And often in their pity do they sound

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Chapter Thirty One | And often in their pity do they sound

"If love be rough with you, be rough with love,

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down."

1.4, 27-28 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Gloss is sitting on the edge of the mattress, towel in hand as he dries his hair, which is still damp from the shower, when he hears Elara murmur his name. At first, he thinks she's talking directly to him, and he glances over his shoulder at her. But she's just staring up at the ceiling, her worn nightgown slipping down one shoulder and her hair a reddish halo strewn over the pillow like copper silk gleaming in the morning sunlight. It's early yet, barely midmorning. They both have appointments in the afternoon, but once those are all wrapped up, they'll meet again for dinner. It is their usual cycle here in the Capitol, when the city pulls them apart; a continuous wave that is constantly shifting back and forth, tugging at them endlessly.

Elara has a client tonight, but Gloss tries not to think about that. His method of clinging to ignorance doesn't always work, but sometimes he finds that it is easier to pretend. It doesn't make it hurt any less, though. Later tonight, when he is alone in this room and she is gone, his mind will play tricks on him. He will feel her phantom touch, the ghost of her warmth beside his body, and it will plague him because he'll know why she is not there. He'll wonder whose arms she's lying in. He'll wonder if she's okay, or if the immorality of their lives is dragging her to rock bottom.

He can deal with the loneliness of their partings, but the nights where they are both in the Capitol but not together is a thorn that tears at him because he knows that she is with another man and he can't do anything to stop it.

She murmurs his name again and this time her expression flickers in a strange light as the syllables of it roll from her tongue. In her voice, still creased with sleep, his name sounds like sin itself – all smooth and dry like finely aged whiskey.

He stares at her for a long moment, pressing all other thoughts away for now, and demands, "What?"

The look she sends him is equally as sinful, simply because she looks so irresistible in his bed.

A faint edge of a smirk captures her mouth with such potent singularity that he can only stare at her, half tempted to return to bed despite his efforts to start the day. He has seen that smirk many times over, in multiple situations. It is mischievous and daring; emboldened like a streak of flame that thunders its way beneath his skin. He knows, instinctively, that he will regret asking her what she's thinking about. When she's smirking like that, all bets are off.

"...It's such a strange name," she says breezily, and shifts onto her side to face him. Her smirk widens when he raises an eyebrow at her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Regrets – what a funny thing they are.

With a roll of his eyes, he repeats, "Strange?" He says the word as if he isn't sure if he's okay with the usage of it when it is couple with his name, and grumbles. Then, eyeing her for a bit longer, he purses his mouth and ultimately seems to decide that she isn't worth the effort of responding further, for he just scoffs and goes to stand up.

Elara watches him with growing amusement and rolls onto her back. As she pushes her arms over her head and stretches in a rather indulgent manner, she murmurs, "District 1 comes up with such odd names for their children. I've never understood it."

Gloss just strides over to his dresser and starts riffling through it, dragging out a pair of jeans and a white tee. As he pulls the clothes on, he drawls, "It's just a part of the culture. Stop thinking so hard about it."

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