“Whatever you’re drinking, man —must be pretty wasted to ask me that.”
Bellamy’s fingers wrapped around the bottle as soon as it was handed back, he huffed at Murphy’s words and only glared at him. He just wanted to think something else and Murphy surely helped him with that, first starting with Connor, which was much more pleasing to listen than he would’ve guessed. He couldn’t help a smal smirk finding its way in corner of his mouth as he passed the whiskey back to him. For a little moment he just laid back, staring up as he listened, at times taking another moutful of the whiskey that slowly started to taste more bearable. For once, Murphy was actually honest with him and he had to appreciate that, after all he had needed this, a small moment to forget everything else. Even in sleep he couldn’t escape his thoughts, his fears, nightmares that would become true soon, but Murphy’s stories actually brought him far away from those thoughts.
Thanks to Murphy he found that small piece of peace that he had lost a long time ago. He listened to him, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, but he was quiet. He was almost close to even fall asleep, but as Murphy stopped, he turned to glance up at him. He wasn’t sure what to answer, so he settled down with a sharp huff and a grunt, ”shut up.” But it was true, he hadn’t ever listened to him like that before. And he never would do it again since… since everything would be too late in just a few nights. He sighed, not even bothering to sit up.
What an earth was he even supposed to say now? Thank you sounded stupid but also being quiet was stupid, he had been quiet for too long. ”You were right,” Bellamy finally admitted, pouring the last mouthful of the whiskey into his throat. It didn’t even burn anymore, he was getting too numb to even notice that anymore. Last days he had been becoming numb to feel anything at all. ”I guess I really needed this. Preparing for your death isn’t actually that peaceful that some people want to say.” He let out a dark chuckle, smirking a little at the ceiling of the tent.
Bellamy’s ensuing chuckle sent ripples down Murphy’s spine. Bellamy’s voice had dropped several octaves, roughened by Whiskey and fatigue, and shit, that should’ve been illegal. Murphy felt colour in his cheeks; he scoffed, both at the deadpanned shut up and at Bellamy’s appreciative expression.
“It’s easier when you don’t except it,” Murphy told him, mouth curving into a vicious smile of self-deprecation. He was pleasantly tipsy and in remarkably good humour; such good humour, in fact, that he did not think twice before laying back on Bellamy’s mattress. They had finished the whiskey together, and the bottle sat solemnly on the floor, all too bright and sparkly to fit in with the ramshackle tent. Murphy kicked it over, just ‘cause.
He knew that he should’ve left Bellamy to his own devices. After all, he recognized some social cues, thank you very much – he’d overstayed his welcome. A sardonic farewell rested on the tip of his tongue, but he did not speak. No. Because he didn’t want to leave, not really. Bellamy had been left alone with his thoughts for much too long, and what good had that done for him? It had fucked him up, and he deserved better than that. Things fall apart, and it takes more than one set of trebling hands to pick up the pieces.
“Whatever. It’s late, man. Can I stay here?” The request spilled from his lips like blood from a wound; he could no more stop it than he could have stopped his half-hopeful expression. “I’ll be good, promise.”
He didn’t really know what he intended. Part of him wanted to just lay there with Bellamy: to soak in his transient scent and presence. Other parts of him wanted to continue talking, to help him to sleep. And hell, part of Murphy was on the cusp of trying to kiss him. He’d hoped his feelings for Bellamy would recede after their reunion. But they were still there, perpetual and hot and plastered to his body like a second skin. Sometimes, he stewed in his want until it took all he had not to claw at his skin, to tear up his flesh. It’d be easier if it was just lust. It’d be easier if he didn’t want to do all the things that had once repulsed him. But it didn’t fucking matter. They’d both be dead soon anyway.
Work detail sucked. Murphy nearly considered going back to Camp Jaha, if only to escape his godawful shift. Sure, Monroe and her posse would probably drag his sorry ass back, but it’d be worth it. He was sick of reinforcing the outer wall, and he was sick of spending his day caked with dirt. Hell, he honestly didn’t think his shift could get any shittier, but nope – some idiot kid proved Murphy wrong when they nearly impaled him on some serrated scrap metal. Their stuttered apology fell on deaf ears; Murphy threw them to the ground out of spite, and then clutched his own chest. Damn it. His wound was short and deep, and bled darkly.
Spurred on by an early dismissal from work, Murphy staggered into the stakru’s impromptu medical tent and fumbled around for something to stop the bleeding. He grabbed handfuls of nearby fabric, bunching it up and pressing it to his dripping chest. A dull, throbbing pain pervaded the entire front of his body, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill the kid responsible for his injury.
The tent flap opened; the sound of a newfound presence barely registered before Murphy spun around, glaring. He’d expected that stupid kid to come crawling back with a pathetic apology. Instead, his gaze fell upon another Arker. Huh. Murphy had seen him around before, but had never talked to him.
“That kid stab you too?”
Bellamy couldn’t help a deep sigh at Murphy’s words, he hadn’t exactly planned to enjoy his last days. There was no damn point anyway. Not when everything awful was still going around. “Enjoying things doesn’t exactly fit into my schedule right now, thank you very much,” he huffed. He knew Murphy was only teasing but fuck, how could he even take this so lightly?
He glared down to Murphy, he didn’t like that how he became a bit softer, it was… wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be like that, grinning at him, trying to get him drink like they were damn pals or something. Bellamy wasn’t sure what he was even supposed to think about that. But the offer was still tempting, he just wanted to damn think something else, and he wouldn’t die because of a few sips. That would surely be disappointing, for the Grounders at least. Bellamy shook his head and stood up, grabbing the bottle underneath everything else.
“Fine,” Bellamy sighed and sat back down. He didn’t even grin, he just needed at least something to do and if Murphy was going to behave… well, he would give him a chance. He popped the bottle open before poured some liquid into his mouth, grimaced as it was just so awful he had expected. “Fine. You better start to sing,” he said and handed the whiskey for the other.
Bellamy’s expression sharpened and steeled itself, but Murphy did not break under its pressure. Instead, he watched his dying leader take a deep sip of hundred-year-old whiskey. Bellamy made a face and passed it over. Murphy smirked; he was well acquainted with the acidic taste, and didn’t so much as flinch as he gulped some down. His lower lip lingered on the mouth of the bottle, still warm from Bellamy’s touch. Soon he’d be gone, and the camp would cool in his absence. Fucking great.
Murphy shook that thought from his head and passed the bottle back, before stretching out with all the arrogant, lazy danger of a cat. “Then I’ll sing, your highness,” he deadpanned, before prodding Bellamy’s boot with his foot. He then told a story about Connor, and sniggered at the memory of his abject horror. Sure, Murphy had been even more of a dick back then, but there was no harm in telling the truth. Maybe then, Bellamy would see him as less of a nuisance and more of a human. Not that it should matter – they’d both be soon anyway.
He changed the subject to Mbege. Their foray into causing havoc on the Ground had lasted precisely as long as it took for Charlotte to kill Wells. And still, they’d left their mark on the surface, carving their shared initials into trees, making ugly weapons out of scrap metal, and slipping radioactive frogs into unsuspecting tents. Murphy then talked about how he’d met Mbege in the skybox. The latter was arrested during Murphy’s second year of incarceration, and they became fast friends, armed with the same sardonic sense of humour. Hell, they’d single-handedly made a guard retire. Murphy was partially proud of that feat, and it showed through his embellished recount. He did not, however, mention his crime. He knew that Bellamy used to be a guard, after all.
Some of the topics made him smile, and others made him desperately sad, but still he talked, because he owed Bellamy that. Kind of. Murphy figured that Bellamy probably needed this—needed someone else to take charge for once. And so Murphy talked and talked, and for now, that was enough to protect them from tomorrow. Finally, when the back-and-forth of booze made his cheeks ruddy and his voice dry, he stopped.
“Hey, I think that’s the longest you’ve gone without telling me to shut up.”
I’m bigger than my body.
I’m ｃｏｌｄｅｒ than this home.
I’m ᴍᴇᴀɴᴇʀ than my d e m o n s.
I’m bigger than these bones.