Hey! So as I am in my write-all-day-every-day-mood for what seems like a while, I decided to take advantage of it. I caught up will most Eris fics and took inspiration, which motivated me to start this. I want this story to be a short one but if you guys want me to take it further, so be it.
Enjoy :)
His icy eyes watched the Stiff. They observed how she pathetically slapped the punching bag, not even managing to budge it. The hair in her ponytail swung from side to side, going above her head. At this rate her head is doing more work than her arms. She is weak. And way too self-conscious.
He notices how she stops and looks around every twenty seconds, as if expecting somebody to pounce on her, criticizing everything about her. But nobody is watching. Except from him.
Eric shakes his head in slight annoyance. She is not achieving anything.
He looks over at Molly, narrowing his eyes at how she uses her whole body to throw a punch. Then his eyes slide over to Peter and he nods in approval when Peter's fighting partner falls to the floor, covering his face. For a second, he contemplates helping the injured. But then Four walks over and checks up on the pair. So Eric turns his eyes back to the Stiff.
She is standing still now. Not punching. Not glancing around. But looking at her hands. Out of everything she could possibly do during training, she chooses to look at her hands. Mentally, Eric admits to himself that even from the distance between them, he can clearly see the red and purple marks snaking up her wrists. Nevertheless, she should stop feeling sorry for herself.
Suddenly, he can't take much longer. His anger rises up to his mouth and he yells, "Quit pissing around!"
It is as if Tris knew that Eric was talking to her. Faster than lightning, she glues her eyes back to the punching bag and starts slapping it again. No longer bothering to make a fist.
Then his aftershock comes, "Put some back into it!"
He receives scattered glances from the other initiates, but none of them choose to keep their eyes on the leader for longer than a second.
SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH
After training, everyone but Tris leave to go to the dining hall. She was thinking hard about what Eric has said to them before. If you are below the red line after the first stages of training, you get cut. And quite frankly, taking on board all the yelling Eric did today during the fights and knife throwing, she knew she was not going to make it. Unless. Unless she put the time into it. Her free time.
Tris knew she was shit at everything so far. She does not fit it. She is not like everybody else either. Divergent or not, she does not fit in physically. So her greatest idea of the day was to skip dinner and continue training. She tries to ignore the pain in her hands. She tries to make a fist and use her whole body and sway the punching bag. But her confidence is low. She is not good enough. She is not good enough at all.
"Initiate!" The booming voice makes her jump five feet in the air. She gasps loudly as her nickname echoes through the training hall. Eric emerges from the shadows, holding what looks like a jacket and looking more pissed off than usual. The piercing in his eyebrow quirks up as he saunters closer to the girl, "Skipping dinner, are we?"
"I'm just," she gestures to the punching bag covered with her blood, stepping away and looking down. She hopes that she can make a good attempt at trailing off and leaving Eric to continue talking, but he just stares at her expectedly.
"Just what?" The jacket in his hand gets tossed into a corner.
"I... I was trying to practice my-"
"You of all people should know, Stiff," he starts, "That without required calories, you will not be able to perform."
Tris stares at him for half a second before nodding, and turning on her heel, starting to walk towards the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" He spits.
She turns to look at him again, stroking her bleeding hand as she cups it with her other one, "I... To dinner."
"Not very consistent, are you?" She chooses to stay quiet, having made the mistake of talking back to him and receiving awkward remarks afterwards, "Does it hurt?"
Tris watches the way his eyes trail down to her hand and stay there. She decides to look at it too. Her mouth opens to say no but as she flexes her fingers, a numbing pain courses through her wrist. She grimances.
She can practically hear Eric rolls his eyes afterwards. Then he steps closer to her, boots stomping the concrete floor. And the entire atmosphere changes. All blood (or what is left of it) rushes to her face and she has to look down. From this angle she can see the tips of his boots nearly touching hers. He reaches out and grabs her wrist, twisting it so that he can take a better look.
It's ridiculous being scared of him. She can't avoid eye contact forever.
Tris then glances up, her lips pressed into a firm line, "It looks broken."
His massive hand squeezes the middle of hers gently. She cries out in pain, trying to pull it away from him. He is too strong, "It is broken."
Eric's face mocks up a crappy attempt at displaying sympathy. His lower lip sticks out slowly as he shakes his head and tuts, "Bet you think you'll get a doctor's note and sit on the benches as your friends fight."
"No," she furrows her eyebrows, "Not at all."
"It's your own fault," he grumbles, releasing her hand, "An old lady can punch better than you."
"Old ladies don't get a place reserved at Dauntless."
"And you do?" Eric steps closer, grabbing her other arm, "I have just about had it with you, initiate." His piercing glare shoots right through her. Her knees feel weak. She starts glancing away uncomfortably, "Go over there and punch that target. I fucking hope that you feel the pain. Otherwise you are not doing it right."
"But you said that my hand is broken-"
"I said," he takes a pause to inhale in frustration, "Go punch that target."
Tris gulps quietly as he releases her. This is not going to end well. How is she supposed to learn how to punch if nobody is actually showing her how to?
As if reading her thoughts, Eric growls, "And don't you dare blame this on Dauntless leadership. It's all your fault."
She rolls her eyes when she turns around, knowing that he can't see. With every step towards the target on the punching bag, she begins feeling more and more uncomfortable. He is digging his glare right into her back and it burns. The lights seem to dim slightly, but then Tris figures that it is just the sun going down.
Eric sighs loudly. Shouldn't he be eating with everyone else instead of givinhg her a hard time about not eating? Hypocrite.
A wince escapes her mouth as she forces her fingers to curl into a fist. It is agonizing. But that should not be mentioned here as a complaint. It's just a broken hand. She isn't dying.
"Today, initiate," he speaks from behind her. It feels like he is a few inches away from her, but she doesn't dare to turn around. With all the power she can muster, her hand flies into the punching bag, creating a loud noise to echo across the hall. Tris doesn't know if the noise was the flesh against rubber or a scream which bubbled up from her throat. All she knows is that there is no way she will be able to use this hand again for at least a week.
Soooooo what did you think? Review and tell me :)
Should I make this into a longer story?
Guys, later on there are guaranteed lemons, so the rating will have to change to M.