Page 19 of Mystic Wonderful

Finally, he climbed out of his bunk, dressed, and went in search of the gym. If he couldn’t sleep, then he might as well do something useful.

It wasn’t unheard-of to find the training rooms back at home base occupied at this late hour. Peace wasn’t something that existed in the world anymore. He knew a few Knights who managed to sneak alcohol onto base, and who drowned their worries and nightmares each night, passing out into blessed oblivion. But he’d never liked feeling muddled like that; the hangover was never worth it, and a pounding headache could be the difference between life or death on a mission. So he wasn’t surprised to hear, on his approach, someone having a go at a punching bag, the rhythmic thud of fists as someone dealt regular jabs, and then a quick flurry of strikes, the chains that held the bag chiming.Strong, he thought, absently. Whoever was working out had a hell of a throw.

The surprise hit, though, when he opened the door, and recognized the back of the man across the room.

Blue the prostitute had had curly hair, and blue eyes, and a sweet face, but that was where the similarities had ended. He’d been slender all over, sylphlike, his arms and chest soft.

Gallo, but contrast, had broad shoulders, and a sleek, dense padding of muscle in his chest and arms, strong from training. Which made the contrast down to his tapered, frankly tiny waist all the more shocking. Very, very pleasantly shocking.

Tris stood a moment, lingering just inside the door after he’d let it fall silently shut, watching. There was no one here to witness him, to make fun of him, or, worse, look on him with pity and shake their heads. He let his eyes drink their fill.

Gallo wore a tank top and sweats that had been cut off at the knees, all of him flexing and taut beneath the material, strong, and somehow more thrilling for the clothes – the idea of having to peel them off of him…

He let his hands fall to his sides and stepped back from the bag, suddenly, audibly heaving for breath. Reached to rake a taped hand through his sweat-damp hair.

Now was the appropriate moment to affect a scowl, turn, and march over to another corner of the gym. To act like he’d just come in, and pretend that he hadn’t been standing there watching.

But he found he couldn’t force his feet to move, and he was standing rooted when Gallo turned, and found him there.

In the moment before he spotted Tris, he looked tired – worn in a way someone his age shouldn’t have. Brow tensed, mouth set, gaze withdrawn.

Then he saw Tris, and his face went blank. He said, “Oh.”

There was still time to make some sort of gruff excuse, duck his head, and stomp away.

But he stood, not sure what his own face was doing, caught instead in the light of the other’s, as Gallo’s expression slowly firmed to one of brave, guarded resolve. “You were right,” he said, finally, reaching to brush a stray curl off his forehead. “Gavin’s anidiot.”

Tris was grinning before he could stop himself, surprised, and flushed with sudden warmth. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected to see.

“I told you.”

“I know, I know.” Gallo rolled his eyes, and his posture relaxed. He leaned his hip against a rack of free weights and fiddled with the tape on his hand. “Why he thinks paying for sex is some kinda great time.” He shook his head, disgusted, and his glaze flicked, quick and sharp, toward Tris’s midsection.

He’d changed clothes, since, wore only a t-shirt, but Tris knew exactly what he was being charged with.

He shrugged, uncomfortable now – he felt seen in a way he didn’t like. Pressed much too close to a truth he couldn’t reveal. “It is what it is,” he said, lamely.

Gallo snorted, and glanced away – not angry. Disappointed, yes, but resigned.

“Well, count me out,” he said, like a declaration. “I’ve got more self-control than that.”

A dig, one that Tris knew to take, absorb, and be graceful about.

Silence reigned a moment, then Gallo stood, stretched, and said, “Did you wanna spar, or what?”

v.

Tris gripped the edge of his chair so hard he felt the plastic give, and then gripped it harder. On the other side of the viewing window, Gallo lay waxen and unconscious while scrub-clad doctors and nurses bustled around him. They put a surgical cap on him, and his clothes were cut away, his body seeming smaller than it was under the harsh white lights. Blue drapes were unfolded, trays of glittering instruments were rolled in, and a stand was placed beneath what was left of his left arm.

The tight clench of his jaw was all that kept Tris from vomiting on the floor.

Every time he blinked, he saw the arm lying in the mud, rainwater slowing filling its upturned palm, blood still seeping from the end, turning the old, brown leaves crimson.

There had been blood all over Gallo, soaked through his jacket and pants, slicked down over his boots. And blood on Rose, too, who sat a few chairs away, still and stone-faced, her hands and throat and shirt splashed with scarlet.

So much blood. Too much blood.

It was happening, the thing that Tris had feared from the first: Gallo was dying. Gallo was young, and eager, and too slow, and he’d gotten his arm chopped off – they’d left it behind; oh, God, they’d left it lying beside a stream in the forest, apartof him – and he wouldn’t survive this. But Tris was attached anyway, despite knowing that he shouldn’t be, and it hurt like being cut open.

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