One

Tris

This is one of those other days where I feel messed up as fuck.

I am snuggling between the sheets, grimacing at the queer taste of vodka left on my chapped lips after an eternity of drifting and sinking between the horizon of consciousness. My head still hurts from the binge-drinking, but hey, not like I care. It has always been that way ever since, well, exactly when?

I'm just fucking tired, that's what I am trying to say.

I stare out of the window with lazy eyes. The drizzle hits lightly on the limpid glass and slowly slides down along the window pane, a turbid wisp of haze lingering over the city's overcast sky. I don't know what I'm doing with my life. It has seriously been a lot harder for me than it was during the war— at least back then I had a purpose in it.

I check the time. Three in the afternoon. Damn, my life is really fucked up.

I forcefully fling myself off of bed and decide to go freshen up a bit. I take a brave look at the mirror and gawk at the withered girl standing feebly inside. I'll need a haircut some time, I fiddle with a strand of hair hugging the curves of my breasts that has obviously grown too long, think about how long it takes for that to happen, and eventually get back on track to the core part of my daily routine: reminiscing.

It has been two years after the, well, thing. I barely made it out of the war alive. Everyone thought I was not gonna make it, but well, apparently I did, which is kind of frustrating. Might as well just die so I don't have to be who I am right now.

I sigh into the mirror. Pretty sure nothing on earth will be able to cure me. Well, maybe except one thing. Which I don't have anymore.

Tobias and I went separate ways half a year ago. I mean, I get it. I was completely intolerable at that point, and it surely has taken him a shit ton of patience to have endured me this long until he decided to speak for himself. It went weird, but nevertheless, I understood why he had to do this. I would have done the same if I were him. It still upset me though, and for the next six months onward, I have been fucking with my life more than I have intended to.

I guess I was a little traumatized from the war, but it was worse than I would like to admit. For a very long time, I wasn't happy. I was itching to find something worth pursuing for, a dream, a goal, stuff like that. Tobias wanted to settle down, have a kid, at first I didn't say no. But then I quickly realized that tranquility isn't really my thing. It's not in my bones. And there was this one point where everything felt forced, which is a point he had decided to make clear and I kinda had to agree on.

And so off he went, and he never came back.

I didn't feel particularly upset, mostly because I knew it was gonna happen. It was destined not to work, given my mental condition. I can't possibly be fixed. The pieces are too small to begin with.

I didn't let one drop of tear fall from my eye after that, but I was completely aware that I was getting worse. I started fucking around, fully taking advantage of my incapability to feel for life. I did some pretty crazy shit, jumping off short roofs and going down waterfalls. No one was around, and it was fun. I've missed the Dauntless days way too much.

And then I return, still looking at the mirror. Another moment of life wasted in the memories.

I put on a simple camisole and a pair of ripped jeans, mindlessly scrolling on my phone. A text appears on my message bar.

"Morning. Got the time right again didn't I."

Oh. Almost forgot about this fucker.

"Fuck you." I type, naturally.

And this fucker, of course, is the notorious, wretched Peter Hayes.

Of course this whole thing didn't make any sense at first; you guessed it, because me and Peter had always lived with the acquiesced acknowledgment that we resent each other. I know it's ridiculous; six months ago it would have sounded like the most absurd thing in the world, but Peter and I have indeed been seeing each other pretty frequently after Tobias left the city. For no reason at all, that is, and on very random occasions. It didn't take me too long to let the remaining specks of hatred I had for him fade away, because as I said before, my emotions are long ago fatigued. But Peter is some next level shit. You never know what he's up to.

Let's just say he's something that I'm still trying to figure out. Before I was sure of what he was— a fucking piece of shit. But now he sorta falls between the line, and that sure as hell stresses me out.

If I could, I would be very delighted to forget about his existence and just move the fuck on.

Spoilers.

I couldn't.

Peter looked pretty different from how I remembered him to be when I first saw him after the war. I have a shitty job to go to six days a week, delivering pizza takeaways around the western parts of the city on a worn-out motorcycle. I tried speeding with that thing once, but the thrill was apparently far from enough. It's not the nicest job, to say the least, but it's definitely better than sitting at an office desk all day long doing absolutely nothing but tidying up paperwork. That will surely drive me insane.

The cashier guy was taking in a last-minute order on the phone and telling me to deliver it when I was preparing to end the day and go home. I had no objections to that, despite the reluctance. And so I threw myself on the motorcycle and headed towards the given address, letting the wind slap freely on my face through the helmet as I eventually stopped by a dark narrow valley, in which a vague figure stood leaning loosely against the blackened wall riddled with disheveled graffiti.

Now, let's skip all the dramatic parts and get straight to the point: Peter was the one who ordered the pizza.

"Hey Tris." he simply said upon the sight of me basically dropping my jaw, utterly unperturbed.

I cringed. It sounded so wrong coming out of his lips, and I quickly shoved the box of pizza into his gloved hands. I seriously wasn't needing that.

Don't get me wrong though. I've been having a shit ton of fun talking to Peter lately. We put up a decent fight almost every time, which is a way of greeting each other that I've actually been enjoying. Peter doesn't agree. He's been bitching quite a lot about it. Which only leads to more decent fights, pushing on chests, and kissing each other in the middle of pointless conversations. I can take it. Peter is of not much importance, anyway— until he suddenly isn't anymore.

Still I have some serious issues about hearing him call me Tris. It made me very uncomfortable, sensing the eerie touch of intimacy that isn't necessarily there. And so I made the harshest statement I could manage and blurted it out at him.

"Stiff. Just call me stiff."

"Wow. I'm flattered." he pulled on the hood of his gray sweatshirt and beamed a half-hearted smirk at me. "Never thought you'd appreciate something that I made up."

Everything he said brought a shiver down my spine.

"I thought you used the serum." I snapped instead.

"I did." he shrugged, with perfectly intact memory.

"Or maybe you didn't."

"I used it. It didn't work." he gripped tightly at the edge of the pizza box as we continued to stand in the late night wintry breeze, he against the wall and me against the backseat of the motorcycle. His face felt close, and I took my time to thoughtlessly examine his perfectly defined features after an eternity of separation. The fierce look I remembered seeing in his eyes vanished, leaving a cold trace of exhaustion and pride on either side of his reddened cheeks. He was giving off such a different vibe; such a different color. It almost made him look... pleasant.

But of course I knew better than that. Peter looks like everything a woman can dream of, but that's the end of the story. Especially with what he's done in the past it was getting kinda hard to appreciate the beauty in this crooked man. But I had to agree, to a certain extent, that he is pretty captivating in some way.

I swallowed at the twisted thought.

Oh right. The serum.

"Of course it didn't work." I crossed my arms. "You didn't take it."

"Wh-Tris, Jesus, can you stop being so fucking paranoid?" he protested in his signature tone of an innocent-wannabe. "Check the books. Use your common sense. I was from fucking Candor, how about that?"

I raised an eyebrow at the manner. He looked away.

"You saw my past. You've been there. Is there any point in remembering all that?"

"What happened?"

I was not even trying anymore. Peter seemed a lot vulnerable than he was back in the days. Maybe something changed. And maybe, maybe— I was interested in knowing what exactly did.

He paused for a brief second, but quickly decided to not let a piece of anything slip through.

"What happened is that you delivered the last order, and you're gonna get busted if you don't head back asap." he stuffed a couple of wrinkled bills into my uniform pocket. "You will get shitted on, believe me."

I gave a light snort and flung myself up the motorcycle. "Fine."

If he doesn't wanna talk, I'm not gonna do it either. Not like I care.

He watched me start that motorcycle up and waved a lazy goodbye as I hurriedly drove away. I didn't wave back.

The first thing I noticed after seeing Peter was that I no longer hate him for anything. It was a nice departure, knowing that we'd separate with mutual respect. Yeah, Peter did some pretty terrible shit back then, but it's not like I'm gonna keep clinging onto the past. That's not gonna do me any good.

I was at peace, for a whole week. Nothing special happened, I still went to that shitty job regardless.

— and that was before the phone at the cashier started to ring late one night again.

Suddenly feel this strong urge to write a little bit of Petris although probably no one else on the internet is doing the same anymore. An experiment to see how many active shippers are still waving out there. Dropping a comment or two will be very much appreciated. High chances of updates in the future. :) Please show some love and support for the ship, for the sake of this small and fragile community.