“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.”