Duplicity [p.h]

chapter eleven || lord, tell me how to say no to this

A/N: ahaha shit. please read the title in a lin manuel miranda voice. i don't condone this whatsoever, but after all, we're exploring morality and deception in this story. not explicitly spicy — trust me, if it was, it would be a dumpster fire and i wouldn't be able to take myself seriously lol. also, please consider that while 16 is the assumed age of majority in the books, eric is somewhere between 18-20 (an adult by our standards) and jax is, in fact, SIXTEEN

I WOULD LIKE to preface this part of my story, my dear reader, by saying that what I'm about to tell you took place during a time in my life that I want to forget. What happened at this point in particular is entirely different story; I will never forget it, and I don't think I'll ever want to.

I was so young. Forced into the middle of an insurrection, undercover in my home faction and a corrupt government, bearing a volume of responsibility and secrecy that I would never wish upon a full grown person — who would unload that on a sixteen year old? I was scared. I was alone. I was vulnerable. And I most certainly was not your selfless golden girl with saint-like morality and unwavering willpower who would sacrifice myself to save everyone else in a heartbeat.

I was not perfect. Far from it. I'm still not perfect.

It gets lonely when you're far, far away from everyone you love. When you have to bond with people who are supposed to be your enemies. It gets lonely sleeping all alone in a soundless white room when you've grown accustomed to sharing with ten other people amid the constant chatter of your community and the other sounds that make your home a home.

It reminded me of Christina, a little bit, when she was hanging off the rails above the chasm. It was like gripping onto those slippery bars with wet, sweaty hands that threatened to betray you and slide right off. It was like dangling over vicious churning water and rocks lethal like a shrike's thorn, just waiting to consume me and wash me away. And worst of all, I didn't have anyone to help me back onto solid ground.

So when you're on the edge of falling into this metaphorical chasm, when you're on the brink of letting go at any given second because you miss home so much that it makes your stomach sink and your chest cave in — so much that it hurts, more than anything you've ever felt before — and all you can do is wonder if any of your loved ones would welcome you back and trust you again, knowing what you did, or if they'd even be alive when you got there —

— how can you say no when someone finally reaches out to pull you up? How could I have said no? How relieving, how comforting it is when the only person that really, truly reminds you of home come knocking at your door!

So please, my dear reader, do not look on me too harshly when I tell you that for the first time in months, I did not wake up alone.

No, not alone — the gleam of early morning sunlight seeping through the window roused the room so gently from its slumber, just as I was from mine. But instead of light, I was met with the light brush of nimble fingers sweeping a lock of hair out of my face and tucking it behind my ear, ceasing to move for a moment of deliberation, until they gingerly traced the apex of my cheekbones, dotting over each of my spots and freckles and trailing down my jaw.

And when I opened my eyes, I saw the same white ceiling, the same white bedsheets, the same white floors that I saw every day.

And I saw him.

There, right beside me, was the man that everyone thought was cruel and evil and vile, with piercings aplenty and pair of grey eyes, resembling clouds more so than stone for once, gazing down at me — but not like I was made of glass or porcelain, threatening to shatter to pieces with one wrong move. Not as a toy or a piece of meat.
Not as a work of art.

Eric admired me like I was a goddess divine, someone strong and powerful and passionate and wholly better than what he deserved. Like I was the sun and he was unworthy to sit in my light. Like it was a wonder I wound up next to him.

He took me in like he had the night before. Like he had when I opened the door, furiously swiping at tears until my cheeks were dry and my eyes bloodshot. Like he had when he sat me down, never prodding and prying for the reason, never dismissing or degrading, but instead dabbed my blotchy skin with a tissue and soothed me, whispering gentle affirmations into my ear and trailing his hand up and down my back. Like he had when I leaned in to him, no longer delirious but bubbling with laughter at a joke I can't remember the punchline for, and tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. Like he had when door was locked and both of our jackets were on the floor. Like he had when his fingers trailed down my side, cold against the warmth of my skin but still so hot with electricity. Like he had when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer and begged him not to let go.

I don't think he was ever really evil or vile. He was only as cruel as he had to be to survive. But in that moment, it didn't matter to me what he was. It was nice to wake up to a gruff "good morning" and whisper one back. To have a sip of contraband coffee with some company. To have someone help me find my key card somewhere in the messy wake of the night before.

It was nice to be with someone, to touch someone, to connect with someone.

Upon later reflection I knew it was wrong. Definitely wrong, on his part and on mine. But everything else was turning to shit so fast and I had a sinking feeling that it was only going to get worse. I was happy that morning, genuinely happy, and that was enough.

I keep the morning with Eric in the back of my mind, under lock and key with the few good memories I have from my teenage years and far, far away from all the pain and trauma of that time that I try to forget. If I ever really, truly regretted it, it was only for a second, and only when I finally saw him again, long after my time at Erudite and the incident at Candor.

Eric wasn't him. The Dauntless leader didn't have his upturned brows and his olive skin and his green eyes that can and have pulled me out of a mental breakdown. Eric was Eric, not a replacement Peter.

Not that it mattered, and not that it makes things any more excusable.

But that morning did too much good for me to just forget it, even if it meant a pang of guilt in my chest from time to time. It was a peak at one of the lowest points in my life. It was a reminder that I was more than a pawn in someone else's sick game. It was a reminder that I really was everything that he saw in me.

To this day, I don't know how he would have reacted if he knew. How he might react now. Maybe he would have refused to see me again (which maybe I deserved). Maybe he wouldn't have cared. Maybe he has his secrets too.

I never told him. He never found out.