Chapter 17: one pierced moment whiter than the rest

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When the factionless fight, they fight dirty. Boomer and I are back to back, making our way through the waves of factionless fighting, essentially, over who gets to sleep where. Henley, Gipsy, and Tank are making their way towards us, shoving people apart and forcing them to consider whether or not they want to tangle with Dauntless. Bandit is hoisting two children out of the fray and onto a rusted fire escape attached to the side of the building. Slightly is with the Duke on the bus, slowly picking apart the crowd with special paint rounds designed to discourage fighting, but not to permanently damage.

We’ve exchanged our guns for heavy duty shields and protective gauntlets; Boomer showed me how cuff factionless out of the way without leaving anything more than a minor bruise. A man shoves a woman in my direction and I catch her, stumble back into Boomer, and twist her out of the way before the man can hit her again. He throws his fist at my shield, and yowls when his bones give way instead of the metal. I butt him in the face with my shield, and hear his nose crunch under the metal sheet.

It takes another half an hour for back up to arrive, and by the time the factionless realize that they’re out numbered and out skilled, those of us in 209 are exhausted. For his last order as Patrol Captain for the month, Henley instructs three other squadrons to split up and cover the rest of our route so that we can head in to dinner early. They gripe and complain, but Henley threatens to add a punishment detail on top of that, and they quiet down. We head back to the locker room, each of us content with the silence, and stow our gear.

Dinner that night is the first I’ve had with my brother in a week, and, after two months of patrols, I’ve learned to appreciate what time I can get. I sit down by Tank at the table 209 usually occupies, and he doesn’t hesitate before joining us. He sits across from me, and exchanges the cake on my plate for the pudding on his without asking. Bandit, Hash, and Slightly are all mostly asleep in their food, but Tank and I seem to still be coming down from the adrenalin rush despite the beating we both took.

Half way through our meal, Tobias looks up and nods at someone behind me, and Eric sinks into the seat on my left before anyone can protest. He presses his arm into mine, a long line of heat that feels good after spending hours in the cold and fighting my way through several dozen people. I must show some sign of discomfort though, because he gingerly takes my wrist and pushes my cuff back to expose two wide, band-like bruises where my shield’s straps had sat on my arm.

“How’s the other guy look?” he asks.

“Worse,” I assure.

Twenty minutes later, Eric and I stand from the table and say our goodbyes to my brother and my squad mates. I kiss Tobias on the head as I pass him, and he flinches away, which prompts me to wrap my arms around his neck and pepper him with more. He scowls and curses at me, but he doesn’t try to get away.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell him, and rejoin Eric on the route to his apartment.

He doesn’t let me stop at my room, just insists that we continue on to his, and I would protest if I hadn’t been so tired and sore. His apartment is just as cool as it usually is, but through my uniform and the layers under it, I’m pretty content. I drop down onto the couch, intent on getting my boots off, but when I try to pick at the laces, my fingers stumble, too weary to undo the strings. Eric kneels down in front of me, batting my hands away, and undoing the laces himself. I groan when he slip one boot off, and enjoy the wiggle of my toes when he works on the other one.

“Did you fasten these with rubber cement?” he grumbles.

“Tank showed me how to double knot them so they wouldn’t come undone in the middle of patrol.”

He pulls my other boot off, and drops it on the floor by the end of the couch, but before he can stand up, I lean forward, put both hands on his face, and kiss him. Kissing Eric is.... in the beginning, there was a thrill, that heart pounding thought of what people would say if they knew, me being so fresh out of initiation, but no one has seemed to care over the last four months, so neither do we. Kissing Eric is warm, and, while the thrill of danger no longer lingers, there is still a thrill of this being ours, just ours. Eric is my safe place, and, sometimes, I like to think that I am his.

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