Chapter Thirty | For mortal minds make mountains out of pain,
"Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,
Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn."
1.4, 25-26 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
It's rare for him to visit hotel rooms. His schedule in the Capitol revolves around photoshoots and fashion shows. He is the face of numerous brands. His work usually calls him to office buildings and interviews. But – he is a Victor, and even though his sister and him are a Golden Children of the Capitol, he is not above Snow's manipulation, regardless of the form it takes.
Tonight, the form comes in the shape of long legs and crimson lips; of coquette murmurs in an unfamiliar voice; of the desperation of unwilling intimacy.
It is a confusing and sickening thing, the way his body reacts to this strange touch. His mind rebels against the fingertips that stoke fire into his skin. He wants to cringe away from the forceful grip that is administered upon him and catches him so off guard. It spins reluctant pleasure into him; presses disconcerting and confusing gratification over every surface of his form. Perhaps, if he could, he would throw that touch away and refuse it altogether, but…
He cannot. He is trapped in this room just as surely as if it were his own arena, and even though he longs for the planes of another body and the whispers of another voice, he does nothing to stop the progression of pleasure as it grudgingly takes a hold of him.
His heart is sickened at the way his body hardens and his breath turns to gasps beneath his client's body. The way she drags herself on top of him and colors the room with her moans makes his ears hurt. And yet – he lets her take him, and he follows through with every whim that she voices and every desire that she wishes to explore.
It is like operating on another level; plucking himself into two separate halves. One half – the true pieces of him, authentic and unique, good and evil – fades into the backdrop of himself, hidden behind every ragged pant that heaves through his chest. The other – falsified and masked – takes control, brimming up to the surface of his character until he hardly feels like himself at all, but rather a shallow part of a greater whole.
He is not sure if it is a defense mechanism or something else. He is not even sure if this desire that begins to cling to him is even his own. He has no control and no willpower here. He is but an animal driven by wilder instinct; a trained dog to be ordered from one state of being to the next. The shades of grey that define his current existence hold no weight, for there is no room for them to survive in this room.
"Do you like this?" his client asks. It is a demurely voiced question, pressed on all sides by airy pleasure. Her nails dig into his chest as she sits above him, and every grinding twist of her hips sets his skin blazing with a fire that he would rather quench, but doesn't.
He stares up at her, almost impassive to her nudity, and wonders at her question. Does he like it? It is not an easy thing to answer. There are too many conflicting sides of his nature that crash together to give a ready remark. His body would say yes; his heart would not.
And it is not only his heart that is galled by this forced submission, by this act of violent compulsion. His soul which longs for freedom but never finds it – his mind which blisters with a dozen reasons why he should say no, even if it does hurt this creature's feelings – his entire self, and all his anger and fury at the Capitol and the lifestyle he has lived for what feels like an eternity – it all revolts within him even as he digs his fingers into the woman's hips and hopes his grip is hard enough to bruise.
His voice is ragged when he bites, "Yes."
He is not sure if he is lying or not.
What a traitorous body! It wants to find release even as the rest of him riots at the grievances of his own pleasure.
The woman moans at his response and bucks her hips into his. Her eyes are half lidded as she peers down at him, filled with the desperate cling of mutinous passions too wicked for such an intimate act. Every movement is a twist of selfish need. It is a tumultuous greed that centers this coupling; self-indulgence at its finest.
He used to think that sex is only a momentary act of possession. Perhaps, years ago, he might have cared little for the conflicting turn of his desires. He might not have given them so much weight. It might have been easier to turn a blind eye to this greedy indulgence, and maybe – maybe, he would have even enjoyed it. How strange it is, that he sees intimacy so differently now. It is not merely possession for possession's sake. It is selfish, and indulgent, and greedy; but it is generous too, and sincere, and artful – if only with the right person.
It feels wrong for him to close his eyes and try to think of this woman as Elara, but he does it anyway. He tries to imagine that it is Elara above him. It is Elara spinning pleasure into his body and dragging him into the depths of it. It is Elara that grips him with such clawing fingers, so overcome as she is by overmastering passion. It is Elara that his hips press into when he finds release and surrenders to it, when he grasps her hips and groans, chest heaving, body blazing –
But it is not. It is not.
"I don't know why everyone's so obsessed with Finnick Odair," the woman murmurs as he's coming down from the high of his orgasm. "You're irresistible. So passionate…"
His eyes flutter open. His stomach twists with a sickening lurch. He doesn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the far wall, his head turned to the side as he battles down the disgust that churns his stomach into pieces. He can see the woman out of the corner of his eye, sitting atop him and looking down at him with curious, banked satiation. He is still inside of her, but even though he wishes to remove himself from both her arms and her apartment, he does not move.
He knows how the system works. He knows better than to fight it.
The woman sighs happily and comes to lie beside him, curling up in the sheets with a purring moan that he's sure is done deliberately on her part. It sparks nothing within him but more revulsion, but he dares not let it show upon his face. When he turns to face her, his expression is carefully blank and undecipherable.
The woman either doesn't notice or just doesn't care, and she merely blinks back at him and smiles.
"Have you ever been in love, Gloss?" she asks after a while, twisting her body to glance over at him.
He balks at the question and laughs cuttingly. Love? His first response is a resolute no. His second is far more honest. What he actually voices, though, is nothing. He does not answer her at all. Why should he? She is just a client. She bought him for physical pleasure, not for pillow talk.
The thought vividly reminds him of the adamant way Elara had insisted upon getting to know him the more they ended up together in bed. Her stubborn curiosity, her obstinate need to fill the silence between his body and hers…his face must soften minutely, for the woman raises surprised eyebrows and whispers, "…So you have, then."
As if burnt, he draws away from her, but she only sits up and reaches out to stop him. He does stop, but only because he knows that he has no control in these rooms. He is but a slave for tonight, bracketed by the whims of a master's orders, whether they are spoken or not.
The woman grips his upper arm softly and wonders, "Does this woman love you back?"
He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of it. It is difficult to batter down his anger at this woman's wayward questions. How dare she ask such a thing – how dare she even speak of love.
He turns to her and growls, "Why do you care?"
The woman looks a little lost at the demanding question, as if she isn't sure of the answer herself. She shrugs. Her hand falls away from him as she slowly says, "I'm not sure…I've never been in love. I wonder what it's like. Is it anything like what we just did?"
He is not sure what's worse: the physical touch that he had just been forced to maneuver around, or this line of questions that takes his heart aback with equal measures of yearning and disgust.
"No," he mutters, and goes to sit on the edge of the mattress. As he slides his boxers back on, he cuts a glance at the woman and haltingly grouses, "It's nothing like what we just did."
The woman hums and leans back into the pillows. "What's it like, then? Having sex with someone you love?" She throws him an edged smile and playfully murmurs, "I'm curious."
He glares at her and snaps, "I don't fucking know."
He makes a quick exit after that. He hopes that he doesn't get in trouble for it later on, but he can't stay in that apartment for a second longer. It is one thing to force his body to feel pleasure; another to force his heart to broach such a deep topic with a client whose only role is to use him. What right does she have to know the answer to such questions? The shallow intimacy of their previous act hardly gives her any merit to delve deeper, and even as he bows his head against the windy streets outside and heads back to his apartment, his anger roils through him.
Elara is not here, this time, and he is alone. For some reason, he finds himself missing her more than usual as he pours himself a drink and tries to erase that client's touch from his memories. But – it isn't her touch that makes his head spin; it's her words.
Have he ever been in love? Gloss grits his teeth and scoffs. He doesn't have an answer to that, because he isn't sure if it is truly love that captures him whenever he is with Elara. He doesn't know what love is. In a way, he thinks that it would be a great shame if what he feels is really love, because most of the time it hurts a great deal more than he thinks it should.
Elara doesn't have time to talk to Gloss until after training the next day, despite him and Cashmere being nearby for the majority of it. She'd like to say that she's improving somewhat on the sword, but she isn't blind to the careful set of her friends' expressions and the subtle glances they share when they think she's not looking. According to two Career Victors who have been training in weaponry since they could walk, her skills are severely lacking. At least, were it concerns fighting.
Perhaps it is Haymitch's abrupt discloser of the plans which leads her to where Beetee and Wiress sit, off to the side as they fiddle with some wire and chat as they kneel in front of the fire making station. She can't help but see the Victors in a new light today, knowing that so many of them are aware of the rebellion that brews beneath this morbid surface. She can't help but gravitate towards the two that might be able to put it into greater perspective for her, simply because out of all the other Victors in this room, Beetee and Wiress share something remarkably similar with Elara Winston: a thirst for knowledge.
Their reputation precedes them. District 3 is a place of scientists and engineers, much like District 5. It is known for the electronics it produces – anything ranging from televisions to computers to all the silly fabricated luxuries that the Capitol adores, like the palm sized PAAD computers and the large wall screens that span the rooms of the Training Center suites. She's gotten to know them well enough over the years, having the same in-bred fascination with technology and the creation of it, so when she approaches them after lunch, she receives calm smiles from them both.
"Elara," Beetee says, a simple greeting that tumbles from his deep voice before he turns back to the fire pit. His expression is concentrated. Like her, he won his games with intellect, and seems to be trying to use it now as well.
She kneels down beside him and nods to Wiress, whose face remains unchanged from her calm and collected demeanor. With a tilt of her head, Elara watches Beetee's continued failed attempts at spinning the stick to create fire, and sarcastically notes, "If only it was as simple as turning on a switch."
The drawling words make Beetee chuckle, though he sounds subtly frustrated as he tries again. With a sigh, he murmurs, "It's all about the movement. Friction generates heat…heat generates fire. In theory."
Elara hums in agreement, resting her chin on her hand. She opens her mouth to respond to him, but another voice cuts in with a brief, "You should move your hands downward."
As one, the three of them all look up to see none other than Katniss Everdeen standing before them, looking just as fierce and indifferent as always. She takes no notice of Elara, instead focusing her gaze on Beetee as she nods to the stick he's holding. She makes a motion with her hands, miming her words as she steps closer. As she goes to kneel down, she adds, "And…faster, too."
Beetee and Wiress seem surprised, at first, that Katniss would come over to them like this. Half the week has gone by, and the first few days of training, she had stayed close to Peeta. Venturing off to talk to the other Victors doesn't seem to be of any interest to her, nor does the thought of making friends or allies. Elara sits back and watches as the girl takes the stick from Beetee to show him how it's done, expertly twisting it between her palms several times in fast motions. Haymitch's plans hit her hard then, as she studies Katniss's face. To think, that this is the heart of the rebellion itself! That Katniss Everdeen, unknowing, unsuspecting of her true purpose, is the one who has been chosen to lead them towards freedom.
The concept of such a life is still ironically out of reach for Elara, despite her having knowledge that she hadn't had yesterday. She is used to pipe dreams. She's had more of them than she can count, and all of them include that beautiful freedom she yearns for so desperately. But even though she grasps the majority of this plan and what it will require of them if it is to succeed, a part of her wonders if she isn't just signing her own death warrant in the process of it. After all, plans sometimes fail, and she hates to think of what will happen if this one does.
Thoughts of Amelia drift through her then, broken abruptly when the stick suddenly begins to smoke, and a small spark catches the leaves that circle it. Wiress gasps, leaning in as she murmurs, "A little brute force – "
"Is always helpful," Beetee finishes seamlessly, grinning up at his district partner before glancing over at his unlikely helper. He pauses, then tells her, "Thank you," in a sincere voice, to which Katniss merely nods.
Wiress's attention is caught, then, somewhere above them. She tilts her head curiously, pausing for a moment before gleefully saying, "By the corner of the table!"
They all glance up to where the Gamemakers are standing above them. Some of them have drinks in their hands, and they are all dressed in crisp suits as they watch the proceedings. It is all a part of the process. The Gamemakers will base their training scores on both the Victors' private sessions as well as what they see of them during training. Wiress's words, though, are a little strange.
Elara leans back and studies the space. It doesn't take her very long to catch sight of the edge of the forcefield as it glimmers slightly like liquid glass. She might not be as well versed as the District 3 Victors when it comes to some things, but she's spent the whole of her youth learning about electricity and how to harness it into various electronics, and she knows immediately what Wiress is referring to before any further explanation is given.
Beetee pushes his glasses up as Katniss wonders, "Plutarch?" Her voice is filled with confusion. It is not surprising. District 12 does not deal with electricity or forcefields.
Elara glances at Katniss and murmurs, "Forcefield."
For the first time since she's joined the small group, Katniss looks at Elara. Her confusion seems to have negated any potentially hostile feelings she may have possessed towards the District 5 Victor, for she merely asks, "…How do you know?"
Elara glances back up to the forcefield and quietly responds, "A shimmering…in the corner there."
Beetee gestures with a finger and asks, "Do you see it?"
It seems to take Katniss a moment, but when she does see it, her eyebrows lift in curiosity. She muses, "It's like glass."
Wiress nods. "To separate us from them…" she trails off, and Katniss glances at her with a slightly chagrined expression.
She purses her lips and confesses, "Probably my fault. I shot an arrow at them last year."
She says it with such stark honesty that Elara chuckles, not being able to stop the sound before it appears. Katniss glances over at her, and they share a look that could almost be described as friendly – if Katniss Everdeen could be described as friendly, that is.
Beetee is still studying the forcefield, and hums, "…Ah, electromagnetic."
Again, Katniss turns to him with a raised eyebrow and asks, "How can you tell?"
The question immediately sends Wiress into a flurry of giggles. She rocks back, chuckling to herself as if Katniss's question had been elementary and basic. Elara rolls her eyes good naturally at her reaction. The question had been a bit rudimentary, but only because they've had schooling in this subject since they could read and write. Beetee isn't much better, chuckling along with Wiress as they giggle over Katniss's clear lack of knowledge concerning electricity.
Elara smiles at their antics and leans in, taking pity on the girl as she gestures to the room at large and murmurs, "Look around you. The holograms, the lights. Every now and then they flicker. Why do you think that is?"
Katniss stares at Elara with a furrowed brow and slowly answers, "Because the forcefield is taking up too much energy."
Elara's mouth twitches into a wider smile, and Beetee adds, "…There's always a flaw in the system." He stares at Katniss with a strange look in his eye – a look that Elara now recognizes. It's clear to her that Beetee is referring to Katniss as the flaw in their own system; the loophole that will pave the way out of their hell.
After a moment, Beetee stands up and him and Wiress head off, but to Elara's surprise, Katniss doesn't go to follow them. Instead, she remains where she is, sitting beside the fire pit with a contemplative look on her face. She's watching Elara with curious eyes.
"…District 5, right?" Katniss asks after a moment, turning the fire stick around her hands as she peers at Elara. "You seem to know as much about electronics as Beetee and Wiress."
Elara raises an eyebrow at her and shrugs, "We have a similar schooling system between districts."
Katniss hums and looks down at the stick. She pauses, looking somewhat conflicted, until Elara sighs and puts her out of her misery.
"Just ask," she tells her, much to Katniss's surprise. The set of the girl's face makes Elara smile in amusement and add, "…I won't bite your head off for it."
There must be something in Elara's voice that sets Katniss at ease, for the girl's shoulders relax. She pauses, chewing on her question for a long moment before slowly beginning, "…You and Gloss. I've heard rumors."
This time, it's Elara's turn to pause. She hadn't exactly expected that particular question. Katniss Everdeen seems to be eternally indifferent to most of the other Victors, with the exception of Elara's own district partner. For her to ask about her strange relationship with Gloss certainly takes her by surprise.
It must show in her face, because Katniss clears her throat and mutters, "You seem really different from each other is all."
Elara snorts and rolls her shoulder back, both agreeing and disagreeing at the same time. She's had that thought so many times over the past eight years that it seems almost redundant, now. Her and Gloss are as different from each other as day is from night, and yet…
And yet.
"He's not the brutal Career he pretends to be," she tells Katniss after a moment. Turning her gaze across the room to where the man himself is standing with his sister, Elara tilts her head and murmurs, "It's all a mask. A front, for the Capitol. We're all a part of the system. We all have our role to play."
The use of Gloss's own words from way back during her Victory Tour makes Elara smile subtly, eyes warming beneath the surface in an almost inexplicable manner. But Katniss sees the way Elara looks at him; the way Elara's eyes soften imperceptibly with feelings that, to Katniss, are as foreign as ever. At least…that is her first thought, until she wonders if those feelings are not quite as foreign as she thinks they are. Peeta flashes through her mind, and the warmth that fills her at the thought of his comforting presence draws something of a parallel between them.
Of course, Peeta is worlds different from Gloss, too.
Elara chuckles a bit and shrugs. "He's far gentler than he looks. With me, anyway."
She doubts she'd be quite as expressive about her relationship with Gloss had it not been fo the fact that in a few short days, they'd be entering the arena again.
Katniss grunts, looking somewhat skeptical of her words, and slowly wonders, "How did it start?" Then she pauses and adds, "I'm just trying to wrap my head around it. It seems…strange. No offense."
Elara laughs, lifting a hand to her mouth and rubbing her thumb over her bottom lip. Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and the sight of it makes Katniss smile too – the smallest hint of her own amusement brimming to the surface. She seems to realize that her line of questions is strange in and of itself.
Once her chuckling dies down, Elara looks at her hands and murmurs, "I'm sure you've heard about some of the Victors. About the way they're…invited to the Capitol several times a year? Like Finnick."
Understanding immediately bolts through Katniss's gaze. Mention of Finnick is all she needs to figure out where Elara is going with this, and her lips abruptly turn down. In a rough voice, she mutters, "He sells himself for secrets. He told me himself."
The discriminating tone of Katniss's voice makes Elara raise her eyebrows at her and drawl, "He doesn't sell himself, Katniss. Snow sells him. It's not his choice."
Elara wouldn't necessarily consider Finnick to be her friend – at least, not in the same way she sees Cashmere as a friend, or even Johanna on her good days. Finnick and her are friendly of course, and they share many commonalities that bridge the gap between them, and his penchant for mischief and humor is well received by her. She likes him and she figures he must like her too, considering how much he teases her. Defending him against Katniss's disillusions is a natural response – as natural as breathing.
Katniss skewers her with a sharp glance, and Elara purses her mouth. "Finnick…he has the tendency of making light of his own suffering, but he does suffer. Even more than I do."
The revelation that her words hint at makes Katniss freeze, peering at her with a careful expression. She doesn't say a word or ask for further clarification. She doesn't really need to. It's obvious what Elara is getting at. It doesn't take a genius to realize what her words allude to. No, it only takes an understanding of the dark underbelly of the Capitol, and the manipulation of their president, which Katniss has her own experience with.
Elara looks back at Gloss and murmurs, "My first night…I was so scared. I was about your age, but I'd never…I'd never been with someone like that. Well, I ran into Gloss, and he offered to…" she breaks off, smiles impishly, and shrugs, "show me the ropes, as it were."
The explanation of her first encounter with Gloss Augustine, Victor from District 1, is certainly not very romantic. Indeed, there were no undertones of romance in their initial meeting, or many that followed afterwards. But there was comfort, and gentleness, and a strange type of intimacy that made her heart pound and her body yearn for him in ways she had never felt before that moment. Sometimes, love doesn't grow from a thunderclap; sometimes, it springs from the ground like a weed clinging to life, and no matter how many times you pull it out, it still finds soil to take root in.
Elara chuckles a bit at Katniss's unimpressed expression. "Neither of us expected that we'd care for each other quite as much as we do. I know he doesn't seem very gentle, or kind, but…he's a good man, even though he doesn't show it to very many people."
Katniss hums. She still seems doubtful, but her eyes are a little clearer, and when she looks at Elara, she seems to see a side of her that she hadn't before.
"I didn't think much of you before," she admits with a shrug. "Mainly because of him."
Elara hums too, staring at Katniss thoughtfully as she murmurs, "Like I said, Katniss, we all have our roles to play. What's yours?"
The Girl on Fire pauses, frowns, and responds, "…I don't know. I doubt I ever will."
But Elara just shakes her head and answers, "Oh, I think you already know – you just haven't been able to put it into words yet. For what it's worth, I'm sorry you and Peeta have to go back into the arena so soon."
She stands up, brushing a few leaves from her training outfit as she glances down at the younger girl, who is looking up at her with a strange expression, as if she's wondering if she's being genuine or not. Elara sighs and murmurs, "It's funny, isn't it? How we naturally gravitate towards people who balance us out. You say that Gloss and I are different, but I'd say that you and Peeta are pretty different too."
They stare at each other for another drawn out moment before Elara quips a smile at her and strides away, leaving the Girl on Fire to her thoughts as she watches her leave.
"So…you and Everdeen, huh?" Gloss asks her later on, when she joins him at the rope tying station. Her first reaction is to roll her eyes at him.
Instead of responding to that question, Elara leans against the table beside him and watches as he tries to follow the instructions in front of him. His movements are nothing like Finnick's, who she had seen here earlier today. He could tie one of these complicated knots within seconds, but Gloss takes a little longer. The crease of concentration that blazes through his eyes is singularly attractive and amusing at the same time. He's always taken challenges more seriously than most, even if his opponent is a computer screen.
"Bored of the wrestling mats so soon? I was enjoying that, you know," Elara drawls, crossing her arms and smirking. It isn't a lie. She had enjoyed the sight he'd made, but she has to admit that another part of her was slightly terrified of him going up against Brutus – even if it was a 'friendly' spar.
Gloss smirks too, but doesn't look up from the knot. His concentration is commendable, considering the way he immediately quips, "I'm sure we can have our own wrestling match later tonight, if you're interested," without breaking his focus.
Elara presses back a grin, but can't stop the chuckle that escapes her. "Should I steal some of that oil so we can make a proper go of it?" she lightly suggests, though a large part of her is being completely serious. A shiver threatens to overcome her at the thought of massaging that oil into his muscles, and she barely manages to rein it in before it spirals through her.
The suggestion certainly has an interesting effect on him, too. He immediately jerks his head up to stare at her, eyes tight and focused on her face now, rather than the knot. As a result, he ends up missing a step entirely, but he doesn't seem to care all that much. His attention has been properly displaced, and Elara smirks vividly at him.
He growls at her and lowly murmurs, "We still have an hour left of training. Stop putting those kinds of thoughts into my head."
She raises an eyebrow and glances down at him, giving him a rather thorough look over as she asks, "Why, am I…affecting you?"
The look he sends her is answer enough, and when she shivers next, she doesn't succeed in reining it in. Gloss exhales slowly and abandons the knot in front of him in favor of edging closer, and suddenly, he's caging her against the table with an expression blazing with unapologetic interest.
"Oil," he groans, leaning into her and chuckling. "That's really not fair."
She laughs too even asshe automatically leans away from him, feeling a little bit awkward at his proximity. They're in public, after all. Not only are the other Victors nearby, but the Gamemakers have a front row seat above the training room. It's more than a little unnerving to be so close to him in such an obvious way, with such a large audience.
Gloss notices the move and snorts, "Seriously Elara. Let me kiss you."
The words make her start, jerking her head up to stare at him in surprise. Her immediately response is a firm, "No!" as she tries to edge away from him, but alas, it's rather difficult to do when he's got her trapped against the edge of the table. Gloss is a formidable man, and she's caught between conflicting desires as she presses her hands to his chest and tries to shift him away from her.
Can she really be blamed for wanting to drag him closer? Her heart sets the pace, and it always yearns for him. She wonders if it ever won't.
He sighs and leans back, putting a bit more distance between them but not letting her out of the self-imposed cage of his arms. With a purse of his mouth, he murmurs, "A part of me wants to just tell everyone that we're together. I mean, the Games start soon anyway. Why not just be honest at this point?"
Her heart hammers in her chest, and she closes her eyes. "It…I just…it's hard being with you in front of people when we've spent so much time trying to hide our…affair."
The word feels strange. Evidently, Gloss thinks so too. His eyes blaze with amusement. When she looks up at him, she sees it clear as day in the planes of his face.
"…Well, our affair is our business, especially since we're about to die," he reminds her, much to her frustration.
She's frustrated for a number of reasons. One, because he seems so convinced that they will die – that it's an inevitability that they can't avoid. Two, because since talking to Haymitch, suddenly it seems that there might be a chance after all, but she has no idea how to broach the topic with him. She knows she has to though. Soon.
She swallows, and slowly murmurs, "Gloss…" Then, pausing, she takes a deep breath and whispers, "I need to talk to you about something."
The solemn crease of her voice makes him look a little worried. His eyebrows turn down, and he stares at her hard for a long moment before carefully asking, "Is it…the alliance?"
It takes her a moment to realize where his thoughts are. Is he worried about her wanting to break away from him and Cashmere in the arena? She releases a breath and shakes her head. If she has her way, that won't happen.
"No. It's – we need to talk on the roof. Not here," she breathes. It would be far too dangerous to speak about rebellions in the training room, where anyone could overhear them.
His eyebrows turn down even more as he searches her face, but after a moment, Gloss grunts and steps back.
"Alright. Let's go," he says, catching her hand and pulling her towards the doors.
Elara is so surprised that she immediately hisses, "Now? But training – "
"Yes now. I doubt anyone cares if we skip out a little early. Besides, I won't be able to concentrate on anything if I stay." He glances at her wryly and quips, "Between your cryptic words and thoughts of oiling you up, you've really thrown me for a loop."
She bites a smile down and chuckles.
"I was actually being serious about the oil," she tells him as they walk to the elevator.
He purses his mouth and clears his throat, giving her a look that makes her entire body explode with heat.
"I'm well aware," he responds, eyeing her with that gaze that could make her want him whenever, however – no matter the pressing knowledge that weighs on her shoulders or the nervousness that edges around her worries. She swallows back the desire to shove him against the door of the elevator, and instead calmly reaches around him to press the button for the roof, giving him a look of her own. He breathes out and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking like he doesn't know exactly what to do with them.
"Elara," he murmurs as the doors slide shut. She looks at him. "…Should I be worried about what you're about to tell me?"
She stares at him for a long moment, eyes locked, before slowly saying, "No. I think…I hope…that you'll be pleased about it."
The words make him freeze, shoulders stiff. He stares at her with something akin to horror, and Elara gives him a confused look. Her nerves are overcome by the sheer terror in his eyes, which she can't claim to have ever seen there before.
Then, abruptly, Gloss blurts, "Are you pregnant?"
Elara chokes, coughing into her arm as she presses herself to the wall of the elevator. She stands there for a moment, just staring at him as she coughs, until her laughter overtakes her shock.
"Pregnant?" she asks, and he glowers at her.
With a haughty sniff, he turns away and straightens his outfit, despite it being skin tight and in no need of straightening. He grunts, "You can't blame me for jumping to that conclusion."
She thinks back to the way she had phrased her words and, after a moment, concedes, "Yeah, I guess that's fair. I'm not pregnant, Gloss."
He sighs in relief and mutters, "Thank God."
The way he says it makes her raise an eyebrow at him. He notices, and sighs.
"We're going back into the arena, Elara," he mumbles, leaning against the wall beside her. "This isn't exactly an ideal time to have a kid." Then, turning his head to look down at her, he allows a smile to flutter over his face as he whispers, "Maybe…if we weren't going back in…if we had the chance to be together…"
Elara swallows tightly and looks down at her hands, twisting them nervously in front of her. He studies her carefully for a long moment before reaching out to take them between his own. Immediately, the sense of protection nearly staggers her, just as it always does when he's nearby. He tilts her chin up and locks his gaze with hers, sending her a silent smile that she finds herself returning, though it's a little watery and nowhere near the strength of her brash smirks. He seems to understand.
"You're not as terrifying as I thought you were, before I got to know you," she tells him softly, staring up at him and twisting her fingers with his as they hang between their bodies. He raises an eyebrow at her and she haltingly chuckles, "You like to pretend you're not a romantic sap, but you totally are."
Gloss purses his lips at her but can't stop his eyes from glimmering with subtle amusement. He chuckles and drags her against him, swinging an arm around her shoulders just as the elevator doors open them up to the roof.
As they step out into the early evening, he murmurs, "Only for you, Winston."