#int . gloss dupont

[metaltourniquet]

who: gloss dupont & closed ( @burntgcds & @likeallfires & @silknshadows & @vanishing-acts & @rebelience *(5/5 slots taken) ) where: the training center, the gauntlet

Gloss stood at the edge of the gauntlet like he’d been personally insulted by it. The Capitol’s idea of training ( all flashing lights, swinging weapons, collapsing floors ) looked less like preparation and more like a glorified game show. As usual, spectacle over substance. The platforms were polished like runway props, the balance beams so narrow they might as well have been metaphors. He’d seen Capitol parties more dangerous than this.

A platform dropped with a mechanical clang, spikes sliding into place with theatrical menace.

“Subtle,” he murmured, eyeing the rotating blades with something closer to disdain than fear. “All that money and still not a single original thought.”

He stepped forward slightly, just enough to feel the floor shift under his boot - a pressure plate, maybe. Predictable.

The gauntlet hissed, adjusted, waited.

So did he.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind him. Deliberate, steady, confident. Someone who wanted to be seen. He didn’t bother turning around immediately.

“They say it adapts to your worst instinct,” Gloss said, his voice light but laced with something venomous. “So, unless it develops abandonment issues or starts insulting everyone’s intelligence, I think I’ll be fine.”

He finally turned, glancing over his shoulder with a smile that was all edge with a little bit of warmth.

“If it starts malfunctioning, it’s probably just reacting to the ego in the room. Mine or yours - we’ll let it decide.”

And with that, he returned his gaze to the course, expression calm, hands relaxed, like he might walk straight into the chaos just to shut it up. "Come on, then."

[metaltourniquet]

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . metaltourniquet

; GLOSS DUPONT / d1 victor of the 63rd hunger games a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he's still left with the river a man takes his sadness and throws it away ; but then he's still left with his hands

; HANI 'HONEY' JANG / d2 victor of the 75th hunger games someone has to have blood on their hands. someone has to clean up the blood. and someone has to bleed.

; DYNA EMERY / d13 undercover trainer are you proud of how you function? is there a part of your body that is more real than the others? could you demonstrate that realness?

; CAMDEN FARADAY / d6 victor of the 83rd hunger games stars are not small or gentle. they are writhing and dying and burning. they are not here to be pretty. i am trying to learn from them.

[metaltourniquet]

His hand was still mid-air, waving like a pageant queen in a war zone. A smile that remained fixed, wide, bright, practiced within an inch of its life. The crowd was feral. Screaming. Clapping. Like children at a puppet show, where the strings were soaked in blood.

“Of course you can’t,” he said lightly, like they were discussing the weather. “None of us can. There's no trick to this, I'm afraid.”

He turned his head just enough for it to register on the cameras as a noble profile, the kind they’d screenshot and plaster across Capitol broadcasts with a caption like ‘Victory Reborn.’ His voice dipped low, only for her.

“It’s not a smile,” he went on, “it’s a performance art piece. Titled ‘Man Slowly Dissociates While Waving at Cannibals.’”

His grin widened as the crowd screamed louder. One Capitolite in the front row was quite literally crying.

“You think I’m smiling because I’m fine?” he added, arching a brow that no one could see. “Darling, I’m smiling because a frown ruins the lighting.”

Finally, he glanced at her. Really looked.

Selin was all stillness and silence, raw at the edges, too honest for this place. It made something twist in his chest. Not pity, never pity, just recognition. Familiarity. The kind you could only get from blood under your nails and too many nights alone with your own breath.

“How long do we keep doing this?” Gloss said, voice breezy now, teeth flashing. “Until they stop clapping.”

Then he laughed, sharp and soft, as he raised his hand again and waved like a goddamn Capitol darling.

He didn’t enjoy it.

But damn it, was he good at it.

her  gaze  flickered  to  gloss,  a  smile  on  his  face  that  almost  resembled  the  glee  of  these  congratulating  them.  her  lips  refused  to  curl,  her  chin  lifted  only  because  she  had  to.  she  ignored  the  hands  brushing  against  them.  reaching  like  they  were  desperate  to  be  seen,  desperate  to  touch  some  version  of  glory,  when  soon  it’d  be  the  same  eyes  following  them  to  their  deaths.  as  she  watched  him,  waving  back  at  them,  she  can’t  force  herself  to  do  the  same.  she  wished  she  could  erode  into  defiance,  and  perhaps  the  capitol  would  view  it  as  such.  but  the  truth  was  something  simpler.  she  felt  hollow,  and  there’s  nothing  left  beneath  it.   he  was  right. they  can  do  anything.  he’d  been  a  victor  far  longer  than  she  had,  he  knew  better.  how  the  capitol  carved  you  into  something  beautiful  and  empty  .  “  i  haven’t  forgotten.  i  never  do,  no  one  really  does,  right  ?  especially  people  like  us.”  for  a  moment,  her  gaze  flickered  briefly  to  him,  a  sliver  of  connection  before  her  eyes  fell  back  on  the  sea  of  people.  all  bright  and  beaming.  swallowing.  “  “  i  can’t.”  her  words  disappear  in  a  whisper.  “  i’m  trying,  but  i  can’t.”  she  never  could.  not  in  front  of  the  capitol.  it  almost  felt  as  if  she  would  always  be  the  same  girl  who  was  reaped  back  then.  the  capitol  only  got  to  keep  this  version  of  her.  and  she  wished  she  could  take  it  back.  now  her  wish  felt  like  a  cruel  joke.  she  got  what  she  wanted.  she  got  to  be  the  same  girl  again.  “  how  do  you  do  that  ?  keeping  up  that  smile  ?”  perhaps  if  she  could  twist  herself  into  someone  else  at  this  moment,  she  could  cope  with  it.  “  how  long  do  we  have  to  keep  doing  this  …”

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss let the rim of the mug rest against his lip a moment longer than necessary, as if stalling for time. The warmth bled into his fingers, dulled the ache he hadn’t admitted to.

“You always make it too good,” he said quietly, a hint of amusement threading through the weariness in his voice. “Now I’ll associate cinnamon with existential dread.”

He meant it like a joke, but it came out softer, the usual bite rounded off. He glanced at her then ( really looked ), something unguarded flickering in his eyes for a second before he tucked it away behind the usual calm.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said. Not just the drink, though he didn’t clarify.

He leaned back a little, letting the quiet stretch between them without needing to fill it with performance. Then, gently:

“You’ve always had good timing. Even when everything else doesn’t.”

She stared at him, just for a moment as he took the mug before looking away, settling in a more comfortable position on the couch. Eva wanted to smile at his words, caught his own smile out of the corner of her eye. But she couldn't quite make it appear on her face. Instead she gave a shrug.

"Both hopefully, I mean the cameras will help with the moisturising so I wouldn't worry about that." She said softly. A bitter laugh escaped at the idea that she could have tampered with the reaping. God she'd been so tempted to. Not just this year. She avoided his gaze initially but eventually looked over.

"Good, I'm glad that you like it. i'm surprised that I've never made it for you before actually. It's my go to at this time of year."

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss let out a choked sound that was definitely not a laugh but also far too undignified to be a scoff. He gave an exaggerated full-body shudder like he’d just walked through a particularly cold draft of Capitol perfume vapor.

“Enobaria?” he repeated, aghast, as if the word itself were offensive. “No child deserves that.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a horrified whisper. “Can you imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing those teeth glinting at you from your toy shelf? I’d throw myself back into the arena.”

He paused, then added with dry amusement, “And don’t get me started on the limited-edition talking version. I saw one once at a collector’s booth and it growled. Growled, Cash.”

He gave her a look of mock betrayal. “You'd let a five-year-old have that?”

But even as he played at being scandalized, there was a flicker of something gentler in his eyes; the way her hand still curled around his arm like it used to when they were small. In a room full of sharpened smiles and watching eyes, her laughter was the only sound that didn’t make his skin crawl. He would’ve spun a thousand more scandalous tales if it kept that smile on her face.

“You know,” he said after a beat, glancing toward the crowd with mild disdain, “we could always get you restocked. Gloss Dupont™ action figures - now with detachable throwing stars. Very chic. Very murdery.”

He grinned, all teeth and theatrical menace, but the way he looked at her then was quieter. Protective. Steady. The same way he always had. At least some things never changed.

Her hands instinctively dig into Gloss' arm – a habit carried over from childhood. Even now – as a grown woman, a victor of the Hunger Games, for god's sake – there is still a part of childish innocence within her that seeks out her older brother for comfort. GLOSS has long been the only constant thing in Cashmere's life – a familiar presence by her side since long before she can remember. In a childhood home that was far too cold and far too cruel, Gloss was warmth and kindness. In an arena full of others who only wished to see her dead, she knew Gloss was guiding her towards a safe return. In a city that wished only to ogle and use her, Gloss seemed to be one of the few people to actually treat Cashmere like a person, rather than a spectacle.

Truth be told, Cashmere wasn't sure she would survive in this place – or any place, for that matter – without Gloss by her side.

"No," Cashmere croons, drawing out the sound. "Who did you hear that from? I doubt a public apology will do him any good, people will see right through it." Or, perhaps they wouldn't – Cashmere did always have a habit of over-estimating the collective intelligence of the Capitol. "Alas... if he just ignores it, they'll probably still call for his head on a spike. And that's always fun to see." Cashmere laughs. As much as she hated being in the Capitol, she might as well enjoy herself while she was here – and if that meant engaging in frivolous gossip, then she would.

"Thank you," She says, "Your stories are far more entertaining than hearing about Gamemaker Price's granddaughter's fifth birthday party for a twentieth consecutive minute. Did you know that magical princesses are surprisingly expensive to hire? Or that she asked for my action figure but I was out of stock, so she had to settle for Enobaria?"

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss rolled his eyes before Finnick even finished talking. He wasn’t in the mood for shared misery, but it was Finnick and if anyone understood the ridiculousness of it all, it was him. He leaned his shoulder against the cool wall, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw working like he was chewing on the world’s worst thought.

“Of course my name got drawn,” he said flatly. “I’m pretty, I sell well, and I look good bleeding. That’s all they ever needed.”

He glanced over at Finnick, brow raised. “You think it’s luck? The odds? Come on. We both know Snow’s too theatrical for that. Half the tributes are people the Capitol still talks about at dinner parties.”

There was a brief pause, long enough to breathe, long enough to feel the pressure of the Games pulling at both of them again.

“I didn’t have friends the first time,” Gloss said, more matter-of-fact than anything else. “It made things easier. Brutal, but simple. Now? I’ve got people I actually like in there, which is… incredibly inconvenient.”

He looked at Finnick again. “So if I start hesitating, remind me we’re all just audience bait. Kindly. Preferably with a punch to the ribs.”

the tribute centre - @metaltourniquet

"Same shit different year." Finnick mutter sounding amused. It wasn't funny in any way of course but he couldn't help himself, the whole thing was just so ridiculous that he had to laugh. It was better than the alternative. He looked at Gloss, the man who had became a friend and mentor to him over the years. "Sucks that your name was drawn too. It seems the odds are never in our favour." There really were too many good people going back into this thing, too many people he had prior attachment to. How was he supposed to kill these people? How was he supposed to kill his friends and remain the same person afterwards?

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss Dupont stood at the edge of that damned museum like a King holding court in a foreign kingdom. One had to take control of whatever dominion they could get their hands on these days, he thought bitterly, even if it didn’t show on his face beyond a slight curl of his lips. It was a constant clamor for power in this city, with the twinkling victor stars a constant on the horizon.

His story was a legend of old by now. Gloss wondered when the legend would chip away, the gilded flakes disappearing one by one until he was considered just old. Discarded and useless in the face of shinier, newer things. He’d always done what was expected of him, but what if what was expected of him was nothing at all? Gazes of wonder would turn to pity, abashed after recognition would take a lot longer than it once did.

The first seventeen years of his life had been spent on preparing him for a chance at a life of victory; no resources had been devoted to showing him what came after the fade.

Gloss caught sight of Guinevere Morel’s familiar — and welcome — face and seamlessly moved from the conversation he’d been having to offer a dazzling smile to a neighbor. “Interesting, is it not?” he responded airily, a tone so perfectly practiced and polished it came natural by now. “What they consider the most noteworthy moment in an Arena. I don’t think I would agree with what they selected for mine.” His tone turned faux co-conspiratorial, as though what they were discussing was too delicate to be overheard. “I remember the first real food they fed me after I won far better than most of my Games.” That was not quite true, but also not quite a lie. He hadn’t expected to remember the swirl of negative emotions in his gut after every dazzling kill, no matter how quick he decided to make them, more than the triumph. He hadn’t expected the nightmares to consist of that. Of guilt. Of horror. The stench that followed him around like a brand. Young and dumb, that’s what he’d been. Uneducated. Or, well, very selectively educated. Gloss did remember gratitude, too, when his empty stomach was slowly filled with the delicious food only to be found in the richest homes in the Capitol. He knew now that that’d served a purpose, too.

closed starter ft @metaltourniquet - the exhibition of the hunger games

there are some things that a person never forgets, not matter how much they may wish to put them out of mind. guinevere’s hardly needed reminding of her games, and yet she had been drawn to the exhibition of the games as if by an invisible thread, as though it were some sort of penance for all the suffering that she had wrought in the capitol’s name.

standing before the video of her final fight, the securing of her victory, watching it draw in on the thrust of her spear through the other tribute’s chest before looping back to the beginning of the footage, conviently cutting out the part where she collapsed into hysterics, guinevere found herself transfixed, panic souring on her tongue. she fought to drag her attention away from the exhibt, determind to not let her memories rise up and overwhelm her.

as she sought out the best route out of the damned museum her eyes caught on the figure of gloss dupont, one of district one's most popular victors. he was certainly a great deal more dignified in victory than guinevere ever managed to be. she smiled at him as she made her way through, determined not to utterly disintigrate under the gaze of the public, and exchanged expected pleasentries. they were neighbours, after all

"how are you enjoying the exhibits?" she asked, voice a little more breathless than she might have liked, but otherwise steady.

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss didn’t react at first, not visibly, at least. He just stood there in the cool hum of the Training Center, watching one of the swinging axes creak through the air, a few gears grinding tiredly like they were just as over it as he was. His arms crossed over his chest, easy posture, but there was a tension in his jaw he didn’t bother smoothing out.

“God, Haymitch,” he said finally, voice dry enough to blister paint. “You always talk like we’re all halfway into the grave with you. I get it, District Twelve builds personality like it builds homes: unstable foundation, leans a little too hard on the whiskey.”

He glanced over, eyes gleaming with something sly. “But I’ll take the bone, if you’re offering. Always nice when someone older gives you permission to bite.”

The smirk faded just a fraction, a crack in the armor no one would’ve seen unless they were close. Gloss didn’t blink.

“I don’t plan on dying,” he added, tone lighter than it should’ve been. “But sure, if I do, I’ll die beautifully. Covered in blood, looking fantastic. Maybe your Catnip will do me in. I've seen her be quite vicious. The Capitol can hang me in a museum next to your flask.”

Then, a beat.

“But between you and me?” he said, gaze flicking away again. “I’ve been back here five minutes and already I can’t sleep. So maybe save me a sip for after the show. If there is an after.”

haymitch always enjoyed people that could take the bite that haymitch freely gived to people. he was honest in a way that didn't sit right with people, he had been in the games for so many years now he didn't have much of a filter and had to appreciate victors that didn't either. but he never believed the propaganda, how could he when his own games was rigged? it made him meaner and like a cruel dog looking for a bone to sink his teeth in. he felt bad for the tributes that he did have to mentor, they didn't deserve his anger or his drunkness, but district twelve was always set up to fail and he was just fucking tired by the end of it all. "i didn't know you were allowed to think too." haymitch says with a smirk. from his own games he knows it was unfair, he had even felt bad how people made the first districts out to be when they were only trying to survive the very same that he was. yes, they had more advantages but children still had to kill other children it just wasn't fair. "well don't be afraid to take a bite," he says with another smirk. "my bones might not mean much but there's still meat to 'em." he says with a laughter shaking his head. haymitch wasn't the perfect victor, he would he surprised if there ever was one, but he was right, haymitch was a lot to swallow for people. he always spoke his mind, the worst the snow could do he had already done. he cared for nothing. there wasn't anything new to that. "well, i always have a flask on me," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eye, not that he would touch it until the end of the day. "but i have no words for you that i wouldn't say to my own tributes: don't die. and if you do, at least make it worth something." he thinks of katniss and peeta, there was some truth to it, he would be crushed and devasted if they did die, there would be no point to continue on, but he had made a promise to lenore dove that he would try anyway, and he was going to try and keep it.

[metaltourniquet]

He glanced over at her, the corners of his mouth twitching like he might actually laugh. There weren’t many people in the Capitol or the districts who knew the version of her that came after the arena, after the cameras, after the screaming. But he did. He and Cashmere had seen her unravel and then, stubbornly, thread herself back together with whatever scraps she had left.

Now she was here again, and so was he. History repeating itself with better lighting and a bigger audience.

“You’re not missing much,” he replied, deadpan. “They get heavy after a while. Hard to pack next to crippling trauma and Capitol-approved charm.”

Gloss stepped off the pressure plate like he was stepping off a stage, turning toward her fully now. There wasn’t mockery in his tone, not really. Just that dry wit he used like armor, both a shield and a dare. His eyes scanned her face, not for weakness, but for calibration. He knew her well enough to know what it looked like when she was running on habit instead of strength.

“You know, Guin,” he started, dragging her name out just a little like an older brother about to make a scene, “I was really hoping you’d have the decency to age out of this before we had to do the whole ‘trauma round two’ tour together.”

He gave her a look; that specific Gloss blend of amusement and affection laced with a simmering thread of protectiveness that had never truly left him, no matter how many years had passed or how many knives he’d thrown. They had both aged out a while ago ( much longer for him ), and they had paid their additional dues by surviving this deadly game. It had saved neither of them.

“And yet,” he added with a faux sigh, “here you are. Ruining my dramatic solo arc.”

He jerked his chin toward the gauntlet.

“Let’s go pretend we know what we’re doing, hmm? You’re smaller, faster. I’ll follow your lead and take the credit, as tradition demands.”

A pause, then. More quietly, but without pity:

“We’ve made it out before. We’ll figure it out again.”

He turned, casual as ever, but waited for her to fall into step beside him. Always beside. Never behind.

gloss and his sister cashmere had long had a monopoly on guinevere’s honesty. every other person who saw guinevere saw the only persona she had presented, the film carefully laid the gaping hole over the shreds of her soul. gloss and cashmere had seen her pulled from the arena, shaking and screaming, and had piece by piece made a person of her again. the one grace that they had been offered was that they were free of the games, beyond what they had brought back in their own minds.

free of the games, the capitol had said, and yet here they were in the training centre again, guinevere one step behind gloss, the solemn shadow to his bold assertions. she was, at least, calmer and more collected now than she had been when the announcement had been made, than when the reaping had been held, than the train ride to the capitol, and yet she still felt as though she was liable to crumble at any moment. the truth of her exposed for the world to see.

no longer could gloss be a wall she hid behind, not when they were being sent to kill each other, and yet she gravitated to him as though he could continue to keep her safe.

“your ego perhaps,” she joined in his joke, though she hardly had the heart for it, “i haven’t had one of those in ten years.”

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss let out a soft laugh, the kind that curled at the edges like smoke. Not loud, not joyful, but indulgent in a way that said he appreciated the bite. He didn’t turn to face Haymitch right away, just tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, watching one of the gauntlet’s swinging clubs pass with all the menace of a toddler having a tantrum.

“Oh, come on, Abernathy,” he said, voice smooth as ever, “you know better than to believe District One’s press kit. I’ve got brains and biceps. We’re allowed to multitask.”

He finally turned to look at him, something dry and wicked flickering behind his eyes. “And sprite? Really? That’s what we’re going with now? You do know that’s Capitol-speak for ‘he still has all his teeth,’ right?”

There was no venom behind it, just the usual acid-glazed camaraderie. Gloss had known Haymitch too long to be offended. He’d admired him from a distance once, not for the rebellion or the politics or even the sharp tongue, but because he’d somehow survived without polishing himself up for Capitol consumption. That was a rare skill. One he hadn’t mastered.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he added with a shrug. “You’re not the worst victor. Just the least palatable. There’s a difference.”

Then, with a glance back at the gauntlet and a slow, theatrical eye-roll: “Anyway, you’re not the one getting shoved back into the meat grinder this year. So, unless you’re planning to lecture me with a flask and a pep talk about trauma, feel free to enjoy the air-conditioning and moral high ground.”

he never liked the training center. always too many bad memories when coming here, from his own games it looks so much different. it was much grittier when he was in them, everything was different now, new programming, all hi-tech it made him feel uncomfortable. but he was checking on his mentors, but he hasn't spotted katniss and peeta yet. he feels the weight of everything, reminded again as he does every year after his birthday and the reaping, of all his little doves. and all the doves that came after them, he thinks of how he should have nourished them more, but haymitch had been long bitter after his games. he was so young. a seventeen year old after their first games should have never been a mentor, it was too young, but he knows how so many of them in here have been mentors too, now reaped once again. he feels like vomiting but he holds a strong front, incredibly sober, he always gave himself the time to be more sharper, and these games felt different. he didn't know why. maybe because their president was one foot in the grave already, but still so ever sharp, still so cruel. "well look at you and being observant." haymitch says with a dangerous smile. "and here i thought you were just a meat-head." haymitch actually never thought that, he thinks of panache, how the world mocked and made fun of him, simply from being from district one. deep down he knew that even panache was just a boy that didn't know any different. it's true the first couple of districts are better fighters but there's no real other option for them, is there? the empathy he feels could go on for miles, but on the outside he is like a dog yearning for a bite, and often, he gives it. haymitch doesn't say that his weakness, his worse instinct is love. how gentle, how frail, he thinks, and in his mind he can see coriolanus snow saying it to him. "well, i don't have much of ego," haymitch smiles, looking at the malfunctioned equipment. gloss was right, all that money and for what? "the only real ego i have is being the worst victor out of you lot." he laughs, but he doesn't mean it. haymitch is smart and cunning in a lot of ways, he knows that the current face he's putting on is for the capitol, but he would never let them in on the ounce of genuine love and kindness that he does have. they don't deserve it. if the whole of panem was an arena, he would never give them the satisfaction. "you're look sprite in your old age, gloss."

[metaltourniquet]

A winning smile painted Gloss' lips. There was applause all around them, this roaring noise that almost sounded like static to him now. Shouts of glee. Capitolite hands reaching up to them as though they're overeager to touch a deity for a blessing, a little bit of luck, a little bit of prestige. He waved at them. Hundreds of hands waved back.

"They can do anything," he quietly spoke, just loud enough for Selin to hear. He was covering for how surprised and caught off guard he'd been, too, just a few moments ago, before almost three decades of his life in Capitol spotlights had caught up to him. This was no quarter quell, not even close, but President Snow had always made the rules. Calculated and with points so sharp they pierced through armor. "This is special, and we're special. We're victors, but he's the winner. And don't you forget it."

"Keep smiling, or you'll make Capitol headlines in the morning presses."

STATUS  :  OPEN LOCATION  :  anywhere  your  heart  desires 

     “  this  can’t  be  real. ”  her  voice  frayed,  a  smile  plastered  on  her  face  like  a  bandaid  slapped  on  a  festering  wound.  one  that  the  capitol  had  inflicted  a  long  time  ago,  one  that  had never  really  healed  and  was  now  opened  again.  she  turned  to  the  other,  her  head  shaking  as  if  denial  could  rewrite  the  truth.  she  almost  laughed,  but  the  sound  vanished as it was  simply  brushed  away  by  silence.          “  it  must  have  been  a  mistake.  it  doesn’t  make  sense,  right  ?”  but  it  did.  it  began  with  the  exhibition  reminding  them  of  who  they  belonged  to  and  it  would  end  in  the  arena  again.  in  death.   still,  selin  clung  to  disbelief.           “  they  promised  us  …  ”  her  voice  cracked  again,  splintering  like  glass  and  she  swallowed  the  shards.   “this  was  the  deal  right  ?  they  can’t  do  that.  again ...”  but  she knew  better.  that  naivety  was  a  privilege  she  wasn’t  allowed  to  borrow.   soon  reality  would  settle  ,  and  then  …  she  didn’t  know  what  would  happen  then.  but  now  she’d  allow  her  to  be  foolish.  hopeful.  although  hope  was  a  fragile  thing  and  she  was  holding  it  in  shaking  hands. 

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss took the mug without looking at her, his fingers curling around it like it might burn him if he held it wrong. He didn’t sip it, just let the steam brush against his cheek while he stared straight ahead at nothing. The lights in the Tribute Center apartment were low, the kind of soft ambient glow that made expensive things look warmer than they really were.

“Help with what?” he asked after a beat, voice dry and too light to be genuine. “The whole being-sent-back-to-die situation, or the fact that my face is going to be on every Capitol screen again and I haven’t even moisturized?”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It rarely did these days, except when Cashmere made him laugh, or when the arena wasn’t looming like some cruel god on the horizon.

Then, a pause. He looked at her. Not the crowd-ready version of her, but Eva. Real Eva.

“You should’ve dropped the name. ‘Oops, slipped. Guess we’re reaping someone else.’ I’d have applauded you.”

He raised the mug slightly in mock-toast, then finally took a sip.

“It’s good,” he said, quieter this time. “Thanks.”

@metaltourniquet || Eva & Gloss @ the District One Rooms

Eva was worried about Gloss. She couldn't imagine what it was like to have to go back to the place where all your nightmares and trauma started. But her hands had shaken when she read out his name. Had trembled when she'd read out Guinevere’s but full on nearly stopped when she said his. She didn't want this, she wanted to run away.

But she couldn't do that, wouldn't leave him even if she wanted to. Instead she made a hot drink, one her father had made for her on difficult nights, and came to sit beside him in the living room.

"Here, drink this, it'll help."

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss had spotted her the moment he entered the ballroom. Radiant as ever, a pale star perched on the edge of all this excess. Cashmere wore the kind of smile that looked like it had been lacquered onto her face with as much precision as her makeup. To anyone else, she was flawless. But Gloss had known her long enough to see the cracks.

He watched her laugh at something a man in a brocade suit was saying, her head tilted just enough to flatter, her fingers lightly brushing his arm in a gesture that seemed natural but was entirely calculated. She was exquisite. She was exhausted. He knew the difference.

As he wove through the crowd toward her, he felt the usual weight settle onto his shoulders; the invisible cloak of charm and danger he wore to these kinds of events. His reputation preceded him, as always, and Capitolites peeled away from their conversations to greet him with smiles too sharp and eyes too hungry. He nodded, offered a radiant smile of his own and a few well-placed words, but didn’t slow down until he reached her.

Cashmere turned before he could say a word, eyes lighting with something almost real. Relief, maybe. Or something close enough to it. Her fingers slipped around his arm like they had a hundred times before — less like a greeting and more like an escape rope — and she tugged him away from the circling vipers with practiced ease.

“Pretend you’re telling me something important,” she said, voice low, hurried, almost playful. “If I have to listen to one more interesting anecdote, I might lose my mind.”

He didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Gloss was excellent at pretending, but he was even better at teasing his little sister.

“Then listen closely,” he said, his voice just loud enough for the nearby guests to catch a trace of it, “because I’m about to tell you the most vital, state-altering piece of information you’ll hear all night.”

They weaved around clusters of people, laughter and unintelligible conversation emanating from them in waves, quiet at times, louder at others.

"Blaze Dandelo apparently drunkenly mistook a Senator for a cocktail waiter during a banquet and tried to tip them with a designer button from his own jacket. Apparently, he slurred something like 'fashion based currency' and unbuttoned three more. Those, he threw into the soup. They're calling for a public apology on his talk show. He's calling it frippery. Either way, he's floundering and it's glorious."

𝐖𝐇𝐎: CASHMERE DUPONT & GLOSS DUPONT ( @metaltourniquet) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: PRESIDENT SNOW'S MANSION 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: PRESIDENTIAL PARTY, EVENING

When Cashmere was a girl, she used to dream of being invited to parties as lavish as this. She would raid her mother's closet for old gowns, twirling around for hours while her parents weren't home. Things had been so much simpler back then, and part of Cashmere longs for that time – when her biggest problems now seemed minuscule and her entire life lay ahead of her, teeming with possibility. Of course, Cashmere's path had been set in stone from the moment she was born – her parents' expectations of her were clear even back then, and though she could distract herself with dress-ups and parties and innocent fun, the understanding that she would need to craft herself into something much sharper in order to survive never strayed far from her mind.

Now, we find Cashmere perched at the edge of the party, sipping carefully on a flute of champagne. She is the picture of elegance – an act that has been well-rehearsed by now – smiling sweetly at Capitolites and making inane smalltalk, laughing at their ridiculous jokes and stroking their egos like a professional. As tiring as the act sometimes became, Cashmere was good at it. She'd learned quickly after winning her games what the Capitol wanted from her, and she'd given it to them – again, and again, the picture of a perfect victor. Perhaps because part of her enjoyed it – being placed on a pedestal and admired as a goddess, or perhaps because she simply feared the repercussions of stepping a toe out of line. The Capitol was always watching, after all, so the facade never fell.

A genuine smile tugs at her lips ( the first of the evening ) at the sight of GLOSS emerging from the crowd, making his way towards her. Cashmere is quick to disentangle herself from her current conversation, intercepting her brother before he has the misfortune of being sucked into whatever terrible story Snow's cabinet members had been in the middle of recounting. "Pretend you're telling me something important," She instructs, leading Gloss away from the group, "If I have to listen to one more "interesting anecdote", I might lose my mind."