The Desert's Edge ➣ Gloss/OC

In cloudless blue, the roughness of a gale;

Chapter Two | In cloudless blue, the roughness of a gale;

"And we mean well in going to this masque,

But 'tis no wit to go."

1.4, 48-49 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Two months pass in a haze. Elara goes to the Capitol several more times, but unfortunately her schedule doesn't coincide with Gloss's, and she's left to deal with her demons alone. Sometimes it feels like Snow is dangling bait in front of her whenever he requests her presence in his city. A part of him must be at least somewhat aware of what the two Victors get up to in their spare time. It's impossible to hide something of this caliber from the man who sees all and knows all. When he arranges for Gloss to be in the Capitol at the same time as her, it feels like he does so on purpose, as if their meetings amuse him. She wouldn't put it past him, not that they ever make it obvious how deeply their affections truly run. Pretending that their relationship is little more than a mutual form of comfort-through-sex is far safer for them and their families. Whether they have fully convinced President Snow of this is questionable at best, though. Snow has a terrifying tendency of seeing through even the best laid plans, and the firmest convictions.

In any case, by the time the Seventy Forth Reaping comes, she hasn't seen Gloss in about three months, and the nightmares have found their way back to her without him by her side.

On the morning of the Reaping, Elara wakes up with a lurch. She nearly tumbles out of her bed, haunted by the faces of those she's killed and the bloody sights she had witnessed during her Games. She sits up in bed for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair in a pathetic reenactment of Gloss's comforting touch, and sighs.

The annual Hunger Games is a blessing and a curse for her. On the one hand, she must watch more children die. She must watch her tributes fall to those who are stronger and more cunning. Her nightmares always get worse this time of year. The sight of the arena, in whatever form it comes in, is a constant harassment to her already fragile spirit. And yet –

On the other hand, she gets to be around Gloss for several weeks straight. She gets to hold him and touch him and kiss him and feel him in all the ways she's been utterly craving during their long absence. She gets to pretend that, in the wake of the recent deaths that this Games will bring, her life can be somewhat normal. As normal as it possibly can be, at least.

She both loves and hates herself for the thin excitement that she feels coursing through her veins. To be excited about returning to the Capitol to witness yet another Hunger Games is wretched in every way she can imagine, but she misses him so badly that sometimes, it hurts even to breathe.

Can a middle ground exist, between this cadence of love and hate? In Gloss, she thinks it can.

"Are you up yet?" Amelia shouts through her door, giving it a good knock just for the hell of it.

Elara groans and pulls herself out of bed, scowling at the door with an aggravated, "Yes!"

The response she gets is a muffled, "Just making sure!"

With a sigh, Elara throws on her robe and leaves the room, following her sister down the stairs to make something to eat. Amelia's put on a pot of coffee, so she goes ahead and fills a mug before going to the fridge to browse the contents of it.

Leaning against the door, she raises an eyebrow and drawls, "Amelia, what happened to all the food I bought the other day?"

The shelves are practically barren. Besides the half empty bag of lettuce and the leftovers from the night before, there's not much else. Elara glances behind her shoulder at her sister, who looks up and shrugs.