The Desert's Edge ➣ Gloss/OC

The grumbled cries of their own shifted blame.

Chapter Thirty Two | The grumbled cries of their own shifted blame.

"'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here,

Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog

And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

Live here in heaven and may look on her;

But Romeo may not."

3.3, 29-33 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Sometimes, he hates himself. It isn't usually a conscious hatred. It's a growing feeling, like the way a plant springs from the ground. First, the seed germinates in the soil, inhaling nutrients as it opens beneath the ground. It takes days, even weeks, for the first sign of it above the dirt, but when it finally breaches the earth, the roots are already embedded deep below the ground.

Other times, it is more of a conscious feeling than he wants it to be. Those are the times when he does something that he knows he shouldn't do, or even that he doesn't really want to do, but he does it anyway of his own accord because he just can't say no to his many vices.

Cashmere doesn't ask him where he's going when he steps into the kitchen, buttoning up a fresh shirt. They both have their own lives in District 1. At least, as much of a life as they can have, all things considered. She isn't about to cluck at him like a mother hen. She knows full well where he's off to, and trying to stop him would be useless.

Her brother doesn't drink that often. He has a handle on those temptations and she's never concerned herself overmuch with them. Every once in a while though...

"When will you be home?" is all she asks as she sits on the couch and flips a page of the book she's reading. She glances at him from the corner of her eye.

Gloss pauses as he adjusts his collar, and shrugs, "I don't know. Don't bother waiting up."

She hums in response and he leaves, shutting the door calmly behind him before venturing out into the familiar streets of his home. Inside though, he is not nearly as calm.

His mind spins with thoughts of his recent parting with Elara. It's only been a week, but it feels like an age. They're not scheduled to be in the Capitol at the same time for another two months, and the thought makes him strangely depressed. He doesn't want to admit that it's because he misses her, but...

He does.

It aggravates him. He shouldn't miss her. She shouldn't mean anything to him. She is a form of comfort, and nothing more. They had agreed upon it from the very beginning, so why does it feel as if she is so much more than that?

His fist clenches at his side as he ducks down the busy street that runs through the heart of the district. If he's being honest with himself, he isn't angry because of what he feels for Elara Winston. No – he's angry because he can't do anything about it. His hands are tied, and maybe that's just as well because he isn't entirely sure what he would do even if he had the chance.

Love? He hardly knows how to navigate such a thing. But lust – now that is a different story.

He doesn't go to the bar planning on bringing someone home with him. Maybe, if he knew that this would end up happening, he wouldn't have gone at all. He hardly knows his own heart these days, only that it seems to beat out a tune that he is not yet familiar with.

And yet – that is exactly what he does.

It wouldn't be a lie to say that District 1 adores its Victors. They are celebrities here. Their status goes above and beyond even the most well-known socialites and wealthy CEOs, for which District 1 has many. When he is approached by a woman as he hovers over a whiskey at the bar, he isn't surprised. This sort of thing happens often enough. Bringing them home happens often enough, too. But this time it's different. This time, even as he leads the giggling woman past Cashmere's house and goes instead to his own unused home, something feels off.