a/n: a tribute to Will, because I didn't feel that he needed to die, and because I adored him as a character. Written on a whim, so excuse the errors and inaccuracies. Mostly canon, but I added in some imaginary stuff :)
His name is Will, and he is ordinary.
The shot echoes in the air, and he falls to his knees.
He was born ordinary, raised ordinary.
He looks around at the world of glass towers that stretch upwards, into the sky, the hundreds of bookcases that form endless mazes, the quiet serenity that comes with intelligence, and of being Erudite.
He looks around, at people who stare at their feet and at books all day rather than look at the sights of the sky, and he wishes – hopes, for something more.
The slash across his palm is an angrily marked red.
He closes his fist around it, gives his parents a reassuring smile.
Perhaps bravery is the solution.
A few days later, that changes.
He meets a girl, in the training area.
He finds that he likes the sound of her voice, the sight of her lips when she smiles, the glint in her eyes, when she finds something he says amusing.
He jokes just to hear her laugh.
And he thinks that maybe he was wrong, and that maybe bravery wasn't the solution he was looking for.
She is.
Jeanine always said that being wrong once was considered a mistake.
But being wrong twice – absolutely unforgivable.
You might as well forsake your identity as an Erudite.
He watches her from a distance, a cheesy joke dying on his lips, as she talks to the other boy.
The boy hardly seems impressed, but he recognizes the look that she has on her face.
After all, how could he not.
It's the way he looks at her.
He tells her that the boy is dangerous.
She says that she doesn't give a damn.
She wears herself in a black dress that hugs her body, her hair falling in waves against her shoulders.
Her blue eyes are sharp against the black liner.
She tells him that it's none of his business, and turns, an unconscious swing in her steps.
He watches her as she goes, unable to tear his gaze away.
She is worthless, a traitor, his sister tells him.
He says that he doesn't give a damn.
He sits up in his bed, as a streak of light breaks the darkness.
She calls his name, stands by the door, then stumbles, clearly intoxicated.
He gets up, and she kisses him, hard on the lips. Her mouth is like fire, and her hands fist in his hair, black dress sliding to the ground.
Do you love me? She asks, blue eyes staggeringly bright, like a cloudless sky, breaking away.
Yes.
No, he says out loud. He looks away as she collapses onto the bunk, pulling sheets around her, the birds still visible on her collarbones, still thinking about Four.
She laughs, and calls him a liar.
"I'm Christina."
"Will," he responds absent-mindedly.
He watches them.
Watches her, nodding.
Watches him, an unconscious hand that goes to brush a curl behind her ear.
He swallows a feeling of nausea, then turns back to Christina, to her pretty dark hair, her long legs, her easy grin.
He kisses Christina a day after.
Do you love her? She asks.
No, he replies, irritated.
You're a liar, she whispers.
She's from Candor; if anyone knows about honesty, it's her.
She leans over, touches his cheek, and tells him that it's alright.
Love makes us liars, she says.
His fears fly past by him in a blur, and it grows increasingly hard to distinguish simulation from reality.
He thinks he might be going mad.
Edward leaves.
Al dies.
He lands a punch on Peter's face, nose shattering like glass, and there's a sick sort of satisfaction that fills him when he does.
He wakes up with an icepack on his forehead and her next to him.
She wipes the melting water away with a towel, and he asks her to stay.
She smiles, and tells him that she doesn't plan on leaving.
He often thinks about death.
Morbid, dark, mysterious, unknown – everything that makes it so feared by humankind.
He locks eyes with her as she screams, pushed against the wall by Peter, tearing at her clothes.
He raises the gun in his hands, and a burst of pain erupts before he can close his fingers on the trigger. A bright crimson flower is in bloom, petals blossoming across his chest like a stain.
His vision flickers once like television static, and Peter vanishes into thin air. She stands there, alone, her pistol pointed at him. It drops from her trembling, outstretched hands, and without hesitation, she runs towards him. She kneels down, pulls him up against her, and he feels wetness as tears spill onto his face.
He only just starts to realize the sin she's committed.
She tells him she's sorry, but they both know it's not a mistake.
She holds him in her arms and he wonders if this is what dying feels like.
a/n: don't favorite without dropping by to tell me what you thought! Any and all comments are appreciated.