bruises and butterflies
Chapter One
The blood on his face had dried hours ago, but he could still taste it in his mouth.
Bellamy groaned as he rested his forehead against his hands, dirty with blood and dust and littered with old and new bruises. His knuckles ached despite being wrapped up when he was throwing the punches. His head was throbbing from the swing that his last opponent had gotten in. That fight wasn't one of his bests, but it wasn't his worse. He was three hundred dollars richer, but also ten times more exhausted. Three matches in one night was enough to kill anyone else, but Bellamy had been doing this for years.
Two of the guys he went up against were new, young kids who looked barely a day over sixteen. They had said that they wanted to test the water before committing. It was a shame that they were put up against Bellamy, they didn't even get a chance to land a single hit on him. The first fight took probably only a minute to finish, the little ginger was on the ground sobbing after only one punch to the nose. The second one stood up a little longer, but dropped after Bellamy gave him a solid elbow in the nose. He could still remember the feeling of the bone breaking under his blow. Bellamy shivered, whether from the memory or the cool air, he didn't know.
The last guy was someone he'd fought a couple of times, some guy named John, though he preferred going by his last name, Murphy. He was only a year younger then Bellamy, but had been fighting since he was a young kid, thrown onto the streets after both his parents died in some shoot out. Bellamy only knew this because of the handful of drinks he'd served the guy a couple nights ago. He wasn't a bad guy, Murphy, but he wasn't exactly one that Bellamy wanted to be in bad terms with.
Bellamy couldn't shake the look of some other guy that was there though, one of those big, tattooed silent guys that stood in the back just watching. He was practically drilling holes into Bellamy, studying him as he fought. Bellamy tried to think back to when he first saw the guy in the underground fight ring, but trying to hunt for the memory only made his head throb even more.
The sound of a car rumbling pulled Bellamy from his thoughts and he looked up to see an old, beat up Buick Regal come to a rolling stop a few feet from him. The drivers door opened and Bellamy closed his eyes, hanging his head. Gravel crunched under the heels of whoever was walking towards him and he sighed heavily when they stopped in front of him.
"Bell," the voice of his little sister was low and threatening.
"O," he said, looking up to her with a small smile. Her green eyes looked like steel under the dim street light and her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her eyes softened at the sight of his bloody and bruised face and she sighed, closing her eyes.
"Come on," she mumbled, "let's get you home."
It took three tries to start her car back up.
Bellamy leaned his head against the window, inhaling the flowery scent that was given off from the air freshener on her rearview mirror. The car rattled as they made their way down the pothole filled road, each bump making his headache more intense. Octavia was quiet on the way home, only glancing over at Bellamy everytime he shifted in his seat as he tried to relieve pressure on his aching and bruising body.
They pulled into their apartment complex, and Bellamy glanced up at the letters that formed the name of their complex. DROPSHORE APARTMENTS flashed in bright red letters, only the O and E were out, along with the leg of one of the R's, making it look like DROPSHP APARTMENTS.
Their trip up to the third floor was silent. Octavia let out a little curse as she tried to unlock the door in pitch black. Bellamy stood behind her, pressing a hand to her shoulder as she finally jammed the key in and unlocked the door. The siblings shuffled in and Octavia locked the door back up as Bellamy shuffled to the bathroom, toeing his shoes off on the way.
"I'll be there in a second," Octavia called from the main room, which consisted of the living room and kitchen, "I'm going to start up some tea for your headache."
Bellamy started up the routine, opening the rusty mirror door to the medicine cabinet over the sink. He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a blood stained rag. Despite the many times the rag had been washed, his blood still tainted the clothe. Bellamy soaked a bit of the rag with the alcohol and looked at himself in the mirror. His left eye was beginning to swell and the bridge of his nose was turning a mustard yellow. His bottom lip was split and there was a deep gash on the side of his cheek, probably from Murphy scratching him. As he patted the rag to his cheek, he hissed in pain, glaring at his reflection.
"Stop that," Octavia growled from the door of the small bathroom, "let me do it, idiot."
Bellamy handed her the rag and sat on top of the toilet, leaning forward a little. Octavia stood in front of his knees, gently rubbing away the dried blood. She dabbed his lip with a frown on her face, her brows furrowing.
"You know," she said as she reached to soak the rag in more alcohol, "I could just get a job. Thats a totally reasonable thing for me to do, a totally normal thing kids do nowadays, if you didn't know."
"You need to concentrate on school," he answered gruffly, wincing as she started on his cheek.
"I am," he sighed, "I have all A's, my professors love me, and I have plenty of free time, plenty of free time that I can use to get a job."
"Your the first to make it through a year of college, O," Bellamy said, looking down to his hands as she stopped cleaning his cheek, "and I don't want you to make the same mistake as the rest of us."
"Oh, so you're saying that it was a mistake for you to drop out and take care of me?" She arched a brow at him, wearing the same small smile that he wore early in the night.
"That's not what I meant, I-"
"Chill Bell," she laughed, grabbing his hand and wiping his knuckles clean, "I was joking."
"You're not getting a job," Bellamy said, "This scholarship is paying for half of your college, and I'm paying for the other half. I want you to focus on that, I don't want you to stress over anything else."
"You can't protect me forever, Bellamy," she grumbled, letting his hand go and starting on the other one, "I'm nineteen for God sakes."
"And I'm still older than you," he hissed, the rubbing alcohol stinging his wounds, "and you're living under my jurisdiction."
"Wow, big word bro," Octavia snickered, "but when summer comes along, I'm getting a job. There is no way I'm staying cooped up in this stinky apartment all that time."
"It's not stinky," he grumbled, but Octavia just laughed her sweet laugh and made him smile. She leaned down and kissed his head.
"Take a shower and get to bed. The tea's going to be waiting for you on the counter."
She closed the door behind her and Bellamy let out a shuddering breath. He rolled his throbbing shoulders, ran his fingers through his matted hair and then started a shower. The pipe creaked and moaned as he waited for the water to stream out of the tiny shower head and stripped down. His body ached and bruises smattered his skin. He winced as he saw one in the mirror, a particularly nasty on on his ribs that was turning blue and purple.
The hot water made his tan skin turn red, along with helping the tension in his muscles to melt away. He was glad that Octavia hadn't taken a shower earlier in the night, otherwise he would be standing in freezing cold water. His hair was plastered to his face and he let the water wash over him, hoping that it would wash away everything he's done, all the fights he's been in, all the sad looks Octavia has given him, all the bills that had begun to pile up on the kitchen table.
His towel was curled in a corner, damp from the shower he took last night, so he took Octavia's, which was always hanging and dry. He made a mental note to toss it in the dryer before going to bed so she wouldn't freak at him for using it and leaving her towel-less.
The AC kicked in, a low humming echoing through the house as Bellamy made his way to his own room which was right down the hall, at the very end. It was a small room, consisting only of a dresser, a single bed, and a bookshelf. One of the walls was made entirely of brick, and despite of being made of such strong material, he could still hear the couple next door fight and fuck.
He left his room in sweatpants and some old t-shirt from high school. He checked on Octavia, looking through the crack in her door, a soft glow from the pink nightlight at the end of her bed gently illuminated her room. White sheets were pulled high, but Bellamy could see the top of her head on the pillow, brown hair sprawled about.
He retired to the main room, grabbing the warm tea from the kitchen table, which was a sad excuse for it just being a foldable plastic table. He settled onto the couch, one of the things he'd gotten from his mother. The TV in front of him stayed off and he listened to the hum of the AC.
The tea was gone in a few minutes and his headache was starting to dull out. He glanced at the time on the cable box and sighed. 2AM. Even though his body was exhausted, his mind was still racing. Bellamy switched on the lamp next to him and leaned across to the coffee table, picking up an old book he got when he was first in college.
Study of Greek Tragedies.
He was halfway done with the first chapter when his eyelids started to drop. His head begins to tilt back on the couch and he jerks himself awake a few times only to finally have the book slide into his lap from his fingers and his curls cover his eyes as exhaustion finally took him.
He wakes up to light shinning through the cracks in the blinds.
He sat up, grumbling at the kink in his neck. He took in his and Octavia's apartment for a moment. The main room consisted of the living room and kitchen, separated by the old, gray carpet that stopped about two thirds across the room, replaced by white tiling. The living room was homey, the walls painted a pale blue. The old couch he sat on was black and velvety, and when someone sat directly in the middle of it, they'd sink in. There was an old oak coffee table with cup stains and books for Octavia's classes on it, and against the wall was their TV.
The walls held only a few pictures, one of Bellamy and Octavia at her high school graduation, another of the full family, which was four of them a few years back, and lastly was the one with them and all their friends. Bellamy smiled gently at the picture, the only one that was large enough to make out the faces from across the room.
There was Bellamy on the end with his arm over Octavia's shoulder, his little sister leaning her head on the boy's shoulder next to her, Monty, while her arm was thrown around both of their waists. Jasper stood next to Monty, his ridiculous goggles pushed up to the top of his hair and his face scrunched into a wide smile. Nathan, or Miller, as he preferred, stood next to him. On the very other end was Harper, ginger hair pulled back and lips in a tight smile.
Bellamy let out a huff as he stood up and then trudged over to the kitchen, glancing at the time on the stove. It was almost ten in the afternoon, but he was glad he got some sleep. He adjusted himself, yawning while scanning the kitchen to find something to eat. He spotted a bright pink post-it note on the handle of a coffee cup and leaned down, squinting at his sisters familiar loopy handwriting.
Class at nine. Breakfast in microwave.
-O
"Thanks little sis," he mumbled, grabbing the coffee cup and opening the microwave. Tinfoil covered a paper plate and he removed it, humming happily at the sight of bacon and a biscuit. He settled his coffee cup next to the plate and started warming up his breakfast.
His phone buzzed some somewhere in the house and he searched around, finding it under his pillow on his bed. He unlocked the screen, groaning at three new text messages from Miller, asking for him to call. Bellamy quickly dialed his friends number as the microwave dinged.
"Hey Bell," Miller said gruffly on the other line, "glad you called."
"What's up," Bellamy said, grabbing his breakfast, "I'm just about to eat."
"Think you could make it down here in an, ah, hour or so?"
Bellamy dropped his plate on the table as he took a long sip from his coffee. It was too early to be thinking about the bar, especially after last nights fights. The 100 was an awesome bar, and he loved working there, but having to go in and stay longer then he wanted to wasn't one of his favorite things.
"What for?"
"Wick's sick," Miller huffed, "and we still haven't found a replacement for Monroe."
Bellamy hummed in acknowledgement, remembering that Monroe had left a couple weeks ago for some big college scholarship in New York or something. He took a bite from his bacon, thinking.
"Come on Bell," Miller groaned from the other line, "I can't do this myself, it's Friday night."
"Do I get overtime?"
"Bellamy-"
"Overtime and I'll come in," Bellamy said, finishing his bacon and began to tear apart the biscuit, "I'll even stay late too."
"Fine," Miller grumbled, "but this is the only time you get overtime."
"Only time I'll need it."
"Are you late on bills again? Cause I can-"
"Don't worry about it," Bellamy sighed, "it's nothing a few more fights can't handle. Honestly, the bills are due in two weeks, I have more than enough time to get the money."
Miller was quiet for a few moments as Bellamy finished up his breakfast. Bellamy could practically hear him thinking on the other line and was about to tell him to stop when Miller gruffly told him to get there by eleven thirty before he hung up. Bellamy tossed his phone on the kitchen table and finished the rest of his coffee before washing the dishes. Octavia would flip if she came home to a dirty sink, or dirty anything.
He took one last glance at the picture on the wall, wonder just how him and his friends had lasted this long despite their ups and downs. He just shook his head and trudged to the bathroom, hoping that Octavia had saved him some hot water.
The bar was practically empty, which was expected at eleven in the afternoon.
Bellamy nodded to the only guy who was there, some forty something man with a glass of whiskey and whiskers on his chin. Must have had a rough morning, or life, to be drinking this early.
Miller was behind the bar, stocking up the back shelf of liquor. Bellamy just gave him a pat on the shoulder as he walked by before slipping through the door door behind the bar. Behind the scenes of the bar consisted of a small kitchen where Miller and Bellamy usually switched off every hour or so with flipping burgers or frying onion rings for people, and a large storage room that had boxes of beer, and a large cooler. There was a small hallway that the rooms were connected to and at the end was a large double door, which was wide open at the moment. A small truck sat right up to the door, the back open and boxes sitting there.
He grunted as he picked one of the boxes up, bottles clinking together inside. He trudged back to the storage room and set the box down. One down, twenty more to go.
After two hours or so of moving boxes, checking them, and putting everything in its correct spot, Bellamy felt like the overtime wasn't really worth it. He left the back and stood behind the bar, groaning and letting his head rest in his hands, elbow perched on top the bar. Miller gave his back a hard pat.
"You can take a break if you want," Miller said, leaning against the bar next to Bellamy, "you have a long night ahead of you."
"The list's done already?" Bellamy grunted, looking up to his friend. Miller simply nodded, lips tight as he gave Bellamy one of his you should stop doing this shit looks. Bellamy rolled his eyes and stood up straighter, rolling his shoulders.
"Nothing big," Miller said as he turned and reach under the counter, pulling up a thick binder. He flipped through is until landing on a page that had the date on it, "Murphy's taking the night off, Anya is going up against Indra, which should be interesting. That scrap that you got out in one hit last night is going up against Connor."
"Who am I up with?" Bellamy asked, glancing to the door of the bar as a few guys walked in, ties loose and eyes tired.
"I'm not quite sure what he looks like," Miller said, scratching at his chin, "but I've heard the name a few times. I just can't put the face to the name …,"
"Just tell me."
"Lincoln."
