I have no regrets.

Bellamy

Bellamy found himself in the room he had occupied once, years before. His stuff was long gone – some repurposed by Jasper's group, some burnt in Ilian's attempt to destroy the Ark, some just vanished to places unknown – but he still felt at home in this room.

The comfort wasn't enough, though.

Octavia was dying, and he wasn't there. His sister, his responsibility. He'd left her in the bunker, chosen to go up to space and leave her on a planet that was filled with deadly radiation …

The echo of his fist against the metal wall of his room reached his ears before the pain ricocheted up his arm. A second, then a third and a fourth punch – by the fifth, his hand was covered in blood, numb and aching. A match to the wound in his arm, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He yelled, he continued to punch, and then he just gave up. Collapsed to his knees next to the dent he'd made, ignoring the blood running down the wall and the blood welling out of the gashes across his knuckles.

He needed that pain. Needed an outlet. Six years in space, six years of not knowing anything, only to come back to find out his sister was about to die …

The floor took his wrath this time, smears of red painting an ugly abstract picture in front of him.

That was how Clarke found him ten minutes later, surrounded by smatterings of his own blood, cradling the surely broken knuckles of his hand against his chest, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

She didn't question, didn't judge; she just knelt beside him, already pulling bandages from the small pocket of her jacket. He didn't protest when she tugged his hand towards her, carefully wiping away what she could with one rag and then wrapping his knuckles tightly with a second piece.

She was infinitely gentle, amazingly calm. The perfect opposite to him.

'You always were the logical one,' he whispered, voice heavy with grief. 'Even knowing that they're dying down there, you're calm.'

She glanced up at him, still holding his hand with both of hers. 'I've spent the last year thinking they were already dead. I'm calm because I'm relieved they're not.' She shrugged, casting her gaze back down to his hand. 'Octavia's strong. She doesn't give up. Look at everything she's been through to get to this stage. A virus isn't going to take her out that easily.'

He swallowed, staring at her. He knew, in the rational part of his mind, that she was right. But it was Octavia. His sister. The main reason he got through the last six years - the main reason he'd lived for twenty-three.

It seemed like only yesterday he was holding her, a forbidden newborn baby, calming her. Protecting her.

And now she was under the floor again, as she had been for sixteen years before. But this time, he wasn't with her.

This time, he'd been hundreds of thousands of miles away, unable to get in touch with her. Unable to reassure her, unable to comfort her in any way. Unable to see with his own eyes that she was okay, to call her out on her bullshit when she needed the truth.

'I'm failing her again, Clarke.' His voice was broken. 'Not only did I leave her, I didn't come back in time. And now … now she's dying, and I'm not there with her.'

His eyes slid closed. 'You know, when I found out they were sending you all down to Earth without even knowing if it was safe, I thought I had to protect her. That she couldn't survive without me. And look what she became – the leader of the Grounders, respected by an entire people. A powerful, brave young woman.' He shook his head. 'She never needed me.'

'That's not true.' Clarke tightened her grip momentarily. At his wince, she let go and instead placed her hands on his shoulder. 'Bellamy, she has always needed you. You were the reminder of her past, of where she came from. You reminded her of her humanity.'

He looked at her then, through a film of tears. Her image flickered a few times until he blinked the moisture away. 'If I'm not with her, what's she become?'

She looked at him sadly. 'I don't know,' she replied truthfully. 'But no matter what, she would have carried you in her heart. There is no way she would forget you, and what you taught her.' She gave him a smile. 'She'd have questioned every little thing she did, to see if it would have been something you would have done. Made sure she remembered you, kept your memory alive even though she didn't know whether you were or not – but she would have prayed every day that you were.'

They weren't talking about Octavia anymore.

He looked down at his damaged hand. 'I can't go through it again, Clarke. I can't do it. I've already lost the people I care about more times than I can remember.' He licked his lips, stared at the bandage already turning pink as his blood seeped through. 'It would break me.'

'That's what makes you strong, Bellamy.' His eyes flicked back up to her. She was smiling softly, and her own eyes were filled with tears. He couldn't look, and looked back down at his hand. 'You care for people, sometimes to your own detriment. You're willing to die for everyone.'

That made him look up again, in time to see the first tear spill down her cheek. He traced its path. 'You live to keep them alive. You fight, to keep them from fighting. You bear it so they don't have to.'

He started to shake his head, to deny her; but her hands slid up to grip his cheeks and hold his head firmly in place. 'Octavia will survive. Her faith in you will keep her going. Just like –'

She cut herself off suddenly, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. He tilted his head, as much as he could.

He knew what the end of her sentence was.

If anybody had asked him later on, he wouldn't be able to tell them who made the next move, who bridged the distance between them. They just came together. Opposites, attracting one another. The brain and the heart, suddenly working in conjunction with the same desires.

The kiss was messy. Urgent, needy, emotional. Their tears mingled as Clarke's arms wrapped around his neck, holding herself against him as his arms wrapped around her back, tugging her close.

It was a battle, as all things between them were. The power constantly switched between them, giving and taking and offering.

His hands slid lower, settling behind her thighs, and he adjusted her against him. He felt more than heard the moan she released into his mouth, one he echoed as she wrapped her legs around him. Pulled herself closer, then used her hands to tug at the bottom of his shirt.

She did most of the undressing, and they barely broke the contact of their lips. Desperation reigned. He needed her, needed to feel something good. Not painful. Not sad. Something pure. Hopeful.

They didn't even make it up off the floor. Needy hands stroked, bodies flushing with warmth long since forgotten. Softness and firmness coming together.

Again and again and again.