http://jchnmurphy.co.vu/

whiskey or man juice?

Sun, 13 Dec 2015 12:58:36 +1100

“Whatever you’re drinking, man —must be pretty wasted to ask me that.”

nalle: John Murphy + red seatbelts

Sun, 29 Nov 2015 18:11:39 +1100

nalle:

John Murphy + red seatbelts

Video

Mon, 23 Nov 2015 20:42:41 +1100

abtbellamy:Bellamy’s fingers wrapped around the bottle as soon as it was handed back, he huffed at...

Mon, 23 Nov 2015 20:31:22 +1100

abtbellamy:

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.

@liamhooleyWork detail sucked. Murphy nearly considered going back to Camp Jaha, if only to escape...

Mon, 23 Nov 2015 16:02:19 +1100

@liamhooley

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?”

I apologize for my silence! I assure you that I am still very much here, and I will get back to...

Sun, 22 Nov 2015 01:59:45 +1100

I apologize for my silence! I assure you that I am still very much here, and I will get back to roleplaying super, super soon. There were further complications with my father’s health, and i’ve been spending almost all my time in hospital with him, hence my absence. I appreciate everyone’s patience and support!

thatmusictasteslikeheaven: My past has tasted bitter for years...

Wed, 18 Nov 2015 09:16:00 +1100

thatmusictasteslikeheaven:

My past has tasted bitter for years now,
So I wield an iron fist
Grace is just weakness
Or so I’ve been told
I’ve been cold, I’ve been merciless
But the blood on my hands scares me to death
Maybe I’m waking up today
I’ll be good, I’ll be good

abtbellamy:Bellamy couldn’t help a deep sigh at Murphy’s words, he hadn’t exactly planned to enjoy...

Tue, 17 Nov 2015 22:45:27 +1100

abtbellamy:

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.”

vvenenamusings: I’m bigger than my body. ...

Mon, 16 Nov 2015 11:58:13 +1100

vvenenamusings:

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.

nalle:Get the hell a w a y from me.

Mon, 16 Nov 2015 11:52:46 +1100

nalle:

Get the hell a w a y from me.

Fists are Better than Tears || Monroe&Murphy

Sun, 15 Nov 2015 21:31:05 +1100

monroe-thesoldier:

Monroe’s teeth were beginning to ache from how tightly they were pressed together. Uncontrollable anger was beginning to seethe inside her, threatening to bubble up and make her snap. Her eyes narrowed at Murphy and she shook her head, refusing to let him go just yet. “Maybe it should be justified if you explode by me asking a simple question. I just wanted to know why.” She swallowed, not caring about the poison in her voice “It’s cowardly. And stupid.”

Maybe could have kept it together if he hadn’t spoken the last part. But the more Murphy went on the more angry and hurt she got until the top of that bottle she pushed her emotions into popped off. How could he go there? How could he say that? The was another pause as the anger visibly rose, showing on her expression and countenance as the girl stiffened. “You-”

Monroe’s voice caught, she was too livid and shocked to form a complete sentence. Her hand balled into a fist and she found herself responding the only way she knew how. The fist was brought up to Murphy’s nose in a quick and flicking motion, making contact with a sickening thud.

Murphy wasn’t new to violence. In fact, he was intimately acquainted with being attacked. He was, however, new to the full brunt of Monroe’s fist. Her knuckles bore into his cartilage, flint on flint, and pain rippled through his face upon impact. Blood dripped from nose and spattered his shirt as he stared at her, wide-eyed and wounded.

This was inevitable. Monroe’s betrayed expression got into his bloodstream; the edges of his vision blurred and blackened slightly, and his nose was crooked and streaming. He tried to muster the conviction he’d felt when he’d decided to stay. He tried to remember his pride and justifications. However, the only thing he remembered was that he was a coward and Monroe was the only thing that made the idea of dying more devastating. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to hit her and make her pay, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t. His emotions were everywhere, everywhere, like a serpent trying to escape him, like he was being consumed. She was right, she was right, he was a coward. Months and months worth of pent of misery poured out of his eyes and skin and mouth.

“What, that’s all you got?” he croaked, and then his voice rose. “You want me to stay, huh? Well what if I can’t? ‘Cause there—there’s so much death, all around me, and I just—I just can’t…I just-” with a hysterical laugh, he instinctively wiped his hand under his nose, and tears gushed over his eyelids and slid down his now blood-smeared cheeks. “I feel it in my Goddamn head and it’s killing me! It’s killing me. That should’ve been my execution.”

Finn’s execution was still a fresh wound, and tied into his low blow regarding Sterling. Despite everything, Raven had been right to offer him up. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he killed Connor and Myles, and tried to hang Bellamy. Murphy wrapped his arms around his stomach until his lungs felt as if they were being wrung out.

“I’ve kept all this inside me for so long, and everything is fucked up and there’s nothing I can do about it,” he shouted. “I’m not allowed to anything, I can’t act out: I’m just supposed to crawl into a hole like the obedient dirt I am and take it. But I can’t do this forever! My father, he—he died for me. And I—I can’t do this forever. I can’t do this forever, I can’t-”

Sexual Healing - flashback

Sun, 15 Nov 2015 09:07:31 +1100

romanthehealer:

Keep reading

“Yeah, right,” Murphy said, unable to make his fingers uncurl; his nails dug into his palm. He cleared his throat and shrugged non-committedly. He’d bathed in front of people before, kind of, if dips in the lake counted. “Whatever you say, doc.”

By some small grace, Roman chose not to comment on Murphy’s scars. He was grateful for that; tension ebbed from his shoulders, and he held out his arm for Roman to inspect. The reprieve was short-lived: he soon spoke of the skaikru and mentioned Monroe, and suddenly Murphy’s heed was reeling. His suspicions were fucking right – Roman didn’t care. He didn’t care. A startled laugh fell from Murphy’s lips.

“Right, thanks,” he said, visibly bemused by Roman’s reaction. Oh thank fuck. “I know how your people treat mine.”

Roman’s hands suddenly found his neck and jaw, and Murphy tensed. The healer’s callouses felt like rope against his throat. He wanted to retaliate, to bite and scratch and claw. Instead, he blinked dumbly as Roman leaned in. They were so close – he could probably hear the way Murphy’s heart pounded against his ribcage, like a feral bird.

And then they were kissing. The healer actually kissed him. Murphy’s eyes widened, his hands fluttering wildly before settling awkwardly onto Roman’s shoulders. He intended to shove Roman away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it; he was too caught up in the brief, chaste sensation. Kissing Roman wasn’t like kissing Mbege back in the skybox, during a hurried moment of experimentation, something he’d rather forget. No, this was entirely different – and fuck, Roman’s lips were so soft. Soft and confusing. Murphy didn’t know how to react. Being slapped would’ve been easier; it felt more natural for people to hurt him.

When Roman drew back, Murphy was blinking at him in shock fast veering into panic. “The hell—” he started, after a moment in which a rapid series of emotions chased each other across his face, “what, is that a Grounder thing?”

And it’s the closest I will get to sincerity. Every praise...

Thu, 12 Nov 2015 04:31:48 +1100

And it’s the closest I will get to sincerity.
Every praise I make just looks so fake and crude to me
And it’s the closest I will come to purity.
Simulations never follow me.
(Do you get it yet?
Can’t you see through this?
You know all too well
You cannot make things perfect.)

abtbellamy:Bellamy huffed at Murphy’s words, he was too tired for this. He was tired of this all, he...

Thu, 12 Nov 2015 04:12:06 +1100

abtbellamy:

Bellamy huffed at Murphy’s words, he was too tired for this. He was tired of this all, he was tired of being scared, thinking what would happen if he just fucking ran away. But he knew what happened, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want that mess when the Grounders would come after him and most likely make his people pay too. He didn’t want them to hurt his people, not anymore. They had killed enough people, both the Grounders and Sky People had. It was time to stop it all.

More importantly, he was already tired of this conversation, glaring… whatever this even was. He couldn’t take these kind of situations anymore, he couldn’t keep telling them that they needed to save themselves, that he was giving them an opportunity and don’t you fucking dare to throw it away. Even Murhpy was going to stay. Bellamy stiffened at that idea, the boy in front of him would be dead as soon as he was gone. Was he really that stupid? Bellamy sighed, he wanted to shake him, tell him he had to at least try, but it wasn’t his choice, it was Murphy’s. He couldn’t tell him what to do and he was tired of trying.

He couldn’t help a small, dry chuckle at Murphy’s question. He hadn’t even touched that, left it underneath all his other things, forgotten it after that. Bellamy sighed and dropped onto the mattress again. “I think I’ve needed it for a long while,” he admitted but didn’t even reach for the pile where his things were, only glared at it with dark eyes. “But it changes nothing anyway so why to bother? Just take it back if you want.”

Despite a dozen death scares, there had always been a sense of intransience to the King, and now the Grounders were going to take that away. Typical. Murphy felt sick to the core. “You’re really shit at this whole enjoying your last days thing, you know?”

Much to Murphy’s surprise, Bellamy didn’t rise for the bait. In fact, there was something unsettling and melancholy about his face; exhaustion bled from his skin, and Murphy could see an ounce of fear within his eyes. The soldier was tired of fighting. Part of Murphy wanted to take advantage of this; longed to hit that vulnerable place inside Bellamy’s head, the place Murphy had been clawing at since he was strung up for nothing. But now, everything was fucked up, and guilt weighed him down: must he insist on making the poor bastard’s short life even more miserable?

In lieu of further bickering, Murphy’s sharp features softened, and he sighed, unmoved by Bellamy’s manifold glare. “I don’t want to take it back.” There was something soft and teasing just below the surface of his words. “Your decision’s ridiculous, but it’s your decision. Let’s drink to it.” He paused and offered a half-hopeful grin, because yeah, maybe he genuinely wanted Bellamy to say yes. “I’ll even tell you all about the time I pissed on Connor.”

Fists are Better than Tears || Monroe&Murphy

Tue, 10 Nov 2015 23:27:24 +1100

monroe-thesoldier:

Monroe’s teeth pressed together tighter at Murphy’s words as comprehension entered her eyes. There was a silent pause, filled with the sound of her quickening breath. She shook her head at him and didn’t even try to mask the betrayed expression on her face. How could he? Murphy was one of the only friends she had left. The only one that understood.

“You two…” she muttered, failing to keep the pain out of her voice. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t sure she wanted to understand how he could stay and align himself with people like Kane, with people who were willing to look the other way at mass murder. Monroe still gripped Murphy’s sleeve, trying to even out her voice. “Why?”

“Oh come on, I don’t have to justify anything to you!” snapped Murphy, trying not to under Monroe’s harrowing stare; those eyes, struck with betrayal, were on the verge of a catastrophe. She gripped his sleeve – a familiar gesture that soured into something painful.

Murphy’s thoughts were mangled stands, torn to shred and spilling around him - like blood. He had always resented the Hundred for the way they excluded him. But not Monroe. No, Murphy enjoyed her company, enjoyed her subtle humour which was almost on par with his own, her empathy which made him think of better times, and even her anger, for it was something familiar to him. But regardless of their comradery, Murphy was full of sharp edges. Monroe had finally been cut.

Murphy was sick of living his life like an apology. And this was his last shot at redemption. If he remained, if he fought, then his sacrifice would wash away all the wrongs that he’d done; if his father and Bellamy had done it, then why couldn’t he? He wasn’t a coward.

“What do you care? Look, If I stay, you’ll get over it,” He wasn’t a coward. He kept telling himself this. He cared about her. And maybe that’s why he was so fucking driven to drive her away. He could lose himself, but he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t—he couldn’t lose her too. “I’m not Sterling. You’ll forget I was even here.”

thepietracastro: Pietra resisted a sigh and looked up when the person spoke again, recognizing the...

Tue, 10 Nov 2015 20:08:16 +1100

thepietracastro:

Pietra resisted a sigh and looked up when the person spoke again, recognizing the voice of one of the delinquents. She eyed the young man a moment, taking a few seconds to remember his name. Murphy. Or at least that’s what she thought it was, keeping up with everyone was hard, especially when she really interacted with any of them.

“I’m sorry?” she said after a moment and placed her pen down. She was bewildered as to what he could want from her, generally everyone was going to the weapons room for anything pertaining to Grounders. “Can I…help you?”

Murphy stepped away from the door while Pietra frowned at him. Her confusion was to be expected; most of the remaining sky people wanted nothing to do with the science division. They were too busy defending Kane or preparing for the inevitable. Murphy, however, intended to outlive most of the skaikru – and that is why he needed poison. Sure, he loved guns, loved how powerful they made him feel, but he did not trust them. If either of his firearms ran out of bullets, the Grounders would eat him alive. Poison, however, would make his dull knife much deadlier. He’d be able to defend himself without guns.

“Yeah, you can,” said Murphy. Without asking, he leaned against Pietra’s bench and surveyed her work. There were numerous illustrations. They were pretty, kind of. However, Pietra’s handwriting was an incomprehensible smear. Sure, Murphy could decipher it if he truly focused, but the larger part of his attention was devoted to the task at hand. “Do you know what Grounders use on their knives?”

OMAM Modern AU || John Murphy That barista just wrote “bygones”...

Tue, 10 Nov 2015 14:38:52 +1100

OMAM Modern AU || John Murphy

That barista just wrote “bygones” on my cup, do you think it’s poisoned?

Photo

Mon, 09 Nov 2015 06:30:19 +1100

abtbellamy:“Do you think I want this?” Bellamy growled. He couldn’t believe Murphy had bothered to...

Mon, 09 Nov 2015 05:57:32 +1100

abtbellamy:

“Do you think I want this?” Bellamy growled. He couldn’t believe Murphy had bothered to come just to damn whine about this, about how he was going to leave them when all he was trying to do was to save these innocent ones Kane couldn’t care any less! He owed them all this, he had got them this far, this damn far, and he wasn’t going to back down just because… just because this would be his end. These people would get another chance as the Stageda, they would be accepted by other clans and that was all he could offer to them.

He frowned at Murphy’s mention that the boy might stay at the camp. He needed to admit he wasn’t exactly surprised but he had still hoped for something more. Murphy had gone through so many things, so many bad things he could hardly even imagine, and now he was going to stay and get killed? Why? Because he was damn stubborn.

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Should I be touched?” Bellamy huffed and turned away. He didn’t like this, this all “please Bell I can’t lose you” crap. That was bullshit. They would get over it, every each one of them would get over it and survive if they just fucking wanted to do that. “You of all people should already know this world doesn’t care about what you want. And it’s not like I’m fucking irreplaceable! I’ve got us all this far but it’s my time to finally do something to stop Kane fucking everything up. If they want my head, they’re going to get it without having to cut others’ first.”

“Yeah, you should be touched. That means no mercy kill,” Murphy smirked, gaze hopeless as he looked toward the ground. He couldn’t remember what he’d wanted out of this talk, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. He cut his eyes back up, and stared into Bellamy’s for a second. Eye contact, a dangerous thing. His eyes were dark and heavy-rimmed, and there was a dazed quality beneath his immediate agitation; he probably hadn’t slept for days. “Me of all people…” he echoed, acidly, actively trying to distract himself from his budding concern. But Bellamy had a point – as per fucking always. He was doomed either way. There was no point.

“That’s your ego talking, Blake—I never said you were irreplaceable,” Murphy deflected, a little too quickly; it was a blatant lie. Bellamy was a total dick, and a slave to mob mentality, but he was also a martyr with constellations for freckles and a voice like dark matter. Even Murphy could see how irreplaceable, how rare and matchless Bellamy was, and it filled him with inexplicable dread.

Murphy didn’t know what he felt for Bellamy. He had no point of reference. It was solid and dull and constant, like a fungus, festering and refusing to leave. It throbbed in his chest like a living thing, and it usually hurt but sometimes it didn’t. He thought it had receded, had faded since he’d busied himself with medial chores. But it was always fucking there, perpetual and hot and plastered to his body like a second skin.

Murphy calmed down a bit. His concern returned, and he softened his scowl into a well-meaning sigh. “It doesn’t matter. You still have that whiskey I gave you?” he asked, unabashed about changing the topic. He took a step back from Bellamy and sat on his mattress; he’d been on shift all day, “You look like you need it.”

abtbellamy:Bellamy let out a tired huff at Murphy’s words. He wished he would have a good answer to...

Mon, 09 Nov 2015 01:11:23 +1100

abtbellamy:

Bellamy let out a tired huff at Murphy’s words. He wished he would have a good answer to that, he wanted to somehow justify this situation but it was impossible. This was unfair but this was all he could do after everything that had happened. The Grounders wouldn’t let him go, not anymore, and he wasn’t going to run like a scared rabbit. “That Grounder bitch is their queen, they want justice to her. It’s just matter of time if they get me now or later. The little queen wants my blood, she shall get it.”

He tried to keep his voice still, heartless. He wanted to talk about his future like it wouldn’t matter to him, like none of this would matter. Because if he… if he admitted how fucking scared he was, how the nightmares were always reaching for him, he wouldn’t handle it. And Murphy wasn’t doing anything to help him. Bellamy knew damn well what they had done to Murphy, what they were going to do for him. That would be just much, much worse. Murphy had got out of there alive… he wouldn’t.

“It doesn’t matter!” Bellamy exclaimed, stepped closer to the younger boy. “None of that matters anymore. I’ve sealed my deal, it’s the only way to save even some of us. If I didn’t agree to this, they would’ve killed everyone. Do you want that?” He glared down to him, he didn’t need this. God, he seriously didn’t need this now, not from Murphy. “I do what I have to do. A leader protects his people. I don’t have any other choice.”

Bellamy encroached on Murphy’s space, glaring down with tired eyes, and it felt natural and easy. The animosity was familiar; soon Bellamy would be gone, and there would be no one left to make Murphy feel this alive. He tried to picture Bellamy going off to be tortured by the Grounders. Every time he tried, though, he could only see the man who’d led them through hell; everything he was and everything he could be; every reckless choice and broken promise; every hard-won survival.

“So that it, huh? You go off, and what, we get rounded up? Hope for the best?” asked Murphy, voice breaking patchily. No, there was nothing left for him with the Stageda. He’d stay at Camp Jaha—not despite everything, but because of it. “Fine. Fine. Some of them are going to stay, you know. And I guess I will too. I have nothing better to do.”

Murphy smirked at that, but none of the mirth touched his eyes. He thought back to Bellamy, strung up and hanging from a noose of red seat-belts – and how Murphy had later hauled Bellamy’s useless ass up the side of a cliff with those same belts. Most things happened so damn fast, and yet there was never enough time left. Time destroyed everything its path, and soon it would erase any remnants of Bellamy’s existence.

“This is fucking ridiculous.” Murphy blurted out without any warning or comprehension at all. “This would be so much easier if I actually wanted you to die. I used to, you know? And now I — I don’t, and — shit, you’re an asshole, Blake, but I can’t lose you too. ”