"You should come inside, Bell."
He recognizes Octavia's voice, but hears his own.
Please come inside.
It's been months, and the memory cuts as deep as the first time he lived through it.
"In a minute." He says, voice hoarse from days without sleep and any sustenance other than moonshine. He's a wreck. Everyone knows it.
"You need to get it together." His sister whispers, dropping into a crouch in front of him. The night is so quiet out here, by the wall. Last night's snowfall muffles everything, even the sounds of the forest seem distant, like there are miles between them and the trees.
He scowls
"I'm fine."
It's one of those lies that burn on the way out in their dishonesty, as though his tongue will burst into flame from the sheer audacity of it. The sharply planed face that he's become so familiar with in the past few months hardens.
She shakes her head.
"Your people need you. I know you miss her, but so does everyone else. You're the only leader we've got now, so you need to pull it together and lead." There's a vehemence in her voice that makes him wonder exactly how long she's been sitting on this speech.
"I can't." His own voice is small, and broken, and he sounds more like a child than his younger sister ever has.
I bear it so they don't have to.
She'd said that to him, and here he is. He isn't bearing anything at all. He can hardly stand to get up in the morning. He does, though, and he puts on a show, pretends he's still with them. But Octavia's right. He isn't fooling anyone. And he can't make decisions, not with his head like this.
"It doesn't really matter." The sympathy is gone, the face in front of him as hard and cold as ice. "You don't have a choice. Come inside soon, Bellamy, or don't come inside at all."
She walks away.
He thinks that if he did leave, they would be alright. She thinks of herself as a warrior first, not a diplomat, but they could certainly do worse. They were doing worse.
He's a strong man. He makes the hard choices and lives with them, that's always been his way. And sometimes the self-loathing oozes out, when he's drunk, or he's tired, or that night when he had accidentally admitted a painful truth to Clarke.
I'm a monster.
It had felt like confession. He had wanted her to leave him there to die. But she'd needed him, so he came back.
And then she couldn't do the same for him.
He sighs, dumping what's left of his moonshine onto the fire, watching the flames shoot toward the sky, then recede back into the pit. He thinks he knows what that feels like, the burst of energy, reaching for something only to find yourself knocked firmly back into your place.
Suddenly, it occurs to him that he never actually told her that he needed her. He had just expected her to know that.
What if she hadn't?
He stands there for a while, swaying a little in the cold, trying not to too seriously consider the idea of walking toward the forest, toward her, and never coming back.
He stares at the dark line of trees, squinting, pretending he can see her. Blonde hair, and blue eyes, and a gaze that used to discomfit him in its blatancy. But then he blinks, and the image is gone. He turns toward the village, wishing he hadn't dumped out the last of his alcohol. And then he hears it.
As soft as though it's all in his head. The crunching of snow underfoot. Slowly, he turns back to the forest, eyes straining in the full dark of the winter night.
Something.
Something is there, moving, growing infinitesimally larger, moving toward him. His breath catches in his throat. An intruder? A Grounder? In a brief flash of fear, he wonders if any of the Reapers survived. He remembers the bottomless black of Lincoln's eyes, the sight of human teeth on human flesh. His stomach turns.
Suddenly, the clouds shift, sending moonbeams down to illuminate the figure, as though it was a spotlight meant only for her. And every muscle in his body stiffens. It's too far to see a face, but the moon has done enough. Moonlight bounces off blonde hair, turning gold into silver. Even her walk is the same, if a little lighter, a little more careful.
The sound of a rifle safety clicking off startles him out of his reverie. There are boots behind him, the guard that watches the gate for intruders.
Only she's not an intruder.
"Stop." He says, but it's been month since he's said anything and really meant it, and they don't even hear him. More safeties click off, and panic sets in, and it's more of anything than he's felt in a long time. "Stop!"
When the first spray of bullets rings out, he thinks his heart might have stopped altogether. But then he feels it hammering in his chest, throwing itself against his ribs as though in an effort to escape.
"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" He screams, voice tearing from his throat in a mixture of desperation and thunder, and the firing stops. He runs for the gate, checking one of his own guards on the way, and as he flings it open he sees her.
Still standing.
Still moving.
Still walking this way.
So he runs. And maybe it's pathetic, but he's beyond caring, he gave up worrying about that the day he first picked up the mug of moonshine before his breakfast.
And then he's there.
She stops, her eyes bright in the moonlight, hair lit up like a halo around her face.
"Clarke." He says quietly.
And then he kisses her.
It's not soft, like the one she brushed across his cheek when he left. It's rough, and demanding, his hands catching her face and tangling in her hair. His teeth scrape hers, and he half expects her to break away and run back for the trees, but she just says his name into his mouth, tongue moving against his, and he feels alive in a way he hasn't in months.
Eventually, they run out of air. Bellamy pulls away, satisfied in a primal way at the flush on her cheeks and the stars in her eyes.
"I-" She clears her throat. Her voice is rough in a way that makes him wonder if she's spoken at all since she left. It cracks and breaks, but he decides it's the best thing he's ever heard anyways. "I thought you'd be angry."
He blinks.
"I am." His voice lowers several octaves, because Christ, is he ever. But what matters is that she's here. It strikes him how much weight she's lost, the slight roundness in her cheeks given way to harsh angles and shadows under her eyes. He wonders if he looks the same.
"I thought it was the right thing." She says. It's not an apology, and he understands that.
"I needed you." He replies, because he needs to have said it, at least once. "I need you." She stares at him. Her eyes flash with pain, a sorrow he almost doesn't recognize in its intensity. He's seen a lot, but he's never seen grief quite like that.
"Then I'll stay." She whispers, and it's both a question and a promise.
He nods, running his fingers across her cheek just to assure himself that she's real.
"Then you'll stay." He agrees, and he turns back toward the gate, holding out his hand. Their time apart seems to have caused nothing but suffering, he can't help but notice the scars on her hands as she takes it, pink and new.
Please come inside.
And they do, together.