Break Me Down

by thefactionlessauthor

(Revised from original story) "And are you afraid of me?" He asks me this so quietly, I almost don't hear him. But his lips are at my ear; his voice shakes, and I can tell he's just as nervous as me now. We both anticipate my answer. [Rated M for later scenes / language]

6. Whole

A/N: I promise I did not abandon this story! Life has been crazy busy, and on top of that I have had the worst case of writer's block ever (which should be impossible, since I am refurbishing this story, but when I am changing the ideas I don't like it gets tough to write something new sometimes!) Alas, the next update is here, and hopefully the one after this will be up in a shorter amount of time!

CHAPTER 6 – WHOLE
Tris Prior's POV

"It seems Eric's really amped up the anticipation for this fight," Marlene shouts over the noise; she yells into my ear, though I may have heard her just fine if she were a little farther from me. But my ears ring from all of the noises in general.

It's Friday night; exams are over, the pit is packed—I almost don't believe this is all because of a fight.

I glance around for Tobias, and I spot him on the mezzanine, talking with Zeke. He barely looks over the rowdy crowd taking up the main floor; when he laughs, I find myself smiling. Zeke points from up top, around our area and Tobias looks straight to me.

He waves; Zeke shakes his head, amused, and punches his arm. He says something to Tobias I can't hear from all the way down here, but as Tobias rolls his eyes I imagine it must be something ridiculous. I can't hear what Tobias says to him in return either, but Zeke bursts out laughing, and eventually they head down to where we are. Tobias pulls me into a hug, lifting me off the ground slightly. I wrap my arms around his neck, and hold myself up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

I don't want to wait until we're alone to kiss him—and he doesn't seem to object.

Over his shoulder, I see Eric watching us; my face heats up slightly, and Tobias puts me down, but he doesn't let go of me. I don't look back at Eric. I couldn't read the expression on his face, it would only worry me more if I tried to. "Miss me?" Tobias asks.

I smile, nodding, "a little bit." A lot, actually—I can't say it doesn't scare me, because it does, depending on him the way that I do. But I also know that I have never felt happier than when he's holding me. I swallow the fear as we wait for the fight to begin.

When Eric speaks, everyone quiets down. He glances over the crowd, the cunning glint in his eyes, "First fight of the night—Peter... and Edward." I look over at Uriah, wondering if he knows who Edward is but Uriah shrugs, shaking his head at me.

I notice his arm is slung around Marlene's shoulders, while she and Lynn strain to look over taller heads. As subtly as I can, I give Uriah a thumbs up and he grins, nodding.

"You know the rules," Eric says, backing out of the ring, "you fight until you no longer can, and nobody concedes. ... ...Go." Peter swings first, determined to get the first hit but Edward is faster, and by the looks of it stronger.

He uppercuts Peter, hitting him square in the jaw. Peter lets out a painful wail, clutching his face briefly. I shouldn't want to see pain inflicted on anybody, but I want to see Peter's pain over and over again. He goes for Edward again, this time he manages to get a punch into his stomach; but Peter has to shake his hand out, and Edward brings his knee up, almost knocking Peter to the ground with the force of it. The crowd is more boisterous than before, rooting for whoever seems to be winning at the moment. And so far, it's still Edward.

I turn to Tobias, who's watching me instead of the fight, "what?"

He leans closer to me, so I can hear him, and says, "I don't think I've ever seen you this engrossed in any of the fights," he answers, "you look almost lethal."

I smirk, "that's because Peter's losing." Tobias raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn't know about Peter, so I shake my head, "I'll explain it later," I promise. Tobias nods, a weary look on his face so I turn back to the fight for now. I see Edward's fist connect with Peter's face again, and then Peter's down. Blood drips from his nose, and the new, gash in his lip. Blood is a strange color, it's darker than you expect it to be, like a blackish, dirty red.

I barely see anything wrong with Edward, but Peter looks bad. Edward keeps kicking, until Peter is in a ball, unable to tell him to stop. That's when Tobias pushes through the people in front of us and he and Zeke pick Peter up from the ground; they carry him out of the room, but I don't know where they take him.

I feel happy, though I know I shouldn't. No matter how mean Peter can be, I shouldn't be happy at his pain—it's wrong. It's a disgusting trait to have.

Tobias returns after a few minutes, looking slightly amused but uncertain. His fingers grip my arm at the bend, and he pulls me away, until we're in a quieter area. The next fight begins but I can no longer see the ring, which may be his intention, "What was that all about?"

"Peter is..." I'm not sure how to describe him; he's an asshole, for sure, but I feel like even that may be an understatement; I don't want Peter dead, I would never wish that, but I don't exactly want to see him up on his high horse anymore either. I sigh, "Peter is to me, what Eric is to you." It's the best I can do; Tobias nods, understanding.

"You haven't even been here half a year, and you already have an enemy," I frown; he says it like I tried to make one. "You wanted to see Peter hurt?" He asks. I don't want to nod, but I do, slowly.

"...Yes. The first time I met him he tried to shut my arm in a door." The muscle in his jaw jumps. I can't tell if he's angry, he keeps his face calm. Perhaps that is worse.

"Why did he do that?"

"Because I was new," I answer lamely, "and apparently nobody was talking about him and his achievements."

"I can't imagine he has many friends with that type of greeting," Tobias says; I shake my head, agreeing with him.

"He has followers." I sigh, a slight headache forming now that we are away from all of the noise, "but I don't want to talk about Peter anymore." Tobias smiles after a moment, and then he nods.

"Okay."

xXxXx

Caleb knocks on our door the next morning; Christina shuffles to her feet to open it, shooting him a glare. It's eight-thirty, Caleb tells me our parents will be here around ten, and that I should get ready quickly.

I get dressed, wearing a long sleeve black shirt, and deep, dark blue jeans. I still wear my black and white sneakers. Caleb looks over me, making sure I don't look too different, and he says, "You should cover your tattoo."

I know he is right. It's not something I want my parents to see as soon as they look at me. Christina throws me a collared jacket, the top if it just touches below my chin, "Perfect," I say.

And then Caleb and I head down to the office, meeting with Ms. Matthews to wait for their arrival.

Xxxxx

My mother hugs me tightly, like I haven't seen her in ages. My father pulls Caleb into his embrace first, and then me. Automatically, my arms return the gesture. Everything is familiar; my father still smells like silver birch, and mint; my mother, like vanilla and honeysuckle.

We are greeted by Ms. Matthews; she speaks to them for a moment, praising our—mostly Caleb's—grades and then we are shuffled into a large room with tables at the opposite end, and two couches facing each other. I would guess it to be the teacher's lounge, but it looks too modest—too plain, and boring.

I remember to pull the collar of the jacket back up every time they aren't looking, so that my tattoo is hidden. Caleb wouldn't let me leave the dorm building without it. I wasn't about to disagree with him anyway.

"We would ask how school is going," my father says, smiling at the both of us, "but Ms. Matthews's overview seems to tell all." Caleb and I exchange a brief look, like the ones all siblings seem to be wired with when they're hiding secrets.

This secret being that school has not been much of my priority, like it has been Caleb's. Also being my tattoo, and how—though Caleb won't say it outright—'corrupt' I have become. Wearing more form fitting, dark clothes and vanity. My parents have surely noticed, but they don't look at me any different; my father does, at least a little, but he doesn't give me a look of disapproval. I am still his little girl, but maybe I'm just a little more sure of myself.

"We've missed you," my mother smiles, reaching over to give my hand a squeeze. Her hands are soft, and warm, like they always have been. The tendons jump like piano strings beneath her skin, and I rub my thumb over them, as if to smoothen them out. "You look different, good different." She looks at Caleb first, and then me.

And I notice that it's not just me she's talking about; I didn't notice that Caleb has been smoothing his hair down, neat and flat. While I let my hair frame my face more, casting shadows along the edges of my face.

"How have you been?" She asks us, "Have you made friends?" The fluorescent bulb just above Caleb and me flickers, then stops, flickers, then stops. I nod, and Caleb sits up straighter.

"I've made a few," he answers, "Beatrice, too." I'm used to hearing my friends call me Tris now, that I almost forget what Beatrice sounds like—it sounds too formal now.

I clear my throat, "Yeah, just a few." I lie too easily now.

"Well, tell us," my father says, "what your classes are like." I let Caleb explain his first—he's more academically engrossed than I am. He tells my parents about the girl, Susan—the smile hasn't left my parents' faces since he mentioned her; how polite and wonderful and smart she is.

I want to tell them about Tobias; I still want to tell Caleb. But he's two years older, legally an adult—he lives on his own, and as for his job, I don't know how I could explain that one to my parents; I'm not sure how any of them would react. But I know him well, at least in the moments that we are alone. I know the real Tobias, I can live with keeping him a secret from them for just a little bit longer.

My father and Caleb decide to take a walk around the campus, suggested by our mother. When they're out of the room, my mother turns to me. "Your father was weary about you two being so far from home, but he knows this school is one of the best," she says, smiling slightly. I smile in return, that sounds like him. "Tell me, what are your friends like?"

I have always enjoyed these moments with my mother, when she acted like my best friend—when I knew I could tell her anything. I know that still applies now. I wipe my palms on my jeans, and sit up straighter. I let Caleb do all of the talking before, like I always have, but now this question is directed towards me and it's just me and my mother.

"Well my roommate, Christina, is great. She's the one that gave me this...makeover." I say, laughing a little. My mother joins in, shaking her head.

"I was going to ask when you started wearing make-up," she says, "it looks very nice." My face warms; I am not used to compliments, not really. My mother was always the epitome of beauty in my eyes, with her light brown hair and vibrant, blue eyes. I was always just ordinary.

"And then there's Uriah, Marlene, Lynn...Al and Will," I list off; I don't mention Peter, or Molly, or Eric because I don't need my mother worrying; and they are not who I would consider friends, ever. "And Four."

"Is that a nickname?" My mother asks. I nod, but don't elaborate. Tobias wears his pride in that alias—why he chooses to keep his real name a secret, I'm not sure. I assume he'll tell me when he wants to. "What are they like?"

I tell her about them; how Uriah's eating habits are insane, and how Marlene and Lynn act like sisters; I tell her about Christina and Will, and how they got together—my mother smiles, almost from ear to ear. I mention Al, and how kind he is. I tell her he has been a little too kind, but that I don't share the same interest in him.

"What's—Four, is it? What's he like?" I blush, willing myself to calm down before she notices, but she does and she smiles, "is he cute?"

"Mom—,"

"—you can tell me, Beatrice," my mother says, patting the back of my hands. I bite my lip; I am reluctant to tell her, but she's never teased me whenever I showed some form of affection. I don't believe this would be much different.

I nod, embarrassed, "...yeah, he is." She beams.

"Tell me about him."

I don't know how much I should tell her—I start with how he looks; tall, taut, and defined. A long, narrow face with a hooked nose, angled jaw, and hallows beneath his cheekbones. His deep set, dark blue eyes and short hair. How his lips are usually always in a pout.

My mother laughs, "you must really like him." She doesn't know how difficult it is for me to say it out loud—to actually allow myself the freedom to like somebody, maybe even love them unconditionally. I don't know if I love Tobias, it's way too soon for me to know. Right?

I don't tell her about the knife-throwing, or the night we scaled the Ferris Wheel. They were dangerous, daring moments; ones I prefer to keep between us.

I carefully mention his age, "he's nineteen..." Silence. But my mother's expression doesn't change.

"I trust you to make your own decisions," she says softly. "You will be eighteen soon; I know you'll be responsible." I'm gaping at her; it was not the reaction I expected—I expected the dreaded talk, amongst various lectures even.

"Really?" I ask. She nods.

"Of course," my mother's smile is warm, "I have never felt the need to worry about your judgment, Beatrice. You see the good in people, just like me... but you also know when something isn't right. I think Four sounds like a wonderful man, and if he makes you happy you're old enough to make those kinds of decisions." I hug my mother tightly, and just like that all of my fears and thoughts are put to rest—I never knew I needed to hear those words from my mother until she spoke them. When she pulls back, she tucks my hair behind my ears and smiles, "Come on, let's go find your father and your brother, and get some lunch."

xXxXx

That night I find myself sitting on Tobias's bed, watching the skyline from the window as I wait for him to get home. I check the clock; he was supposed to be here nearly ten minutes ago. I met him and Zeke at the control room, but Tobias asked me to wait for him. He gave me his key, and said if I wanted to I could wait at his apartment. The thought was tempting, so I am.

It's almost ten o'clock, and my eyelids feel heavy when I hear the door open. I peek through my eyelashes. Tobias's footsteps sound dense, and sluggish; he kicks his shoes off carelessly by the door, and then I hear him getting closer.

He drops down beside me, jostling the mattress. My body jumps with it, and I open my eyes, meeting his sleepy, blue ones. The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile, and he yawns, "sorry it took me so long," Tobias whispers, "I lost track of time."

"It's alright," I say, smiling back, then I ask, " Anything more on the missing footage?" Tobias nods his head, but I can tell he is aggravated by something.

"Yes," he sighs, his voice soft, "But whoever did it, they're getting away with it. They wore a mask... and we only have the few seconds leading up to the camera getting smashed. No other camera picked up anybody acting suspicious it seems. Zeke's been looking into that," Tobias says, "but so far, nothing else." He sits up beside me, then shifts so he is in front of me. He tugs me up, pulling me toward him and a moment of bravery washes over me; I shift, swinging a leg over him so I am sitting in his lap. I bring my hands up, gripping his shoulders so they stop shaking. Tobias sits up straighter, his arms secure themselves around my waist and he hums against my lips as we kiss, "I don't want to talk about work anymore," he says, brushing his nose along my jaw.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask, almost breathless. He laughs quietly, but his entire body shakes.

"Am I making you nervous again?" He teases. I bite my lip, feeling my own smile.

"No," I retort, "who gave you that idea?" Tobias pulls back to look at me, and I want to focus on his eyes, but his fingers nearly touch the skin beneath the hem of my shirt and all I can do is try to make myself breathe normally.

"How was seeing your parents?" He asks after a moment, slipping the other hand through my hair to push it out of my face.

"Good," I say, nodding, "I'm glad I got to see them. I told my mother about you." For a moment, he stills and I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have done that.

"Did you?" He asks.

"Yes," I reply carefully, "I only told her your name is Four..." then I blush, "...and that we're together." Tobias relaxes slightly; he buries his face into my shoulder, his lips press slow kisses to my tattoo. It is hard to focus when he does things like this.

"What did she say?" Tobias asks, his voice full of curiosity again. I mentally breathe a sigh of relief.

"She said you sound like a wonderful guy," I say, watching him smirk, "and that I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

Tobias smiles, "your mother sounds very smart."

"She is," I say, longingly, "sometimes it's easy to talk to her like that..."

"She's your mother," he says. He falls silent for a few moments, then looks into my eyes, "I used to have good conversations with my mother... I was only about six, but she always talked to me like I was old enough to understand things."

I smile, the thought brings an image into my mind; I realize this is the first thing he has told me about his family. I ask my question carefully, watching for a bad reaction.

"Do you not talk to her anymore?" I ask. Tobias nods once, a sad look on his face.

"My mother passed away, around the time I was turning seven," he says, clearing his throat. "Only Zeke and Uriah, and Tori knew that... and now you." I'm not sure if I should apologize—he almost looks like he is trying to avoid hearing one; like I will look at him differently. And for a moment I do; he lost his mother so young.

"She loved you a lot," I say, earning a nod.

"She did," he smiles, "She always made it a point to tell me that."

"It sounds like you had a really strong relationship with her." Tobias nods again; I won't press him on anything more, I have decided to take information as it comes from him. It is easy to see that he is very private with his life, but I can also see that he is trying to let me in.

"I can't say the same about my father," he says quietly, "but that's a whole other story... maybe I'll tell you about it someday." I watch as his features contort from nervous to something close to... anger? I remember him telling me his father sent him off to school, for what I first believed was misbehaving, but now I'm not so sure.

We talk more about my family, and he tells me a little more about his mother. He tells me is an only child, and that he has always lived in Chicago for as long as he can remember. He tells me his father lives out in New York as well, but that he stayed here for school, "My father liked the education standards they provided here," he says to me, "but he preferred the political job opportunities in New York. Without me, and my mother, he didn't have to worry about taking everything and leaving for his job." I get the sense the only feeling of family he ever had was when his mother was alive.

"My father went to this school here," I tell him, "and he loved it, so he thought we would, too."

"Do you?"

"Yes," I say, but I feel a twinge of guilt in my stomach; I haven't exactly been the best student as of late. I haven't ignored my studies, or the work along with them, but I haven't been paying them all the attention I should be.

"You sound unsure," Tobias says. I shrug.

"It's like I've said—knowledge is more for my brother than it is for me. I like more hands-on... not book smart."

"I've always found both easy," Tobias says thoughtfully, "book smart, or hands on... they always came easily to me."

It is late when I notice him starting to fall asleep beside me. I feel tired too, and I have never slept in the same bed as a boy, but I don't want to make him move to the floor a second time. I don't want to make him stay awake to walk me back either; I wouldn't agree to it if he offered anyway.

Just as I think this, Tobias lifts his head off the pillow, and peeks up at the clock. With a quiet sigh, he starts with, "I can take the fl—," My hand covers his mouth.

"—stay. Sleep." Tobias smiles against my palm, and for a moment I expect him to stubbornly take the floor, except he doesn't. Instead, he stretches out on his stomach, pulling the blanket up over me. He keeps his body above the blanket, pressed against my side, and he feels warmer than the blanket.

I want to tell him he doesn't have to do that, but at the same time I couldn't be more grateful. I turn my body on the side, facing him, and watch him as he falls asleep. I count his even breaths until I'm too tired to keep track.

xXxXx

The next morning, I accidentally oversleep.

Tobias sleeps beside me, snoring into my neck. His breath tickles my skin, and I realize that at some point during the night he wrapped his arms around me, and I curled into him. My skin is tacky with sweat; the heat from his body and from the sunlight in the room combined is stifling.

It's almost ten; I will be late for class, but the panic doesn't surface like it once would have. I've never cut school, and I could still make it for my next class, but my body is still heavy with sleep, that I don't want to move. I stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes, debating whether or not I should wake him up and get up, myself. After a moment, I lightly shake his arm and he stirs awake. "What time is it?" He asks, his voice thick with sleep. He cranes his neck around to see the clock, and then turns back over to me, groaning, "shit, how did it get so late?"

"Time flies," I offer, running my fingers over the blanket. Tobias chuckles beside me, shaking the mattress.

"You have to go, Tris," he says, but it sounds empty, uncommitted. I know I have to. I just don't want to. And we don't—we just stare at each other for a few minutes, in silence. Tobias grabs my hand in his, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.

"I'm still in the same clothes from yesterday," I scowl. "I wouldn't be able to get back to my dorm to change."

"I can give you a new shirt," Tobias shrugs.

"I don't think your shirts would fit me—actually, I know they wouldn't," I laugh. But I nod anyway, because the thought of wearing his scent all day is just as pleasing. He sits up to kick the blanket out of the way and stands, heading toward the dresser. As I watch him, I notice each movement is fluid, effortless—like he knows what he's doing at every second. He's not stiff, or in some uncomfortable skin, he's perfect. I'm staring at him so intently, that I don't notice the amused look he gives me until I meet his eyes.

I feel the blush creep into my cheeks, and I have look down at the blanket to control it.

He crosses the room, back over to me, and hands me the sweater. I take it from his outstretched hand, but I don't make a move to put it on just yet. I can't change in front of him. He must sense my uneasiness because he heads into the bathroom, but closes the door only halfway. I hear the tap turn on, and I lean forward to see what he's doing. He brushes his teeth, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror. I can hear his laugh, low and soft, as I try to look anywhere but at him again. I realize he's giving me this time to change.

Except he didn't shut the door all the way for a reason—Two can play it that way. I have never been sexy, or anything close, but to win this game I have to play the part somehow. I pull my shirt up over my head, not allowing shyness to spike up my fear. The water in the bathroom continues, but all other movement stops. I pick his sweater up off the bed, and pull it over my head slowly, covering my chest first, then my stomach, until no skin is showing anymore.

The sweater is warm and it smells like him. My heart pounds in my ears and I can only hope he witnessed everything. The sleeves of the shirt go past my fingers, so I roll them up twice, to my wrists. The water stops, and after a few moments, Tobias comes back out. His skin holds a light shade of pink as he looks me over, and then he smirks, "I like how you look in my shirt."

"Even though I'm practically swimming in it?" I tease, slipping my fingers through his.

"It looks good on you," Tobias says, tilting my chin up to kiss me. His fingers ease into my hair, and he presses his lips to my cheek, moaning, "Really good."

"The only thing?" I ask bravely. He laughs, shaking his head.

"It looks good off of you, too," he whispers, pressing a kiss beneath my ear. Something inside of me stirs, strong and carnal. He pulls back to look at me, "I don't think I've ever had a better night's sleep... maybe you should stay here more often," he teases. I know that if I don't spend nights back at the dorm eventually I'll be caught sneaking back during the day, or Christina will assume things. I'm not sure which is worse.

"You haven't heard me talk in my sleep yet," I shake my head. "My mother always used to tell me she'd hear me through my walls at night, talking—mostly gibberish—in my sleep." Tobias grins, sliding his nose along my jaw.

"Do you, really?"

I shrug, and say, "sometimes. Not that I make much sense."

"Hmm, I'll have to stay awake and listen then," I shake my head, and he can only laugh in response.

xXxXx

I make it to my second class of the morning and I am the first one there; I breathe a sigh of relief and wait for Christina to show up.

Eventually she and Will walk side by side, laughing about something. Christina spots me and waves. She kisses Will, a little longer, and sloppier, than I'm used to seeing—I look down, afraid that I'm intruding on their private moment.

They share a goodbye and Will heads off down the hall. Christina sits down beside me then, her eyes immediately scanning over me, "where were you this morning?" She asks, smirking at me, "Four's sweater?"

My lips press into a hard line for a moment, "I just got back. I didn't have time to change clothes." She's gaping at me, and for a few seconds I'm confused by her reaction.

"Oh my god, did you—," she looks around, making sure it's only us. She lowers her voice, "—did you sleep with him?" I tense up. Sometimes I hate how unfiltered she can be.

I shake my head, glaring at her, "No!" She looks disappointed. "I didn't sleep with him... not in the way you're thinking."

"So, wait you did sleep with him," Christina says, factually, "you just didn't... have sex?" My face feels like it will melt off.

"He let me stay over," I explain quickly, "We were too tired, I didn't want him to walk me back like that."

"Aww," Christina laughs, biting her thumb nail. People walk by us now, some filing in to their seats, and others just walking over to talk to their friends. "That is so sweet," she says, just as our teacher begins.

Class is almost half over when Peter limps in.

There's a blackish, blue-purple discoloration around his eye, and another good sized bruise just beneath his chin. The split in his lip has scarred over, and the cut above his eye has become a scab. He looks sickly pale, and his face is swollen. I feel pride for Edward, and nothing for Peter.

He limps over to his seat, with the help of Molly, and sits down. I notice his shirt is shaped weird, and realize there must be a brace around his ribs; had Edward kicked him at some point? Christina watches them, just as amused as I am. I can only imagine how wounded Peter's pride is right now—he bragged about how he would be victorious; he bragged to me about it, and I watched him fail.

At least for now, he is too battered and bruised to hurt me.

xXxXx

Christina and I head down to dinner later on. The cafeteria isn't as full as it usually is, tables hold one or two students. "Where is everybody?" Christina asks, sitting down next to Lynn. Lynn sits across from me.

She shrugs, "Don't know. So is it true? I heard Peter can walk again..."

"Yeah, he's back in class," Christina nods with a scowl on her face. "Though I think losing wounded his ego a little bit. I haven't heard any snide remarks..."

"Yet," Lynn says. She turns to me, a devilish glint in her eyes, "So... you slept with Four?" I glare at Christina, who's smirking into her mashed potatoes. She nearly chokes on the first bite.

"I did not sleep with him," I clarify, "Nothing like that happened."

"You're blushing," Lynn comments.

"Obviously," I sigh hotly, shaking my head.

"It's not like I asked for details," Lynn says, "that's Christina's line of questioning. I just get them from her later."

"You know we're joking," Christina says, "besides, we just want you to be...you know, less stiff." I give her another look and she laughs, "Oh come on, Tris. We have talked about much worse, believe me. You know Will and I did it."

"Would you admit that with him sitting next to you?" I ask. She nods.

"Will blushes easily," she laughs, "Of course I would!" I sigh.

"I'm not as open as you guys."

"We'll get you there," it sounds more like a promise. She looks at Lynn, "hey, have you seen Marlene today? Or Uriah, for that matter?"

Lynn snorts, "Where do you think they are? They've been gone all day. They didn't go to class, and I think we all know what they've been up to." She smirks slightly. I don't want to finish her thought process, but my thoughts are cut short as Peter stalks into the room.

"Is it just me, or does he have a knack for timing?" Christina says, rolling her eyes, "I wonder what he wants now..." Except Peter doesn't come over to us—he looks as smug as always. Will and Al enter after him, both of them wear an expression I don't think I like.

"What's wrong?" Christina asks, standing up, she crosses the space to Will's arms.

"Will and I were on our way to the practice room with Uriah," Al says, "and we found Eric and Four, they were fighting." Fighting?

"Like arguing?" Christina asks, biting her nail.

"No," Al shakes his head, "like physical. Four might be hurt... but Eric is worse."

"What were they fighting about?" I ask immediately.

"Don't know," Will says quietly, "but we had to find you. Apparently one of Four's hits broke the piercings in Eric's lip. He looked bad when I left... Four's hands were covered in blood, I'm not sure if any of it was his, though." He never wants to fight Eric... something happened, Eric provoked him somehow. Tobias was fine this morning...

"I want to see him," I say.

Xxxxx

It feels like an eternity from the school to the pit, my heart shoving its way up my throat the closer we get. Tori is the first person I see, blood-stained rags in her hands. I don't want to look, but I can't look away either.

I hear Eric shouting, and as we turn the corner it gets louder, "Fuck you, Eaton!" He spits at the wall, his fingers hold a rag around an ice pack on his face. There's a group of men around him, and one of them is Edward, the boy from the fight.

Eric's eye is already swelling. He pulls the rag away, to use the cleaner side and I see what Tobias has done to him. There are no piercings in his lip anymore, they're gone replaced by caked, dried blood. His nose looks crooked―maybe broken―with more blood dripping and some dried blood above his upper lip. His chin is swollen, but there's too much red to see if any discoloration has started. Eric puts the rag back over the mangled mess, and as he spots me he looks like he's ready to spit in my direction instead of the wall, this time.

Tobias did all that? Eric continues to shout at us.

Will quickly guides me past him; I see Zeke, Marlene, and Uriah all the way at the end. Tobias's slumped form takes in deep breaths, sitting against the wall. He's glaring at the floor, holding a red-stained rag around his hand. There is blood on his chin, his neck, and his shirt.

Zeke spots me and taps his shoulder. Tobias looks up at me and his expression shifts from anger to shame. Instinctively, I kneel down beside him, "Tris, I'm―,"

"―What happened?" I ask, pulling the rag away to look. Three of his knuckles are split open, and one of them looks dislocated, but as I look at his face it's not the pain that bothers him. He doesn't look me in the eyes; instead, he just watches as I wrap his fingers back up.

"Eric had some things to say..." Uriah speaks up, "about you... and about..." he looks unsure of if he can say it, and I remember Tobias telling me last night he and Zeke, and Tori, knew about certain things; This must be one of them.

"What did he say?" I ask Tobias.

"...Eric says a lot of shit," Tobias seethes, glancing up at the brothers, "except this time it wasn't just some bullshit he came up with." I see Zeke and Uriah nod, looking afraid to say the wrong thing. I must be right.

"What did he say?" I ask again.

"I lost control..." Tobias says, shaking his head, "... Eric said I was doing you, because you're young... and you're new... that you don't know any better about me... he said things about my father, that nobody else knew about... until now, when he decided to say them publicly," he winces as he pulls the rag back and he tries to get rid of the blood between his fingers, but it stains his skin, in between the lines and crevices.

"What did he say about your father?" I ask quietly. I see him glance up at the others, unsure of what to say.

"Not here," he says. I stand up, holding my hand out for him. Tobias doesn't move. I reach lower, until my hand is eye level with his face. He sighs, and grabs my hand. He stands easily, releasing my hand to cover the fresh blood oozing from his cuts.

"It's a good thing blood doesn't make you uneasy," Uriah comments, nudging my arm. I can only offer him a silent nod, and soon I am following Tobias back to his apartment.

xxxxx

The light in Tobias's apartment is slightly better. I can see there's a gash on his bottom lip, already beginning to heal, and the red on his shirt almost looks black now―I shudder at the thought that it's probably Eric's blood. I reach up, and run my thumb carefully over his lips. I wonder if he felt it, or if he even knows about it.

This time he looks me in the eyes, but there is still a sadness to them. I ask, "What things did Eric say?" Tobias takes the rag off of his hand, and throws it into the sink with a wet slap. He sighs, long and tired.

"This wasn't how I wanted to tell you..." he says, more to himself than me.

"Tell me," I insist, softly.

"Well for a start, it will explain why nobody knows my real name; I'm just Four to everyone who doesn't know Tobias." He sits down in the chair in front of me. We are now eye level, "I don't let people know about my father, or my family in general. I don't tell them about me, because they would all look at me like I'm damaged... but when I told you about my mother, you never looked at me any differently. Not that I could tell, anyways." I don't think it's possible to call him damaged; if there's one thing I've noticed about him, it's how high he holds himself, how tall he stands in a room full of people, and how when he's supposed to be weak, he's strong. I sit down in the other chair and wait for him to continue.

"My mother was skittish; she always sat on the edge of chairs, and she was always aware of her surroundings. She always made sure she had ways of escaping, wherever she was. Except for in the presence of my father. My father used to beat her. I remember watching her back hit the walls of our living room, almost every other night, with so much force... somehow he had never broken any of her ribs... somehow my mother always took it. She was always afraid; she taught me to steal moments alone... She never showed my father any weakness―I think that's what angered him more. The thought that he couldn't control her, maybe?" Tobias's breaths shake as he speaks.

What he tells me next makes my blood run cold, "and my father used to beat me too..." I feel the first tear roll down my face, and I try to wipe at it quickly, but I know he saw it. "Everything I did wrong, I was either beaten or locked in the closet upstairs to think about what I'd done." I want to stop listening—to stop picturing a small Tobias learning such violence so young. But I know he needs to talk about it―that's why he's telling me.

I don't see him any different. He is still the same Tobias to me.

"...It wasn't always with his fists. He would use his belts too," Tobias bites his lip for a moment, looking down at his hands. He continues, "it got worse after my mother died. He would come home from work, and he'd be pissed off. I always tried to eat early, and stay in my room. But there were times he made me sit at the table with him, so I had no choice... If I missed a chore, or if I didn't finish my homework... stupid stuff that could be easily fixed. There were nights where he beat me so severely that I couldn't sleep. There were times when he would hit me in the face, and I still went to school. I would have to lie and make up some stupid excuses so nobody would know. I figured they had to have known when it occurred more and more... I don't know why I still call him my father," I picture a younger Tobias, maybe fifteen, in his room, trying not to show weakness. It turns my stomach.

I'm not sure what to say; to say I'm sorry would be inappropriate. One of my father's co-workers was accused of something like this a few years ago...

"He was sick of me not being the obedient child he wanted, so he sent me to school up here. He assumed I would hate it and would want to go back home; he couldn't understand that I was tired of the abuse. I don't think he believes he has ever done anything wrong." Instead of saying something, I reach across the space between us and grab his hand. This doesn't change how I see him―because he's nothing like his father. Not the Tobias I know.

He looks stunned, and continues; his voice sounds brittle, "after what happened tonight... I scared myself, Tris. I kept asking, after I calmed down a little, if this was how my father felt when he beat me." He battles with himself, between right and wrong. I've never seen him cry, but a few tears stream down his face and my fingers itch to wipe them away.

"You're not your father, Tobias. Okay?" I ask quietly, "you're not."

"Suppose this is only the first time I lose control?" Tobias asks, desperate, "what if...what if I hit you?"

"Don't think like that," I say firmly, "because that won't happen. You're better than that. I know you are." He stares into my eyes for a few minutes, unmoving, then he wipes his face dry, and sighs.

"You're not looking at me like I'm a kicked puppy, or something..."

"Well, you're not." I say, and we welcome the silence between us as he mulls over everything he has told me, and I take it in like poison. I can't stand the thought of Tobias, helpless and hurting. I have met this side of him—strong, reserved, and whole, not damaged. Not a kicked puppy, and certainly not a monster.

xXxXx

Tobias Eaton's POV

I join Zeke in the control room again, monitoring screens for most of the day; Zeke did manage to find the footage from moments before the camera was smashed, much to Max's delight and Eric's annoyance. I still want to believe Eric is somehow a part of the incident.

I never got to see the footage, however. Zeke turned it in immediately. He didn't recognize whoever they were; they had covered their face. He only recalled that they were of average height and build, and white skin. That could be anybody, by that description.

"Wow—!" Zeke boasts, glancing down at his watch, "it's only nine a.m. and you're actually not miserable!" I roll my eyes at him, "That definitely isn't because of the run this morning..." he suggests.

"You must have missed my heap of blankets on the ground this morning," I say, "because I slept on the floor."

"She still spent the night," he laughs, "and you're not miserable. I call that a win."

"A win?" I shake my head, "you and 'scoring'."

"Have you ever even kissed a girl before her?" He asks, looking smug, "No, no you haven't. So I'm scaling your point system down by a lot."

"There's no point system," I tell him, "this isn't a game." Zeke snorts.

"You're whipped."

"At least I've been able to keep her," I retort—much to Zeke's amusement; he bursts out laughing, and nods.

"Somehow," he retorts, "maybe she's not that smart." I almost tell him he's wrong—because he is, but I just keep my mouth shut. She is definitely smart, she just doesn't know everything about me yet.

And the thought of that makes me sad; Tris is so different from other girls I've met, I want her to know everything. But at the same time, I'm so ashamed of where I came from... so I just hope that when she finally does know everything about me, she doesn't see me differently. I hope that she doesn't see me as weak; however, I would rather she see me as weak than a cowardly monster.

"Speaking of not smart," Zeke grins, "Marlene and Uriah?"

"What about them?" I ask. Zeke gives me a look of shock.

"For once I know something around here you don't," he snickers, "They've been spending a lot of time together."

"Have they?" I hadn't noticed. He lets out a large sigh, shaking his head at me.

"Hint: they're together, together."

"So?" I ask, "Good for them. Do you not like Marlene?"

"I do," Zeke shrugs, "I just figured Uriah would have mentioned it, is all..." I hold back my snide comment about his point system—Uriah created that point system with him, but it seems he may have finally ditched the idea.

"What did Max have to say?" I ask him, to change the conversation, "about the footage?"

"Just 'great!' no 'thanks', like always," Zeke rolls his eyes, "all boss man and serious."

"Eric?"

"Just pouted in the corner while Max spoke," he says, then smirks, "you know, I get the feeling he wanted us to fail."

"No, Eric?" I feign shock. And then we burst into laughter.

xxxxx

Sometime later, after I have zoned out in front of my monitor, I hear an obnoxious yawn and I see Zeke stand, in the corner of my eye.

"Ready to head down?" He asks, logging off his computer. I nod, and log out, and then we leave the control room. Zeke makes it blatantly obvious that the door is locked, by trying to break in himself—basically, banging on the door and trying to pull the knob off. I roll my eyes, "idiot."

"I had to make sure the door was really, really locked," he says in a mocking tone, "Eric might think we were inviting the trespassers in."

"Speaking of Eric," I say, "what's he got planned tonight? Any idea?"

Zeke shrugs, "I heard some buzz about a big fight, but most of the fights have been shit lately... Maybe he should have mud fights—"

"—You're a pig," I tell him, chuckling.

"And you must be gay," Zeke fires back, "why would you not want to see two girls fight it out—wearing barely anything—,"

"—I think I know why you don't have a girlfriend right now," I shake my head. The pit is full of people, loud and rowdy, when we arrive. For a while, we stay up on the mezzanine, watching the crowd below. Zeke makes a rude gesture at the back of Eric's head and I laugh so hard, my fingers tighten on the railing for balance. He really is taking this joke quite far, but it's the most laughter I've let out in a long time—without the help of alcohol.

I know Tris is here somewhere, I briefly saw her on the cameras when they came in. I don't pay attention to most of what Zeke is saying, but he points and I realize he must be talking about Tris. I can feel her eyes on me, and immediately I find hers across the room on the lower level. I wave, earning a good laugh and a punch from Zeke.

"Whipped," is all he says as we start down the stairs.

I roll my eyes, and retort, "Definitely." At that, Zeke laughs so loud it almost sounds like a howl. I won't argue with him when he's right—because for once, he's right. When we cross the gap, I gather Tris into my arms and press her tight against my body. She's warm, and so small I can easily lift her off her feet. She kisses me, briefly; much to my surprise, and disappointment that we're not alone right now. "Miss me?" I ask.

Tris grins, "a little bit." I hold her close to my side, and we listen as Eric goes over the rules for the fight. I notice the others, like Tris, wear the same anticipating looks—apparently this is one fight they've been waiting for. Zeke must notice the same thing, because the bored look he gives me matches mine.

I look at Uriah, whose arm is around Marlene. She leans into him comfortably; like how Tris and I are. Lynn is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, cracking her knuckles like she's the one about to fight. I think she's hoping Eric will pick her to fight someday. Shauna talks to her friend, Lauren, neither of them is engrossed in the fight. I couldn't care less about one of Eric's fights, myself—I watch Tris instead. The corners of her mouth twitch each time the boy—Edward—gets a rough hit in, and she scowls every time the other boy, I think his name is Peter, gets one. There is a glint her eyes as Peter tires out; she looks blood-thirsty. And then she turns to me, and asks, "what?"

The people around us erupt into booming roars; I have to lean closer so she'll hear me, and say, "I don't think I've ever seen you this engrossed in one of the fights. You look almost lethal."

Tris smirks, "that's because Peter's losing." I don't expect her answer to be so cruel. Does this mean she has the same sick, triumphant streak that I do at times? "I'll explain it later," she says. When my bewilderment wears off, I nod and she turns back to the fight.

Peter goes down, and blood drips onto the mat beneath him. Edward only has a split lip, and some bruised, cut open knuckles. Eric looks to me, and Zeke, to go to pick him up from the mat. I give Tris's hand a light squeeze, and we pick Peter up and carry him to the makeshift infirmary near the tattoo parlor. It was Tori's idea, since too many idiots try to play up their bravado and end up getting their teeth knocked out instead. I assume Peter, here, is no different.

Sometimes, I wonder how different things would be if we hadn't made Tori one of the leaders; Eric and I would be at each other's throats, more so than now. This place would crumble...

"He looks like shit," Zeke laughs, smudging the blood on his hands, "hopefully he's not dead. That was a brutal kick..."

"I don't really care to find out," I say. I just want to get back to Tris. I don't intend on staying in this room until Peter wakes up, so once we deposit him onto a cot, we head back to the main area.

I see Tris, standing alone with an unreadable expression—I wonder what she's thinking about. I notice she is very reserved; she thinks about everything. I wonder how fast her mind works with all that practice. I am close enough now that I grab her at the soft bend in her arm, and pull her away from the group for a moment. I want her to explain her comment earlier, about Peter losing.

Eric wastes no time, starting the next fight. We disappear into the crowd, finding a quieter area, by the stairs that lead up to the mezzanine, "what was that all about?" I ask.

"Peter is..." she hesitates, searching for the right words to say; I watch her, and wait. She sighs, "Peter is to me, what Eric is to you." And suddenly, it all makes perfect sense—Peter is a sadistic asshole. And had he not lost tonight, Eric might have had more faith in him in the future.

"You haven't even been here half a year, and you already have an enemy." A part of me is joking with her, while the other half is serious. Because the first time I met Eric, we became enemies, so I don't have much room to talk there. Tris pouts, "you wanted to see Peter hurt?" Slowly, she nods.

"Sort of... yes." She answers, looking up at me. "The first time I met him he tried to shut my arm in a door." Sounds like he preys on the weak—exactly like Eric. Except I don't see Tris as weak—that must be why he doesn't like her.

"Why did he do that?" It sounds like a demand, and I try to stifle the tough act for a moment; she doesn't need me going after Peter—in Zeke's words, he could already be dead.

"Because I was new," Tris mumbles. What a stupid reason, I think. Peter is definitely an asshole, "and apparently nobody was talking about him and his achievements."

"I can't imagine he has many friends with that type of greeting," I say; she nods.

"He has followers." She says, sighing, "but I don't want to talk about Peter anymore." I don't either. I smile, and drape my around her waist.

"Okay." And we rejoin the others for the next fight.

xXxXx

I can't remember the last time I ever slept in late, but when I open my eyes the sunlight streams in through my window and my clock reads just after ten-thirty. It's unlike Zeke to let me sleep past five am. Given I've had over twelve hours of sleep, I should feel awake, but I feel half alive and disoriented.

From what I can recall, no nightmares.

Waking up alone feels strange, though every day before last it was a routine. I picked this apartment, away from the rest, for that sole purpose. To be alone. However, I find myself missing Tris's company. And her small, warm body beside mine. She's warmer than any blanket, or embrace, I've ever found comfort in. There is definitely something about her that has me, in Zeke's words, whipped. I've never wanted to share my space with another human being before.

Even when Shauna and Zeke visit, I usually find myself thankful for the peace that follows after they leave.

I get up and shower. I don't bother with breakfast, there is barely anything to make in my apartment anyway. On my way to the control room, I look for Tori. I want to ask her about the boy from last night, how he is after tending to him. I'm only worried that Tris will find more pleasure in his pain if Tori tells me he's not good. She is finishing a tattoo on Shauna's ribs when I find her. I almost feel embarrassed, seeing so much skin on Shauna.

"Where have you been?" Tori asks, amused, "Eric was looking for you about twenty minutes ago."

"I wonder what he could possibly want this time," I sigh heavily, leaving on my elbows over the counter, "How's Peter doing, after last night?"

Tori gives me a strange look, the needle still buzzing in her hand, "Since when do you care about a kid, Eric appointed, that got the shit kicked out of him?"

I roll my eyes, "I don't, not really... does it matter? I just wanted to know."

"Don't go soft on us," she snorts, "I still need someone that can put the reigns on Eric."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I tell her with a smirk, "But you seem to think I only live to piss him off."

"I only stick around to see it happen," she says, her eyes focused on the lines she is inking. I can't help but laugh—I am glad that Tori never fell for Eric's charm, if one could call it that. I assume it is why we get along so well, I can confide in her, and she confides in me. "Peter left about an hour ago; he looks like shit, worse than last night, but he'll heal. In what condition, I can't be sure... bruised ego, no doubt. I told him it's best he stay away from classes today unless he wants the teachers getting bent out of shape."

"My sister is always telling me how much he boasts about himself," Shauna says, rolling her eyes, "Maybe a bruised ego will knock him down a few notches."

"If he's anything like Eric," I say, "I doubt it." I remember my first fight with Eric. If I bruised his ego, he didn't let it show. He made it known, at least to me, that he was furious about the outcome—losing couldn't knock him down a few notches, however.

"I think that's why Eric chose him," Shauna frowns.

"Not surprising," I say, then smirk, "perhaps Eric shouldn't have put so much faith in Peter... it was obvious Edward was going to win from the start, don't you think?" Shauna laughs, and I see a hint of a smile on Tori's face.

"I think we all knew," Tori says. She looks up at me, raising an eyebrow, "Shouldn't you be with Zeke, in the control room? Or are you afraid that's where Eric is right now?"

I shrug, "I'm already two hours late."

"Let's not make it three," she says, though I know she really doesn't care. I say my goodbyes and head for the controls.

Zeke and I spend another long day looking through footage—I try to watch Eric, where he goes and what he does, while Zeke tries to annoy me by changing the screens. It takes all my self-control not to throw the mouse at him; just when I get a visual on Eric, he changes it. And I know he's doing it on purpose.

Eric talks with the boy—Edward—who won the last fight. I wonder what that's about, what Eric has up his sleeve now. I can't imagine him restoring any faith in Peter after that brutal loss.

At some point, there is a knock on the door and I know it is Tris. I wanted to see her tonight, and I wanted her to wait for me where I knew she would be safe. I give her the key to my apartment and I tell her I will be there at ten.

I'm left empty handed on Eric's plans again when I glance up at the clock, and see that it's later than I expect it to be. It's ten past. I remember that Tris is waiting for me, and that if I want to see her before she has to go I should leave now. Zeke looks half-alive, sitting in the blue glow from the screen, with his head slumped against his hand. "I think the cameras can handle themselves," I say, standing up to stretch, "I don't know about you, but I'd like to get some sleep."

"I'm right behind you," Zeke mumbles, standing up, "see you, man." We leave the controls and part ways down the hall; Zeke towards the pit—probably looking for Uriah—and I head up the stairs, to the apartments, for mine. I tiredly search for my keys, and quickly remember that I gave them to Tris to wait for me.

When I get the door open, the lights are off but I sense her presence; I see her across the room.

Tris sits on my bed, staring out the window. As she turns her head toward me, the city lights make the side of her face, and her blonde hair, glow. I kick my shoes off by the door and I drop down beside her on the bed, hearing the springs screech in protest. I smile at her, and watch her through heavy eyelids. "Sorry it took me so long, I lost track of time," I yawn, turning my face into the pillow.

I can hear the smile in her voice, "it's alright. Anything more on the missing footage?" Right—work. But I appreciate her interest, at least I know she's been listening.

"Yes," I say with a sigh, keeping my voice low, "But whoever did it, they're getting away with it. They wore a mask... and we only have the few seconds leading up to the camera getting smashed. No other camera picked up anybody acting suspicious it seems. Zeke's been looking into that. But so far, nothing else." I sit up then, moving so I am in front of her. I hold her hands and pull her up, but she takes over from there, swinging a leg over mine so she is straddling me. I notice her hands shake slightly, as she settles herself there. It feels like every nerve is awake, alert, anticipating her next move. I feel a surge of energy through my body, straight to my groin. I pray she doesn't notice how much she affects me.

I straighten up, so she is sitting on my lap and not so close to there. My arms snake around her waist, still trying to keep her as close as possible, and I kiss her slowly, "I don't want to talk about work anymore." I don't want to talk anymore, period. I have a few other things in mind more interesting than talking...

"What do you want to talk about?" Tris asks, in a breathy voice. I laugh, out of nerves, and focus on her to distract myself.

"Am I making you nervous again?" I ask. Her eyes look anywhere but mine. I am right. I decide to test the waters a little, my fingers find a strip of bare skin beneath her shirt. Lightly, I trace my fingers beneath it, enjoying the way her skin sets mine ablaze.

"No," She says, defiant, "who gave you that idea?" Her breaths come out in short, harsh patterns. I like this, this proximity we are sharing. I wish we could be alone like this always. For a moment I think, how selfish of me to want to keep her all to myself. But a moment later, as her eyes meet mine, I decide I don't care. I don't want to share her; I don't want to share our private moments. Only I get to see her like this, and I very much want to keep it like that.

"How was seeing your parents?" I ask, brushing her hair out of her eyes. I wish she didn't hide them from me, but I know she can't always help it.

"Good," Tris smiles, but there is an almost sad expression in her eyes. She misses them, "I'm glad I got to see them. I told my mother about you." For a split second, everything stops. I wonder what name she told her mother, or what she told her mother in general for that matter.

"Did you?" I ask, calm.

"Yes," she says softly, "I only told her your name is Four..." she stops, blushes, then says, "...and that we're together." I don't know which is more comforting—that she told her mother my alias, or that she actually mentioned we're together. I feel relieved, but try to hide the ridiculous grin on my face. I kiss the tattoo along her collarbone, keeping her distracted while I figure out what to ask next.

"What did she say?" I ask, curiously.

"She said you sound like a wonderful guy," Tris answers. I smirk; I want to believe those weren't the exact words, "and that I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

I smile, "your mother sounds very smart." I want to ask her if she happened to mention any of our eventful encounters, such as the Ferris wheel, or the knife throwing.

"She is," Tris says, adoration in her voice, "sometimes it's easy to talk to her like that..."

"She's your mother," I tell her, feeling a sense of longing for my own mother, and our old conversations, "I used to have good conversations with my mother... I was only about six, but she always talked to me like I was old enough to understand things."

Tris smiles, but hesitates as she asks, "Do you not talk to her anymore?" I nod, and try to keep the anguish off of my face. I'm not sure it works.

"My mother passed away, around the time I was turning seven," I clear my throat, the thought feels all too recent, but that was so long ago now. "Only Zeke and Uriah, and Tori knew that... and now you." She looks unsure of what to say at first, and at first I expect to hear an 'I'm sorry for you loss.'

"She loved you a lot," Tris says, her fingers knead into the fabric of my shirt. I am taken back by her statement, but I nod. My mother did, she always made it known to me.

"She did," I say, a smile crossing my features, "She always made it a point to tell me that."

"It sounds like you had a really strong relationship with her." I nod again, and I realize that she will not ask me anymore questions. Yet again she has stopped me in my tracks—she knew, she felt the right thing to say, instead of just sympathetically apologizing.

"I can't say the same about my father," I say, trying to read her reaction. Her face remains calm, but I see questions in her eyes. I don't know if she would be ready to hear about my father... "but that's a whole other story... maybe I'll tell you about it someday." She nods, and we continue to talk about her family. She asks me some questions about my mother. We talk about school, "My father liked the education standards they provided here," I say, "but he preferred the political job opportunities in New York. Without me, and my mother, he didn't have to worry about taking everything and leaving for his job." She looks like she wants to say something, or ask a question, but instead she takes the conversation to a lighter note.

"My father went to this school here," Tris says, "and he loved it, so he thought we would, too."

"Do you?" I decide to ask. I can tell she does—but I want to hear her thoughts anyways.

"Yes," she speaks without conviction. I wonder if I am wrong this time.

"You sound unsure," I say softly. Tris just shrugs, and her nimble fingers brush the fallen hair from her eyes again.

"It's like I've said—knowledge is more for my brother than it is for me. I like more hands-on... not book smart." I find that hard to believe, but I realize perhaps she has a point. I have found her to be wiser in other ways; for one, observationally. She is smart about other people—she will figure things out about a person better, or quicker, than they will.

"I've always found both easy," I say, "book smart, or hands on... they always came easily to me."

The more we talk, the later it gets, and I eventually find myself dozing off to sleep beside her. I sigh, and start to sit up, "I can take the fl—," her hand covers my mouth.

"—stay. Sleep." She insists, and I can't help but smile. I stretch out on my stomach, and pull the blanket up over her, separating our bodies for her peace of mind. She sighs, but it sounds sincere, relaxed.

It only takes me minutes to fall asleep.

xXxXx

I fully awake when I feel a nudge to my arm; Tris is still beside me, from last night. Except somehow, I have made my way beneath the blanket. Half of my body remained outside the blanket, at least.

"What time is it?" I ask, peering up at the clock. It's ten again. I groan, "shit, how did it get so late?" Another day I have slept in, and I'm beginning to wonder if Zeke has, too.

"Time flies," Tris teases, sitting up. I can't help but laugh; it helps that she isn't freaking out.

"You have to go, Tris," I say; I make myself say the words, but I don't make myself mean them. I don't want her to go. And for a few minutes, we just stare at each other in comfortable silence. I hold her hand, my thumb brushes over her knuckles.

"I'm still in the same clothes from yesterday," Tris frowns, a deep furrow between her brows as she pouts, "I wouldn't be able to get back to my dorm to change."

"I can give you a new shirt," I offer.

"I don't think your shirts would fit me—actually, I know they wouldn't," She laughs lightly. Still, she nods. I head for the dresser, rummaging through the drawers until I find an old shirt, one that is smaller. When I turn back to Tris, I notice she is staring at me. It's amusing, how caught up in her tendencies she can actually be. She blushes, and averts her eyes down to the blanket.

I cross the space between us, and hand her the sweater. It's an old shirt, small—it is black, and long-sleeved. I notice she looks apprehensive, and I hope she doesn't assume I would make her change with me in the room. I touch her cheek, and then head for the bathroom.

I start to brush my teeth, when I notice she is still looking; this time it is her reflection in the mirror I am looking at, though. I laugh, quietly. I know I should close the door completely, but I can't help myself—she is full of surprises, I would hate to miss a second.

I notice she is no longer looking at me, but instead at the door. There is a look of determination on her face, and she reaches for the hem of her shirt. In a calculated motion, she pulls it up over her head and I almost hit the back of my throat with the toothbrush.

I was not expecting her to be so bold. Yet again, she has surprised me.

Her skin is a porcelain white; she looks so fragile. Thin but soft. My palms prickle, itching to feel the heat of her skin—forbidden skin, for that matter. No amount of ice cold water could calm me down right now.

I have to look away as she pulls my sweatshirt over her head. Fuck. Intense, and tempting—she knows exactly what she did to me. Technically, I did ask for it, and she knew that too. I close the door some more, and splash my face with cold water. I will myself to relax, and when I am presentable I head back out to see her.

She has rolled the sleeves up twice, but the bottom of the shirt falls past her hips and it is still quite large on her. She looks incredible, and I think she should keep it. "I like how you look in my shirt," I tell her.

"Even though I'm practically swimming in it?" She jokes, lacing her fingers with mine.

"It looks good on you," I reassure her, tilting her head up so I can kiss her properly. I feel hungry, and not for food suddenly, "Really good."

"The only thing?" She asks, her voice just above a whisper. I laugh.

"It looks good off of you, too," I say nonchalantly, playing along, "I don't think I've ever had a better night's sleep... maybe you should stay here more often." She looks hesitant to agree, and I decide maybe it's too soon to expect that she will.

"You haven't heard me talk in my sleep yet," Tris says. "My mother always used to tell me she'd hear me through my walls at night, talking—mostly gibberish—in my sleep." I grin, interesting.

"Do you, really?" Tris shrugs in response.

"Sometimes. Not that I make much sense."

"Hmm, I'll have to stay awake and listen then," I tell her, jokingly. She shakes her head, but laughs. I think to myself, this feels like a good start to move us forward.

xXxXx

Shauna and I patrol the pit later on that night. She decides to take the mezzanine for a better vantage point, so I am stuck on the bottom floor—not that I mind it so much, because I know Tris and the others will be here eventually—but that also means I'll be in Eric's path at some point.

There's not much to keep an eye on; nothing exciting is happening tonight, the pit is not as crowded as it usually is. And besides making sure nobody lurks around the back, my job is a standstill. I stay with Zeke, and some of his friends, by the chasm, keeping watch around me. My legs feel too tired to walk around, so I lean against the railing. I haven't been paying much attention to what they've been talking about—I pretend I know what they're saying, and laugh when they do, but I'm focused on searching for Tris. I don't even know if she and the others will be here tonight if nothing is going on, so I can only hope.

"—she was loud—," I hear one of Zeke's friends say, and instantly I tune him out; another date where one of them got what he was going for. I shake my head; these guys stopped bugging me a long time ago about girls, and stuff like that—I couldn't be more thankful. They were all stupid enough to think they would actually get anything out of me, not that I had any details anyway.

It's not even that late yet, and most of the people around me are inebriated. I guess drinking is more fun than standing around, but I prefer a clear head most nights. When they hand me a bottle, I steal a quick sip but then set it down on the ground by my foot just to get it out of my hands. I don't need Eric telling Max I was drinking on my shift—but Eric does it all the time, so I could always fight back on that one.

Speaking of Eric... I feel the scowl set into my face.

"Hey, Four," knuckles hit my shoulder, rather hard, though the tone of voice makes it seem like it was intended to look casual. To anyone sober, they would see right through it. I turn to face Eric. He is smirking at me.

"Eric," I say, unamused.

"Max was pleased about finding the missing footage," he starts, "but he'd like more. The time stamps leading up to the culprit getting into the pit... getting past us, to the halls—the apartments."

"Tell Max we are working on it," I say simply. I give him a stoic look; I know Eric a lot more than he thinks I do. I know that he is a great observer, and can almost always tell when someone tells him a lie. Liars themselves would know when they heard one...

"Working on it, really..." he laughs to himself, "How's the stiff doing?" It takes everything in me not to lash out at him, that Tris is none of his concern. Our relationship is none of his concern, for that matter. But his curiosity about Tris spikes up my need to protect her; he's curious, which is not a good sign. I need to deflect his attention.

"Well, she's not dead," I almost snarl, remembering the knives I threw at her—she might have been if Eric threw them... I tame my temper, "Why do you care?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to see you neglecting work, you know," Eric says, smug, "I mean she is young... willing to do anything for an older guy... that could get distracting," I feel my eyes narrow at him. This line of thought only mean one of two things; either he's planning on telling Max that I am not doing my job, because I am distracted, as he not so subtly put it. Or that he's trying to get a rise out of me for the hell of it... and it's working. My nails dig into the palms of my hands, stinging the further they sink in. I decide to try and play dumb; as if daring him to continue.

"What are you insinuating?" My mistake—and his—because he does.

"Wait—," he grins, laughing loudly, "don't tell me... I bet she doesn't even know yet. I mean... that's a bit fucked, don't you think?" He says it like an accusation; I bite my cheek, and in the next moment I am tasting blood. Eric snickers, "You're doing her and she knows nothing about you? ...unless you're not, then that's a little pathetic, too..." His voice becomes quiet next, and quiet with Eric is dangerous. He shrugs, "In that case, at least she won't end up like your mother."

I don't even register my arm swinging forward, until I hear the crack of Eric's nose and see his blood dripping down my hands. Before I can even stop myself, blinded by the anger, I am lunging for him. The back of his head collides with the metal railing, the connection sounds hollow. He lets out a pained scream, and tries to grab at my throat. He manages to get a hit in, at my mouth, but I barely feel it. My knee comes up, hitting him in the jaw next. Eric's hands fly up to his mouth, and part of me is hoping that I've just broken the bone. Everything around me is a blur, smudged by the red clouding my vision. I hear shouts, and yells to stop. People scramble away from us, while others get a closer look. A few try to hold me back, but I just push them out of the way. I'm not done with him yet.

I throw another punch, this time connecting with his mouth, and metal pierces my knuckles.

I feel more hands gripping at my jacket, my arms, while others try to help Eric up. I am being pulled away from him, though I try to break free. Eric spits at the railing, with blood pouring down his chin and neck, dripping onto his shirt. This is his own fault—he started this. The sight is almost pleasing—and then immediately I feel nauseous. Was this how my father felt, after beating me? Did I just prove Eric right? I turn away from Zeke, who's holding me back, and dry heave over the chasm.

I can't breathe. My entire body feels like it's on fire, every joint aches like poison has filled the crevices. My mouth salivates, but I can't get anything up. I can still hear Eric coughing, his throat gargles with blood, trying to spit more out, "Fuck you! Just as bad as your fucking father!" He shouts at me. Just as bad as my father—he's not wrong. I am thankful that most of these people will not remember him shouting that at me tomorrow morning.

"Fucking coward," I hiss, willing the sickness to go away. Zeke drags me away from all of the noise, and when we get far enough away the ringing in my ears disappears. Footsteps run down the hall.

"What happened?" Uriah asks in a hushed voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zeke shake his head. The light above me is the only one lit in this hallway—it flickers, so I try to focus on the dying, blue glow.

"I don't even know," Zeke replies, "he was fine... standing beside me one minute... I didn't even see Eric... at first," I only hear bits and pieces, I barely focus on what he is saying, "But then he said... doing her... and then..."

Was this how my father felt? Was beating me an accomplishment for him? I think to myself. I knew it was only a matter of time before he pulled some stunt with what he knew. In front of all these people, he brings up my father. Just as bad as my father. The thought sinks like lead in my stomach, and the nauseous feeling returns. I try to hold back my gagging, and rest my head against the cool stone behind me.

Even worse, he dragged Tris into the conversation. I want to believe that I am nothing like my father, and that Tris will not become my victim like my mother was to my father... but after what just happened, how can I be so sure anymore? I shut my eyes and try to breathe.

I feel cold hands wrap around one of mine, and then something damp. I peer through my eyelashes to see Marlene hovering over me, handing me a rag. I take it from her, without a word and press it to my wounds. My knuckle stings, a stab of something sharp, and I pull it close to my face to examine it. One of Eric's piercings juts out of the dip between my knuckles, the silver metal glistens beneath the light.

My fingers shake from adrenaline as I try to pull it out, so Marlene tries to pry it out, carefully. Blood beads from the puncture, and I place the rag over it again. She takes the piercing with her and stands up, returning to Uriah's side.

"—this is Eric's piercing," Marlene says as she hands it to Uriah. I see a smirk on his face a moment later, and I swallow bile. There is no enjoyment from what just happened; I don't want to be a monster.

The ringing in my ears is gone, but it sounds like I am stuck in a tunnel. Words and voices and shouts from Eric in the distance rattle around in my head, mercilessly. I try to zone the others out when they start discussing Eric, I don't want to know how he is. I don't care what his condition is, though I can imagine it's not the greatest at the moment. The rag chafes at my wounds, feeling like a sting from salt. I try to wipe most of the blood away, but it stains my skin like the reminder it is of my monstrous act. A new voice catches my attention.

"—Should we... —Tris?" What about Tris? I see Marlene nod, and I notice it is Will. He starts down the hall, but I can't find it in me to tell him to stop. I don't want Tris to be here now, seeing me like this. I suddenly wonder how horrible my timing was: was Tris here when it happened? Did she see any of it? If she did, I don't want to think of how I've just scared her away. It feels like all air has been cut off from my lungs—what does she think of me now? I think of her sadistic streak from Peter's loss the other night, but this is much worse than that.

I'm not sure how long I sit there for, glaring at my bloody hands, but eventually I hear more footsteps amongst the others, talking quietly a few feet away. I try to suck in a few breathes, letting the cold from the stone seep in through the back of my shirt. I force myself to focus on something else, and I think about this morning; waking up to Tris beside me, and watching her change into my sweater. I don't want to lose that.

I hear Zeke mention her name, and I look up, meeting a pair of bright eyes. She's here—so she must not have seen what happened. I frown; it would have been a little easier to explain, if she had but I'll think of a way. She kneels beside me, "—Tris, I'm—," I start to plead.

"―What happened?" Tris asks, pulling the rag away from my hands. I can feel her eyes, searching my face. I can't look at her; I can't show her this side of me.

"Eric had some things to say..." Uriah says quietly, "about you... and about..." he looks at me, and I know he wants to explain that Eric mentioned my father. I appreciate him not saying it outright.

"What did he say?" Tris asks me now.

"...Eric says a lot of shit," I growl, trying to soften my voice for her, "except this time it wasn't just some bullshit he came up with." Zeke and Uriah nod. I see Tris looking between the both of them, knowingly.

"What did he say?" She asks again.

"I lost control..." I shake my head, "... Eric said I was doing you, because you're young... and you're new... that you don't know any better about me... he said things about my father, that nobody else knew about... until now, when he decided to say them publicly," I wince as the rag pulls at the edges of my open skin, remembering mornings after my beatings when my shirts would cling to and bite the fresh wounds on my back.

"What did he say about your father?" Tris whispers. I shake my head.

"Not here," I plead. Tris stands, holding her hand out for me. I don't take it, until she reaches down further. Her hand rests at my eye level, and I sigh, giving in. I stand easily, careful not to pull her down with all my weight.

"It's a good thing blood doesn't make you uneasy," Uriah tries to make light of the conversation, but it only aggravates me. I know he means well... but now is not the time.

xxxxx

We stand in the middle of my apartment, her fingers graze a cut on my lip and I take this moment to finally, really look at her. "What things did Eric say?" She wastes no time. I take the rag off and throw it into the sink. I can't help the long sigh I let out.

"This wasn't how I wanted to tell you..."

"Tell me," she insists, gently.

"Well for a start, it will explain why nobody knows my real name; I'm just Four to everyone who doesn't know Tobias." It feels foreign saying my real name. I sit down in the chair across from her, just about eye level with her, "I don't let people know about my father, or my family in general. I don't tell them about me, because they would all look at me like I'm damaged... but when I told you about my mother, you never looked at me any differently. Not that I could tell, anyways." She sits down in front of me.

"My mother was skittish; she always sat on the edge of chairs, and she was always aware of her surroundings. She always made sure she had ways of escaping, wherever she was. Except for in the presence of my father. My father used to beat her. I remember watching her back hit the walls of our living room, almost every other night, with so much force... somehow he had never broken any of her ribs... somehow my mother always took it. She was always afraid; she taught me to steal moments alone... She never showed my father any weakness―I think that's what angered him more. The thought that he couldn't control her, maybe?" I feel like I am talking too fast, the words just pour out in airless breaths. My hands shake, so I keep them clasped together between my knees.

The moment of truth. Once I tell her this, there's nothing else. She will know everything, everything horrible about my past that haunts me. I let out a nervous sigh, and say, "and my father used to beat me too..." She wipes at her cheek, and I realize I am making her cry. I want to stop, but the words keep coming, "Everything I did wrong, I was either beaten or locked in the closet upstairs to think about what I'd done."

"...It wasn't always with his fists. He would use his belts too," I continue, looking down at my hands, "it got worse after my mother died. He would come home from work, and he'd be pissed off. I always tried to eat early, and stay in my room. But there were times he made me sit at the table with him, so I had no choice... If I missed a chore, or if I didn't finish my homework... stupid stuff that could be easily fixed. There were nights where he beat me so severely that I couldn't sleep. There were times when he would hit me in the face, and I still went to school. I would have to lie and make up some stupid excuses so nobody would know. I figured they had to have known when it occurred more and more... I don't know why I still call him my father," I say, rubbing the palms of my hands together. When I look up, Tris is watching me with an unreadable expression.

"He was sick of me not being the obedient child he wanted, so he sent me to school up here. He assumed I would hate it and would want to go back home; he couldn't understand that I was tired of the abuse. I don't think he believes he has ever done anything wrong," I finish. I expect her to stand up—to want to get some air, or space, or away from me. But she takes my hand in hers and says nothing. Her expression is softer now.

She doesn't move, and I find myself stunned. Any other person would apologize out of awkwardness, or get up and not listen to anything more. Instead she holds my hand, and I realize confiding in her is the safest I have felt in a long time.

I relax when she squeezes my hand, and I tell her, "after what happened tonight... I scared myself, Tris. I kept asking, after I calmed down a little, if this was how my father felt when he beat me." I only ever cried after my father left me alone to feel pain, but this time I cry tears of relief.

"You're not your father, Tobias. Okay?" Tris says, her voice gentle but stern, "you're not."

"Suppose this is only the first time I lose control?" I ask, desperate, "what if... what if I hit you?"

"Don't think like that," She says immediately, "because that won't happen. You're better than that. I know you are." All I can do is stare at her in amazement. How did she sit here, and listen to every word, and not run away?

"You're not looking at me like I'm a kicked puppy, or something..." I say.

She smiles a little, and shrugs, "Well, you're not."