Prologue
John Murphy met Isla Marin for the first time at age 5. They sat at opposite ends of the same row, in the same classroom, with the same teacher, for the next 12 years. She wasn't like anyone else John had ever met. Namely because Isla had a sister. Well half sister technically. Octavia was only 11 months younger, 'she lives in the floor,' Isla smiled foolishly when she confessed this to him. They hid her in the floor for 16 years. Isla's father was floated and then her mother, for helping hide what he had done, and the girls biological mother, Aurora Blake. Her son Bellamy Blake lost his spot on the guard; Isla and their half sister Octavia spent the next half a year in lock up. Even though John and Isla were never allowed so much as two words to each other somehow imaging her in the room down the hall made solitaire seem less...solitary. And that was enough to get him through.
When they made it to the ground John Murphy realized that he hadn't been imagining her correctly during their time together in lock up. Because she had changed you see, strawberry blonde curls tumbling well past her shoulders, chubby baby cheeks sharpened into high defined bones, pink lips full and ripe, and curves that make his stomach tighten at the thought of just a touch.
"Hi Johnny," Isla grins, dimples puckered deep, and brown eyes sparkling brightly in the new found sun.
"Hey Isles." John stumbles over the words.
It's almost like things are how they used to be. Until one night when she stumbles into his tent, both of them flying high as kites, the moonlight in her hair and fire in her eyes. And he sees her then, as if for the very first time, when he's inside her without a stitch of fabric between them and she's crying out for him. "Johnny...Johnny. Johnny!"
Jaha leads Murphy into the desert with an absolute certainty that they could find the city of light. A place of respite for their people. While John himself was not entirely convinced he went along. He found his own form of sanctuary amongst the sand and the second girl he's dared to love; the girl with those same dark eyes. Emori was new, thrilling in her way. She lived on the edge, John craved excitement. He found it when they were alone, tangled up beneath the stars without an ounce of space between them as she chanted softly, "John, John, John."
By the time Ontari calls for him in her bed he recognized it, that familiar shade of rich brown. She does not love him that much they both know by the chains around his neck. She's not Isla nor Emori so he is grateful that her climax is a series of wordless groans and nothing else.
When the city of light is gone, Emori is there in his arms. Isla smiling in the wings, with Bellamy and Octavia, cheering him on. His heart swells and then breaks all at once.
The death wave comes as promised, sending the eight of them into space for the next five years. Leaving Clarke on the ground to die put a sour taste in John's mouth; but not nearly as hard to stomach as Emori and Isla sharing an oxygen tank that would run dry too soon. A desperate gasp, a shake of her blonde head, worried eyes darting over at him from behind a tattoo. His tank, then split three ways buys time; not enough. Isla falls as if in slow motion, she's dying. Emori is next, brown eyes falling shut and he reaches for her, fisting a hand in the top of her suit. I'm here. She's dying, I'm dying, he realizes from the desperate burning in his lungs. But suddenly he doesn't care. As long as they're together.
John opens his eyes with a gasp, leaning into the vent. Turning his head to see beside him. The soft rustle of suits, the up turn of soft lips, two sets of perfect teeth. The way the fire burned in Isla's eyes; the way it was met with the tenderness of Emori's. It confounds him for a split second, and then...oh. Oh. Of course.
There are no rules here. No one telling them that what they were doing was wrong. Just them for the next five years, doing whatever the hell they want. Exactly what the hell they always should have done.