The knocking on his door is insistent, determined.
He cracks open a bleary eye, reading the time on his phone.
3:07 am.
Groaning, he pushes himself out of bed and stumbles to the door groggily, cursing when he jams his toe on the corner of his couch.
"Who is it?" he calls out, voice gruff with sleep.
"I need to talk to you."
He pauses mid-step. It's Clarke, and he can practically hear the furrow in her brows.
Sighing, he opens the door, refusing to meet her eyes. She steps passed him with her arms crossed, chin raised and shoulders set, like she's prepared for war.
"This couldn't wait till morning?"
"Nope," she replies, curt.
The next thing he knows, she's leaning on his kitchen counter, studying him quietly while he makes her a cup of tea.
"So?" she asks. "Aren't you going to say something?"
"What do you want me to say, Clarke? 'Why are you here at three in the morning?'"
"What the hell is wrong with you? Why have you been ignoring my texts?"
"I—"
"Don't, Bellamy," she pleads, and it's enough to make him look at her. There are tears swimming in his eyes, and he hates himself a little more. "Don't lie to me."
He slides over the cup of tea, and she takes it, her soft fingers brushing against his own.
Resting his hands on the counter, he says, "I wasn't going to lie. I was going to apologize."
She looks at him, her hands curled around a mug he bought specifically for her.
"Why have you been avoiding me?"
Between shaky breaths, he tells her about his mother, about Gina, about Monroe, about Lincoln, about Octavia. He tells her about how the same curse flows through his veins, how he's scared half-to-death because he can't lose her. She doesn't speak until he's done, like she knows if she does, he'll never finish getting the pain and guilt off his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises, grabbing his hand. Her thumb runs comforting lines across his wrist, resting on his pulse. "Are you?"
"No," he exhales. "I'm not going anywhere."
A ghost of a smile graces her lips.
"Good. Because I can't lose you too, okay?"
Her words ring through him like the answer to a prayer he didn't feel worthy of offering, and he nods.
Before he knows it, it's four in the morning, and they're hugging in his kitchen. The sound of her socks sliding against the floor sounds loud in the quiet, blue-tinged kitchen until she starts to hum. It's a tune that seems familiar but he doesn't quite know how he knows it, like it's from a dream he only half-remembers.
Easily, naturally, they start swaying back and forth. Her head is resting against his chest, and he thinks she's listening to the sound of his heart beating, because her hum slows to keep in time with it. Her hands slide low around his waist, and he wraps his arms around her, trying and failing to resist the urge to run his hand up and down the valley of her spine.
They stay like that, dancing in his small kitchen, until their hearts feel lighter, until it's easier to breath. Clarke raises her head, resting her forehead against his chin. Before he can stop himself, he kisses her forehead, curling his hands in the hair at the base of her neck and wondering if there's a word in the English language adequate enough to describe the depth of feeling he has for this girl.
He doesn't find the word he's looking for until they're both curled up on his couch, leaning against each other half-asleep while trying to catch up on their shows.
The word is love.
Bellamy has gotten used to listening to her sing in the late hours of the night. It's almost become a habit of his now, to brush her teeth while, on the other side of the wall, Clarke is using her toothbrush as a microphone (he's seen her do it more than once).
The first few times, she hadn't been able to get through her nightly piece, resulting in a late night visit from a concerned Bellamy. He's found her crying on the edge of the sink more times than he can count, his tongue still burning with the taste of spearmint and her heart heavy with memories.
On those nights, they spent hours sitting side by side on her tiled bathroom floor, talking about the past and remembering the ones they've lost. They comforted each other with honest words and occasional light, gentle touches that ended up meaning the world to them.
There hasn't been a night like that in a long time, and he's grateful for it. He no longer hears the telltale signs of her heartbreak, no longer hears abrupt, cut-off lyrics or thick, interrupting sobs. It's been a slow change, but a change all the same.
Most of her songs are about hope, now, instead of heartbreak.
There's a bounce in her words, an energy within them that he never wants to hear her lose again.
Sometimes, he finds himself mindlessly brushing his teeth for five minutes, ten minutes, lost in thought as he listens to her sing.
Sometimes, he finds himself rapping his knuckles against the edge of his sink in time with the beat, only to hear Clarke's bright laughter filter through the wall as she realizes it's him.
It makes it easier to fall asleep. He hardly has nightmares anymore, he finds. He thinks it's the same for her.
There's hanging out in her living room on a Monday night when something changes.
Bellamy's grading papers, dangling a pen between his teeth lazily. One of his hands is gripping a stack of papers, the other is mindlessly massaging Clarke's calf. Her feet are in his lap, all mismatched socks.
She's sketching a commissioned piece of the Colosseum, humming to herself. It's a softer melody than her latest songs. There's a gentle tinge to it, colors of sweetness and unabashed joy mixed with tenderness and light longing.
"What's that?" he asks, pen still in his mouth.
"The Colosseum, obviously."
"Not that," he squeezes her calf, smiling. "The song you're humming. What is it?"
She opens her mouth to answer, only to close it again. Furrowing her brows, a flurry of emotions flash across her face. Confusion? Surprise? Realization? The pencil in her hand hovers over her paper.
"It's nothing," she says, but her tone is uneven. She shakes her head, as if to convince herself of her own lie. "It's just—it's just some song my dad used to sing."
Without warning, she pulls her feet from his lap. Curling her knees to her chest, she closes herself off from him, physically and emotionally.
Bellamy frowns, studying her. Her face is suspiciously blank, but her sketching turns violent, hurried to the point where she breaks her pencil lead and curses.
"Clarke," he prompts, but she doesn't look up at him. "Are you okay? Did I say some—"
"I'm fine," she says, distracted, and gets up to sharpen her pencil.
When she returns, she kneels down by the coffee table, using it as a surface to draw on. It's a conscious choice of hers to choose to sit on the floor instead of on the couch, and he notices.
She doesn't start humming again.
The only sounds for the rest of the night are those of their utensils meeting paper, and the occasional sigh from Clarke.
He doesn't sleep well that night, and neither does she.
A/N- this chapter is dedicated to p . suku ! thanks for taking the time to leave reviews, you're awesome! (also this is going to be longer than i thought, expect about five more chapters?). hope you enjoy it!
