The training room is cool the next morning. I can imagine the sky above, cloudy and dreary, as opposed to the bright sunlight of yesterday's trip. We arrived back home last night with the sun feeling as if it were still beating down upon us, despite the fact that it was dark outside. Tired, I managed to wash most of my dirty clothes, as well as buy some new ones with Teresa and Brenda. The three of us are growing closer, and I would hate to see either of them leave Dauntless. I would hate to see any of us leave, but I am afraid that they will have to see me go, with my current ranking.
We have only a few fights left, to secure a place in the top 16 out of 20 initiates, both the Dauntless born and transfers combined. I know nothing about the Dauntless borns, but I assume that the large majority are stronger than we are, than I am, because many have been training for this from birth. It is likely that no more than two or three of them, at best, make up the four cut in the first stage, despite the fact that they outnumber us by almost twice fold. So far, the odds are not in my favour.
As the blackboard dictates, today I am fighting Brenda, with the second and third fights coming after ours;
(y/n) - Brenda
Minho - Teresa
Newt - Thomas
Frypan
Although she is not as physically strong as Minho or Newt or Thomas, Brenda is intelligent and fast, and stronger than I am. Ranked higher than me, I have few doubts that she will win - but I must try, I must, or I risk becoming factionless.
Jorge calls us up what feels like only a heartbeat later, and she shoots me a smile. I mouth "good luck" at her, and she winks back. I am not as afraid of being seriously hurt as I have been in the past. Perhaps I am getting stronger, more determined. I hope so.
And on that note, a whistle blows, and I am the first to move - a knee to her stomach. She and I both wince. I do not want to hurt her, and I know she doesn't truly want to hurt me, either, I try to remember as she punches me right in the jaw. A shot of pain wrenches through my face, into my mouth and deep into my bones. As I blink, her full force crashes down onto me, hands propelling into my shoulders and pushing me down as I stumble back. My knees buckle, but I do not fall. Instead, still leaning over, I twist my ankle around hers and pull .
As if in slow motion, her back hits the ground, and for a second, I am afraid, so afraid, that I have broken her spine or neck or leg. I'm so worried that I'm almost relieved when her leg kicks back up into my already sore chest. Her feet slap against the ground as she jumps up, so flexible that I gasp, and not just because of the pain.
I try to do the same, push myself up, and although I succeed, I am too slow. Brenda kicks up, higher than before, and kicks at my stomach with the sole of her foot. I wheeze, and aim a loose punch back at her, which hits her - hard - in the nose. Her vision appears to be obscured for a brief moment, but again, she pushes back against my shoulders, as hard as she can. I try to get her off, to push back against her forearms, her chest, her own shoulders and elbows. I try to kick out at her with my legs, but she does not stop, just wheeze. Again, I kick around her ankle with my own, but it is too late.
She has pushed me out of the white chalk circle on the floor, and as I collapse, she lets go of my arms. My head falls back, and I take in deep breaths, allowing air to fill my lungs. I think Brenda does the same, but I am too focused on keeping my eyes open and breathing slow and steady to notice fully.
What could be seconds or minutes later, I feel a pressure on my palm as Brenda pulls me up and into an embrace. My body tenses, but soon relaxes. I have not hugged anyone apart from my brother and father for years, and even then it's rare. Brenda, too, does not usually seem to be a big fan of it, on account of her Candor background and somewhat teasing, independent attitude.
But still, she whispers, "Nice one, Stiff," in my ear, and I squeeze her tighter in response. In both her and Teresa, I think I have found the sisters I have never had.
•••
As Brenda releases me a second later, as if just releasing what she's done, Teresa and Minho step into the circle. I can't help but feel slightly proud of my effort today. I did not concede. I fought back. I didn't win, but I came closer than expected.
Newt, next to me as I line back up, smiles.
"Congratulations," he whispers in my ear.
I laugh. "I didn't win, Newt," I whisper back at him.
"Doesn't mean ya didn't do good," he retorts, and I laugh again, before Mark looks at us with a raised eyebrow. Newt smirks out of the corner of my eye as I turn back straight away, to a fight that's almost over before it began. Minho, although kind, is somewhat ruthless. I can see he's trying not to hurt Teresa, but still, he has her held in practically a headlock. It's clear that Minho will rank first of the transfers in the physical stage, and perhaps even first overall, except for maybe that brown haired Dauntless boy from the first day.
Teresa, though determined, tough, and smart, is no match for Minho's strength. She rolls her eyes as she concedes, as if disappointed in herself. Rubbing her neck slightly, but appearing to not be in too much pain, Teresa and Minho both step out of the circle moments later, shaking hands in decided friendship.
Newt elbows me as he lines up to begin his own fight, and I turn to him with no hesitation. I bite my lip in worry as he steps up, and whisper my own "good luck" at him before he turns. He is too kind to hurt Thomas more than he must, and too strong, I think, to be hurt too harshly by his opponent. Still, with an ache in my stomach settling in as he positions himself, swiping his hand over his lips, I would rather not see him in pain.
I don't hear as Jorge gestures for the beginning of the day's final fight, too focused on the transfers themselves. Arm muscles tensed, Thomas throws the first punch at Newt's head, the older boy ducking to avoid it before kicking at his opponent's ribcage. Hunched over, the brown haired transfer tries to retaliate through a kick of his own, and feeble as he is, manages to hit at Newt's lower stomach. Both transfers almost to their knees, neither is able to retaliate, and as they regain their footing, remain a metre or two apart, fists raised, waiting for the other to attack.
Attack they both do, at almost exactly the same time. A blind fist towards Newt's head, a knee towards Thomas' torso. The sound of flesh on flesh. Newt struggling to balance on his feet, breath halting. Pain I barely feel as I wince and press my nails into the flesh of my hands. My heartbeat pounding, perhaps more than it did in my own fight, whispering prayers to a god I have not thought of since Abnegation.
And it maybe it's coincidence, maybe it's divine interference, or maybe it's just him hearing my murmured please be okay please be okay please be okay, but he manages to rise, knees no longer bent, fists raised again. He's strong, I think. Stronger than I realised. Perhaps stronger than Thomas realised, too.
And I think that maybe, just maybe, Newt, with his mentions of fighting back in Amity, with his swift decisions and sharp intelligence, his muscled arms and determined nature, could give even Minho a far better run for his money than the rest of us ever could.
Both boys hesitate for a second time, but this time, Thomas takes the fall as Newt twists his ankle around the other boy's, executing the move far better than I did against Brenda. I hear an impact of flesh on floor, this time, as Thomas falls to his back. I clench my jaw. Taking advantage of a spare second as a flash of what appears to be regret makes its way across Newt's face, Thomas grabs his shoulders to try and pull him down.
He is unsuccessful, Newt tightening his grip upon his shoulders from the side of his body. Thomas' legs kick up, knees just avoiding Newt's elbow. Distracted, Newt turns around to try and assess the situation. His head turned and hold loosened, Thomas' fist swings and hits him right in the cheek. Hard. Even from a distance, I can see his eyes begin to water before he blinks the tears away and instead presses his own knee across Thomas' legs, effectively controlling any last movements the boy could make.
And so Thomas concedes, both boys breathing heavily. Newt winces and clenches his jaw, rising slowly and grasping Thomas' hand, pulling him up with whatever final strength he can muster. They bring each other into a half-embrace, grasping hands and clapping each other on the back. They shake hands, and help each other out of the circle.
Despite the intensity of the fight, neither seem awfully hurt, although I can imagine the pain shooting through Newt's bones from Thomas' final punch. Still, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief as I imagine what could have happened, how Thomas could have been punched far harder when he was on the ground. How Newt could have sustained much worse injuries than a bruised, albeit swollen, cheekbone.
•••
That evening, Minho and Thomas want to go together to look at more tattoos. Frypan says he wants to get a haircut, but I think that just means he wants to harass Mark about what rank he needs to become a chef. Brenda tells me that she want to see what alcohol she can get away with buying, and has convinced a hesitant Teresa to accompany her for "chaperoning" - though they'll probably both come home equally intoxicated, if I'm honest. They haven't told any of the boys, because they reckon they should check it out before Minho gets the opportunity to. Both ask me to come, but I just wish them a good time before rejecting their offer as I think of how disappointed my father would be in me. It seems too far to stray away from home, for now.
Back in the dormitory after training, I'm packing my new clothes neatly into a drawer before Newt walks in. I glance up at him, surprised.
"You didn't go to the tattoo place?" I ask him, leaning my head up at him as he walks through the door.
He seems surprised to see me still here, too. "Nah," he replies, shaking his head. "Couldn't think of anything more to get."
"I see."
"What about you? Not out with Teresa and Brenda?" he asks, shooting me a smile.
I laugh. "Nope. Without disclosing any secret details, I do not particularly want to go where they're headed."
He laughs too, as he leans against the doorframe. As he turns his face towards mine, I can see the damage of Thomas' fist to his face today. The skin close to his left eye has turned purple-blue already, red and swollen around the edges.
I put my final shirt back into the drawer and close it firmly. "Are you okay?" I ask, gesturing to the same spot on my unblemished face.
"I'll be alright," he answers.
I stand and brush off the knees of my pants, covered in dust. I raise my eyebrows at him. At home, whenever one of us was wounded, whether it be a scrape of a knee or a bruised arm, I would always apply a cold towel to the area. Such an injury as his may have warranted three or four washcloths.
An idea sparks in my mind, my body already moving.
"Just a minute," I say, my shoulder brushing his as I start to exit the room, sending what feels like small little sparks up my arm. "Just sit down!"
Approximately two minutes and fifty seconds later, I return to the room and close the door quietly behind me, keeping any warmth inside the dormitory. Newt is seated on the empty bottom bunk bed. As I enter, he raises his eyebrows at me.
"I thought ya said a minute," he almost drawls sarcastically.
"Yes, well, convincing the doctor took longer than I thought," I say. "Now, move over."
I almost laugh at myself. I'm never like this. I always keep to myself. I help others with soft smiles and a quiet Abnegation demeanour. Not like this.
As I sit beside him, I hold out my hand to reveal a frozen bottle of ice wrapped in a towel, water dripping from my palm.
Newt's eyes meet mine. "You didn't need t-"
"I kind of do. I'm Abnegation," I reply, and again, he chuckles, an oddly pitched - both high and low - laugh I find sort of endearing and makes my stomach twist around in circles. "Hold still."
I press the bottle to his cheek, and he winces at the cold.
A few seconds pass. I awkwardly twist the bottle around so a different part of it cools his swollen bruise. I think of how he got it. How he fought Thomas and won. How he did what I could never hope of doing.
Suddenly, another idea comes to me. He's good and strong. I trust him. I like spending time with him.
I look over at him. He's looking at me, too, his eyes bright. I feel my cheeks warm. What on earth am I doing? Trying to help his stupid bruise by sitting next to him and holding up some godforsaken stick of ice to his cheek? Asking him such selfish questions as I'm about to?
"Newt?" I say, trying not to sound as silly as I feel. I remove the bottle and press it again to his cheek, my heart beating all the more rapidly.
"Mmm hmm?"
"I was just thinking- you know, you're really good and beating Thomas was pretty impressive, and-"
"You think I'm impressive?" he says, grinning. I can feel his cheek move with his smile underneath the ice.
"Oh, you know what I meant," I say, my cheeks flushing. He chuckles again, and I continue, embarrassed, but smiling a little more than before. "So you know, I'm ranked so low- and well- do you- would you mind- maybe helping me train a bit for fighting?" I stutter far more than I intended, my attitude far different now that I am seated so near him, so close to his warmth and his dimpled smile, my hand basically on his cheek, my legs a hair's breadth from his.
He turns his head towards me again, almost looking ever-so-slightly disappointed, as if he was expecting me to ask him something else. But still, he smiles as his eyes look into mine. My heart lurches.
"'Course I will," he says, as if there was never a question to begin with.
My smile widens, and I feel so content with him that I have to remind myself that reaching over and hugging him right then and there might hurt his already sore cheek.