Coals Burn Slow
Chapter 3
Tris POV
X
Before the sun has risen, I'm showered and dressed in the Dauntless clothes I found in the trunk at my bed, sat waiting on my bed for something to happen, for my initiation to begin. The pants are a tight, black leather, and although there were form-fitting, small workout tops in the box to match, I choose the black long sleeve shirt that's at least four sizes too big and hangs around my thighs, covering the majority of what my tight pants show. I cuff the sleeves until they're the right length for me, sort of liking the way it all drowns me out.
There's a red circle on my pants, on the left thigh, and a matching band around the left sleeve of my shirt. When I look through the clothes, I notice everything has some sort of red marking on it, even though I never see Dauntless wearing them. The only conclusion I come to is that it might be an initiate marking, like how they make the Erudite initiates wear a white band around their blue clothes, like I saw from my spot watching down in that room.
Part of me misses the modesty and comfort of an ugly Abnegation dress, but I tell myself to snap out of it before I can think of regretting anything.
The apartment is a small, studio that feels colder than the Artic. It's like Abnegation that way; we never heated our houses because it was considered a selfish luxury. Whenever I was cold, my mother would tell me to put another dress on.
It's a simple little space with a door to separate the bathroom from the wider area, but otherwise it's all one room with a small and basic kitchen area on one side, a bed shoved in the corner with a trunk at the end of it and a scruffy little couch and an armchair off to the side.
The only things that could be considered even remotely decorative are the empty shelf above the couch, or the clock on the wall that tells me it's almost five in the morning.
It's much better conditions that what I'm used to, but I remind myself of Max's warning not to get used to it, and I keep it close to heart.
The second the clock ticks past five o'clock, there's a loud knock on my door. A heavy-handed, impatient knock that gets louder every step I take towards the door to open it. When I do, I'm taken aback by the man stood opposite me.
In my head, an "ex-trainer" like Max said I would be training with would be old, past their prime and grumpy, annoyed they're being called back into service. They'd be ugly and worn and frail from enduring years of Dauntless' hardships.
The man I created in my imagination is nothing like the man stood before me.
He looks young, not as young as me, but he can't be more than his mid-twenties. And he's strong. His shoulders are broad, his arms are big and defined, his body tapers in from his chest to his hips, and his legs look to be of the same kind of strength as his arms.
To make matters worse, he's handsome. His jaw is sharp, his eyes are some dark blue I've never seen before, and his hair is brown and a little bit wavy on the top of his head, but shaved shorter on the sides.
I've never known how to behave around handsome boys, so this is an extra challenge I did not see coming.
I notice I'm staring a little, and my cheeks tinge slightly pink, but my embarrassment is short-lived when I realise he's looking me over, too.
When he grimaces at me, my embarrassment returns in full force. He's sizing me up, not checking me out. I'm not sure why I would think otherwise; I've never garnered much interest from boys. Abnegation girls rarely do, and even if we did, we're not supposed to act on it until we're older.
The look on his face makes me think whatever he sees in me is not what he was looking for.
"I'm Four," he says. His voice is low and gritty. His face morphs into some kind of scowl and he still looks handsome, but there's something dangerous about him that makes me want to shrink back into my apartment and slam the door.
His name is strange, but I'm not stupid enough to comment.
"I'm Tris," I say, because that seems the obvious response.
"I know. You're late." He steps back from my doorway, and I exit the apartment, following after him wordlessly, slipping the key card Max gave me into the pocket on the leg of my leather pants and shutting the door behind me.
I jog to catch up with Four, and follow him as he zig zags his way through the compound making too many turns to keep track of. He's fast, and I might be just a little taller than the average girl, but my legs aren't nearly long enough to keep up with his.
Eventually, he pushes open two heavy doors and I follow him through into a big, dark room.
"This is the training room," he announces, reaching to the side and fiddling with a panel on the wall until all of the lights in the room flicker on, lighting the place up.
The training room is big and musky and intimidating. There are square fighting rings in the middle, punchbags on one side, some kind of climbing frame on the other, and human-shaped targets at either end.
"Meet me here every morning at five, got it?"
"I don't know the way," I say quietly, knowing it'll take me hours to find my way back to my apartment tonight.
He turns away from the panel, turning and leading the way to the middle of the room. "You'll figure it out," is all he tells me, and my stomach twists painfully.
I tell myself it's because I'm hungry, and not because I'm nervous.
He jumps onto one of the fighting podiums, and I look up at him. "I'm going to stand here, and you're going to run around the track until I tell you to stop, got it?"
His tone is cold and his words are sharp. I nod my head mutely and head out to the side of the room, where there's a track drawn onto the cement floor leading around the side of the room.
Running is one of the few things I'm not awful at. I was fast as a kid and being part of Abnegation means walking everywhere, because it's selfish to use the train, so I'm used to going long distances. Besides, the day Caleb left Abnegation, which was the same day Marcus slapped me for the first time, I knew I'd leave Abnegation and I started running in the woods near the house to make myself fit.
So, when Four tells me to run, I run. Ten laps in, I've hardly broken a sweat and I'm still breathing fine.
Fifteen laps in, I'm not doing quite so well but I'm enduring. My breathing becomes a little shallower and my legs start to sting. At this point is usually the point I'd turn back in the woods, but Four doesn't say anything, so I keep going.
Twenty laps and I'm ragged. My legs hurt, my breathing is coming in short, fast pants, and I can feel my body start to shake.
I'm ready to pass out by twenty five laps, or collapse in a heap, and my pace has slowed drastically and maybe Four sees this because he finally barks, "Get over here, Stiff!"
I slow to a walk and make my way over, feeling the sweat running down the back of my neck.
He's sat on the fighting ring now, hanging his legs off of the side. They're long enough that they almost touch the floor. He stands when I get close, looking me over. He doesn't say anything, and there's not a shred of anything encouraging on his face.
In the end, he tells me, "Tomorrow, I want you to run thirty," and the only detectable emotion in his tone is disgust.
It'd be a lie to say I wasn't just a little bit hurt by it, even if I shouldn't be. Even if I should know better than to care.
Not waiting for any sort of response, he turns and leads the way towards the punching bags and I follow like I'm sure he expects me to.
X
X
We spend the rest of the pre-breakfast session going over form and I discover he has no reservations about touching me when he thinks it's necessary.
He shoves his leg between mine when I stand with them too close together, holds my hips still when I keep twisting them, and presses down on my shoulders until I relax them.
It makes me sweat for a whole other reason, because I do not like to be touched, and the feel of his hands on me, even through my baggy shirt, is enough to make me so nervous my stomach cramps up.
But however unnerving his touch his, his stare is worse. It's scrutinising and watchful and I feel like he's always looking too close, seeing too much.
I feel like the lies are written out on my face, that if he keeps staring long enough he'll know my secrets.
I tell myself to grow up, to relax, but it does nothing to ease the stiffness of my spine.
There isn't a clock on the walls in here, so I have no idea how long we've been at it but as the time goes on, I get weak. It's a combination of exhaustion and the fact I haven't eaten anything in a while. My punches don't move the bag at all and I start twisting, trying to put my weight behind it like Four has already told me not to do.
"You're twisting again," he snaps, impatient with this. Before I know what's happening, he's stepped forward from scrutinising me from behind and his hands are on my waist, squeezing it in place.
Right on top of my stitches.
My face contorts, I yelp and recoil from him, jerking out of his hold. He's not expecting it and I slip through his fingers, which dig into my sides as I go.
I don't look at him, instead keeling into myself, clutching at my side and breathing deep.
"What?" he snaps, taking a step towards me. He doesn't reach for me, though. "Did I hurt you?" He doesn't sound apologetic, but the question is the most considerate thing he's asked me all morning.
"No," I exhale.
"What is it then?" He's irritated. When I look up, it's written all over his face.
"I fell over and cut myself last week," I lie, and I know it's not the most convincing one I've ever told but he doesn't seem like one that would care. So far this morning, his interest in my welfare has been non-existent.
He glares at me, somehow more annoyed than before. "That's it?"
"Sorry," I mutter, straightening and inhaling deeply before I stand again, this time more prepared for the pain.
When he grabs my waist now, he holds it tighter than before.
I grit my teeth and press my lips together, and I blink back the tears that burn behind my eyes.
It's not until a little while later, when I'm starting to twitch from the restraint of not jumping away from his hold, that he lets me go and says we're done until after breakfast.
"The cafeteria is this way," he says. "Follow me."
I do as he says, and this time I'm glad he's so far ahead because it gives me a moment to wipe away the few tears that slip from my eyes away without him having to see.
X
A/N: So, what do you think? I know this fandom is pretty quiet at the moment but I'm really glad that people are making the effort to let me know what they're thinking about this fic.
So, as always, leave me your thoughts.
- Laylz