Coals Burn Slow
Disclaimer: This story deals with mature themes and contains explicit content. It's not intended for underage readers, and it handles subjects of all kinds of abuse, murder, and themes of a sexual nature eventually, so I'm warning ahead of time. If you might be sensitive to those themes in a fictional context, then maybe this isn't the best choice for you and you may wish to leave this one be. Otherwise, happy reading.
Chapter 4
Tris POV
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Breakfast is pretty much the same as yesterday – the same ridiculous mountain of food, and the same table – except Four talks while he glares at my plate of food, instead of doing it silently.
"You're weak," he says, clearly having made his notes on the impression I left yesterday. "You're never going to win if you try and beat someone with force alone."
"Oh," I say, wondering how else you can beat someone in a fight, when fighting is all about force. "Great." The sarcastic drawl isn't so much like me, but I'm not sure what else to say.
His words don't exactly inspire confidence.
"We can work on building some muscle, but there's not enough time to make that a usable asset. Half of the initiates already outweigh you by half." I glance up at him, chewing through a mouthful of bland chicken and broccoli, but he's not looking at me. He's looking over at the initiates table from yesterday, and his jaw flexes.
I'd look over to see if he's right, but I don't for fear I'll be met with a sea of glaring faces. It won't make me feel any better.
"But you're fast." It's the first and only nice thing he's said. "We're going to have to work with that. You could win if you got in there first and kept a good pace."
It's not the best pep talk I've ever had, but I suppose it's better than nothing. And I don't imagine Four is one to dole out compliments or try and soothe me with any false assurances, so I'll take what I can get.
Besides, I don't mind listening to him talk.
"Win?" I say. "Like in a fight?"
He turns back to face me, then, and I'm almost sure I see his eyes roll. His tone is more condescending than anything when he answers, "Yes, Tris, like in a fight."
I think he means it to be insulting, like I'm stupid for asking. And maybe I should be bothered by that, but I find myself focussing a little too much on how he says my name.
It makes me like it better, and I don't imagine that's a good sign.
When I'm finished and we leave, I notice he slows his pace and crosses to my left side so that when I walk past the initiates table, he's almost shielding me from them.
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"Hit me," he says, stood in the centre of the podium.
I stare at him like he's crazy, furrowing my brows. "You want me to hit you?" I ask. It's not like I'd do much damage but being hit is hardly pleasant.
"Yes. I want you to fight me."
"I'm going to lose," I say, like it isn't already obvious.
This time there's no missing his eyes roll, and he shakes his head. I think it's maybe the most emotion he's showed yet, even if it's just the same scowling disdain. "I'm not going to fight back. I just need to know what your instincts are. So hit me. I want you to try and get me down on the mat, and I'm going to make that difficult for you."
"Oh," I say.
Instincts.
I know that I have those.
It was my instinct that made me lift my fist and bash it into Marcus's skull until I dented it. Until it broke apart beneath me.
But I don't want to think about that now.
Not ever.
I shake the memory from my mind and refocus on Four, who's staring at me expectantly. Waiting.
So, I shrug my shoulders back a moment before I lunge at him, aiming high – for his neck, maybe, or his face. It doesn't matter, though, because my hands never make contact and in a second, he's got me wrapped up and pulled with my back to his chest.
It makes my back feel warm and almost fuzzy, but it doesn't last long. My heart beats hard, not so much liking the feel of being trapped, but he doesn't hold me there long.
Besides, I remind myself this is a public space. And although Four could hurt me, he hasn't so far. He seems to far more enjoy making me work hard enough that I'm hurting myself.
"Too obvious," he says, releasing me and pushing me away.
I rebalance myself and turn to him.
He smirks, like he could do this all day. "Try again."
I try again and again and again and again and again, until I lose count of how many times I throw myself at him and how many times he either wraps me into his chest or pins me to the mat. The only thing I do keep count on is my number of successful attempts – which remains a consistent zero.
After a while, my heart stops squeezing so hard when he grabs me. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it lets my chest ease a little, so I'm grateful.
"Come on, Stiff," he says, and he's still smug and at ease, which is starting to piss me off seeing as I'm already huffing and sweaty.
He knows exactly what to do and how to do it and I'm clueless and he's finding some sort of humour in that.
It's making me mad, which isn't helping anything.
I swipe at him, he jerks his head back and grabs my arm in his hand, yanking me forward.
I twist and this time, when he pulls me into his chest, I throw my elbow back into his ribcage and he releases me with a little shove.
He smirks at me. "Watch your temper, Stiff."
I don't respond. I only glare at him, because I don't have a temper.
This time, before I swipe at him, I hesitate and then, knowing he won't expect it because all I've done is punch him all day, I swipe my leg out with the intent of sweeping his from beneath him. Like every other attempt, it doesn't go to plan and he sees what's coming before I can hit him.
He grabs my leg, which throws me off balance and I barely manage to twist and stick my hands out before I hit the mat.
"Nice try, but you'll need to be faster," he says from behind me as I pick myself up from the mat.
"I'm never going to beat you," I reply.
"With practice," he says, and pauses a moment before adding, "you'll at least not lose so badly."
"Gee, thanks," I snap, rolling my eyes.
He smirks. "Try again."
It goes on for hours and hours and hours.
And I don't win once.
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At lunch, Four is quiet again, and his eyes are shifty. He's watching the room like he's expecting something, waiting for it. I shovel the food into my mouth robotically until it's gone, and he leads the way back to the training room.
Once the doors are shut behind me and we're inside the room, he begins speaking again, headed back towards the podium where I spent my whole morning trying and failing to attack him.
"You have terrible attack instincts," he says plainly. "So, I want to see how you handle being put on the defence." He steps onto the podium and I have to half-jump up behind him.
"You're going to attack me?" I ask, eyeing his arms. One hit from him and I won't wake up until next week.
"Not exactly," he says. "I'm going to move like I'm attempting to attack you, but I won't hit you. At most, I'll restrain you. I want you to dodge and, if you see an opportunity to attack in return, take it."
I hesitate a moment before nodding my head, not that he's waiting for my agreement anyway. Before I know it, he's advancing on me and I'm ducking and dodging and shifting on my feet away from him. It's like a dance. And it's one I'm unfortunately familiar with.
Only there used to be bedroom doors and dark corners to duck behind and hide away in.
He doesn't lay a finger on me, even though I can tell he starts trying harder eventually, swiping at me with more intention and moving quicker, reaching into my blind spots.
But I won't let him touch me.
I may not know how to play the role of an attacker, but I sure as shit know what it is to be on the defence.
After a while, there are beads of sweat in my hair, and he's breathing harder than I've heard him before. He takes a rough swing at me and I duck away, twisting out of his reach. It's instinct, not a thought, that has me elbowing him in the ribs while he's still reaching for me, and kicking his knee from the back so he bends.
He realises what I'm doing the same time I do, and when he falls, he manages to take me down with him.
I land atop his chest, laying halfway over him. I can feel his chest rising and falling beneath me, lifting and lowering me rhythmically.
I scramble away, pushing myself to sit back onto my heels before I look up at him. He sits up and stares at me, resting his elbows on his knees and shaking his head at me.
"Well, I think we've found your strong point." The words should be encouraging, but his tone is almost disappointed.
"Thanks," I say quietly, watching as he pushes himself back onto his feet and taking a second to squeeze my eyes shut before I follow suit. He's eyeing the clock across the room over my head when I turn to him.
He jerks his chin towards the bags and says, "I have to go. Work with the bags for an hour and then you're done for the day. And don't skip dinner."
I do as he's told me, and search for the cafeteria after that. This time, I don't skip the line and when I get to ordering, I point at the familiar looking foods and hesitate before asking for a slice of cake, too.
The woman doesn't even spare me a glance, shoving the food across the counter to me before moving on to the next person and I know I mean nothing to her, not even a blip on the radar.
But for some reason, once I've gotten myself to an empty table near the back of the room and survey the food in front of me, it feels like some kind of achievement.
Like ordering my own food and asking for cake is the bravest thing I've done yet.
I eat alone and silently, my mind busying itself reviewing the day, sticking to Four's reaction. I don't know why I feel like I've given something away to him because I've done nothing but what he's asked me to do, but I do.
It's what I lose sleep over when I eventually find my way back to my apartment that night. Whether I've given away too many pieces of my puzzle, and he'll put it all together until he knows things I'll never tell anyone.
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A/N:
Sorry for the wait. I got caught up with work stuff, but here's the fifth chapter. I'm editing the rest now, and hopefully they'll be up in quick succession. If a schedule is helpful, I can try and think of what works.
Let me know your thoughts. It's the most encouraging part of writing to me, so I really appreciate when I hear from any of my readers. So, let me know what you're thinking.
- Laylz :)