A/N: God, my update schedule is all over the place. Recently, I've literally been swapping between classes, studying, updating and interviews. Oh and having crippling migraines from exhaustion. In short: education is very VERY swell. It tires the shit out of you kids.
Anyway, apologies for the really late update. I'm trying to improve my timings, but ya know how life goes. Hopefully after my final exams things will calm down a bit...
CarBarrier - Thank you so much! Your reviews honestly keep me going :)
Crumbs48 - Thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the book so far and I agree on the whole relationship between DK and Meliodas thing. It is REALLY enjoyable to read :)
Till next time,
D.L.D
*I do not own Divergent or any of its character and plot work. This is simply an adaption*
Chapter Five: Well-kept Secrets
After breakfast, I tell Meliodas that I'm going for a walk around the orchards. What I don't tell him is that I'm really following Damon. As I follow him around the Amity compound I expect him to head toward the guests' dormitory, but he promptly crosses the field behind the dining hall and walks toward the water-filtration building. Once he disappears inside, I hesitate on the bottom step, biting my lip. Do I really want to do this?
Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath. Yes, I do. Decided I walk up the front steps and through the wooden door that Damon had quietly shut behind himself. As I do, my heart hammers in my chest, aware that what I am doing is extremely foolish and risky.
Unlike most buildings in the Amity sector, the water-filtration building is small - just one room with a few machines within it. As far as I can tell, some machines take in dirty water from the rest of the compound, a few work to purify it, others test it, and the last set pumps the finished result back to the rest of the compound. Invisible to the naked eye, the piping systems are all buried except one, which runs along the ground to send water to the power plant, near the fence. The plant provides energy to the entire city, using a combination of water, wind and solar energy.
Damon stands near the machines that filter the water. There the pipes are transparent. Through them I can see brown-tinged water travelling up a pipe, disappearing into the machine, only to come out clear from the other end. Both of us watch the purification happen and I wonder if he is thinking what I am: that it would be nice if life worked this way, stripping the sticky dirt from our lives and sending us out into the world clean. But some dirt is always destined to linger.
My heart still hammering in my chest, I stare at the back of Damon's head. I have to do this now. Before I back out of it like a coward, I have to do this.
Now.
"I heard you," I blurt out, my cheeks hot as I throw myself head-first into the confrontation. "The other day."
Damon whips his head around, eyes wide as he spots me, "What are you doing, Elizabeth?"
"I followed you here," The answer comes smoothly, my arms folding firmly over my chest. Immediately, my expression hardens - trained from weeks of Dauntless initiation. "I heard you talking to Aunt Nadja about what motivated Vivian's attack on Abnegation."
"Did the Dauntless teach you that it's all right to invade another person's privacy, or did you teach yourself that?" He spits, his expression hardening and darkening to match mine as he stares back at me. I spot the tension to his jaw, the twitch of his fingers.
"I'm a naturally curious person," I respond, shrugging my shoulders. A small twinge of pain comes but it quickly fades, courtesy of the pain medication. "But don't change the subject. What were you talking to Nadja about?"
Damon's forehead is creased, especially between the eyebrows, and there are deep lines next to his mouth. His jaw is still tense, his fingers still twitch. With all the lines and tension and creases to his face, he looks like a man who has spent most of his life frowning. He might have been handsome when he was younger - perhaps he still is, to women his age, like Nadja - but all I see when I look at him are the pitch-black eyes from Meliodas' fear landscape. All I can ever see is the phantom belt and its phantom sting, the tough leather wrapped around my arm.
"If you heard me talking to Nadja then you would know that I wouldn't even tell her this," He clears his throat, his features still solemn and frowning. He raises a brow. "So what makes you think that I would share the importation with you?"
In the face of his argument, I don't have an answer at first. For a second I am left like a fish out of water, gaping for any shred of fortune that I can gain. But then, like a sudden flash, it comes to me.
"My father," I say, puffing my chest with certainty. "My father is dead." It's the first time that I've said it out loud since I told Meliodas - rocking on the train ride over, silent tears stinging my eyes - that my sister and father had died for me. "Died" was just a fact to me then, detached from heart and emotion. But "dead", mingling with the churning bubbling noises in the room, strikes a blow like a hammer in my chest and the monster of grief awakens, clawing at my eyes and throat.
Swallowing thickly, I force myself to continue.
"He may not have actually died for whatever information you were referring to," I say, my fingers now shifting over one another, trying to reign in the tightness that gathers over my chest. "But I want to know if it was something he risked his life for."
Damon's mouth twitches. "Yes," He responds quietly. "It was."
Hot and stinging, my eyes fill with tears. I blink them away.
"Well," I warble, almost choking. My heart throbs within my chest, its strings tangled from the growing pressure. "Then what on earth was it? Was it something that you were trying to protect? Or steal? Or what? What exactly did my father die for?"
"It was..." Damon shakes his head, turning an accusatory glare to me. His dark eyes are sharper now, firmer, a definitive edge filling them as he frowns deeper. "I'm not going to tell you that. I won't tell you that."
I step toward him, "But you want it back. And Vivian has it."
Damon is a good liar - or at least, someone skilled at hiding secrets away from prying hands. He does not react. I wish I could see like Aunt Nadja sees, like how the Candor see - I wish I could read and interpret his expressions. He could be close to telling the truth. If I press hard enough, just enough, maybe he will crack and tell me everything I need. Maybe if I try hard enough, he'll give up and tell me everything.
"I could help you," I offer, biting back the voice that scolds me for being so manipulative. There is no time for guilt here.
Damon's upper lip curls, "You have no idea how ridiculous that sounds." He spits the words at me, like a bully sickened by a victim's suggestion to be friends. "You may have succeeded in shutting down the attack simulation, girl, but it was by luck alone, not skill. I would die of shock if you managed to do anything even remotely useful again for a long, long time."
This is the Damon that Meliodas knows. The one who knows exactly where to strike in order to cause the most damage.
My body shudders with anger, outrage. "Meliodas is right about you," I spit back, my hands balled into terse fists at his words. "You are nothing but an arrogant, lying piece of garbage!"
"He said that, did he?" Damon raises a brow, his voice calm. No anger creeps into his tone - not even the slightest hint of annoyance.
"No," I respond, my foot tapping against the ground. "He doesn't mention you enough to say anything like that. I figured it all out on my own." I clench my teeth, reigning in the sadness that had turned into bitter, burning anger. "You're almost nothing to him, you know. And as time goes on, you'll become less and less until there's nothing left to think about."
Damon doesn't answer me. He turns back to the water purifier. For a moment I stand in my triumph, the sound of rushing water mixing with the racing heartbeats echoing in my ears. Then I leave the building and it isn't until I am halfway across the field that I realise that I didn't win at all. Exploding with anger and impatience gave me nothing close to victory; it had made me fall into last place. Damon had won.
Whatever the truth is, I'll have to get it from somewhere else, because I won't be asking him ever again.
That night I dream that I am in a field, laying in long, dry grass that sways as it tickles my sides and face. A clear sky stretches overhead, devoid of clouds, moons, stars and suns, and instead of blue it is a pale, smokey green. For a few moments, I lay in the field, breathing in the dry, scorching air and staring the pale green sky, my skin prickling from the grass. Then the crows come, a huge swarm of black feathers that block up the sky and dive toward the grassy ground.
On instinct, I flinch and shut my eyes, preparing for the incoming assault. Only, the flock dives in another direction, sights set on another location. Curious, I get up, brush the grass from my pants and follow them, leaving behind my dent in the grass.
Clustered, I find the crows on the ground, gathered in a mass of squawking and cawing black feathers and beaks. When I swat a few away, I realise that they are perched on top of a man, pecking and pulling at his clothes, which are Abnegation grey. Curled on his side, he is motionless. Blood trickles down the temple of his face, his brows stained red and sweaty. Without warning, the entire flock takes off, leaving behind the field and the man, and in their absence I realise that the man is King. King I shot in the alley. My friend King.
Then I wake up.
Silent tears brimming in my eyes, I turn my face into the pillow and release, instead of a piercing scream, a strong sob that throws my entire body against the mattress. Cold and harsh and cruel, I feel the monster of grief again, writhing in the empty space where my heart and stomach used to be. Enormous, surging, it wraps around my nerves and senses, pulling and tugging at the empty space that my organs used to live in.
Gasping, I press both palms of my hands to my chest. Now the monstrous beast has its sharp claws wrapped around my throat, forcefully squeezing at my airways as it sinks its keen claws into my neck. Wheezing, I twist and put my head between my knees, breathing in deep breaths and counting the exhales until the tight, strangled sensation leaves me. Even then I am wary, my throat aching and my eyes watering.
Even though the air is warm, I shiver as I de-tangle myself. Slowly, I get out of bed and unsteadily make my way down the darkened hall to Meliodas' room. My bare legs almost glow in the dark, pale and bright compared to the eerie shadows. Meliodas' door creaks as I pull it open, loud enough to wake him. As I stand there in his doorway, shaking and shivering as I sniff and wipe at my watering eyes, he stares at me for a second.
"C'mere," He says, sluggish from sleep as he pulls back the blanket and pats a spot beside him. He shifts back on the bed to leave space for me.
I should have thought this through. Most nights I sleep in a long t-shirt that one of the Amity lent me. It comes down just past my butt and I didn't think to put on a pair of shorts before I stumbled my way here. Meliodas' eyes skim my legs, making me blush as I bit my lip and cursed myself for not thinking this through. It was silly - foolish. Nevertheless, I lie down next to him, facing him with my teary eyes.
"Bad dream?" He asks.
I nod.
"What happened?"
I shake my head. I can't tell him that I'm having nightmares about King because I would then have to explain why. Explaining why, explaining what I did, would only make things worse. What would Meliodas think of me if he knew what I had done? How would he look at me after knowing that I had killed someone?
He keeps his hand over my cheek, idly moving his thumb over my cheekbone. Thought appears to sit within his eyes tonight, thoughts that I am too tired and emotional to try and unjumble and decode at present.
"We're alright, you know," He eventually says. Another swipe of his thumb. "You and me. Ok?"
My chest aches and I nod. I am too tired to do anything but that.
"Nothing else is alright," His whisper tickles my cheek. His expression is resolute as he says this, certain, almost as if he had been thinking about this for a long time. "But we are."
"Meliodas," I begin. But whatever I was about to say gets lost in my head, and I press my mouth to his because I know that kissing him will distract me from everything that it wrong with my life right now.
He kisses me back. His hand starts on my cheek, and then gently brushes over my side, fitting to the bend of my waist, curving over my hip, sliding to my bare leg, making me shiver. Goosebumps rise along my skin. I press closer to him and wrap a leg around his body. My brain buzzes with nervousness, but the rest of me seems to know what it is doing, because it all pulses to the same rhythm, all wants the same thing: to escape itself and become a part of him instead.
His mouth moves against mine and his hand slides under the hem of my t-shirt, and I don't move to stop him, though I know I should. Instead a faint sigh escapes me, and heat rushes to my cheeks, definitely embarrassment. Either Meliodas didn't hear me or he didn't care because he presses his palm to my lower back, presses me closer. His fingers move slowly up my back, tracing up the bumps of my spine. Gradually, my shirt shifts up my body and I don't pull it down - even when I feel cool air on my stomach.
He kisses my neck and I grab his shoulder to steady myself, gathering his shirt into my fist. His fingers cool against my heated skin, his hand reaches the top of my back and curls around my neck. My shirt is twisted around his arm and our kisses become desperate, unyielding. I know my hands are shaking from all the nervous energy brimming within me, so I tighten my grip on his shoulder so he won't notice.
Then his fingers brush against my bandaged shoulder and a dart of pain shoots through me. It didn't hurt much - like a sudden pinprick to the finger - but it breaks the bubble and brings me back to reality. My reality. I can't with Meliodas in that way if one of my reasons for wanting it was to distract myself from grief. It was wrong - even more wrong than many things I have done - and I won't do that to him.
Carefully, I lean back and gently pull the hem of my shirt down so that it covers me up again. For a second we just lie there, our gazes locked and our heavy breaths mixing. I don't mean to cry - now is not a good time to cry; no, it has to stop - but I can't get the tears out of my eyes, no matter how many times I blink or fiercely scrub them away.
"Sorry," I whisper, my lip caught between my teeth.
He says almost sternly, "Don't apologise." He brushes the fresh tears from my cheeks, planting a kiss on my forehead.
I know that I am birdlike, made narrow and small as if for taking flight, built with soft parts and extremely fragile. But when Meliodas touches me as if he couldn't bear to let go, I don't wish that I was made any different.
"I don't mean to be such a mess," I sigh, my voice cracking. "I just feel so..." I shake my head, sniffing.
"It's wrong," Meliodas says, his voice just a quiet as mine. "It doesn't matter if they are in a better place - they aren't here with you, and that's wrong, Liz. It shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened to you. And anyone who smiles and tells you that it is ok is a liar."
A sob wracks my body again and he wraps his arms around me so tightly that I struggle to breathe, but it doesn't matter. My dignified weeping gives way to full-on ugliness, my mouth hanging open and my face contorted and sounds like a dying animal coming from my throat, the pits of my empty stomach. If this continues I will break apart - and maybe that would be better, maybe it would be better to shatter and bear nothing.
Meliodas doesn't speak for a long time. For a long time he is silent, holding me in his arms, rubbing soothing circles into my back, until I am quiet again.
"Sleep," He eventually says. "I'll fight the bad dreams off if they come to get you."
"With what?" I ask, blinking.
A grin, "My bare hands, obviously."
With a twitch of a smile, I wrap an arm around his waist and take a deep breath of his shoulder. He smells like sweat and fresh air and mint, from the salve he sometimes uses to relax his sore muscles. He smells safe too, like sunlit walks in the orchard, hand-in-hand, and silent breakfasts in the dining hall, not needing words to fill the empty air between us. And in the moments before I drift to sleep, I almost forget about our war-torn city and all the conflict that will come to find us soon - if we don't find it first.
In the moments before I drift off to sleep, I hear him whisper, "I love you, Liz."
And maybe I would say it back, but I am too far gone.