"Something happened," Bellamy says to Monty, in lieu of hello.
"My day was great, thanks for asking." Monty slides into the seat across from his, glancing at the menu even though he orders the same exact thing every single time they meet up at Arkadia for lunch. "Alright, tell me what Clarke said."
"Why do you always automatically assume it has to do with Clarke?"
"Because it does," he says, like it's obvious. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Bellamy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know what the hell happened, but something happened, and things are weird between us now."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"Is there such a thing as good weird?" Bellamy asks, skeptical.
Monty shrugs. "There can be. Does this have to do with the whole humming fiasco?"
"All I did was ask her what song she was humming. Ever since that night, she hasn't answered my texts. I haven't seen her, in like, a week."
Monty nods, raising his eyebrows. "Have you gone over there and talked to her?"
"No." At Monty's questioning look, he adds, "If she wants space, I'll give her space."
Their food comes, and the conversation switches briefly to a debate on whether or not putting cheese on fries could be considered a major human achievement.
"The song she was humming," Monty says through a mouthful of fries, "I'll bet you anything it was that song her dad used to sing her mom."
Bellamy pauses, frowning. "She said it was a song her dad used to sing. How do you know about it?"
"She helped me out a lot when all that stuff was going on with my mom. We bonded over dead dads and moms that we love even though we don't agree with a ton of their choices," he explains, casual because the two of them bonded over the same thing. Monty narrows his eyes. "If it's the song I'm thinking of…"
"What?"
"It's just—that song, Jake used to sing it to Abby. I don't know what it's called or anything, I kind of think her dad made it up himself. But it's about how much he loved her, how he would always love her. Clarke told me that he sang that song to her mom every single day until he died."
Bellamy's fries are forgotten halfway to his mouth. He blinks, trying to process the information, but his mind feels like it's floating somewhere he can't quite reach.
Monty shakes his head, grinning. "You two are ridiculous. Did you know we all have a pool going for who you're going to name godparent of your first kid? It's funny, because I'm winning…"
It takes Bellamy double the effort to focus on what Monty is saying, because all of his thoughts consist of Clarke.
When they're finished eating, Monty tells him to go talk to Clarke. Bellamy orders a box of some of her favorite brownies, and heads over to her apartment.
He knocks on her door three times. Each knock rings through the empty hallway with a touch of finality.
Clarke opens the door, and he's never believed anyone who's said that someone could be so stunning that it leaves you breathless until now.
Her hair is down, curled to perfection. The color of her eyes make him do a double take. They're somehow bluer than before, enhanced by dark makeup clearly done by an experienced hand. She's putting earrings in, a matching set of pearls that he has no doubts are real.
"Hey," he breathes, soft.
"Bellamy?" She glances at the box in his hands. "What are you doing here?"
"I just needed to—"
"Clarke?" A gravelly voice calls from inside her apartment. She's not alone, and suddenly Bellamy is increasingly aware of the fact.
Bellamy looks at her again, the pieces coming together in his mind in a single thought: she has someone over, most likely a date.
"I'll be right there, Roan," she calls over her shoulder, giving Bellamy an apologetic glance. "Sorry, I'm—I have someone over."
His throat is tight. "Uh, yeah. No, yeah, I get it."
"He's staying all week, so if you wanted, I could—"
"No," he quickly assures. "No, it's fine. I don't want to interrupt anything."
The air between them is tense, awkward, and it's so uncomfortable that he clears his throat and shoves the box towards her.
"I just came to bring these over," he says, quiet.
She grabs the box, opens it up and looks inside. When her eyes light up in delight he tries to ignore the way it makes him feel, despite everything.
"Bellamy, these are my favorite."
He looks down. "I know."
Smiling, she bites her bottom lip. "Thank you, Bellamy."
"Enjoy your night," he says, hoping she didn't catch the hint of hurt in his voice.
"I'll text you," she promises, smiling at him while she closes the door. He doesn't leave until a few seconds later, when he hears muffled laughter coming from the other side of her door.
The walk back to his apartment is lonely, cold, and somehow longer than it was before.
He gives himself three days to mope, and then tells himself to get over it.
(He doesn't)
Clarke calls him on the fourth day, inviting him to a museum with her and Roan.
"You have to meet Roan," she says, and he can hear the smile shaping her words, the fondness draped over Roan's name.
And because he's weak-willed when it comes to her, he agrees to meet them at the steps in front of the art museum downtown.
The minute he meets Roan, Bellamy doesn't trust him. The guy looks like a lion, suave long hair framing a perfectly stoic face. He walks like he invented it, like they paved the sidewalk just for him to grace it with his steps.
"Roan," he says, holding out a perfectly polite hand. "I take it you're Bellamy?"
Bellamy ignores the hand, narrows his eyes in recognition. "Roan? As in Roan of Azgeda Corporations?"
"Yeah. I became CEO when my mother died," he explains, all nonchalant, like he'd spent his whole life preparing for her to die so he could inherit the role.
"It's how we met, like ten years ago," Clarke tells Bellamy, matching Roan's smirk. "We had to suffer through all of those horrible fundraising galas together. Sitting through the longest, most boring speeches ever with nothing but finger food and wine. They were the worst."
"Oh, I can imagine," Bellamy lies, thinking of all the times he had to convince Octavia to go over to a friend's house and stay for dinner, because there wasn't any food in their cupboards. He thought of all of the odd jobs he worked growing up, of the calloused palms and sore shoulders, of the long nights and even longer days. One of those odd jobs had been a waiter at a convention center, serving finger food to the rich during their extravagant galas in a rented tux that was two sizes too small for him. "At least you two had each other."
"I don't know what I would've done without this guy," Clarke says, each word searing into his mind like spilled alcohol on an open wound. She's smiling, until she notices the look on Bellamy's face. Her smile falls, and she reaches out to grab his arm.
He steps back, just out of her touch.
"The museum closes at four," he mentions, not meeting her eye. "We should probably get going if you want to see the whole thing."
He ignores the way Clarke's eyebrows furrow, the way her hand drops by her side, defeated.
Roan follows Bellamy up the stairs.
"I expect a full tour, Bellamy. Clarke has told me all about your impressive historical knowledge."
They wander through the museum, following Bellamy and listening intently to the little-known facts and interesting tidbits he begrudgingly has to share with them.
Every time Roan asks him a question, Bellamy's answers get more and more intense, to the point where he starts quizzing Roan on the information to make sure he's paying attention. He rattles off dates and places and people, nearly moving into the caliber of his full-blown lectures for the upper-division courses he teaches at the University.
When Roan heads to the bathroom, Clarke grabs Bellamy's arm and pulls him around. They stand face to face in front of a glorious painting that stretches from floor to ceiling depicting a violent, glorious Renaissance scene.
"What the hell is your problem?" she asks, eyes searching his own.
"What do you mean?"
"You're showing off."
"I'm just doing what you asked me to do. I'm being the little tour guide for your date. Not my fault—"
"Date?!"
"—if he can't keep up."
"Am I interrupting something?" Roan asks, dry. He glances between them, a knowing look in his stupidly perfect blue eyes.
"Nope," Bellamy says, moving forward to the next painting. "Ahh, Monet. Roan, do you remember what year Monet was born in?"
(He doesn't, and Bellamy tries to hide his immature, triumphant smirk)
(Clarke sees it before he can)
A/N-slow burns hurt so good, don't they? we're getting there guys, trust me :D
thanks to all who have commented! i hope you find $5 on the ground, have a great hair day, and are excited because TODAY'S FRIDAY (at least where i am when i'm posting this)
will update again tomorrow, maybe tonight if i get a chance.
