls under his breath, turning to look over the crowd. Really, these heels give him an excellent view over even the most obnoxious of headdresses. Within moments, he locates what appears to be a bar. He should be ashamed of the instant relief that floods through him, but much like his earlier jealousy of Bailus and his husband, he's in no mood to explore it. He fights his way through numerous vapid interactions with Capitolites — some he knows, some he doesn't, and some he's fucked — and by the time he's leaning against a marble counter with a shot of vodka in his hand, he's at least five minutes closer to his dreaded 'presentation.'
He knocks back the vodka effortlessly, savoring the sweet burn that shoots straight down his throat like a comet. Taking a deep breath, he's considering ordering another when a familiar voice teases him.
"Impressive. There's only one man I know of who can knock back a drink like that."
Gloss feels himself smile even before he catches sight of her. "Didn't I tell you?" he says, and turns to face her. "I'm a…"
His breath goes out of his chest the moment he lays eyes on her. Delle Wycliffe, breathtakingly beautiful in a strapless black dress that reaches the floor, looks up at him with deep brown eyes surrounded by eyeshadow that looks like a sunset. Her lips are glossy with dark lipstick, and a long slit runs up to her waist, revealing nearly her entire smooth, dark leg as she leans against the bar beside him. Long black gloves run up past her elbows, twinkling in the light, and her kinky hair wraps around her head in an intricate braid, giving Gloss a perfect view of her round, smiling face.
"...professional," Gloss finishes, finding his tongue at last.
Delle giggles, and without the roaring crowd of the betting square, Gloss is able to properly appreciate it. "You flatter me," she says, which immediately snuffs out Gloss' hope that she hadn't noticed his fascination. "What are you doing here? I didn't expect to see you in a place like this. Especially not in a getup like…" she casts a lingering glance down at Gloss' lingerie, and the only thing that keeps him from trying to hide himself is the fact that her gaze isn't predatory like the others'. "Well, I simply wasn't expecting you."
Gloss breathes a chuckle, looking down at his shoes. "Well." He gulps down nothing, quickly attempting to determine what exactly would be wise to say. "Every once in a while, I'm um… purchased, for lack of a better word."
Delle's face falls, her brows furrowing in a mixture of concern and horror. "Purchased?"
Gloss draws a sharp breath,immediately regretting his words. "I made an exchange," he says, a desperate attempt to correct himself. "The Prices donated to Velvet, and I… showed up." Absently, he looks across the room and raises the shot glass to his lips only to find it completely empty. "Shit," he murmurs under his breath.
Delle squints at him, concern and distaste written all over her face. It occurs to Gloss, in one strange, fiery instant, that she might not know what he's referring to — she might be entirely unaware of the prostitution. It never occurred to him that a Capitolite of her status could be blind to it, but here he is, dressed in lingerie at a dinner party where everyone else is fully dressed, and here she is, staring at him like that.
"You too?" she says, and it's so quiet, it's almost a whisper. So she does know. Gloss can't imagine why she would've assumed it didn't apply to him too. Among victors, he's one of the best-known and best-looking. Snow makes a pretty penny selling his cock to the very men and women with whom she's come here to fraternize. And suddenly, with that thought, Gloss feels a faint prickle of resentment.
"I'm so sorry," says Delle. "I didn't know."
"Delle, I don't believe that for a moment," says Gloss. He doesn't mean to say it, but he does — and the words come out of some dark, bitter place within him.
Delle's face flashes with hurt, and she looks down at her shoes and draws a breath, biting her bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Gloss. I'll leave you—"
"No, Delle, forgive me, I…" Gloss places down his glass, moving an inch closer. Catching her eyes, he tries for a joke. "It's just that this damn thong is so uncomfortable."
Delle snorts inelegantly — a proper snort, the piglet kind — and Gloss breaks into a soft laugh just seeing her smile. She laughs with him, soft and quiet, the tension between them slowly dissipating. The reality of Gloss' position still hangs in the air like a simmering fog, but Gloss can ignore it, and apparently so can she. "I can imagine," she says, still smiling like a moonbeam. "That aside, how have you been, Gloss? Did you…" She tilts her head and peeks at Gloss' ear, her dark eyes turning wide and worried. "You're not wearing the cuff anymore. Did something—"
"Mister Rosewood?" says a man, butting in between them, and Gloss finds himself flooded with relief. "Bacchus Price," he says. Gloss believes him. He's got the bird-like Price eyes and the fake Price smile.
Delle looks up, and Gloss looks up with her. Most of the guests have moved away to congregate in the dining room. It's filled with chairs surrounding a makeshift stage, and Gloss feels a pit of nerves form in his stomach.
"Miss Wycliffe, do you mind if I steal him from you?" asks Bacchus. "Your fiancé is in the dining room with the others."
"Oh, that's no problem," Delle says, looking a little shocked, but smiling nonetheless. Bacchus takes her hand without being offered and presses a kiss to her fingertips. Glancing at Gloss, Delle smiles uncomfortably. "I'll see you… after?"
Gloss smiles, brief and small. "Yes. After."
Then Delle walks away.
Bacchus guides Gloss toward the dining room from a different direction, whisking him down a hall and stopping him at an alternate entrance. He takes a book from his coat and hands it to Gloss, opening it to a specific page. It isn't until Gloss reads the first sentence that he recognizes it as a book of his own poetry. He hasn't so much as thought about it in years; only ever wrote it when forced to by his escort under the excuse that 'Every victor must have a talent; you can't be sitting in your mansion doing nothing all day, you must be productive!'
Gloss, emboldened by a sudden, strange panic, attempts to hand the book back to him. "I'm not doing this. I haven't—"
"It's just three poems," says Bacchus. "Bailus will introduce you, you'll take the podium, you'll read these three poems in a row — I've dogeared them for you here, here, and here — and then all you'll have to do for the rest of the night is look gorgeous."
Gloss actually scowls at him for an instant — just an instant — before schooling his features into something completely neutral. It wouldn't do to be punished for insubordination.
"That's all, Gloss," says Bacchus. "You'll do it for us, won't you? Remember your obligation."
Gloss nods, gritting his teeth. He turns away from him, brooking no further discussion, and watches through the doorway as Bailus mounts the stage, introduces himself, and then welcomes him — Gloss Rosewood! — like a poor man's version of Caesar Flickerman.
Gloss steps up to the podium to uproarious applause, drinking in the painted faces and multicolored eyes filled with parasocial admiration. His tall frame, accentuated by his towering heels, makes them have to look up higher than usual, though many of them choose instead to admire his body, a few wolf-whistling among the applause. Fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the podium's lacquered wood, Gloss shoves down the urge to vomit.
The noise dies down by itself, dulling into a murmur of whispers and clinking glasses as the crowd settles down. "Hello, everyone, I'm Gloss Rosewood," Gloss says, his voice strangely awkward and dry with alcohol. He forces a playful smile and adds, "But you already knew that."
The crowd chuckles, and as Gloss opens the book to the first dogeared page, he feels a bit of the tension in his shoulders begin to relax. Taking a deep breath, he scans the audience and finds Delle's smiling face. She sits next to a tall, dark-skinned man in an equally understated black outfit, and Gloss can only assume him to be her fiancé. He focuses on Delle's face as he begins the first of the poems, willing his nerves to quiet down.
It's a piece he wrote during a particularly dark time, a narrative about winning the games. It flows smoothly from his lips, clear and steady, and the audience nods and smiles with every word. To Gloss, the words feel hollow, unreal, dishonest. He was all of twenty years old when he wrote it, and it's devoid of the guilt of killing, the rage of winning, the humiliation of prostitution. His job wasn't to stay true to himself, his job was to entertain the peacocks sitting in front of him.
He must do a good job of concealing his distaste, because they applaud him when he finishes, some of them almost frantic and others more polite. The second poem, in Gloss' opinion, is more honest. He wrote it about missing Cashmere during her Games. It's descriptive, dreamy, filled with bold, vivid descriptions of golden hair and emerald eyes and laughter and home. It elicits sympathetic murmurs and a few misty eyes. In the crowd, someone blows their nose with a golden handkerchief. Even Gloss feels rather stricken by it, his chest tight with emotion.
He turns to the final page and realizes with swift and sudden horror that it's a love poem he wrote about Blight. He remembers this one — remembers swooning over memories of their first kiss, thinking of the scent of Blight's hair and the taste of his lips and… and it's over. Blight's gone. 'We can't just let it get worse.'
It's only when Delle clears her throat that Gloss realizes he's been silent for nearly a minute.
"In the Quiet," he says, and meets her eyes. He doesn't have to look down at the page for this one; he knows the words by heart.
In the quiet, I find you,
a presence steady and calm,
hearing words unspoken,
patient as the turning seasons,
kindness woven in your every gesture.
You remember the little things,
the 'just because' moments
that light up our darkest days,
and in your quiet way,
you transform my chaos into peace.
With you, I unravel and rebuild,
each layer of myself laid bare,
no masks, no pretense,
just the truth of who I am
and who I can become beside you.
No one else has reached me
in the way you do,
and in our secret moments,
I understand what it means
to be truly seen, truly heard.
As Gloss reads, something in Delle's expression changes, a clarity taking over as her eyes slowly fill with resignation. It feels like she can see right through him, like in his words, she can see his confession, his melancholy, the rejection he faced. The weight of her gaze becomes too much, and Gloss looks away, concluding the poem in a voice that almost shakes.
You've given me a gift,
a glimpse of something rare,
and in your presence, I find
a place where I can finally be
the person I was meant to be.
The crowd erupts into applause, people blowing kisses and dabbing their eyes and cheering his name. Gloss thanks them quickly and steps off the stage, exiting the dining room the way he came.
"Wonderful," says Bacchus, pausing his applause to clap Gloss on the shoulder. "I knew you could do—"
"Thanks," says Gloss, not looking at him, not stopping. He retraces his steps back to the bar with his head hung low. It's his second drink of the night, another stinging shot of vodka, and while he downs it effortlessly, he hears Bailus' distant voice introduce a comedian he's heard of once or twice in passing.
He was blind when he wrote that poem. Naive, immature, thinking only of Blight's kindness and not the very real potentiality of Blight breaking his heart. Before Blight, Gloss had never opened himself to a person who wasn't Cashmere — had never felt the need to, as his entire life was consumed by school and the Academy. Once he won, once he killed, once his body was sold, things like love had not only become a possibility, but a necessity. What he'd said to Johanna was entirely true — he couldn't have done it without Blight. Without Blight, he would have become even more bitter, more selfish, more blind and cruel. Without Blight, he… well, he might even be dead.
He feels a prickle of tears stinging his eyes, his skin turning hot and red, his hands beginning to tremble. He sets down the shot glass and retreats to the office Bailus had brought him to at the beginning of the night — the one down the dark, lonely hall. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights; just throws himself into an ornate chair more luxurious than even the ones in his own mansion and buries his face in his hands, demeaning himself with thoughts of hate as hot tears turn his palms slippery.
He doesn't know he's not alone until he looks up to wipe his nose on his hand and finds a tissue floating inches from his face. Jumping back in his seat, he sees the avox — the one with the birthmark and the blue eyes and the golden hair — looking down at him with eyes full of sympathy. First, he feels a shot of rage at being found in a state so weak, so vulnerable — then he reminds himself that only hours earlier, another avox had cleaned up his drunken mess and stood over his naked body until he woke from an alcohol-induced coma. Apparently it's a new habit of his, humiliating himself in front of people Felicity would call 'the help.'
"Thank you," Gloss says, flashing a smile he doesn't feel, and he takes the tissue gratefully, dabbing his eyes and blowing his nose and looking up to find that she's offered him another. He takes that one too. "Ha," he breathes, voice wet and strangled. "You're sweet."
The girl blushes, her pink lips quirking in a shy smile as she looks down at her feet. It only makes Gloss feel worse for her. Judging by her smooth, youthful face, she can hardly be older than 16. He takes a breath, steadying himself before speaking again. "What district are you from?" he asks her gently, curiosity lacing his words.
Her reaction is immediate — fear flashes across her face, her blue eyes widening, and she takes a small step back. Gloss raises his hands, palms out in a gesture of reassurance. "No, no, you're alright. I'm not going to report you to anyone. I'm just curious."
The girl hesitates, then slowly raises one finger.
Gloss feels his heart plummet straight into his gut, his chest filling with cold, dense horror. "Fuck," he breathes. "You're from District One."
More than anything, he wants to ask for her name, for how she got here, but she's missing a tongue and questions like that are impossible for her to answer. Shifting in his seat, he searches his mind for a way to connect with her. "Do you remember the old marketplace on Rosemeade?" he asks. "The one with the bakery that sells maple frosted donuts half-off every Sunday morning?"
Her eyes light up with recognition, and she nods slightly, her long braid shifting with the movement.
"Or Greenville park with the fountain, where the kids play in the summer?"
Another nod, this time with a hint of a smile. Gloss finds himself smiling too. "What about the little flower shop run by Mrs. Tamsin? She always had the most beautiful roses in the spring."
The girl's eyes brighten, and she nods again, more vigorously.
A sense of relief washes over Gloss, tiny pieces of her story falling into place. "You're from the east side, aren't you? Near the river?"
The girl nods, a hint of tears beginning to shimmer in her eyes, and her face begins to turn soft pink.
Gloss smiles, breathing a soft laugh. "I used to feed the ducks there with my sister. The river was so clear, and in the autumn, the trees along the bank would turn the most incredible shades of red and gold. Cashmere loved to sit on the old stone bridge and dangle her feet in the water. When I was little, I always tried to catch the ducklings."
She closes her eyes and pulls in a deep breath as if basking in the memories.
Gloss continues, his voice soft and nostalgic. "There was a little café near the bridge, wasn't there? They served the best hot chocolate in the winter. Cashmere and I would always stop there after school. She'd talk about the baker's son for hours, and I'd just laugh at her."
The girl draws in a sharp breath, her eyes going wide, and Gloss says, "You knew the baker's son?"
She nods, her smile breaking into a proper grin.
Gloss chuckles softly. "I always found him funny, but I never quite understood what Cashmere saw in him. I guess I've always preferred brunettes."
The avox giggles quietly, a small, shy sound that warms Gloss's heart despite the ache of sadness. Blight's face flickers in his mind, brown-haired, brown-eyed, perfect, and he pushes the thought away, focusing on the girl in front of him.
"I'm sorry this happened to you," he says quietly, his voice thick with sincerity. "When I get back home, I'll tell the baker's son about you. I'll tell him that you're alive. The girl with the birthmark."
The tears in the girl's eyes slip down her face, her freckled cheeks bright red, and Gloss stands, dwarfing her with his height. Slowly, gently, he reaches out and wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Thank you," he whispers. He takes her hand and kisses it gently. The girl squeezes his hand in return, her silent gratitude palpable, and Gloss smiles down at her pretty red face, sad, gentle. "I won't forget about you," he says. "I promise."
She nods, sniffling once, and Gloss excuses himself, stepping back into the hall, through the entryway, and straight to the bar. This time, he doesn't drink. He just thinks about her, her eyes, her birthmark, and the frosty river. In time, Capitolites begin streaming in from the dining room, the presentations evidently having ended. The noise and laughter hit him like a rolling wave, and even in spite of his added height, he can't find Delle for the life of him. A majority of the crowd seems to have split off into the ballroom, and he follows them reluctantly, his eyes darting around in search of Delle's tall black braids. On the wall hangs a grand golden clock which reads 1:30 AM. It's both a relief and a disappointment. An hour and a half, and he can escape this godforsaken place. It's an hour and a half too long.
The room is alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Capitolites in all kinds of grotesque outfits dance, drink, and indulge in delicate pastries like their lives depend on it. Gloss moves through the throng as smoothly as he can in such high heels, having long resigned himself to being conspicuous in his lingerie.
"Gloss Rosewood!" A honeyed voice stops him in his tracks. Gloss turns to see a blue-haired Capitolite, her face flushed with excitement under several layers of makeup. "Your performance was incredible, especially the poem about your beloved sister. Such a doll, you are. Do you ever plan to write more poetry, by the by?"
Gloss forces a smile and nods. "Someday, perhaps."
"Oh, wonderful!" She pulls out a picture of him from her bedazzled purse, plucks a marker from her pocket, and thrusts them both at him like a teacher assigning schoolwork. "Do you mind?"
After signing his autograph, Gloss excuses himself as politely as possible and resumes his search. In mere moments, a touch on his shoulder makes him turn around. Like a comet, a bullet, an atom bomb, his heart drops.
Roselia Crane. Blue eyes, raven hair, thin lips as red as her shimmery floor-length gown. The room seems to close in on him, shadows turning deep and dark, everyone and everything besides her terrible face becoming a blur. It's only now, seeing her for the first time in seven years, that the memories come flooding back to him. He remembers her nails digging into his hack, her legs clenching and trembling around his waist, her mouth devouring his tongue, her scarlet lipstick smearing all over him. She tasted like pinot noir and red velvet cake. Blight said it himself: you never quite forget your first.
Blight. Blight. God, Gloss needs him.
"Gloss," Roselia purrs, her crystal blue eyes glinting with a mix of nostalgia and something predatory. "It's been too long."
Gloss swallows hard, his tongue dry as sandpaper, and he clenches his hands so she can't see them shake. "Roselia," he says, and his voice is so small, he nearly doesn't recognize it. It's only by chance that he notices her brother, Seneca Crane, standing by her side. "Seneca," he adds, an afterthought. "It's… good to see you."
Seneca smiles, a touch more genuine than his sister's. He's trying out a new beard, Gloss notices — short and dark, cut into intricate swirls. Any other time, Gloss might take a moment to admire it. "You'll certainly be seeing more of us in the coming years," he says, and cuts himself off with a fake-humble laugh. "Well — me, at least. Next year will be my first as Head Gamemaker. As a rule, part of my responsibility is to familiarize myself with mentors such as you and your sister," he announces, a hint of pride in his voice.
Gloss forces himself to remain in the moment, desperately focusing on Seneca's words. "That's… impressive. I'm sure you'll be marvelous. It's always exciting to see what new ideas—" horrors "—new Head Gamemakers bring to the table."
Seneca nods appreciatively. "Why, thank you, Gloss. That means a lot coming from you," he says. Gloss can't be certain whether he's bullshitting him. "As a matter of fact, I've taken notice of your strategy behind the scenes — particularly, your skill with Augustus Braun's Games. I found it so interesting how—"
"Seneca, this isn't the place to talk about work," Roselia chides, swatting him on the shoulder the way a panther would claw a face. Turning her attention back to Gloss, she sweeps her gaze up and down his body, lingering in a way that makes his skin crawl. "You've changed so much," she murmurs, stepping closer. "I see you've gotten rid of all your body hair."
With long, scarlet nails, she reaches out to touch his chest. Gloss can't help himself — he flinches away, her fingers scalding him like claws of ice.
"Roselia, please," Seneca interjects, his voice gentle but firm. "Not here."
Roselia pouts, but withdraws her hand. "I'm just admiring the changes," she says, sounding much like a child denied a lollipop. "He looks... different."
Gloss struggles to maintain his composure, his mind racing, his fists tight. Seneca's eyes are sympathetic, reading him like a book. "You're one of my favorite victors, Gloss," he says with a smile, prim, professional. "Your poetry was truly lovely."
Gloss can't bring himself to answer. With a hand on the small of his sister's back, Seneca guides her away. Roselia glances over her shoulder, glittering blue eyes watching Gloss like a hawk. "I certainly hope we can meet again," she says. "Last time, we had so much fun."
Gloss breaks into a laugh, quietly hysterical. Fun. Fun.
Like glass, he breaks. Panic claws at his insides, cold and manic, making him tremble. His first instinct is to grab a drink — fuck a shot, he'll drink the whole bottle — but his stomach is so cold, so tight, he'll vomit it up. He flies out of the ballroom, desperately searching for Delle, but when he makes it out, he spots her by the entrance, exchanging farewells with Bailus as she clings to her fiancé's arm.
It's almost terrifying, the way his hope disappears, flooding from his body like blood from a butchered pig. He makes a beeline for the balcony, needing air, needing space. Breaking into the darkness, he sucks in the cool air like nectar, letting it wash through him like a baptism. The ornate railing overlooks a serene river framed by bushes in bloom. Purples, blues, pinks, all nearly colorless in the moonlight. Body trembling, he leans against it, clenching the stone barrier and failing to swallow down thick, heavy sobs.
It isn't lost on him, how similar it is to his first real interaction with Blight. Like a coward, he'd escaped to the balcony the first time Roselia touched him. Like a saint, Blight had followed him outside, offering a cold glass of water to cool him off. Back then, prideful, blind, Gloss had tried to reject it. Tonight, broken, suffering, Gloss wants it more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.
Gloss should hate him for doing this to him. Gloss should want him dead. Instead, as his chest heaves and his shoulders shake, Gloss actually calls out for him, Blight's name a pathetic whimper on his tongue.
Gloss wants and wants and wants.
But Blight never comes.
