Eric lays on his stomach, trying to get some sort of rest. But sleep evades him. He hasn't been getting more than a few hours. And that wouldn't be such a problem if he had some sort of entertainment to pass the time. But he's got nothing to do but sleep and…
He's always in plain view of the guard.
He doesn't know why there needs to be a guard going up and down the hall. It's not as if he's going to escape. There's more than one wall. He'd have to break through the room outside his cell as well. Speaking of which, he's certain he's in the only cell with the separate room. And he's certain Tris has used whatever pull she has to keep him from being moved—actively or not. She'd put up a fight if it kept him from being mistreated, that much is evident.
He swirls his finger in the divots on the floor, as he always does when he's bored. He wonders how the meeting and Tris's proposal went. He hasn't seen her in a few days. He gets no TV, as he doesn't get lunch in the cafeteria with everyone else. It's similar to the pit, he doesn't need to see it. The other prisoners are annoying, he's sure.
Eric rolls to his back, thinking of his mother and his sister Stephanie, hoping they're okay. His Mom's look of devastation and Stephanie's confusion, are etched into his memory. They were at his trial, but his mother wasn't asked to speak—which he understands may have helped. But he didn't push for it. She had nothing to do with it. And if he were to be frank, he'd admit he was too tired to care—as strange as that would be for him They asked questions of his involvement and it was his answers heard in kind. He wouldn't have his mother questioned in an open court—accused by association—especially if there seemed to be no hope anyway.
His lawyer thought it would be beneficial to his case to have character witnesses but what friends does he have? And what's the point of fighting when all the evidence points to Jeanine's manipulations and still he's here?
He still can't shake his Mom's cry of disbelief. Her usually composed demeanor cracked by his conviction—watching her son ripped away from her for the 3rd time.
Eric hears a familiar buzzing and rolls into a sitting position, his spine cracking as he stands and stretches his arms over head. Tris enters wearing her favorite loose fitting black shirt and a pair of leather leggings—it's one of the few times she's not wearing some other factions colors. If it's a sign she's feeling more Dauntless, he likes it.
Without thought, he lifts a hand to the glass and greets her with a smile. "Thought you forgot about me in here."
"Never." She replies, beaming at him after a large exhale. Her hand meeting his, the size difference is comical. They've spent so much time together, she can't fathom never seeing him again. She needs to see him as much as he needs to see her. And he does need to see her, no matter his denials in the past. He hunkers down, prepared for her to unleash the story of her horrible day. But instead she asks about him. "How're you holding up?"
"I'll survive," he gives her a strained smile—maybe if he denies how terrible today has been, he'll start to believe it was fine. They sit in front of one another, her fingers hooking in the hole in the barrier so she can touch him. Their index and middle fingers entangle and Tris noticeably exhales, relieved. He just watches for a moment, happy for the contact. He misses it when it's gone and he's still amazed that someone like her—a liberator—spends time coming to see him. He shouldn't want to see her, but he's always been selfish.
"I missed you, Jerk." She says, and he looks at her then. She wants to say that she always misses him when she leaves, but she doesn't. The feeling doesn't seem to fade anymore. It's intense and she can't explain because she hasn't put a label on the emotion yet.
He was a harsh leader, but she's hard pressed to ignore the stories that say he was always steady, unyielding and always knew what to do. She can use some of that now.
"Stop," he tries to laugh off the sudden heaviness, but it dies in the back of his throat, and only silence follows. He's pushing through her admission as painlessly as he can, with minimal contact, withdrawing his hand from hers.
Tris makes it so hard for him to be mean. He's denied it in the past, but he feels like she's being ripped away every time she has to leave. Unshed tears sparkle in her eyes—as though she's had a tougher time than his initial thought even was. He doesn't comment further and she gives a sad smile knowing that he won't allow himself to respond in kind—his eyes say enough when he lets it happen.
"I'm stressed." She says, moving on, quickly wiping her sleeves under her eyes.
"Tell me about it," he remembers those days. But he waits, wanting to hear what she's been up to.
"Slowly accepting my new job." huffing a laugh, she looks up at him. "I gave my options on the factionless situation and a few doctors went to offer treatment."
"That's what you wanted, I'm assuming..." He comments, his posture hunched, as if he can somehow get closer to her by sitting that way. She nods. He looks at her neck and notices the absence of her tattoo… still. Her skin looks smooth, soft… They make eye contact. He swallows thickly, "That's it…?"
"There's talks of reworking the point system in Dauntless," Tris replies with a sigh, "But Tori and I think it's stupid."
He snorts, and she eyes him. "Stop staring at me, and explain." He teases, his smile just as straight as anyone could possibly imagine. Tris just stares at him for what feels like the longest.
She smirks as he laughs, "I'm not supposed to tell you." She teases and he rolls his eyes. She continues anyway, "Gen pop is low. But it won't always be, you know? Then what?"
"It would only need to be adjusted again." He concludes whilst she nods. "Okay so it would be inefficient."
"Yeah." She hufs, raking her hands through her hair, down the back of her neck, folding her fingers together. She looks very much like the stressed teen that she is, and she's exhausted.
He remembers what it's like to be so swamped, missing meals and just getting minimum amounts of sleep. He never complained, but it's not ideal, and it did make his usually roguish mood, even worse. "Are you taking care of yourself?" He inquires before he can stop. He could roll his eyes at how soft and cuddly she makes him. May whatever gods there are, strike him down if he ever says as much out loud.
Tris wonders if he knows how much her heart has just swelled, "Trying."
"Fair," He relents, though the huff that accompanies his response is indication of how much he doesn't actually like that answer.
She snorts and looks down into her lap. He's such a brat. "I went to the market, bought some more apples." They're both reminded of the time she brought him one and Jacob made the biggest possible deal out of it. It was an apple for crying out loud, and in the end, he still got it. "Anyway...The Factionless are going to be fine."
"Good?" He says, but his tone suggests that it's more of a question. He shakes his head at her when she looks at him for more than that—clarifications on what she's supposed to think. He's generally weary of all things he doesn't have a full story on, and save for guards making sure the Factionless don't kill each other during the day, there's not much known about a large majority of the homeless numbers. It's something he wondered while he was on the outside before more pressing matters took control. He was never really given the space to do something other than obey ever-evolving orders and he always hated it.
"I think Evelyn threatened me," Tris muses, hands in her lap, knees up in front of her. "I'm almost 100% positive." Eric looks at her so quickly, she's surprised he didn't hurt his neck. "You know… the usual…" Tris's voice is above a whisper now, he struggles to hear her. The expression on her face displays just how tired of the constant need for explanation she really is. However, she's touched by his obvious care. "I've been paying a lot of attention to you in here…and I care about what happens to you, doesn't mean anyone else has to."
"What more aren't you telling me?" He asks with a short snort, something akin to a laugh but not quite as humored. He knows what a threat sounds like—he's heard them, he's given them—but It's not like he can do anything about his anger and distaste for the situation, as he's in here and she's out there.
"I'm getting you out of here," she says strongly, ignoring his last question all together. And he laughs darkly—noting that she didn't answer him—looking away, "Don't laugh, I'm serious." He can't look at her because he knows she's means she's going to try anyway. She breathes hard, "It's not right. You saved lives."
He bows his head, looking away from her. "Tris, it's okay." He wants to ask her when she'll just accept that this is what's happening, why she can't.
"No, it's not." She says, shaking her head, her tears still glistening. She's frustrated and she's upset. And she's been ruminating on her interaction with Evelyn for three days. It really bothers her that Jeanine and Max aren't here to face the same fate. "This doesn't feel like justice. Not when I wouldn't have been able to stop the simulations without you. Four was in that stupid simulation and—"
"I still broke the law before that," he says, "I wasn't under simulation. It's hard to convince people of the other factors when it's undeniable that people are dead because I went along with it." He's not angry about it anymore. Anger doesn't solve anything, he's learnt that the hard way. "I can't go back to Dauntless now."
"Yes, you can" She's adamant and he can see it but he also knows there's not much else she can do.
"Why, because you say so?" He asks, an edge to his voice. She looks at him, hurt. They stare at one another for a long while, neither willing to be the one to lose the battle of wills. It feels like hours before he says, "You can't keep fighting for me."
His mouth goes dry—wanting nothing more than to reach out and wipe the tears from her eyes. He wants to scream, to beat his hands against the glass until it breaks so that he can.
He didn't expect her to look so hurt.
"You don't deserve this for the rest of your life." She wipes at her eyes. She doesn't know why she's so damned emotional. He doesn't understand how her eyes can hold so much, eyes watery and wide as she looks at him.
Eric looks down, away from her face, unable to decipher the tugging of his heart, "Four would die keeping it from happening," he jokes sarcastically, but she doesn't laugh and he regrets it. "Come on Tris."
"I don't understand why you're so accepting of this." She's not willing to let it go yet. If he quits, she's just the idiot holding on to him—the only person with a last shred of hope that he won't die in this jail cell.
"How is number boy?"
"Eric…" she knows he's trying to change the subject. She clenches her jaw when he simply stares at her until she gives in. "I hate when you do that."
He bites his lip, knowing that if he just explodes, he'll lose her. And dammit, does he want her to stay. Green meets Blue, her eyes just as misty as they can be. "I don't know what you want me to say."
They're silent, neither of them ready to quite face how close they've gotten. Slapping the label of friendship on it feels like a lie. Tris just wants to cry. To cry for them, for him, for herself.
This isn't right.
"I don't know. Haven't talked to him." She speaks flatly, giving up—sounding just as bitter as her face expresses.
"You guys still together or what?" Eric smiles into his knees; arms folded and supporting his chin. He keeps his tone light, almost teasing. He doesn't give a damn about Four,
She shrugs, sniffling, unabashedly tearful about the current state of their friendship. "We are. Doesn't feel like it but I guess we need a clean break."
"You won't," he challenges her with a mischievous smile. "He's an idiot and it's completely mystifying to me but you love him." She loves him, he says to himself. Tris just stares at him and he nods slowly. "Oh."
"It's all fucked up," Tris says honestly. She can see the look of regretful apology and she snorts, "Oh stop," she waves him off. "We're friends, you and me."
"You're my only friend," he laughs.
"It's not like you can get visitors other than me and the rest of the council Eric," she tries to soften the blow. And he appreciates it.
He had a small group of friends—but they're a bunch of assholes and it was just superficial. People he drank with. They didn't have much of the same day to day things in common. Eric likes walks, he likes to read, and he's not too bad a cook. They were all friends with him because he was a leader.
"Anyone even ask you about me?" He wonders. It's not a secret where she runs off to when she's gone for a long while. Her answer is a simple shake of the head—Christina doesn't count in this she assumes—and he nods slowly. "You're the only friend I've got."
"Your mother would come to see you if she could," Tris says.
"I don't want her to see me here." He thinks of all the times he wished his parents could see him as a Dauntless leader—the highest job title within the ranks. Now he's here.
His mom is a proud but kind woman. And he doesn't want her heart to break anymore than he's already broken it. She lost her husband to Jeanine's antics—and he can sleep knowing he avenged the loss with a bullet. It's not the best way to think, but it's the one thing he doesn't regret. Last time he saw her is an unpleasant memory.
"I'm going to get my leadership tattoo," Tris says with an impish smile. "Tori, Four have theirs and now me."
"Oh yeah…" he starts, shaking his sadness and replacing it with joy for her. He's never really outward with his emotions but she can see it when she really looks. "Where?"
"My neck, I think." Tris says, beaming at him. Like you.
"That shit hurts," he says without missing a beat. "But it'll look good."
She giggles, "Zeke and Uriah said the same thing."
"Who's going to do it for you?" He asks, instinctively scratching his neck, her eyes drawn to the geometric, thick dark columns tattooed into his skin, some of his facial hair disrupting the image.
He looks older with the stubble on his face, and eventually a beard will grow. His tattoos and the dermal piercings above his brow remind her of what he looked like in Dauntless. His signature undercut, gone, replaced by a shaved head.
"I haven't asked anyone yet," Tris finally answers, rolling her eyes as he catches her staring at him. "But probably Christina…" she buries her smile in the crook of her elbow, leaning on her knees, hunched into a ball. She knows how much he and Christina hate one another. He doesn't like her constant chatter, and she's holding a grudge. And Tris stays out of it. "Who gave you yours?"
"Tori," Eric replies, swallowing thickly.
"Really?" Tris would never have assumed that. When Eric was still leading, Tori never said a kind word about him, but when she thinks of it, Tori never said anything bad either—not until everything that led them here, happened. Tris always assumed that like everyone else, they respected him, but weren't always fond of him. "You two were friends?"
"Somewhat," Eric turns over the response, glancing at her. She knows the custom of leadership tattoos being given by the tattooer of choice. It just becomes more personal when the tattoo is done—having a friend put the ink to skin.
Tris nods, "I get it," she says, knowing Eric keeps everyone at arms length, even her.
"I always liked her work. The placement was her idea and that was it." He chuckles, thinking back to how proud he was of it—not that he isn't still proud of earning it in his own right—but it's different now after the 4 years he was leader and all that's happened in that time. "Who would've thought, right?"
His sarcasm isn't hard to notice. She snorts, finding his humor is easier to understand now, and maybe twice as tragic. He always finds a serious moment, ending it with a joke. She wishes he'd stop pretending he's perfectly okay with being right in front of one another, but feeling miles apart.
Maybe he's convinced himself it's all the same. But the control freak she knew from Dauntless would never just give in. This is breaking him and he isn't even fighting it. Him—the perfect picture of what Dauntless has been in the last few years, is losing his will to fight. It's more upsetting the more she thinks about it.
Maybe she wants him to care so she doesn't feel so alone in it.
He sees the look on her face, and doesn't like it. He bends his head, tilting his chin, offering a soft smile at the angle she's resting her hands on her knees. "I'm sorry I'm not gonna be there," Eric's voice cuts through the quiet. Her eyes blink slowly—as if he's pulling her from a dream—and her lashes will never appear as thick as they do right now, her eyes will never be as full of fondness and comfort. She considers him with a wide smile, and he returns it, despite his initial apprehension. "What?" He sounds breathless and he curses internally.
"Nothing," Tris swallows down her girlish reaction to seeing his perfect smile, "Just knowing you want to be there is enough for me."
Tris smiles as the knife she throws hits cleanly in the center of the target. Finally, something she's good at. She's been behind on the scoreboard since they arrived here in Dauntless and her fight training is still going pitifully.
But this, this is fun, and she hasn't dropped a knife yet.
Earlier today, she may have drawn unnecessary attention to herself when she saved Al from becoming Factionless. It's undoubtedly what would have happened had she kept her mouth shut like everyone else. But like anything else they do here during initiation, it was a test and she was the only one who passed. So maybe it wasn't so bad.
But she is annoyed that it was one of Eric's many tests.
She doesn't understand that man, and his ever confusing looks. He's always just looking at her. Trying to figure her out.
Tris really wishes she didn't have a secret so she could stop being so damn nervous around him. (Maybe that's not the only reason he makes her so anxious but damn.)She doesn't even understand her divergence, and no one has even attempted to put her mind at ease about it. Tori all but went out of her way to let her know that stage two will be even harder to pass—great. And her mom told her not to trust anyone.
And Four, he's ever confusing as well. He's always just, there.
She throws her last knife in frustration and it clinks to the floor, over rotated and sloppily tossed. She sighs and goes to collect the six knives by their handles. Her hands barely keep their hold as she walks back to the table and haphazardly lets them fall.
Her ear still stings, not from the cut but possibly from how embarrassed she still feels that Eric called her out in front of everyone. 'Points for bravery,' he said, 'but not as many as you lost for mouthing off.' Tris huffs and scowls at the memory.
There's a loud thud from behind her, and she picks up a knife, ready to throw it at whoever is priming to attack her. Peter has been bothering her for weeks. Maybe he's finally going to do what he says and kick her ass. This place really can make someone paranoid.
But it's not him, the footsteps are loud, commanding.
Eric.
He comes around the corner, his gym bag is around his shoulder. Her mouth falls open at the sight of him standing there, looking very much like the leader he is, even in an empty room. Their eyes meet as he unzips his jacket to reveal nothing but refined muscle and smooth skin. And she's embarrassed that he's caught her. She's not even doing anything wrong but she's sure he can make deities feel unrighteous.
He doesn't say anything—only looking at the table where her knives sit untouched since she dropped the one she'd brandished for protection against an imaginary foe—and he keeps walking. He's in the mood for his workout, bed and then thank god he's taking the day off from training them tomorrow. Lauren and Four will just have to deal with them.
Tris opens and closes her mouth, following him with curious eyes as he makes his way towards the punching bags several feet away. He bends down to grab his roll of tape to wrap up his hands. Pausing, glancing back at her, she catches his eyes for a moment before quickly looks away— a knife in hand and ready to throw—as she stumbles.
He stares at her, holding back his chuckle. Quite frankly he's impressed that she hasn't gone running from the room. Most of the initiates—Transfers and Dauntless-born alike—would have made themselves scarce by now. But not her. And today when she stood up to him, he was mostly irritated, but again, impressed.
She may be mouthy, but Dauntless and always trying to prove it.
Tris watches him from the corner of her eye, then back to the target as she throws her blade and it sticks in the silicone of the body sketch. Right in the middle of the head. She smiles to herself triumphantly.
I can continue to throw, no big deal, it's fine. Just pretend he's not here… right there glaring at you.
Her Abnegation upbringing is hard to shake and she feels a blush creeping up the back of her neck. He's watching. Always watching.
She sneaks a glance at him, and he doesn't look away, almost daring her to throw again. She does, but she has to look away from him to do it, so it's not at all intimidating; her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on getting enough power out of her slender arms, and into the rotation of the sharp weapon. He watches until she's down to one last blade.
Tris looks at him, her smile daring to cross her face, but she holds it back. Four smiles when someone does something right, but Eric, he's always glaring. 'Could've been better' she imagines he's says to himself.
Eric looks down, licking his lips before shrugging and making his way over. He stalks, all shoulders while still appearing an entire foot taller than he already is, predatory. She has to take a step back, scared. And when he picks up her last knife, she wants to run, but her feet stay planted.
Who was she kidding, trying to show off? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But he doesn't stab her and then leave her there to die like her overactive imagination would have her believe. No, he tosses the knife in the air, catching it by the blade before carelessly flinging it at the same target she's using. Tris watches as the weapon rotates and smacks directly into the center with a thud, her previously placed knife clanks to the floor, two others following suit while two more hang on for dear life.
Okay, so he can do it.
Tris turns away from his intense eyes—mouth agape—and back to him again, drawn in. She always thought they were blue… not that she was wondering. But from afar...they look blue. But with him staring her down—effectively crushing her attempt at showing off the one thing she wouldn't have to kill herself perfecting—so close, she notices the warm flecks of gold around his irises, surrounded in lush green.
And he smells amazing? Like mint and fresh air.
She feels light-headed. Before she can further react to his presence like a pubescent, he's walking away, back toward his bag.
Her cheeks redden, embarrassed and angry at him. "Asshole," she mutters under her breath. But sound carries in the emptiness of the giant room.
Eric snorts and looks at her—having heard her. But he doesn't respond. He continues to tape his left hand while she again collects her knives from the floor. She's ashamed of how much effort it takes to remove the one he threw, from the target.
She dumps her knives back on the table and starts wrapping them up when she sees him winging his arms and rolling his neck. He cracks his knuckles before landing his first strike on the bag. The sound echoes. He hits the bag again and again, without misstep, without wincing in pain. And Tris feels completely inadequate. She knows it's stupid to compare herself to the youngest leader in Dauntless history—he's earned his place, he's gone through years worth of practice, he's years ahead—but still, she feels as though she'll never make it as far as he has. And she can't help but bite her lip, watching him as he circles, punches and circles again. In concentration, she watches his movements, eyes on his steps. Two punches low, and a cross with the opposite hand, something she's seen him showing Edward before, who never seems to do it as gracefully or with as much command as Eric.
After standing there for a shameful amount of time gawking at him, she starts to move closer, leaning on a nearby pillar to watch his movements. She's enthralled. The transfer from Abnegation has never seen him in action, not past the few things he'll begrudgingly display when one of her classmates isn't doing something right. Four is way more hands on. And she's seen him work a bag, it's not the same… there's something about Eric's anger that seems uncontrollable while being compelling and completely calculated, down to the very last step.
She takes in his every movement, focusing on his punches rather than his rippling muscles. He stops suddenly, catching the bag when he notices that she's standing there. "Did you want something, Stiff?" His harsh voice makes her nearly jump out of her skin.
"I-I just—" her voice sounds as pathetic as she suddenly feels and the inquiry raised with the quirking of his pierced brow is not making her feel any better. "I just thought I could learn something by watching you." She speaks quickly, nearly choking on how fast she spits out her confession. She should just go, but she can't will her feet to move.
He stares at her while considering the answer, "Are you a visual learner? Because from what I've seen, that doesn't seem to help any of you."
Tris feels her cheeks redden at his words, embarrassed again because he's not wrong. Instead of answering, she rushes towards a punching bag, right next to him. He nods at her once, his expression enough to tell her to hurry up if she's going to start and get any help from him. He may start counting down the seconds.
Before she can even throw a punch, he stops her. "You're going to break your hand hitting someone with that form." She opens her mouth to protest but Eric grabs her all the same, taking her hand and turning it the way it needs to be, pulling her further than she is to the bag, and putting her in the right stance as flippantly as possible. "With your first two knuckles, clenched fist right before you land. Don't worry about power—you don't have enough of it. Aim for sensitive places: the ears, eyes, and throat." He shows her a jab, a hook, and cross.
She's staggered by that advice and she's too stunned to see his look of irritation. "What? Won't that be—"
"Look," he cuts her off, "You wanted advice okay, I don't care if you use it." He goes back to assaulting his punching bag. Not another word uttered between them. She regards him skeptically but practices her strikes, attempting the right technique and she finds that her hand doesn't bounce back at her like it did before. Her fist hitting the bag even makes a much more impressive thud.
She wonders why Four didn't tell her the same thing? Why his focus for her striking was her knees and her elbows, as if a good punch to the throat isn't effective. Though, she's not sure fighting dirty is what Four wants her or her classmates to take with them; She can't help but compare her two instructors. Eric wants them to win whatever the cost, and Four wants them to fight even if it's to a bitter end.
She practices the same two punches repeatedly, every so often looking down at her feet to adjust her footing.
The next day, her name is higher on the scoreboard—boosted by some extra points before training even starts—and she beats her first opponent since she's started.
She looks to find Eric, but he's not there.
Tris glances up as Christina calls her name, the two of them the only people in the shop—and Gabe, but Christina doesn't count him.
"I'm sorry, what?" Tris snaps out of her own head, blinking a few times as Christina gives her a look. She massages her knuckles, itching to get to the training rooms.
"What planet did you just arrive from?" The former Candor giggles, pulling herself to her best friend, her rolling chair nearly going too far.
"Sorry," Tris exhales sheepishly.
Christina hums, "You look cute by the way. I could never pull off that haircut." Tris is slightly obsessed with eyeliner—her only choice of makeup. Her eyes are piercing, clear sky blue.
"Thanks," Tris says. Christina always tells her the same thing about her hair. But it's not as if she cut off her long hair to have some cute haircut. She could no longer hide behind it, she could no longer stand the image of the 16 year old Abnegation transfer. She isn't that girl.
"So what's up?" Christina asks, one of the few times she opens the floor up to Tris. She's usually the one talking. Tris is more of a listener.
"Nothing. Finished work early. Had dinner, you know," Tris shrugs, clasping her hands to her thighs, hunching where she sits on Christina's chair. She's looked through three portfolios, her best friend is proud of the work she's been doing. A lot of people have been coming in to get a new tattoo.
New tattoo, new beginning.
"Mhm, where's Four?" Chris asks, her hands supporting her chin.
"You're like the tenth person to ask me that today," Tris comments flatly. Someone is always looking for him, shocked to find that she says she could help them if it's important. "He's fine." She doesn't want to go into detail. She's known Christina for nearly three years, and sometimes she's still too much.
"Okay," Christina says, not pushing. She's been trying to respect boundaries more lately.
"I wanted to ask you something," Tris looks down at her, already anxious of what her best friend will say.
"Okaaaaay," Christina narrows her eyes skeptically. "Before you ask, is hair and makeup involved? Cause if there is, the answer is totally yes."
Tris laughs, but shakes her head no. "I'm a leader, and Four has his tattoo, Tori has hers and I need to get mi—"
"Yes!" Christina shoots off her seat, pulling Tris into the tightest hug. Tris pats her back awkwardly, her arms pinned to her sides.
"You didn't even let me finish!" Tris chuckles as Christina backs away. "Sorry… were you not gonna ask me to give you your leadership tattoo?"
"No, no, I was. I just thought I'd get to finish my sentence." The blonde teases, making Christina wave her off.
"Who else were you gonna ask? Gabe?" She rolls her eyes.
The man in question looks up from where he's adding a new tattoo to the options anyone can choose from. "Ask me what?" He doesn't look up from his project, but they can see his serious expression and taut muscles from where they're sitting across the shop. It's one of the few times music isn't playing in the background and Tris curses the speakers for being out. Chris' has been complaining about it to maintenance for days. Probably just once, but Tris hasn't been around and doesn't care to ask her if she's just being dramatic.
"Tris is finally getting her leadership tattoo," Christina says, louder than she needs to.
His ears perk up at that, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. He has a septum piercing, geometrically designed tattoos running down both arms, streaks of pink and purple in his hair, the sides shaved. He keeps it up mostly but the colors are layered in a way that gives a cool multi-dimensional effect. The gauges in his ears are moderately sized, and they remind Tris of Eric's. She frowns, but quickly shakes her head, clearing away the thought.
Gabe gives her a nod, "Finally." He pushes the book he'd been working on away, leaning his elbows on the counter he stands behind. "Where you want it?"
"My neck," Tris says, unsure of her answer. She hides it well, holding her chin up and ignoring that Christina is staring at her.
"Yeah good luck, that's gonna fucking hurt." He says, tapping a rhythmic beat on the counter before turning around. "Lock up tonight Chris, I'm heading out."
"Will do," she replies, watching him walk around the counter towards the exit, "See you later dickhead!"
"Later fuckface!" He throws up a peace sign over his shoulder. Tris snorts and looks down at Christina, her friend's grin is impossible to miss.
"What?" Christina asks, immediately straightening her shoulders.
"Do you like him?" Tris asks, keeping her straight face.
"No."
"He's cute."
They both speak at the same time, though Tris is looking at her and Chris is looking at anything but her. "You do!"
"We're just friends," Christina chuckles, "His boyfriend Alex is okay too." Tris turns beet red and the tattooist can't help but laugh.
Tris snorts, "That's not funny…"
"Sorry, you're so red," Christina teases, making Tris throw a half hearted punch to her shoulder. "Don't worry, I could have a chance if they ever broke up. He's not gay, bi."
"So you do like him!" Tris grins at her. It's fun to yank Christina's chain. Payback for all the times Tris has to deal with her prying about the dirty details into she and Four's relationship.
"Kind of," Christina sighs, "but it's feels too soon." She looks down, opening the portfolios, "Oh, I loved doing this one. For Harrelson I think. They blur together"
Tris simply puts her hand on her shoulder, giving a soft smile. Christina's eyes tear up and this time it's Tris who stands to pull her into a hug. She crowds Christina, wanting to protect her from the pain of losing her loved one. And then she's forced to strike down the guilt.
Chris doesn't push her away, so she forces herself to relax. Her smaller friend tucks her face to her shoulder, inhaling sharply. When they pull away, they smile at one another.
The tattooist fixes her cap and sits down. "So, did you want to get something done tonight? Touched up maybe?"
Tris admires her ability to just push on through. The memory of her mother being shot in the street, her father sacrificing himself, she can't ever fight the tears when she lays alone at night and thinks of them.
She stops herself from thinking too much and just nods her head yes.
"Really?!" Chris asks excitedly, already grabbing her black gloves. "Like what?"
Tris takes a few moments to decide on her next tattoo and where she wants it. Looks at a few difference designs before she decides on a getting a simple tattoo on the inside of her left forearm—Something in memoriam, to her parents. Christina quickly but effectively waxes the hair from Tris's arm and smiles as before she begins to sketch the tattoo on the leader's skin; she switches to different sized markers and felt pens for different strokes and shadings.
"Why did you wait to tell me you could draw?" Tris wonders aloud, not looking at the drawing.
"I don't know, it never seemed fitting," she shrugs. She used to draw in the quiet of the dorms when she was alone, and sometimes when she would wander the compound by herself, she'd take her sketch pad and her pencils, sit on the roof and draw whatever caught her eye. Or maybe a portrait or two—Four and Lauren will be happy to know she's drawn them a bunch of times, along with Zeke and a bunch of different people morphed into one picture. She has more than a handful of Will's portraits. She can't find it in herself to throw them out, every one of them feels like a memory. "My parents used to joke that I'd join Amity just for the supplies."
Tris laughs, resting her face the palm of her free hand. "Not for the bread?"
"God no," Chris cackles, finishing up the drawing on Tris's forearm. "Okay, if you don't like it I'll draw something else up. But I think it goes with—"
"My ravens." Tris concludes, eyes already tearful. It's not a complex drawing by any means. But the single feather, Mom and Dad flowing in a loop through it makes her smile. She looks at her best friend, nodding her head. "Let's do it."
"Sweet," Christina beams, turning to her station to grab her tattoo machine. Tris puts her head down, left arm outstretched as the session begins. Chris is gentle, focused. Tris tucks her chin and watches, exhaling through the nagging pain of the needle to her skin. Chris gives her a smiling, knowing. "Big tough girl, huh?"
Tris hides her smile, "Shut up, and tattoo."
Christina snorts, dipping back into her cup of black ink. "So, what have you really been working or are you just avoiding me and the guys?"
"Both," Tris says, her tone flat no one else could decipher the joke. But Chris knows, evident by her chuckle and soft smile. "Just been busy. That's all."
"After tomorrow it'll only be worse," Chris comments, wiping away excess ink. She continues with her careful linework. Tris can tell she's much happier down here in the Pit than she is anywhere else. She's been hiding down here actually.
"Yeah, but worth it, I think?"
"I think you're doing what you can with the shitshow Max left behind." Christina offers, purposely only pointing the finger at the tenured, dead, Dauntless leader.
"Thanks Chris," Tris smiles, hoping Christina understands what all she's being thanked for. They sit in comfortable silence. It didn't take Christina long to get to shading the feather. Tris just watches with bated breath, wanting it to be perfect for her parents. She's not sure they'd be thrilled about the ink permanently etched into her skin, but it's a tribute from Dauntless—one Natalie is sure to understand.