Page 10 of Mystic Wonderful

“Oh. Right.”

“I know they trained you at the academy.” His tone and the aborted hand gesture down by his hip turnedtrainedinto a mockery. “But it’s different in the field. Less predictable.”

It was, he realized with a quiet start, very much like what Lance had told Rose last night in the mess: that wholeit’s different when you’re in itthing.

Only Tris wasn’t staring fixedly at him with badly disguised want.

“I guess I’ll just have to learn, then,” Francis said, trying for a sunny smile. “I sparred with Rose a lot, in camp. I imagine we’ll keep doing that.”

“Oh. Yeah.” But Tris was still looking at him, showing no signs of moving away.

Francis shifted his weight from foot to foot, nerves prickling at the back of his neck. He didn’t know if–

“I was gonna – that is – I mean…” Slowly, color bloomed along Tris’s unforgiving cheekbones, and it had nothing to do with a hot shower. He cleared his throat, too loudly; it echoed off the locker faces and the tile floor, and he frowned, afterward. His voice was low, and gruff, and not at all encouraging when he said, “If you want some pointers from someone with field experience, I could show you some things. Just if you want.” He shrugged like he didn’t care either way, gaze skating off across the room.

Francis took a measured breath, despite the rabbiting of his heart. He didn’t dare examine any of it; didn’t dare hope.

Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, “Yeah. That would be great, thanks.”

Tris nodded, still not looking at him, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay. Tomorrow.”

When the locker room door shut, he slumped sideways into the cool metal of a locker, grin finally breaking loose. He still didn’t examine – but it was a close thing.

~*~

In training, Rose had become Francis’s primary sparring partner, and, as a result, his style had adapted to suit hers, so that they danced around one another, anticipating the other’s instinctual moves. Because she didn’t have the bulk and sheer strength of the larger, more densely-muscled cadets, and, he suspected, because she’d learned what she already knew from Beck, a veritable ghost from all accounts, Rose fought like a dancer. She ducked, and slid, and tucked, and rolled, and sprang light as a deer. She sliced, and nicked, and, finally, only once she’d gotten inside someone’s guard, quick as a flash, did she drive a blade home. She’d punctured many a training dummy in his observation.

Francis, for his own part, had never thought of himself as big or strong. It still caught him off guard when he glimpsed himself in the mirror and realized that he’d grown to nearly six feet, and that the puppy fat had finally melted off his body, leaving him all narrowness and lean muscle. His curls were still soft, long enough on top to rest on his forehead; he’d always been a little stupidly proud of his hair, glossy, dark, and loosely curled, enough to frame his face. A face made narrower and harsher by time and loss, though still almost delicate, in its features; nothing could ever be done about the guileless, clear blue of his eyes. They were traitors, always.

He hoped they weren’t now, today, as he picked himself up off the mat, shook out his hands, and squared off from his new sparring partner again.

He’d learned to fight like Rose, to be the mirror that she needed.

Now he had to learn how to use his body in a different way – one that would enable him to go toe-to-toe with Tris’s indomitable solidity.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s go again.”

Tris wasn’t even breathing hard. He cocked a brow that seemed to sayreally?then settled into his stance. Beckoned Francis with a crook of a finger that Francis was definitely going to think about later. In his bunk. Alone.

They’d done this a few times, now, and today there wasn’t an audience. Gavin and Rose had come to watch, and even Lance, though Francis had sensed that was more about Lance wanting to be near Rose than about watching Francis getting his ass kicked in public. Which he had, a good bit, mortifyingly so.

He was learning, though, slowly. Learning all of Tristan’s favorite moves, all his tells.

No one was invincible, not even celebrity crushes and idols.

Francis moved in, angling for a jab – but feinted, ducked quickly beneath Tris’s swipe; felt the air displacement above his head, ruffling his hair. Rose would have used the moment to get inside his reach, up close, a knife at the ready.

But Tris would expect that, at this point. So Francis bent back, caught himself on one hand, and hooked one booted foot behind Tris’s knee.

He didn’t think it would work – surely Tris was prepared for that move, and would manage to keep his feet.

But Tris’s knee gave, and he fell back with a curse.

Stunned, Francis could only watch as Tris fell. He caught himself with a hand, his whole body one thick, tense line of muscle as he managed to keep from landing on his back, twisting and throwing himself away so that he landed on one knee, spun, and managed to retake his feet.

Francis should have reacted right away, taken advantage of that brief window of vulnerability, but he was too shocked.

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