The first time he hears her, he's making his grandmother's afritada recipe, a dish that reminds him of long, lazy, hot summers in the Philippines.
Her rich, smoky voice filters through the thin apartment walls. It's deep and filled with feeling, practically impossible to ignore. He nearly burns his afritada, distracted by the way her voice tells a story all on its own. The lyrics she's singing are muted; it's hard to pick out more than individual words.
But her voice…it rises and falls like the tide, washing over his skin and eliciting a cool run of chills up and down his body. He finds himself making an effort not to clang his wooden spoon against the bottom of his pot, to not make any distracting noises as he pours his dinner onto a plate.
He's trying to figure out how long his new neighbor has lived in the apartment next to him when the singing stops.
It stops abruptly, cut off almost violently mid-lyric. Bellamy can hear his heart beating in the silence she's left behind. He steps closer to the wall, putting his ear to it tentatively.
For what feels like an eternity, he hears nothing.
And then he hears her take a deep breath. She starts singing again, but the words wobble in her mouth. They're squeezed in her throat, and he can hear the tears staining the syllables.
It's the sound of heartbreak. It's the sound of love, of loss, of loneliness.
It's a sound Bellamy knows all too well.
If he were a different man, a better man, maybe he would have walked over to her apartment. Maybe he would have asked her if she was okay, offering her some of his warm, homemade comfort food.
Instead, he sits at his kitchen table, alone, listening to her voice break until she stops singing entirely.
The silence is deafening.
The first time he 'sees' her, it's thanks to a flurry of spilled papers that should've been graded two weeks ago. The papers filter to the floor on the coattails of a warm summer afternoon breeze that playfully chases him inside the lobby of his apartment building.
He curses under his breath, letting out a sigh that would've rivaled those Atlas surely releases whenever he shifts the world on his sore, broad shoulders.
Fumbling with his glasses, he realizes bitterly that this is just like a scene from one of those cheesy coming-of-age movies that Octavia used to secretly love. Only, his life isn't a cheesy coming-of-age movie. It's frustratingly more like one of those midlife crisis films, only Bellamy is twenty-four. His hair isn't greying, he's in good shape, and he's happy with where he is in life.
Sighing again, he gets on his knees and gathers the papers.
He's happy.
Really, he is.
He shoves the papers back into their tall, disorganized stack. Walking towards the elevator, he furrows his brow and tries to balance the Leaning Tower of Midterms, not paying any attention to the people stepping off the elevator and into the lobby.
Once the elevator has emptied, he steps onto it. Tentatively, he reaches out and pushes the button for the fourth floor.
"Hey, wait!" a voice calls from outside the elevator. He recognizes it instantly.
It's her. The smoky voice belongs to the girl who sang until she cried, whose haunted melodies rang in his ears for hours into the night afterwards.
He blinks, trying not to notice how his heart is skipping with anticipation.
The elevator doors start closing. He mashes the buttons frantically, but he's too late.
Just before the doors close, the girl shoves a paper through the small crack, calling out, "You dropped this!"
All he sees is a flash of hair as warm and golden as a summer sunset. Her face is obscured by the single paper filtering to the ground through the doors.
His strangled thank you is cut off by the steel metal doors meeting each other with a soft thud.
Bellamy stands in the elevator, alone. The student's paper is on the floor next to his feet. Looking up, he can just make out his reflection in the glossy sheen of the metal doors.
He raises an eyebrow at himself, shakes his head, and sighs again.
The first time he learns her name is on a Tuesday so ordinary and average he wouldn't have remembered it otherwise.
He's watching a historical documentary about a Chinese prostitute-turned-notorious-pirate when he hears singing from the apartment next to his.
It's the same girl, the same sad, sorrowful voice singing a silky rendition of a song he knows is only ever attached to funerals and farewells.
At first, he tries to ignore it. Stubbornly, he raises the volume of the documentary, but her voice cuts through the narrator's without resistance. Sighing, he pauses the documentary and puts his head in his hands.
Her singing is filled with an emotion so deep and personal he almost feels like he's intruding on something intimate by listening to her. It sounds like the way he's felt for so long, but he's never been able to put his pain into words, to mold it into art like she does.
It's her catharsis, he realizes, and she bleeds beautifully, tragically.
She climbs to the chorus of the song, and he can almost hear the quiver in her lip.
Before he knows it, his hands are shaking and tears are blurring his vision. Memories of a girl with a wicked smile and bouncing curls infiltrate his mind, followed cruelly by a single headline that will forever be burned into his mind.
23-year old student saves friends, loses life alerting others to bomb threat at Mt. Weather Tech Conference.
The memories, tight in his throat, make it hard to breathe.
The girl next door continues to sing, and with every word she sings the only one he can hear is Gina.
Gina. Gina. Gina. Gina. Gina.
He gets up in a flurry, hair disheveled and cheeks stained with tears, and walks to the apartment next door.
Without a second thought, he knocks the door, inhaling deeply and trying to get ahold of himself, wracking his brain for something to say.
She opens the door.
"Uh, hi," he manages. The girl is looking at him with a furrow in her brows. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she's wearing bright, red lipstick that reminds him more of blood than roses. It's clear she's been crying. Her blue eyes are stormy, grey and turbulent. "I'm—I live next door. I—"
"You heard me singing," she guesses, careful.
Bellamy hesitates. "Yeah."
"Sorry," she says, soft, defeated. She starts to close her door. "I'll try to keep it down—"
He stops her. "Wait, no, that's not why I came over."
Frowning, she pauses. "Then...why did you come over?"
Two degrees, multiple awards for his teaching, and a dozen published papers in academic journals have not prepared him for this moment. There are no words, he finds, in the English language that can adequately say what he wants to say.
"I have friends," he says, mentally wondering what the hell is wrong with him.
She laughs a little, surprised, and the sound is even more beautiful than her singing.
"What?"
"I know, hard to believe. They all live in this building. Well, most of them. We have movie nights every Thursday, usually at my place. I just—you know, since you're new here—if you wanted to come over and meet some of the people in the building…" he trails off, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "You don't have to. But if you want to, we're starting the Harry Potter movies this Thursday."
She hesitates, biting her bottom lip. "I don't want to intrude or anything—"
"Trust me, you won't be intruding."
A small smile crosses her face. "Really?"
"Yeah," he says, trying not to act too relieved that she hasn't already slammed the door in his face. "We usually start around eight."
"Okay," she says. "I'll try and make it. Just next door?"
"Yeah, uh, 405." He swallows, stepping back. "Sorry for interrupting your singing."
"Don't worry about it," she promises. "I'll be more quiet."
"Don't," he offers. "You have…you have a beautiful voice."
She ducks her head, biting back a smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets, knowing he must be blushing like a kid.
"Anyway," he says, "it was nice to meet you…"
"Clarke."
"Clarke." He tastes her name on his tongue, tries to ignore the fact that he likes the way it sounds, the way it fits her. "I'm Bellamy. I'll, uh, I'll let you get back to," he waves his hand around noncommittally, "what you were doing before I came over here and interrupted you."
"I'll see you Thursday," she says, like a question.
He smiles. "Thursday."
The walk back to his apartment feels lighter, easier somehow.
And when he gets back to his documentary, her singing (fainter now, than before) is lighter, too.
"Bellamy would be the best James Potter the world has ever seen," Raven declares through a mouth full of popcorn.
"How can you say that? When I'm standing right here?" Jasper shakes his head, royally offended. "I'd be the perfect James Potter in this dream fancast."
"No," drawls Murphy, from his 'assigned' seat in the corner. "You'd be Snape."
"You'd be Peter Pettigrew," Jasper retorts, because no one wants to be Peter Pettigrew.
"I can turn into a rat," Murphy smiles, without humor. "Cool."
"Guys, can we please talk about something else?" Monty pleads. The group sighs, ready to argue until he adds, "Like how Raven would totally be in Ravenclaw?"
"Murphy's a Slytherin," Jasper interjects.
"What's wrong with Slytherin?" The question comes from Clarke, who has fit into his little group of friends so seamlessly that Bellamy has to mentally confirm that this really is her first time hanging out with them.
"Yeah," Murphy raises his cup in agreement, "what's wrong with Slytherin?"
From the kitchen, Bellamy says, "Guys, start the movie or we'll never finish."
Jasper puts the movie in. "Yes, dad. Whatever you say, dad. Wouldn't want to keep you up past your bedtime."
"Shut up," Bellamy mutters without heat, sitting in the open seat next to Clarke with a bowl of popcorn in his hands. "Where the hell is Miller?"
"Running late," says Harper. She's sitting on the floor, conveniently next to Monty.
"Alright, whatever. He knows the rules, but someone text him and remind him to bring a pizza. Raven, what the hell are you doing to my remote?"
"It's broken," she mutters, like it's not obvious that his remote is in literal pieces. There's a screwdriver in her hand, one he's pretty sure she keeps on her keychain at all times, in case of emergency. She clicks the pieces together, triumphant. "Got it."
Bellamy glances at Clarke, wanting to gauge her reaction to his group of friends. There's amusement dancing in her eyes, and she smiles when she catches his gaze.
"Thanks for inviting me," she says, bumping her shoulder against his.
"Uh, yeah," he replies, distracted not only by their close proximity but also by the sight of Harper resting her head on Monty's shoulder. He furrows his brows, narrows his eyes.
Clarke raises an eyebrow, studying him with a smirk.
"You're totally the mom friend," she teases.
"I am not—"
Raven, who is in the process of taking off her brace, scoffs. "Don't even try to deny it, Bellamy. You literally asked me if I took my vitamins today."
"Okay, well when you're seventy and have great bones, you'll thank me," he mutters, defensive. "Can we just start the movie already?"
The iconic music swells from the screen, and Jasper shushes them all. He's using his replica wand like it's a conductor's baton, leading an imaginary orchestra.
Clarke laughs, grabbing a handful of popcorn and brushing against Bellamy's hand in the process.
"I don't even remember the last time I felt like this," she confesses to him, her voice a half-whisper in the darkened room.
He's about to ask her what she means when Jasper shushes them again.
The movie starts, but Bellamy can hardly pay attention. Not with the way Clarke's easy laughter rings in his ears, or the way her thigh is flush against his own.
After, when everyone has gone home, he walks Clarke to her apartment.
(It's not that far)
(He knows)
They linger outside her door, and Bellamy feels awkward. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, and he can spot messy curls out of the corner of his eye, and wonders if his hair is really as disheveled as he's imagining it is.
It feels weirdly like the end of a first date, and he's jittery in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.
The two of them are all shy smiles, sarcastic remarks and soft, sincere gratitude. She's messing with her keys, and the playful jingle of them echoes in the empty apartment hallway. They run through typical get-to-know-you questions. He learns she grew up in a fancy sounding neighborhood, went to college in another state, and moved here to take a job at the hospital down the street. She learns that he moved a lot growing up, that he teaches at the same university he went to school at, and that he's lived here for a few years.
When her door is open, and they've run out of excuses to keep talking, she hesitates.
Before Bellamy can blink, she's hugging him. It takes him a few seconds to process what's happening, but once he does, he wraps his arms around her, curling his fingers into the spaces between her ribs.
He can feel her lips brush against the skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he suppresses a shudder.
It feels suspiciously like coming home, all relief and comfort. It's filled with so much familiarity that it makes him ache. He can't even remember the last time someone hugged him. It feels like the first breath of air after months of drowning in an eternal ocean, and he has to close his eyes to take it all in.
"Thank you," she whispers into his shirt, and it feels more heavy than a simple 'thank you for inviting me over to meet your friends and watch a movie'. There's something deeper behind it, something that he can't quite put his finger on.
They break apart, and Bellamy clears his throat, takes another step back. He sticks his hands in his pockets (he still doesn't know what to do with them).
"Goodnight, Clarke," he says.
"Night, Bellamy," she smiles, shutting the door softly.
It doesn't occur to him until after that he didn't ask her if she wanted to come again next week, but it doesn't worry him too much.
Something tells him that this won't be the last time he sees Clarke Griffin.
A/N- this is what happens when you procrastinate/have major writer's block for the important fics you're supposed to be working on. this will be about 10k words, i'm pretty much finished with the whole thing so expect regular updates and a happy ending because these two idiots deserve it ok. Reviews are better than the fact that fall is coming, which is saying a lot. I would love to hear your thoughts on this!