Chapter 38

I don't own Divergent! / dedicated to LostInThePost and all of the good Erudite (who didn't give a crap about Jeanine's plans) who are continuously, majorly under appreciated

[Before]

The auditorium was strictly available to all factions.

It was situated above ground near the administration office—an edifice recently constructed from the blueprints of an Erudite. It was the first year it was to be utilized for the annual Choosing Ceremony, and the press was ecstatic to hear of the elite school's new tradition—for they never knew much, only that the most revered chef's most likely attended one of the school's divisions in their teenage years.

The year's students began to file in, parentless, as was the custom of attending the first day—the culinary boarding school's separate divisions wished to elude the curious and escape with their secrets unscathed—and with them wide eyes and awestruck faces accompanied.

With the influx came a girl in blue, hair sleek and eyes to match. Eyes shining, she situated herself in the fifth seat to the right of the stage (she'd observed the rotund shape of the building and found the most adequate area to view and take part of the ceremony when the time came). She sat straight, eyes alert, observing as if she knew what was going to occur though no new student ever did—only rumors, memories recollected by parents willing to disclose any information at all. Around her, others her age conversed in hushed voices, eyes flitting towards the stage as if they couldn't contain their curiosity.

The students bore different colors on their clothing—shocking whites and blacks, an array of reds, dull greys—blues resembling the girl's own cobalt dress. The pallor only symbolized predetermined, and often familial, allegiances, nothing of any real concrete decision.

More people began to file in, and as the minutes passed the talking ceased. The students held pamphlets explaining each faction's customs and descriptions of their programs, but anxious students only skimmed them—they were already sent in the mail weeks after the acceptance letters and had been scoured cover-to-cover for days on end.

"Welcome to The Faction School of Culinary Arts students," a voice declared, a man with a scarlet tie. Four others stood next to him, expressions placid, and eyes scanning their potential students. They, like the students also bore different colors on their clothing. "As you know, this school encompasses a vast and rigorous curriculum that focuses primarily on the elite culinary program we aspire to enrich each of you with. We hold high expectations from all of our students, but even more so we hold an allegiance to our factions. To commence the annual Choosing Ceremony, I'd like to once again welcome this year's class of culinary students and wish them all luck on their journey. Choose wisely and—"

The man paused for a moment gazing at the students in front of him, at the children who already harbored allegiances predetermined by their former generations. He wanted something new to be given to these students who felt loyalty so deeply already.

The girl in blue cocked her head, waiting for the words that would let her choose her faction. To finally cook because wasn't that what they were going to do as soon as they were done with the ceremony?

There was no missing the faction leader's kind chuckle as he gazed out at the crowd. He waited a fraction of a moment longer.

Not yet.

It would mean nothing to them now.

His smile was welcoming. "Let's begin."

[Tobias]

The chaos that forms is finite. There's a clear beginning and end in the act of falling, in being consumed by a void with a barrier that no longer exists.

It's Tris's brother who descends into it.

But it's a snake that holds on too tightly next to him.

"Mr. Eaton," a voice calls out.

It's Mrs. Matthews. She's gripped on to the ridge that juts from the wall several feet down. For a moment I watch her hands tremble with the effort that it takes to keep her body upright. If she'd walk ten more steps she would've reached the railing.

Something in my throat tightens as I think about that fact. With her eyes trained on me, cool and calculating, I'm filled with a type of potent revulsion for her. In the split second that we lock eyes, I bask in the thought of letting her drop, allowing her to fend for herself against the Dauntless terrain—because she's done so many excessively bad things. But then as the moment ceases, I'm immediately filled with disgust for myself.

Because I'm not my father.

I reach for her hand, and Chef Tori hands me a rope. But then a wave of dizziness passes me, and I have to take a breath to steady myself.

There's a clamor of voices, a cacophony of unrelated sounds that I slowly begin to register in my ears, something that's dulling my senses—my mind. I twine the rope tighter against my fingers, the sinew of the threads fading. I loosen my hold a fraction. Mrs. Matthews's weight tugs at the thick twisted strands.

Where is Tris's brother—Caleb?

The same sensation of confusion overrides my senses again just as it did yesterday, the dazing uncertainty that something is wrong. I still can't seem to see Caleb Prior. There is a group of people huddled next to me, but I can't figure out what they're doing.

I bring the heel of one hand to my forehead. The heat that emanates strikes me with a piercing ache in my temples.

"Four, what the hell are you doing?" I don't know who says it.

I turn; Mrs. Matthews's gaze is on me still sharp and pressing. My hands grip harder to the device that chafes my fingers but I feel as if I'm not even holding it.

Then there is a scream, the same poignant group of voices. My head is spinning for some reason, my throat is closing in anticipation, and I'm choking on the air. Abruptly, reality breaks itself upon me and I can hear the hysterical voices shouting in—fear?—and I suddenly realize why.

The rope in my hands has snapped.

And when the weight of what I was holding on to leaves me, I'm pitched forward.

[Tris]

"Uriah, Caleb is over there, I need to be over there," I say. There's a lilt of panic in my voice as the younger Pedrad finally wins in his effort to snag my hand once more.

Uriah's attempt to steer us towards the outside of the mass exodus only results in being lost in the sea of shifting bodies and clattering confusion, the panic. Our fingers break apart.

"Tris, come on," Uriah's voice is fading out as a new group of my fellow sophomore rushes through the space that's been created by an absent body. He reaches for my hand again but stops when he can't extend far enough.

"Uriah, just find him," I advise hearing a small cheer which gives me a strained amount of reassurance.

They must've gotten him. They must've brought Caleb up.

The crowd suddenly clears. And I'm right. Caleb is lying on his back, shirt soaking the cold stone underfoot. My brother's palms face upward and when I get closer I can see the gashes that run vertically up to his middle finger's tips. The crimson of the blood stirs still-fresh memories, and for a moment I think of Will and the celery hue of his eyes.

Blank. Stilted in the time before his life no longer existed.

I rush to Caleb.

"Beatrice?" My brother's voice is rough and when he coughs, averting his eyes I'm reminded of the blue that he wears.

Of when we last saw each other, and of shifting eyes, ashamed glances.

"What're you doing here, Bea?" Caleb's hands are dripping crimson but he doesn't seem to notice the pain he should be feeling. Or maybe he doesn't feel it at all.

"Me? God, Caleb… what are you doing here? In Dauntless?" My knees are beginning to ache from the sharp edge that I'm kneeling in.

There's a shout that sounds to my right but I don't look, instead waiting for some explanation from my brother.

"I… I don't know… Mrs. Matthews wanted me to come along and announce something," he explains softly, coughing again. "Why isn't there railing near the water?"

I contemplate his words, ignoring his question. Why would Mrs. Matthews need to announce something in Dauntless? Shouldn't she have known that a student's memorial service was held today? I can't ever seem to understand the motives behind her actions.

Instead I berate my brother for them.

"Do you know what's going on here?" I ask.

Caleb's brows crease and as Uriah kneels down next to me he struggles to sit upright. "What do you mean?"

Uriah's hand is on my shoulder and I can feel the heat his body radiates in the coolness of the Pit next to me, the contrast a reassuring presence. "A memorial service is happening, Caleb. Was happening…"

There's a rush of anger as I observe my oblivious brother. How he assumes Dauntless is nothing but slacking students wanting to have fun.

"Tris-o, he doesn't know… don't…" Uriah's voice is low, pained. I exhale deeply.

"I know, I'm sorry," I respond. But I'm not—sorry that is.

Caleb has slowly lifted himself as we speak, and remorse fills his expression. I want to trust it, my brother who I've known longer than anybody in this school. But I can't.

"Bea, I'm sorry. What happened? Who's—"

"Let's go to the infirmary, Caleb," I suggest cutting him off. I can't look at him.

Standing, I find that the Pit is almost empty excluding the few people that have resumed venturing down to the shops near the left interior wall. Searching, I try to look for Mrs. Matthews but I don't see her, if she'd been lifted. For a second I hope she hasn't been. Then I feel guilty because as I turn and watch Uriah assisting my brother to his feet I realize one truth in the assortment of lies: I'm no longer Abnegation.

I can't be. I only feel a dull sympathy for my brother.

I've only been to the infirmary once—the day when Ro cut his finger in his attempt to finish the lesson faster, and I brought him and his bleeding index finger to be tended to—and it leaves the same chill. The room has a smell akin to a hospital and the counters in the CC Room after they've been cleaned with a lemon-scented disinfectant, yet there is no comfort among the disinfectants and gloves—at this particular moment there's even less.

"Was it him too?" The nurse asks as we enter. With a glance at Caleb's hands she sighs and moves towards him—it's only then that I notice Caleb's pale pallor and soft wincing. Blood still drips thickly from his palms, slow and crimson.

I reach out to him, touch his shoulder. He gives me a light smile. Against my inner resistance, I smile back.

Caleb follows the nurse to a sink on the right of the room where she gently washes off the blood from his wounds. His disposition immediately shifts: calmness in the presence of authority, the tension in his shoulders, fading. I glance to my left and see Uriah observing my brother, back straight, swathed in blue, proper, and can't cease the immediate comparison—of black to blue, to the snake that curls on my friend's neck to the glasses perched on my brother's nose.

There's something so inherently wrong with the scene we watch that neither Uriah nor I can cease our gaping. Until I turn and realize why the chill in the room seems so potent, so acute even though the room itself bears no dipping thermostats.

The sensation is entirely internal. Uriah, whose fingers were laced with my own, senses my shock, the coiling of my fingers until they dig deeply into the skin of his palms and his gaze follows my own.

"What happened?" Our question is asked simultaneously, and there's an uneven pitch to our voices, an urgency as we both rush to the back side of the room.

Tobias lies on a cot, eyes shut and hands fisted to his stomach.

He has no shirt. From afar the blood didn't appear as deep and vivid as it does now, a swirling of vermillion and crimson and scarlet so present that I want to look away, need to look away. I can't. There is no untainted area on the bandages wrapping his ribs. Lined cuts crisscross the palms of his hands which he attempts to fist again as the nurse spreads his fingers outward wrapping them as she does, and there's another bandage on his forehead.

A cold feeling shakes me.

"This young man has a running fever and suffered from some wounds that would not be present if somebody noticed how unfit he was to be in public at an earlier time," the nurse informs us brusquely, her palm brushing against the flat of his cheek softly. Her tone implies that there isn't severity to Tobias's state, as if his skin doesn't seem to be a burning as hot as a live fire.

"How the hell did he get…" Uriah pauses, eyes flaring before wildly gesturing, fingers splaying outwards, "This?"

Pausing to shoot Uriah a piercing look as if she doesn't appreciate his tone, the nurse answers the question while gazing at me. "He fell off the edge of the Chasm."

"He did what?"

Zeke looks as if he's prepared to rampage through the compound to personally throttle the cause of Tobias's injuries—causes he has yet to be enlightened to. Eyes shifting, palms fisting against the metallic frame of the bed, the older Pedrad is the picture of livid Dauntless senior.

Comically, in an ironic decision initiated by Zeke's possession of the keys, Uriah and I sit on the edge of Tobias's dorm room bed, the elder Pedrad pacing across the narrow expanse of the room.

"He fell off the edge of the Chasm," I repeat quietly, reiterating the words of the nurse—who kindly asked us to exit the room after Uriah strung together a repetitive pattern of curses, after Tobias began to stir at my touch and his words—wanting to erase the events of the last few days.

"How the hell did Eaton fall of the edge?"

As hard as I attempt to remain placid, composed in an almost empty manner, Zeke's anger, his roaring words cause me to flinch, to pull back. His eyes, usually playful, teasing, are dancing with uncontained fury.

It's then that I realize how wary I am, of everything, excluding Uriah and his steady presence, how easily rattled. Every time I close my eyes all I feel is a potent force of heat, hear the sound of boiling water—smell a hint of lemongrass. My body unintentionally curls away.

I shut my eyes; open them again when I feel Uriah's presence leave.

His hands are on his brother's shoulders in an instant. "Ezekiel Pedrad, I swear to God, yell at her again and I will end you."

For a moment Zeke is confounded by the change of pace initiated by his younger brother, and he turns into the corner to take a deep breath. "Damn it," curses follow in-between as he paces faster, with even less purpose, "I'm sorry Prior, you've dealt with more than enough…God damn."

I take a breath; compose myself, find myself suddenly livid, "Yesterday one of my best friends died. My brother is in the infirmary with hands that most likely won't be able to hold a plate and Tobias… Tobias isn't looking any better at all. What the hell is going on?"

There's a stagnant moment of silence as my words—louder than what I thought I voiced them as—are deciphered by the brothers. Expecting an equally questioning retort from Zeke, who though appears more composed than a few minutes ago doesn't look far from anger, I wait.

The brothers gaze at me both looking taken aback.

"Tris-o did you just curse?" Uriah asks, a grin threatening to tip his lips even though his eyes show the toll of the last few day's events.

My words were nowhere near humorous yet, the mood has been effectively lightened in five words and for a moment I can breathe. It's as if the horror is easier to ignore then to confront head on.

It seems as if even Dauntless can't take certain risks.

"I think she did, brother," Zeke answers, a light smirk playing at his lips.

My train of thought has been successfully diverted.

I make a noise of indifference, reserved by nature. "No, don't… I didn't—"

"Tris Prior is a bad girl now," Uriah whistles, low and teasing.

My eyes shift and they laugh a little harder, slightly more crazed because they know I'm squirming under the artificial scrutiny. I accidentally make eye-contact with the brothers and we gaze, at a standstill. Then suddenly, I'm grinning, laughing until my stomach aches in a way I haven't felt since before Al's death—Uriah and Zeke are louder. But when I feel Uriah's arms go around me I find that tears stream down my cheeks, that I'm gasping for air instead of attempting to seize my laughter.

Remembering Will's screams, seeing Al's eyes, glazed like glass—blood dripping.

"What's going on, Uri?" I whisper.

He strokes my hair, his voice a whisper though something seems biting about his words, "Nothing the Divergent can't handle."

As a result of spending so much time together Uriah and I silently make our way back to the initiate dorm without consulting each other prior to the act. We informed Zeke of all we knew about Tobias's state and how he ended up in it before leaving him, after reassurances that he was going to see Tobias—not kill Mrs. Matthews.

The dynamic that Uriah and I've acquired in walking through the halls of Dauntless is so familiar that we don't even speak when I lean into his arm unconsciously and he clasps my own briefly, only bask in the slight reprieve.

What I really want is to go to Caleb, to Tobias and see if they are alright—in a twisted way wanting to see if their external injuries compare to my internal ones—but instead I'm facing my fellow initiates.

The doors to the dorm are cold when I push them open.

"Look at what the fucking cat dragged back," Peter declares as Uriah moves past him to reach his bed. His comment doesn't pierce—it's said devoid of any emotion or real desire to wound. That fact shocks me and I look to see Peter staring down at his hands. A blank expression accompanies his gaze and it's then that I realize that we've all suffered.

We all ache from Will, even those not held accountable for it.

"Give it a rest, Peter," Christina says, voice dull.

My head snaps up. She and I make eye contact, the girl I met on my first day, dragging suitcases behind her, candor in her words to the point of shock for my Abnegation self. Christina breaks her gaze first.

There's a drunken silence that accompanies the insults because there's nothing more to say.

"What the hell are you all doing?"

My eyes gravitate to the source of the voice. It's Lynn leaned against the wall and my brows crease. A sense of déjà vu washes over me and I realize that I can see her as I saw her when I first entered this dorm. Eyes blank, stoic—my first impression, my first definition of Dauntless.

"Think you can sit and mope around? How long has it been since any of you held a pan? Because I know that even though all of this crap has been going on, I've made it to the kitchen every day. Have you?" Lynn is looking at all of us, reminding us of our purpose, why we're at a culinary school, and for moment I can see that my peers are stunned out of the pain—the hatred—they feel.

And I am too.

Because her words feel like a slap to the face.

"Well what the hell are we waiting for?" Peter asks his expression resigned, quiet yet still grasping at remnants of authority. He stands, boots loud against the stone of the ground, yet lacking force. Uriah makes his way to me, and my fingers itch to hold some type of utensil. "Let's go cook a fucking dish."

[Tobias]

I'm in a fire. I can feel every lick of heat, the flames, like lighters held to my skin. My eyes won't open, and I can hear somebody make a disgruntled noise, a shout from a hoarse voice. It hurts so badly.

Maybe in this version of my life, I saved Will.

I try to move my fingers but it only brings a new, sharper pain that I want to—I can't finish the thought.

Cooking be damned: I am the fire.

I try to move again.

"Eaton, Jesus Christ, don't freakin' do that." It's Zeke, I know it is. The faint smell of bourbon amid the heat is all can really register. "If you move that hand any more there won't be enough bandages to get your sous-chef ass back to the kitchen."

"Zeke, shut the hell up," another voice scolds.

This time I can open my eyes.

The first thing I register is that there is no fire. The walls of the infirmary are a shocking shade of white and for a second I think they're blinding me, but then I realize that my eyes burn. "Zeke?"

"Yeah, buddy, I can see why Prior and Uri were so scared—you look like death," Zeke's words are careless but as my vision begins to focus I can see the fear in his eyes, the anxiety. "And for the love of God, don't move that hand."

I look down to see that I've been unconsciously flexing my fingers. And then I notice the pain that accompanies each movement. The skin of my palms is lined with intersecting cuts coming from every angle and they sting like hell. Bandages hang from my fingers and I realize I must've ripped them off in my sleep.

I look up again to see Shauna a few steps behind Zeke. She'd never been good with blood and as I continue to examine myself, I realize I'm covered in it. "What the hell happened to me?"

My voice is hoarse. I attempt to clear it but that only leads to a fit of coughing and a raging ache spreading throughout the area of my ribs. I run a hand down my chest and I see that I'm shirtless.

Goddamn. I don't remember a thing.

"You fell off the edge of the Chasm, you idiot, and I thought you were going to die," Zeke says voice cracking at the last words. He tries to hide it by turning away.

"Wait, I… What was I doing?" I scan the room as if it'll give me the explanation to how I fell into the Chasm—a place I manage to avoid falling in even in the extremely rare event that I'm drunk.

"The nurse told me you have a really high fever—which may or may not be her code for saying she thinks you're hot or something—and you were unstable, hallucinating basically." His words don't piece together in my head correctly, and I try to grasp at the memory of any of it. "Four please lay your head back down or I won't… I'll—God, I'm glad you're alright Eaton."

I attempt for a smile of reassurance but find that a bruise is forming on the right side of my jaw, and it hurts everywhere.

"Four, don't do crap like that again," Shauna says her hands briefly brushing over mine.

I mock salute—my muscles aching—an old joke, "Yes ma'am."

She rolls her eyes but gives me the middle finger back though this time she seems reluctant.

"Prior said she and Uriah were here," Zeke comments, eyes trailing after Shauna as she exits the room, briefly making small talk with the nurse.

"Wait, Tris saw me like this?" I ask the horror in my voice obviously evident to Zeke because he scoffs.

"Yeah, she was exactly happy with the events that have been going on," his voice becomes quieter.

I wince again, but this time it's out of guilt, anger, and a slight trace of bitterness.

"I'd think so."

There's a silence as I struggle to breathe, the tightness in my chest constricting even as I exhale. Then I observe my surroundings. And I see Caleb Prior.

Something about him catalyzes my memories into an even murkier reality.

His eyes widen when he sees me. He looks vaguely terrified, and for some reason suddenly, I'm angry at him and I don't even know why.

"You—"

Caleb's fists tighten.

"Whoa, Eaton, what the hell are you doing?" Zeke asks lightly gripping my shoulders so I can't move. "What're you looking at?" His gaze travels to where I'm still glaring, unable to shift my attention.

"Zeke get off…" I trail off, look where Caleb is and expect to see the same alarmed expression Tris so often has. Something about her brother unnerves me though, the way it seems as if he puts on an appearance for the Erudite, the glasses that can't be real. My eyes gravitate, my brain all too willing.

Instead I see nothing—he's gone. My attention shifts to find my best friend. Zeke tugs at my arm, stops when he sees the blood that stains his fingers—directs them to the material of his pants.

"Who the hell do I have to cook for to get you out of here?" He asks looking around the infirmary. He pretends that his jeans aren't stained with my blood when he grins. Acts as if I didn't fall where unstable initiates prefer to drop to their deaths. "Because you and I buddy, need a drink."

[Tris]

Uriah has fewer reserves about the stove than I do, and he notices it. As we walk into the CC Room there's a quick scramble for the best stove and counter area (which Uriah wins along with Lynn) and though it's a competition of sorts, everybody falls into a safe rhythm as they settle in—what we've been taught.

I stand in the doorway.

"Tris, c'mon." Uriah motions to a plate of yellow onions already all halved.

I take a breath, ignore the whispers of doubt that come with the thought of cooking even when my whole body aches to do it. My feet take me to where my two friends stand. Lynn uncharacteristically grins at me, her demeanor suddenly welcoming and I can't help but smile back unforced even when we continue our work, acting as if she hadn't already done the fourth of the job for me.

I pick up a knife; examine it from hilt to blade, stalling for time. Uriah pretends that he doesn't know why I've chosen the area of the counter farthest away from the stove and the now boiling pot of water that Lynn begins to heat—pretends that he isn't right next to me for the same reason.

Pretending there isn't a particular reason why we're in a classroom instead of the Training Room which is still off limits because of Will.

My left hand taps to an unknown tempo while my eyes sweep the room. Still taps when I see Marlene rolling her eyes at Peter who attempts at an insult even when his eyes light up as he tastes something she's made in a pot, continues as I watch Drew frowning at a bottle unlabeled, stops when my eyes find Christina's. Her downcast eyes as she dices a carrot are as broken as I feel.

We're still pretending even when I finally muster the courage to begin dicing the onions. Pretending, pretending, pretending that my hands aren't shaking, that I'm not so damn tired of crying but I still can—because the pain is still so fresh and I can feel it everywhere.

"I bet two weeks of CC Room cleanup that you bought your way in," Peter comments casually, sliding a glass bottle of milk from its cubby in the fridge. He glances at my small pile of diced onions, willing for me to take the bait.

Peter and I stand silently for a moment. I watch him; examine him, the bottle he's holding. I gaze at Peter and try to find his motives in antagonizing me, always antagonizing me—not giving up. Yet his eyes don't hold any ferocity to go along with the statement, he's only insulting for sake of habit, of normalcy. I see the exact moment he registers that I realize this.

We've had a wordless understanding—Peter and I.

"For the love of Go—"

Uriah is cut off by my laughter. And I'm genuinely laughing, as if Christina just told me a joke in the most serious part of a lecture.

The room stills, I'm still laughing lightly. Peter's lips twitch.

We watch each other for a moment longer.

And suddenly it's as if in a twisted sort of understanding way, Peter and I are alright. That even after his daily torment, his place in my attack, in some way we can coexist. Maybe we're not okay, I don't think that we'll ever be described as okay, but at least I know one thing:

We're Dauntless.

[Tobias]

Against all odds, Zeke manages to sneak me out of the infirmary with promises of bed rest and an immediate trip back if my fever returns at all. Zeke made the immediate sound part like a suggestion.

My fever must've broken when I fell asleep, after Zeke went to hunt down the nurse. My skin is still slick with sweat from my it and I'm shivering, hoping nobody walks down the hall because I don't have a shirt, but my ribs tell me to shut up with the thinking as I limp, my best friend in the lead.

"Four c'mon—frick, sorry I forgot…" Zeke stumbles to me, concerned. "How are you supposed to keep up your brooding reputation with the ladies in this state of condition?" He asks taking one arm so I can lean the majority of my weight against him to lessen the pain.

I scoff, hoping it comes off good-naturedly but don't respond. I can only concentrate on the breathing part of my life—my ribs demand it.

"Oh, wait I forgot. You're a tied down man now—yes, please do take that as a euphemism—why would you need to do the brooding thing… Unless… unless it's your personality which in that case you'd need it every day." Zeke is talking candidly and the need to throttle him is high but I can only grit my teeth against the pain.

"But surely one cannot keep up a brooding appearance for so long before becoming boring—wait… Eaton that is you!"

We reach my dorm room ten seconds into Zeke's new topic (though it's actually only an extended version) of why I need to stop being "so moody" and that Tris will definitely thank him in the long run once I change my attitude.

"Ezekiel—" I wince loudly when I'm finally lying on my back in the comfort of my bed. "Pedrad."

Zeke glares at me for using his full name but I capture his attention nonetheless. "What?"

"Can you get me some ice?" I ask holding up the melted pack I've been using, a hand skimming my aching jaw.

He nods, looking suspicious then worried. "Yeah, of course, do you need anything else?"

Tris?

"Yeah, if you could, a shirt man… and could you…" He turns the corner so he can see me speak. The fridge door hides half of his face. "Shut the hell up."

The door slams shut. Zeke is rolling his eyes. "God, you brooding little piece of crap, what'd I'd give to see you thank me you ungrateful ass." He's laughing, and I'm trying not to because it's not every day you fall off the Chasm.

"Thank you Zeke, for everything really," I say as he brings me the icepack, a shirt in hand.

"Just get better Eaton, you honestly scared the crap out of me," he replies.

I let my body relax. There aren't any classes because of Will and still thinking of that brings a bitter taste to my mouth, but what I'm worried about is Tris. Of how she keeps seeming to find herself in the worst of the rivaling faction's feud, and how I haven't seen her since the lettuce wraps and the moments in my room after it. Of the word that seems to be too dangerous to speak, the one that defines her.

And it hits me.

My confusion from earlier—at the height of my fever—of Amar, my instructor and his body at the bottom of the Chasm. Of the glasses of bourbon shared commemorating him once more.

I finally remember.

Weeks before his unexpected death, rumors had been circulating, a new word to mock amongst the Dauntless, one used for Amar and something I brushed off when I heard it whispered:

Divergent.

[Tris]

It's the scent of something cooking that knocks my concentration first.

After Peter and I resumed our usual avoidance of each other—this time in better standings—I began mindlessly cooking, silently preparing next to an uncharacteristically quiet Uriah. When the aroma takes me out of my stupor the first thing I realize is that I've made an Abnegation dinner. The second thing is that I can't stop inhaling quickly enough to cement the smell into my mind. Subconscious trumps shock and I'm scouting the area to find the—

"Goddamn wonderful scent—my mouth requires whatever the hell that is Lynn," Uriah moans and when I turn to see him, he's narrowly avoiding taking off a finger with a paring knife.

"I hate agreeing with the pretty boy but my concurrence with his statement is valid," Peter sighs.

Lynn scoffs, turning slightly so that she can face our dorm which has ceased in their cooking to hear her out. Her left hand still stirs the contents.

My stomach growls.

"Pretty boy?" Uriah is successfully deterred. "Validate my ass you prick, I bet you couldn't even cook half of what she's cooking. Hell, I'll bet that—"

Lynn's glare pierces through the back of Uriah's head, somehow in some supernatural way that only she can achieve, and he stops. Peter's grin is too wide. Even Christina can't help but snicker. Uriah's brow creases in confusion, as if he doesn't even understand how it worked.

Drew looks unamused as he takes out delicate cakes, hues of pastel, from the freezer, chilled in a stilted perfection.

"If the curiosity is really that moving, I'll have all of you know that I'm making gumbo—shrimp and Andouille—New Orleans style if I can perfect it." Her voice is nonchalant but I can feel the tension in the room and observe how old habits must die hard because she's yet to elaborate on how she made it. Lynn's eyes are wary. Her gaze seeks out Marlene's but the other girl only shrugs at her, gives a good-natured grin, mouthing words I don't catch.

Uriah winks at Marlene when she catches his eye.

The exchange changes nothing though.

We want to taste it.

"Need a taste-tester, Lynn? I'm your guy," Uriah asks hopefully.

Lynn's response is silence. Peter is shot down fairly quickly following my beaten down friend. Christina resumes her dish which appears to be a catfish-based soup—and it seems that she can only associate with us long enough to keep herself sane.

I can relate all too well.

I take a glance at the plain chicken that even when glanced at noticeably lacks any real flavor, the quick marinating it was thrust through as was the custom of meals prepared at home, that sits on a plate. Dull green beans lie in a small pile near the roll of bread.

In my mind, somewhere, I still believe that this meal is comforting, and in a way it is—the reminder of my parents, of Caleb.

Yet, as I gaze at it, I realize I'm disgusted.

Because the dish lacks everything Dauntless cooking stands for: flavor and vibrancy and boldness—everything I've learned from this faction since I've joined.

"Tris, do you want to help me prepare the roux? I've screwed up this flour-sauce-concoction-thingy more than once, and I'd like professional help," Lynn asks me.

My back is to her and when I turn around to see her stoic expression on her face I'm grateful. No more pity, no more crying. Her gaze is still questioning so I nod.

"Yeah, I've never made roux before though," I tell her as I move closer after washing my hands.

"I've seen you cook, you'll do fine," she replies.

She's preparing to demonstrate her method, a cast iron pan ready at her right. Now that I'm closer I notice that what we've smelled is Lynn's failed attempts at mixing spices with the roux. The light brown mixture staining the metal of the sink only confirms that fact.

I can't help but grin.

Lynn hasn't told us how to cook it because she's struggling herself and doesn't want it to show—much less have the opportunity to let Uriah taste it.

"Yeah, I know Prior, I haven't "perfected" crap yet." She gives me a knowing look, observes my gaze as I take in the ingredients needed to make gumbo. Onions, green pepper, and celery are diced fine, lain out on one miniature cutting board, unmixed.

"I've said nothing," I say. She chuckles at my faux innocence. "I've only ever had gumbo once and I'm no expert. That's the trinity right?"

Her eyes follow to where my hand is pointing and she nods at the three diced vegetables as I finger the celery, light and fluorescent green—healthy. "Sure is. It's probably the only part that's perfected."

We share a sarcastic laugh—dicing was the easiest part.

"Ok so obviously I've heated the cooking oil until it's lightly smoking right," she looks at me for confirmation even though I'm not particularly sure of the methods used in gumbo cooking. I nod. "So next I'm adding brown flour and whisking. Like constantly whisking."

As she instructs she's also doing the act itself, and I watch as the oil and flour begin to brown over the stove which is set on medium. Yet, after a few moments, when the roux begins to actually darken, Lynn stops whisking and I question her.

"Lynn, I'm not sure if it might be the problem, but I think the whisking should be consistent until it's really darkened—like how gumbo looks?"

I'm really only recalling from memory the only dish of gumbo I've ever had at a high-end restaurant my mother brought me to for my birthday one year without telling my father. It was our secret.

"Fuck, you're right," she says and I fight the usual need to cringe at her word choice. "The consistency isn't even right yet. God, I should know that—it's supposed to be almost the extreme of a really darkened auburn. This looks like a frickin' chocolate bar."

She's whisking quickly now; a few minutes pass and the roux is wonderfully fragrant. I press the heel of my palm to my forehead, rock back on my heels for a few moments and feel relaxation seeping through me. I close my eyes; take in the relative peace that comes with a day of rest—one of mourning.

Lynn tips in a tablespoon of kosher salt, the dry seasoning, and garlic consecutively, stirring to combine the mixture. The scent is newer, more piercing and poignant, and I silently add a sprinkle of cayenne once the concoction is in the large pot once again.

My hands are steady as they peel the shells of the shrimp, deveining each one until they lie in a pile of coral and white, smelling sharp and cold. Hands still solid when I boil them. When Lynn adds the roux and the scent sharpens, when Uriah moans again sounding wholly inappropriate, I realize something:

I don't have to forget Will, or Al, not even Edward and his eye—I won't disgrace them by shedding away the pain from my every waking moment, letting myself live, and I don't even have to stop thinking about them.

But they can be in my past.

And I can let the guilt remind me to be stronger.

To be braver.

[Tobias]

The pain that accompanies my sudden movement is almost excruciating. Almost enough to make me lie back down—almost. I clutch at the frame of the bed even harder my skin chilled because the pain was too acute to attempt to put on the shirt. The metal is cold against the flow of fresh, warm blood.

"Tobias Eaton!"

I gasp, fall back, clutch my ribs.

I'm gritting my teeth when I finally spit out one word, the only one I can. "What?"

"What are you doing?" Zeke's livid as he darts to my side, eyes dark as he handles my freshly bleeding hands carefully. "What the hell are you doing?"

My breath is coming out in spurts, short and uneven.

"I need to get information on Amar!" I shout.

The rise of my voice throws Zeke off for a second. He lets go of me, hands stained with blood again, and takes a step back. "Amar?"

I nod, eyes shut tightly to stop the pain.

"Four, Amar is dead." He says the sentence slowly; almost gentler in the way that signifies that he thinks he understands what's going on. He thinks I'm hallucinating things.

I'm not. I can't be.

It means something, that he was one of them—that they called me the same thing.

My eyes shoot open. "Yeah he is. And you know what he was Zeke?"

My friend's brows crease in confusion, eyes recoil at the venom I attempt to tame. "What he was?"

I close my eyes again, find the comforter underneath my palms and curl my fingers into the softness, perplexed and furious and worried.

"He was Divergent."

"I'll only get the information if you agree to my terms," Zeke states throwing on his jacket, basically confirming that he's going anyway.

He's fought with me over my discovery for ten minutes, even as he'd found new bandages to wrap my hands with.

"Zeke, I can get it myself!" The look he gives me is nothing short of mocking. "You said it yourself, you don't even know if it connects! Might as well have me, somebody who can actually access the Control Room to go."

I've gripped his arm frantically when his steps pass where my bed resides. I look up at him; retract my hand, not wanting the new bandages to go to waste.

"Four, for the last time, no." He makes me lie down. "Now listen to my terms and fucking conditions."

I try not to scream in frustration.

"Quiet now?" I roll my eyes at his question, feeling five. "I will try to figure whatever the hell I need to figure out for you, Uriah, and Prior because apparently this concerns all three of you—you special freaking snowflakes—and you will lie here complacently until I send somebody to keep you company."

He looks at me, daring me to argue. "And you will, while lying complacently, not move from this room or that bed or hurt your damn sous-chef hands any more than is possibly possible. Do you understand me?"

I turn my face into my pillow.

"Eaton, do you understand me?"

"Yes, mother."

I can see him fighting the urge to laugh aloud.

"Good."

"But Zeke—"

"Ha, no, I don't want to hear your crap."

I close my mouth.

Zeke walks out the door and as it slams shut I can still hear him:

"Well that's fucking that."

[Tris]

The three hours spent in the CC Room prove to bring our dorm closer. The time makes us less distrusting, more open to words spoken by others we've never thought to respect.

Like Molly who I haven't acknowledged since she'd insulted my faction, since she caused an argument between Will and I. She gives me a tip on how to sear my chicken—the new edition of an Abnegation dinner turned Dauntless—and I compliment her sautéing techniques briefly.

Now we eat Lynn's gumbo.

"It's yours too, Tris," she insists as she spoons a bowl for me, eyes proud.

"I only helped," I reply smiling lightly.

I search for Uriah and grin at as he blatantly flirts with Marlene, teasing her about a joke I don't understand. Their relationship confuses me—the on and off of it—but I give Uriah an encouraging knee bump when I sit down next to him. He turns to flash a winning smile at me and groans as he spoons another scoop of gumbo into his mouth.

"This is wonderful Lynn, my love," he says. "Cook for me every day of my life, please."

I taste the gumbo, observe it—how it looks the color of thick mud, speckled with white rice, shrimp and Andouille—take in the blended spices that made it, and sigh.

It's wonderful.

"You have hands," Lynn responds drily.

"Not as good as—"

Uriah is interrupted when the door opens, startling everybody.

"Zeke?" Uriah asks, looking at his older brother who seems to be drained. Something red stains the thigh of his jeans.

"Prior and you, you idiot, can you come with me?" He's running a hand through his dark cropped hair, sighing.

Uriah and I exchange a glance; both wondering if this has to do with the competition, if something's changed again.

My strides are quick to exit and my steps quiet. Uriah is behind me.

"What's wrong Zeke?" Uriah asks once the door has closed and we're walking down the hallway, steps rushed.

"Practically everything. You're going to babysit the brat."

The so-called "brat" Zeke was referring to is Tobias. An absolutely conscious, brutal-looking, still painstakingly handsome, and shirtless Tobias, lying on his bed an unusual hint of a—is that a pout?—on his lips.

He shoots insults at Zeke's quickly retreating figure before he notices that his best friend has left him in the company of his little brother and… his girlfriend.

Tobias's gaze brightens when he sees me. He looks as if he's going to move to me first but thinks better of it and remains propped up slightly on two pillows.

"Goddamn, lovebirds, you even do that silent communication thing," Uriah says astounded, walking around Tobias's room and sprawling himself across the couch.

Tobias keeps his eyes on me. "Hey, Tris."

"Tobias," I respond softly, examining his wounds with my eyes. I move to sit on the edge of the bed, see the same thing I cringed at in the infirmary—only now his fever must have broken because when he touches my arm with the tips of his fingers, he's no longer burning with heat.

There's so much I want to say to him and there's nothing at all.

"And that's literally all I need to see before finding a trashcan to violently throw up in," Uriah announces disgusted and picking himself off of the couch. "I'll let you crazy kids do whatever, but don't tell Zeke I ditched."

He's already making his way to the door when I stand up. He sees my expression and reads it easily. "Ah, no arguing with me Tris-o, maybe I'll check on your brother. For now just stay with Four." Uriah says.

He touches my arm, kisses my cheek briefly and is out as quickly as his brother was before him.

And Tobias and I are alone.

There are several moments of silence before:

"Why the hell does that punk get so touchy feely with you?"

My head snaps to Tobias who's attempting to appear comfortable on his bed, limbs awkwardly sprawled out.

I'm laughing as he scrunches up his features into an expression of indifference. "I'm not kidding! I've known him for three years and I know he knows how to keep his hands to himself."

"He's my friend Tobias," I say smiling.

"I'm sure," he responds, but he's smiling too.

Our entire exchange is a new dynamic, from him being only an instructor to what we are now and I'm trying to figure out how I feel about it.

I like it more than when he didn't talk to me.

"Come here," he says softly, gesturing to his side.

I'm rooted to the spot for moments before I reassure myself that it's Tobias.

I sit next to him like I did before but he slowly shifts over to create more room and turns himself onto his side slightly for me to do the same. The comforter is twisted around his torso and it encourages me that I can see a sliver of his jeans before his legs disappear beneath the blanket. My eyes fight to move upwards from his lean stomach, taut with muscle.

"Have I told you about my instructor when I was a sophomore?" He asks his voice quiet.

I shake my head, somehow losing my words. So he tells me what he's learned. Of what he knows he is.

And once he finishes, stops the recount of his instructor and his subsequent death, I can't seem to breathe. Tobias can see my anxiety.

"That's why Zeke is off doing hell knows what because I'm house arrested," he says. His tone is angry but when he speaks of Zeke I can see how tightly bound their friendship is, how there's a certain type of adoration in his words.

Now that we don't have to be serious, a silence hangs stagnant as I slowly look to Tobias, shifting awkwardly on my side. He gives me a knowing look, a ghost of a smile hanging on his lips even after what he told me. He moves closer so that I can see the shadow of stubble speckling his jaw, see the sickly yellow and green of the bruise over it. And now he can see me better too.

And I'm aching to touch him.

He gazes down at my hands, I look at his own. We're mirrors of the same injury, pale ivory bandages wrapped around hands, ones tainted with blood newer than the others.

He pulls me closer, eyes rising to meet my own. "Look," he gestures to our hands eyes glinting navy and the blue patches shining. He lines our palms and fingers against each other's. "Matching."

I laugh, lips rising to somehow meet his own when he tugs me even closer. His mouth is cold, the opposite of the heat that his body emanates, of how the planes of his back feel against my palms: strong and fragile and safe. Warmth shoots through me to my toes, a heavy, heady sensation, like thick honey; as he attempts to deepen the kiss—only to pull back wincing.

My eyes are wide—I'm afraid that I've done something wrong—but he only shakes his head, mumbling something about his ribs, and places his lips on my now skittering pulse. The giggle that bubbles through me only makes Tobias's lips curve into a smile against the skin under my ear.

I place my hands centered to where his shoulders meet his arms on his chest, soak in his warmth as our pulses beat in time.

When I feel myself drifting off, I lift my eyes to see Tobias's eyes shut where his head curves to rest in the crook of my neck.

I place my lips to his forehead, not scared of him, not scared of us anymore.

Only ready for what comes next. Because Tobias and I match in ways more than our former factions; we're one in the same: Dauntless.

But at the same time we're something different too. After what he told me I know. I know that what we learn will change us—what Zeke will tell us—but we're already something else, something peculiar.

We're Divergent.

[Before]

Approximately half of the student body had already joined their faction and the students who had yet to be called squirmed anxiously, eyes glazed with anticipation and hints of jealousy.

The girl in blue still sat in her strategically situated seat, watching, waiting—not so patiently now. She'd known from the moment the alphabetical ordered names began that she would be called in practically the exact middle. That fact hadn't bothered her.

What she hadn't anticipated was the fact that so many students weren't sure of their decision already—it was an easy choice really (you could base it off the exams taken to register for the school with your own familial ties contributing, and if it was purely an emotional struggle, base it off your own preference and personality). How could they already wear a color yet not know which they wanted to embrace?

Yet still, even with the multiple methods she'd thought of in several seconds, the girl had to watch as each new student took a painstakingly extended period of time before taking a cravat and signing the symbol. She knew where she would be since her mother first told her of Erudite's program when she was six, of the morals they embraced.

"Breccan Levis."

The girl watched as the boy, Breccan, took a white cravat. Of course she registered slight distaste at his choice because it didn't match hers, but she was more relieved that he knew his decision than to waste the energy used in holding an unnecessary grudge on the factions that of course, coexisted.

This was who she was: smart, practical, logical in the most necessary situations, she was—

"Jeanine Matthews."

Yes! She almost jumped out of her seat, wild with anticipation, but composed herself seconds after her short display of enthusiasm. Her blue blouse seemed to gleam.

The head of each faction watched as she fingered a blue cravat and signed the Erudite eye without hesitation.

That was her, Jeanine Matthews.

Her steps were giddy as she found the cluster of cobalt.

And now she was an Erudite.

A/N: It's New Year's Eve & it's been approximately 5 (hahaha… almost 6…) months since I've updated and my favorite holidays have come to a conclusion and it's Christmas Break and Texas weather is being super bipolar like usual but HEY AT LEAST I GOT A CHAPTER OUT? Hey Fanfiction, long time no read! (I thought it was pretty punny until I noticed the blatant truth in it).

I think it's time to confess that when it comes to writing these chapters I honestly have no excuse (besides the raging piles of homework and sleep deprivation that I encounter each week) except for my own lack of extra effort and the writer's block that slams me every time I write a good 1000 words of each chapter. I fully intend to do this thing it's justice since it's my child of two years, and I plan on publishing my new 'fic that I've been excited about for almost a year now (it's gonna be epic, trust me) after I finish The Art.

Read & Review!

This thing is 9000+ (plus) words long so please take this as a GIGANTIC APOLOGY for the wait

Tell me what you think!

Give suggestions, constructive criticism, reviews make my day!

Honestly there are moments when I must rearrange a whole sentence just because of the pesky fact that this is Chicago and 'y'all' is not used and I don't even use the word BUT SOMETIMES IT'S SO NECESSARY it's ridiculous.

As 2015 comes to a close, I'd like to thank everyone who's stuck around since the beginning and seeing as my formerly sucky writing grew—I love you all immensely.

Merry Belated Christmas and a Happy Happy New Year Fanfiction!

P.S.— What's your reading goal for 2016? Mine's once again 200 because I still haven't hit it yet and I've had a really bad year in reading terms ugh.

& The Out of the Woods music video is probably out right now and I'm so pumped so shoutout to all the artists I've listened to, to complete this lengthy lengthy thing

—TFW