A/N: So I wrote this to get through hiatus. A lot of feels, at lot of fluff, just some domestic angst and heaps of zero personal space. I'm such trash come be trash with me.
The lyrics are from Grace Vanderwaal's Beautiful Thing, which I 10/10 recommend you to listen to while reading this. It's such a perfect song for them I wanna die.
AU...ish?
Rated T for language? idk, i like my Rated T streak.
Dislcaimer: The 100 isn't mine obviously because good characters are still sad.
000
You think that you know my heart
And you probably do
So I'm always with you
I could stay with you for hours
In an empty room
And never get bored
Never have nothing to do
000
"Really?" he drones, leaning his head back to blink at her. Fingertips run through his hair a second time, working out the knots, and Clarke smiles, poking his scalp.
"Yes really." She starts tugging and pulling the section of hair above his ear in what he can only assume to be a braid or something similar, the sensation of her hands in his hair conjuring images of dark eyes, steady work, small fingers mimicking aged ones as Octavia is taught how to cut her brother's hair. She scowls when she cuts a strand too short, scissors held awkwardly, and he laughs because he knows it will bug her for days even though it's hardly noticeable on his bird's nest head. Mom smiles at the both of them and lets him braid Octavia's hair, correcting his minuscule mistakes with a quick word of advice—not so tight, Bell—while O asks him to tell her a story to pass the time.
She was so... bright.
He doesn't even notice he's closed his eyes until Clarke stills, hands resting in his hair. He opens one eye just in time to see her reach somewhere to the side and pull a sheet into her lap and over his face, snorting a laugh when he offers no reaction.
"Blanket fort time," she chirps, ankles moving out from under his head as she hops off the mattress, taking the sheet with her. He watches her from his spot leaning against the bed, silent as she drags the chair from the desk to about a foot in front of him and throws the sheet over it, himself, and the edge of the bed. It floats down on his head and around his shoulders like a cocoon. Yeah, they're gonna need another chair.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he starts, blinking dumbly at the fabric lying over his face. "but this isn't exactly what I would call a 'fort'."
He hears a playful sigh and footsteps moving away. "I'll be right back," she says, her solid presence leaving with the sound of her bare feet against the floor.
He doesn't bother moving, the confines of the sheet warming his chilled skin and making him feel secure.
He thinks of Octavia, hollow eyes, clenched jaw, haunted, strong, watching him like he's a stranger, like she's a stranger to him. As if all she has is her mere existence, and it makes him ache. Every glance met with her gaze retreating, every time it's her cold shoulder facing him instead of her eyes, the way her hands clench to fists when he steps too close, cold hands, cold face, cold eyes, piercing like blades, like knuckles digging into his skin.
He misses her. Her smile, her fire, warm instead of cold flames in her eyes, strong to protect instead of harm. He misses her happiness more than he misses his own.
The sheet feels more stifling than secure now. He tugs it off, wiping a hand through his hair and down his face. He lingers over his eyelids, pressing his fingertips into their sockets before dropping his hand back into his lap.
The door suddenly shifts, clanking, and he flinches, gaze jerking to the movement as a figure steps in, blond hair hiding a familiar face as it closes the door behind.
She's carrying a folding chair against her chest, and a second blanket pinched between.
"Hey." She hurries over to him, situating the new chair to his left while moving the other one further to his right. The extra blanket is dropped in front of him while she presses herself against the edge of the bed, flopping onto it to reach for the two pillows at the other end. With a grunt, she straightens, tossing the pillows next to the blankets and taking a step back.
"I think I got everything." A pause, her arms crossing over her middle as she examines her work. "Oh," she mutters, pattering over to the desk to grab the battery-powered lantern set there. "Almost forgot."
She smiles at him and he feels a smile of his own pull at his lips.
"Okay, up-up, mister," she says and he obeys, albeit with an amused arc of his brow. She places one of the pillows where he used to be, and the second one at its side. A few books snatched from the nearby shelf later and the sheet is held in place over the chairs and the edge of the bed, creating a small but big enough den to fit the both of them. Clarke crawls in first, dragging the extra blanket in after her.
"Hand me the lantern," she asks, hand sticking out from the opening expectantly. He hurries to comply, placing it between her fingers and peeking inside when she grabs onto it. She sets the lantern near the pillows and seats herself on one of them, patting the second one. "Come on in, Blake."
He gives a small grin, awkwardly crawling in and sitting next to her, legs crossed and arms held close to himself.
"Cozy," he quips, watching absently as Clarke tries and fails to snap the blanket over them, settling to just pull it across their laps and up to her chin.
Her eyes sparkle and it makes something loosen in his chest.
She pokes his arm. "You feel cold." As if to embellish her point, she pinches the edge of the blanket near him and pulls it up toward his face to match her. He resists rolling his eyes, but takes it from her and holds in there anyway.
"Happy?"
"Yes," she nods, snuggling further into their cocoon and inching closer to him. "So. What were you thinking about earlier?"
His eyebrows twitch.
"...Earlier?"
"When I was playing with your hair."
Oh. He should have known she would notice. Nostalgia never looked good on him anyway.
"...My mom. She used to cut my hair," he explains quietly, watching for her reaction. A softening of her eyes, a sad tilt of her lips.
"My dad used to cut mine," she replies with a minuscule lull of her head. "What was your mom like?"
A sigh tugs at his shoulders and he leans into the mattress at his back, thinking of her gentle look that often fooled everyone but him and Octavia. "She was... fire." Clarke smiles at that. "Small, like Octavia. But just as strong... She was a survivor. She would've done well down here..."
He gives himself a moment to ponder the idea of his mom being on earth with them, but is quick to dismiss it. The ground is in many ways worse than the Ark. Besides... what-ifs didn't look good on him either.
"What about your dad?"
She purses her lips and leans back as well, gaze flicking around in thought. "...If your mom was fire, my dad was water... Strong and sure and steady. He was... always there for me," she finishes by quirking her head in his direction, a sad smile adorning her features, fond. "Kind of like you," she adds, shoulder bumping his, causing him to start.
For a few seconds, all he does is stare, thoughts fizzling out as he processes her words.
Anyone who knew Clarke knew she loved her dad. You could scarcely think of anyone else she held in higher esteem. He was the backdrop to her leadership, her strength, her conviction. The foundation of who she was today, the person who they'd all be dead without.
And to think Clarke would even compare...
He looks away—at the floor, at the blanket, at the lantern.
"Hey," she prompts, nudging him until he meets her eyes. "It's true. I... I don't know if I could have made it this far without your help." She smiles, again, soft around the edges and honest. "Thank you... And I know I—I haven't always been there. For you. When you needed me." There's an apology in her eyes. "I don't know if I would have... done things differently. To cope with..." A breath. "But I should have tried harder to be there for you just as much as you've been there for me."
He simply stares, studying her expression.
Why does she always have to be so... earnest. A heart wide enough to care so aggressively about everyone but herself, yet put in circumstances that cage her capacity to care by forcing her to make decisions that result in death on one end or another...
The world is cruel.
"You did good, Clarke," he says, low, repeating her words from another time, kept secret by the sheet hanging over their heads. "The choices you were given were absolute shit, but... you did your best with what you had. And that's all we can ever do." He pauses, searching for the right words. Octavia always said he was bad at this sort of thing. Caring about more than just his blood. "Don't... Don't let anyone judge you for something they could never understand. Not even me."
She straightens a little and nods, eyes reflecting the bloom of affection in his chest.
Too much emotion in too small a place.
He clears his throat and glances at the lantern again.
"And don't sell yourself short. You're not a completely horrible friend." He half-grins at her as she scoffs at him, lightly shoving herself off his shoulder.
"You're an ass," she huffs back, her smile briefly showing teeth.
"You were there when Dax tried to kill me, you convinced Jaha to pardon my assassination attempt. You challenged me to think differently, to lead differently. You helped our people survive the ground. Food, water, shelter, medicine. Mount Weather. War. A.L.I.E... Clarke, don't think for one second we could have done all of that without you."
She clenches her jaw and it's her gaze that retreats this time, eyes shuttered, but he can see she's chewing on his words, thoughtful, even though she wants to deny them.
"You deserve peace as much as the rest of them."
She glances sideways at him. He half-smiles for her benefit, willing her to accept what he's saying. Octavia—even Clarke—said he had a way with words, but that never seemed to be true for the people he wanted to reach the most.
"Maybe we can..." she begins, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders and subtly scooting closer to him. "...try to believe that together."
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyeing her. "Fair enough."
000
A few minutes pass as she sinks further and further into the blanket and Bellamy's side. Everything feels warm and safe. For once.
"We're gonna be okay," she says with as much conviction as she can muster, though it comes out shaky at best. Instinctively, she reaches out underneath the blanket and skims his arm, following it down until she finds his hand, folding her fingers between his and squeezing. The warmth of his grasp squeezes back.
"Yeah," he mutters, eyes distant. She wonders how much either of them believe it, but maybe if they say it enough, they eventually will. Someday. When yet another apocalypse isn't on the horizon.
"What would you do if... if war and the end of the world weren't immediate possibilities?" She almost laughs, bitter. How long have they been facing death since before they even touched the ground? Probably not as long as it feels. "If it was... safe?" she finishes, wondering aloud, thumb gliding up and down his pointer finger distractedly. She also wonders when physical contact started to mean so much to her. Maybe it was when she lost her father, then Finn, then Lexa, and so many others after and in-between... Sometimes she just needs to feel that people she cares about are still there. Still alive. Still breathing.
After no response, she lifts her head from his shoulder to study his expression—thoughtful, blank... tired. She feels a pang of longing; to replace his expression with something lighter, brighter, something that will last and make him smile more. If she could just... help.
They could help each other.
"I don't know," he says finally, voice thin, dry, and she winces in sympathy. A soft cough, to clear his throat, and he swallows. "I haven't really thought about it... You?"
Not entirely satisfied, she slowly lowers her head back to his shoulder and blinks drowsily, thoughts churning. "Start drawing again," slips from her mouth before she can even process it. She feels Bellamy shift beside her.
She really did miss drawing.
"What would you draw?" His voice rumbles, muffled in her ear pressed against his shirt.
"Arkadia. Monty and Jasper, smiling... Harper, Miller, Bryan. Maya. Raven and Finn. Monroe... Charlotte... Octavia, with Lincoln," she rambles, pausing to reassure him by pressing gently on his knuckles. "Hell, even Murphy. Everyone. All of us... Happy."
They deserve to be happy.
"Anya," she continues, thinking of the enigma of a woman. "Titus. Gustus. Aden."
"Lexa?" he inquires, soft, curious. She feels her breath catch in her throat and she swallows it down.
"Yeah... Lexa."
Green eyes, soft lips, smooth skin. Ink patterned down a spine, a smile that's too bright and genuine to describe. Brunette waves, pinned up in battle, cascading down in yellow sunlight. The Commander, strong and guarded, vulnerable and happy. A heart too kind for this earth without walls of stone to protect it. Walls that Clarke was privileged enough to see behind.
A single pencil isn't enough to fully capture someone like Lexa.
Bellamy's deep breath breaks her from her thoughts, followed by the words she can feel hovering on the tip of his tongue.
"If... If you need to talk about it-"
"I know," she interjects, not unkindly.
Did she know? She knew Bellamy never forgave Lexa for abandoning their people in Mount Weather, nor did she expect him to. So talking to him... about Lexa hadn't really entered her mind. Maybe in another world, they might have actually gotten along. The mutual respect of soldiers.
"She..." Her thoughts clog in her throat, scattered, stuck to her teeth. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know why she needs to say anything. Maybe it's because she never really got to talk to anyone about it. Maybe it's because her death is still a ghost at her heels. Maybe it's because, in the stupid makeshift fort, sitting on a pillow, bundled in a blanket with her best friend, she feels safe.
"She just wanted what was best for her people," she whispers, almost as if she's just talking to the air, under the scrutiny of no one but her own thoughts.
"...I know."
She clings tighter to his hand.
"She died because of me," she finds herself saying through a sharp inhale, struggling to center herself. "She died because she cared about me."
"Hey." It's too loud in their quiet little tent and it silences her rushing thoughts for just a moment. Bellamy's other hand covers hers, sandwiching it between his gentle but firm grasp, warm, calming. "You loved her... And she loved you."
"I-I don't-"
"She loved you, Clarke. And she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. For any of it."
She nods, pressing her eyes closed, trying her best to believe it. She knows he's right. It should be simple, a process of grief just like with everyone else, just like she's been through time and time again.
But why does it keep happening? Why does everyone have to keep dying? Because of her?
"You listening?"
"Yes," she forces out, blinking her eyes open and staring at the chair across from her. "Yes, I'm listening."
"...Not everything is your fault, Clarke."
She knows. With her head, she knows. She just needs her heart to believe it.
"You're so focused on everyone else all the time... Try to do something for yourself for once. It's not selfish to want to be happy." She stills, caught in the sound of his voice. It's close to raw, but quiet, soft, a hint vulnerability, genuine... She believes him, she realizes. She can trust him. It's easy to know what is or isn't selfish. Belief is a different story filled with shattered guilt and pain, day and night, every waking moment.
But she believes him.
"Okay," she agrees. For her father. For Finn. For Lexa. For herself. "I will."
Bellamy takes a deep breath, muscles she hadn't even realized were tense loosening. "Good."
His hands stay enveloped around hers.
"...So, what else will you draw?" He sounds hesitant, but sure at the same time.
What else will she draw?
She untangles her hand from his and scoots away, trying not to think too much about the way she catches his lips thinning, his arms hurrying to draw toward himself as if he's done something wrong, eyes guarded and looking away. A smile plays on her face as she continues her movements, re-positioning herself so she's facing away only to lean back until her head is nestled between his stomach and his thigh. The blanket is awkwardly still covering his lap and her body from her chin down without covering her face, partly twisted and pinned beneath her back, but she gets comfortable, watching the way his thoughts stutter behind his eyes.
"You," she says simply.
"What?" He blinks a few times, hands, uncertain, lowering next to her head. She reaches out from under her cover to grab one of them and hold against her chest, mimicking his position of both hands surrounding one. His fingers tighten around hers.
"I'll draw you," she answers honestly, imaging what he would look like on paper. All sharp strokes and soft angles.
A smile flickers across his face.
She likes his smile, small and real, expressing an emotion he doesn't get to feel enough of. She'll get him to feel it more. Like a game.
Maybe they can both learn to feel it more. To smile more. Together.
She will draw his smile.
And maybe even hers too.
000
You're my other half
You're what makes me me
What makes me smile
When I fall down and can't get back, get back, get back up
On my feet
Without you here I am boring
Something inside you is triggering
It makes me myself
Makes me funny, you're a beautiful thing
000
A/N: help me i love them. give me all the queerplatonic-but-can-be-romantic-too Bellarke feels. Leave a review to continue my suffering. Love you aaall.