The thing is—it's not like Bellamy doesn't know he's in love with Clarke Griffin. It's just that he kind of feels like six years of radio silence is enough time to lose his chance to tell her.
He spent most of high school trying to figure out how to ask her on her a date when she was actually available. And then the rest of it talking himself out of ever doing so because somehow the timing was never right.
Her dad was killed by a drunk driver sophomore year. She found out her boyfriend was using her to serial cheat on his other girlfriend the next. Both of those, which lead to this sort of rebel phase junior year where she pretended not to give a single flying fuck about anything, including him.
When she finally tried to mend things the summer before senior year he wasn't really in the mood to be the nice guy. He'd just found out his mom was terminally ill and Octavia was determined to steal everyone's attention by skipping class and smoking cigarettes.
The truth is—
He forgave Clarke the moment she apologized, like, he's not sure he was ever even really mad at her in the first place, but all things considered, it was his turn to be a stubborn asshole.
He got over it a few weeks later when they both accidentally found each other at the same LGBT meet up wearing matching #biAF pins. He wasn't at all prepared for that, so predictably he stood zero chance against falling in love with her all over again. It was even better than the first time, deeper and more intimate because they knew themselves in a way they didn't before. It was also way worse because he couldn't get it out of his head that she was moving away in a year for college, and knowing he couldn't follow her gave him another excuse to not do anything about what he was feeling.
His mother died in July and Clarke left him a month later.
He didn't mean to lose touch with her after that. At first, having her gone was terrible. It was months of regret and wishing he said the things he wanted to when he had the chance, while also being aware that he still could actually tell her and then convincing himself it wouldn't matter anyway.
It got easier without him even trying. He doesn't want to admit that it may have been on purpose; because that would mean admitting that he was a terrible friend. But in his defense, he had a lot of shit to deal with. He was taking classes part-time at a community college, and working fulltime to help his aunt support Octavia.
He doesn't think it was a conscious decision, but the texts got shorter, and it took him longer to respond than usual. They both got girlfriends and boyfriends, and suddenly he fell in love again, which obviously should have meant he was no longer in love with Clarke. But three years after his break up with Echo and a year after her fallout with Lexa, he's back where he started with Clarke in the center.
Clarke moved back to Arcadia to teach art at the high school and to be closer to her mom who was getting remarried in the fall.
She stopped by the bookstore four days after Bellamy heard of her return. The bell on the door rang and he looked up over the counter and there she was. Her hair was shorter, she was wearing this hideous yellow raincoat, and he's pretty sure the sneakers she had on were the same ones he wrote, 'may we meet again,' on the soles the day after graduation.
"Cryptic," she said in response, smiling at him in a way that he was sure faded from his mind after all these years; but when she was standing in the foyer of his store, dripping on the floor, there it was again, worn around the edges.
She was smiling at him like she never left.
His feelings for her didn't come back with a force that made him ache as it had in the past. It was the comfort of just being in the same space as her without the constant stress of wondering how to turn it into something better. There was no longer this terrible cloud of teenage angst hanging over him in the way that he remembers. He knows he can fall in love with someone else if he wants. He's done it before; it doesn't mean he has to love her less. It's just that . . . he feels like their moment has passed. He knows how to be happy now with what they have.
He doesn't need to ask for more.
So, despite what everyone seems to think, he doesn't completely lack self-awareness.
"Bellamy, watch where you're—"
He stumbles into someone trying to pass him, who for the record was also not paying attention, too busy texting, whereas Bellamy was too busy watching Clarke, struggling to wipe the snowflakes off her glasses (a new and distracting part of her appearance). Her cheeks are flushed and she's squinting at him behind her lenses like she can't decide whether or not to scold him or burst out laughing.
"Sorry," Bellamy rushes out, reaching down to grab the guy's phone and hoping it's not broken, because he just spent an inadvisable amount of money on Christmas gifts and even his ability to be charitable has its limits.
The dude snatches it out of his hand and sneers at him, blowing the snow off the screen and right onto Bellamy's nose.
He shakes it off, brushing the hair from his eyes and ignores the jolt of his heart when Clarke presses into his side, like a lion guarding her cub.
"Is it still working?" Bellamy asks.
He looks up from glaring at his phone to glare at Bellamy instead. "Seems to be," he sighs like it's some kind of disappointment. Bellamy exchanges a quick look with Clarke, who's sizing the dude up and seeming to come to the conclusion that she can take him if need be.
"Okay, good," Bellamy says, shifting his weight on his feet and squeezing her shoulder. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if the scowl is just a permanent facial feature.
He clears his throat. "Well, sorry again."
"Happy holidays," Clarke says over her shoulder, all false cheer, leading them away before Bellamy does something totally awkward like offer to buy a complete stranger a new iPhone.
An arm comes out to stop him before they escape.
"Want to make it up to me?" He blinks up at them both with a suspicious glint in his eye. Then before Bellamy can respond, because clearly the question was intended to be hypothetical, he's reaching into his coat and pulling out a parcel of some sort and gesturing for Bellamy to hold out his palm.
"Shit, um . . . yeah, we're not interested in whatever you're selling."
"What the fuck?" Clarke hisses behind him. He shoots her a look that hope conveys something along the lines, 'kindly, shut up before you get us both stabbed to death.'
The stranger rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. "Why does everyone assume I'm a drug dealer?"
"You're not?" Bellamy asks the same time Clarke says, "The fact that this is a common occurrence should tell you more than we could."
He snarls at them as if that'll make a better first impression and then says through gritted teeth, "I'm Murphy."
Right. Okay.
"And?" Clarke hedges, eyebrow raised. Bellamy bites back a smile because he feels like this is a situation that requires him to appear a bit more intimidating than his height would have you believe.
Murphy dangles a charm in front of their faces as if he's inviting them to swat at it like a couple of felines.
"What's that?" Clarke questions as Bellamy narrows his eyes at the offending object.
"It's a make-a-wish bracelet," Murphy deadpans. Clarke and Bellamy exchange incredulous looks.
"Jesus, it's like you walked out of a book," Bellamy says without thinking. Under all that ragged hair, the tips of this guy's ears almost look . . . pointy.
"Meaning?" Murphy presses, tight-lipped.
"You're—well, you're just a little—"
"Odd," Clarke supplies without remorse. "It's almost endearing in a I-don't-know-if-this-guy-wants-to-ask-us-to-help-him-rob-a-bank-or-destroy-the-corrupt-poltical-system type of way."
Murphy snorts at that because no one is immune to Clarke's impeccable charm.
She hesitantly takes the bracelet from Murphy's palm. Bellamy looks over her shoulder to inspect it in case it's, like, a bomb or something.
He has a good throwing arm.
Probably.
The item isn't special, really. Just a wooden snowflake tied to a string.
Big deal.
He's not jealous that it makes Clarke smile one of those soft smiles that leaves him weak in the knees, because this guy is not-at-all her type and even if he was it wouldn't matter because Bellamy Blake is fucking chill.
"Why are you offering it to us?" he blurts.
Murphy shrugs, lips twitching. "It's kind of in the job description." Clarke's brows furrow and just before Bellamy outright accuses him of something idiotic, like being a Russian spy, Murphy continues. "Tie it to your wrist, make a wish, and when the string breaks your wish will come true."
"What's next?" Bellamy asks because he simply cannot help himself with this guy. "Are you going to start singing Christmas carols sprinkling us with pixie dust?"
Clarke nudges him with her elbow, reprimanding him. He spares her a look that hopeful shouts, like you can talk.
"Fuck no," Murphy spits out with more conviction than is strictly necessary. "I'd rather get myself hanged by the big man downstairs."
Er—
Strange and questionable choice of words.
"Anyways," Murphy says, oddly bright. "Good luck with . . ." his arms fail in their general direction, "whatever weird energy is going on here." He stares Bellamy down pointedly before declaring, "Make it count."
And then he's disappearing into the crowd before either of them can really wrap his mind around what just happened.
"Did he just—"
"This is why I avoid the city, Clarke."
They blink at each other and promptly burst out in laughter.
"Well," Clarke says, wistfully when her giggles die down, wiping a stray tear from her eye. "What's the harm, right?" she teases, twirling the bracelet around on her finger.
"I don't know," he says, pretending to consider their options. "What if it's laced with some new hip drug that's absorbed into the skin?"
"Well if that's the case, I'm already doomed," Clarke determines.
"You're not wrong."
She juts her lip out, pouting and it's stupid how much he adores her. "Are you really going to leave me hanging, Bell?"
He rolls his eyes as she's already sliding the thing onto his wrist before he can bother to protest.
Not that he wouldn't give in.
It's Clarke.
"I don't understand why it has to be me," he whines, all fake petulance. You know I don't believe in this stuff."
"This stuff," Clarke mocks, lowering her voice dramatically. "It's meant to be fun," she insists. "And I think my favorite Christmas grump could use a bit of magic in his life."
He shoves down the ridiculous sappy reply crawling up his throat.
The only magic I need is you.
Christ, he wishes he could have just one day with Clarke where he wasn't biting his tongue on a love confession every five minutes.
"So," she says expectantly. "What'd you wish for?"
Oh.
Right then.