For weeks he couldn't be around her. It was hard, because their camp wasn't all that large. There was the accidental run-in at the mess hall, or the inevitable meeting in the medbay when he needed a cut stitched up. He'd hear her—a sentence, a laugh, a sigh—and he'd squeeze his eyes shut, counting down until the pain in his chest and the ringing in his head subsided to a dull thudding ache. It never went away, because she was everywhere; it just became more bearable.
It was strange, because he no longer knew what she really sounded like. He could remember whispers from days long past, or tremble through remnants of fabricated screams. Any sound he heard from her now was interrupted by the static of others' voices or sounds from camp, because of the distance he kept. Every day the memories faded, and her true sound grew fainter.
The absence of her real voice started to claw at him, gnawing a hole in his belly. The fucking irony. He wondered if Prometheus ever missed the eagle after being freed. How do you go on living without something that made you feel so much, even if that thing was also agony?
So he started lingering when she was near, trying to steel himself through the pain. He would grit his teeth and force his eyes open: just a second longer this time. It didn't matter much, because she seemed to slip away as soon as she realized he was near. Not surprising, given his recent behavior.
Bellamy had never been one to run from a challenge though, which is how he ended up in her tent late one night. Facing the door, he sat on the ground, leaning up against her bed, waiting for her. She startled when she entered and saw him but stayed silent. He closed his eyes and listened to her undress and slip onto the cot behind him, waiting for her to settle.
Talk to me, he said.
And she did. She spoke about her day, about her mother's day, about her yesterday, about her tomorrow. She spoke about their plans for the medbay, about the negotiations with the Grounders. She spoke of her regrets and her hopes, her anger and her despair. She spoke about how much she mourned Finn and worried for Raven and missed him.
She spoke, and he listened, each word pain and ecstasy all at once. He dug his hands into the tent floor, pushing through the flimsy fabric to the wet dirt underneath. Clutching at it, he pressed his back against the bed pole, wood striking his spine. Binding himself there with invisible, needy ropes, he absorbed her soft, bright sound, determined to burn the pain of corrupted memories away with her real melody.
He was Odysseus, strapped to a wayward ship, and she was the siren song, alluring and pure, finally calling him home.