Chapter Text
Bellamy kisses him.
Wells didn’t expect it. He’s not sure when the mood changed, because the part of his brain that isn’t completely incapacitated by exhaustion was too focused on how utterly beautiful Bellamy is. It’s something he’s always known, of course, but endless work days, back pains that won’t let him sleep and the inescapable knowledge that Bellamy is in his house, waking up and going to sleep under his sheets, so close yet utterly not his, ended up eating away at his restraint. When he fell on top of him, face mere inches from his, it was hard to think about anything other than the freckles scattered across his cheeks, the scar above his lip and the smell of his skin – hardwood and citrus.
He already couldn’t resist when Bellamy brushed his nose against his, diving in to smell and touch more of him – barely, still feeling like he didn’t have the right to.
So of course, when Bellamy presses a kiss first at the seam of his lips, then square on his mouth, Wells restraint completely yields.
Bellamy’s kiss is not hesitant, but it’s light, and Wells pushes back with a bit more strength, cupping his cheek in one hand and supporting himself on the other one to settle more comfortably on the couch, legs on each side of him. Bellamy sighs in the kiss, opening his mouth invitingly and Wells tilts his head to slide his tongue inside, kisses him breathless.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He’s been wanting this so much that it’s hard to think past the softness of Bellamy’s hair and the warmth of his skin under his fingers. He sighs when Bellamy wraps one arm around him to caress the length of his back, his other hand settling behind his neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin under his ear.
When he pulls slightly away to suck at Bellamy’s lower lip, the latter lets out a soft sound, between a sigh and a moan. Wells opens his eyes to look at him then – his dazed look, the slight flush of his skin and his wet, shiny lips.
He is so beautiful.
He tells him just that.
Bellamy looks startled, seems to look for confirmation in his eyes, a sign that he means it. Wells doesn’t know if he finds it. All he knows is the feel of Bellamy’s hands on his cheeks when he pulls him back to him. Wells loses himself in his kisses, a sense of urgency thrumming in his bones, afraid, for some reason, that this will end. He kisses Bellamy deep and hard, nibbles the side of his jaw and buries his face in the crook of his neck to kiss the supple skin there down to his collarbones. Bellamy arches into him, and Wells switches position to settle between his legs instead.
A faint ringing sound echoes in the large living room. Both of them ignore it.
“Your shirt” he mutters, pulling impatiently on the fabric, heat spreading in every corner of his body. Bellamy nods, pressing open mouthed kisses against Wells’ neck while simultaneously trying to take off his own shirt, which does not work out very well. Somewhere near the kitchen, the ringing sound grows louder. “What –” Bellamy starts but Wells, determined to get him out of his shirt, slides his hands against the sleep-warm skin of his stomach and his chest – remembering that morning in the hotel room, when something could almost have happened – and Bellamy shudders out a low, long sigh.
Wells is so turned on.
He bends down to kiss him again, but the ringing is getting louder and Bellamy can’t seem to ignore it anymore. “Wait up, Wells, wait – that’s my phone.”
“I know.”
“I – wait, I should pick this up. It’s the ringtone I set for Miller. He wouldn’t call me at this hour if something wasn’t wrong.”
“… Okay.”
Wells pulls away, kneeling back between Bellamy’s legs. The latter’s shirt is rucked up all the way past his nipples, a soft trail of hair running from his navel to inside his pants, and Wells feels another spike of hot want shoot through him. Unfortunately, he can’t do much about it anymore. He wants to suggest that Miller might be drunk, or wanting to chat but he knows it’s not true because at this hour the bar is probably a full house.
Now that they’re not touching anymore, Wells feels his hesitations and insecurities flood back in. Bellamy’s slowly getting off the couch, observing him with considerate eyes, and Wells feels awful. Since they made that drunken mess back in Light City, Bellamy has been giving and giving, not getting anything in return. He agreed to put on an act, moved out of his house, and a little voice in the back of Wells’ mind starts wondering what the events that just unfolded meant to him. Maybe he was just fooling around, and Wells will scare him away with his feelings.
Bellamy’s life has been thrown to the media, and although he’s the one doing a favor, he’s not the one with the credibility or the power to fight back. Maybe now that he’s lost control over even where he chooses to live, at least on an unconscious level … he felt pressured to do it.
It’s not very rational. Wells is aware of that. He didn’t make up Bellamy’s hands on his arms, his back, his neck, his nails clipped short grappling against his skin for purchase, tongue licking inside his mouth. Now that this has happened, a lot of what he’d thought was Bellamy taking his role seriously or him being friendly seems like it could have been the other man trying to get closer to him. It doesn’t sound so crazy.
Still, as Bellamy hastily fixes his clothes and runs out the door, jacket in hand, after a confused explanation about ‘goddamn Murphy’, Wells finds he can’t keep his thoughts from circling around the idea that this was too good to be true, and it will never turn into what he wishes it could be.
The sun has barely started ascending in the sky, the few scattered low-hanging clouds above the buildings tinted in pink and orange hues, when Bellamy comes back. Wells ended up sleeping on the couch, facing the door. He startles awake when the other man comes in.
“Bellamy?”
No answer but a weary sigh. Bellamy turns on the lights in the kitchen and immediately starts looking for food, but Wells catches a glimpse of what his face looks like and adrenaline spikes through his blood. He jumps on his feet, goes to turn on all the lights and walks briskly up to him.
“Bellamy!”
Half of his face is covered with red runs. Wells thinks for a second that he’s bleeding, but quickly realizes that it’s dried blood, smeared here and there like someone wanted to clean him up but couldn’t be bothered to actually put in the effort. Pushing the dark locks falling over Bellamy’s forehead out of the way, Wells discovers stitches above his left brow. There’s also a large bruise covering his right cheekbone, and scratches all over his neck and arms.
“What the hell happened?”
“A stupid fight. Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” Bellamy mutters, calmly shaking him off. He makes for the fridge but Wells stops him.
“Nothing?! You’re bleeding.”
“I was bleeding.”
“Whatever, you’re hurt! Stop acting like it doesn’t matter!”
Silence follows his outburst. It’s so quiet Wells can hear his heart clambering up his throat. Bellamy’s looking at him now, slightly startled. “Wells” he says quietly, placing both hands on Wells’ shoulders. “I really am fine. An ex-employee who wasn’t happy about being fired went to the bar with his buddies to sack the place. Miller and his boys are tough but there weren’t a lot of them” he explains slowly and with a reassuring, earnest look. That calms Wells down a little. He wants to brush the hair off of Bellamy’s forehead again, but the strange distance in Bellamy’s eyes dissuades him.
“They could’ve called the police” he murmurs instead. It’s selfish, but … Bellamy’s hurt.
“Eh.” Bellamy shrugs. “Murphy’s an old acquaintance from when we were kids. We don’t really care about him but I don’t think I would’ve called the police on him either.”
“He attacked you guys.” Wells pauses. Bellamy never actually said that. “Didn’t he?”
That gets a small, tired laugh out of the other man. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. I don’t go around beating people up.” He hesitates there, then adds: “Not anymore.”
You did before? Wells thinks. He doesn’t get to ask. Bellamy steps back abruptly, face twisted by an emotion Wells can’t decipher. “The emergency services cleaned up my wound and all the scratches. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“What if he comes after you again?”
“God, Wells, it’s not that serious. Murphy got drunk or angry and made a ruckus. It’s his modus operandi. He’s got nothing to seek out revenge for, he’s the one who drew the cops there with all his screaming and breaking stuff. The idiot probably doesn’t even have enough to pay Miller back.”
“I thought you didn’t call the cops.”
Wells is hovering at a safe distance from Bellamy now, who, he notices, is acting a little skittish and looking at him as little as possible.
“I didn’t, the neighbors did. I told you, he took it too far.”
“Alright.”
Wells doesn’t know what else to say. Bellamy starts slicing fruits, visibly trying to end the conversation, and Wells decides to grant him that. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He doesn’t think Bellamy’s lying about what happened, but his coolness, despite the fact that they were kissing and making out a few hours before, is getting to him. He’s probably in shock, despite his tough guy act, he reasons, and decides to let him get some rest.
When Wells steps out of the apartment later in the morning, Bellamy is laying on the couch.
“Have a nice day” he calls.
Bellamy doesn’t answer. His shoulders are stiff in a way that indicates he’s probably not sleeping though. Wells decides to humor him, closing the front door behind as quietly as possible, and leaves for work with a heavy heart.
He tries to focus. He does. However, nothing – not the perspective of a new, big contract, nor the fascinating new environment-friendly house models Raven presents him – manages to take his mind off Bellamy Blake. Wells has tried calling, he’s tried texting, but all he’s gotten back is silence and curt, dismissive text messages. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Did he really lie about what happened last night, or is he just regretting what they did?
By 10 am, anxiety gets the best of him and he resolves to call Miller. At first he thinks of calling the bar, but Bellamy works lunchtime and might already be there. Then he remembers what Raven said about seeing Gina Martin. Gina, who knows Bellamy. Maybe, with a little luck, she could help him.
She can. She knows Miller fairly well – Bellamy encouraged the staff to ‘finance his best friend’s retirement’ when the bar opened – and easily surrenders his phone number.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hey. It’s me. Wells?”
“Jaha?” Miller sounds surprised.
“Yes. So… I know it’s not technically my business, but I heard there was a fight last night…?”
“Ah, yeah. God damn Murphy. Nothing too special. Why?”
“Bellamy was hurt.”
Miller chuckles. “We all were. There were five of them and three of us. Bellamy’s good, but he’s not that good. It was nothing serious though, except his busted eyebrow arch. I made sure it was taken care of.”
“He still bled pretty badly” Wells points out tersely, but immediately feels bad, and adds, apologetic: “What about you? You’re okay, right?”. Miller just laughs again, confusing Wells, and confirms that yes, he is okay.
“So it was really just that? Nothing else happened.” Wells licks his lips. “He seemed … I don’t know, he seemed off. I thought maybe –“
“Look, Jaha. I like you guys, I really do, but I’m busy” he interrupts, before adding, sounding weirdly gleeful: “If you’re so worried about Bellamy, confront him. I’m not sure why he’s all mopey, but the best way to find out is still to ask him.”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” Wells asks miserably, not expecting an answer and vaguely aware of how pathetic he is.
They’re not even friends.
Wells’ day goes by awfully slowly. He spends half of it staring at his cellphone, and the other half sighing into oblivion. He wants to care about Raven’s disapproving glances when he excuses himself from a meeting with their promotion team to try calling Bellamy once more – she doesn’t deserve all his drama – but he can’t. He can’t, just like he can’t stop his thoughts from ramping up from ‘bad’ to ‘worse’.
Maybe Bellamy regrets making out with him.
Maybe he did it because it was fun and now he’s uncomfortable at the idea that Wells might read too much into it.
Maybe he’s worried Wells might mess with his life if he doesn’t give him what he wants.
“You’re being absurd. This guy went up against your father when he was just a security guard. You really think he’s afraid of your family’s power? You think he’s afraid of you?” Raven admonishes him while he’s getting ready to leave the office. She’s rolling around in her office chair, a pen between her teeth, eyes both critical and worried.
Wells shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, Rae. You’re probably right.”
“Then what’s wrong with you?”
Wells stops shoving files in his suitcase and thinks about it for a long minute. He’s not sure ‘what’s wrong’ with him, exactly, but if he had to take a close, real look at the whirlwind of emotions that has settled in his head the past few weeks, along with the desire, the joy, the adoration that Bellamy inevitably awoke in him, there was another powerful feeling gripping at his gut. He wets his lips and turns to really look at her.
“…I’m scared.”
She frowns at that, but doesn’t say anything at first, simply considering him from where she’s sitting. Finally, she pushes herself off the chair, hands flat against her desk for support, and walks up to him with her usual slight limp.
“This isn’t about him not really liking you, is it?” she sighs. “Maybe it was” she adds when he opens his mouth to protest “but clearly you’ve got hope on that front. No, this is about you having to choose between him and your father.”
“Not everything is about my father” Wells mutters, not very keen on hearing another one of Raven’s psychological analyses, which are … well, usually they’re spot-on.
He’s just a big fan of ignoring his family issues until they go away. Or bury him dead. He’s not choosy.
“This one is.” She leans back against his desk. “Look, I get it. I’m always criticizing and making fun of you about that, but the truth is, I do get it. You and your father are a team. You’ve been a team since your mother died. He had big dreams and you believed in him. You still do, and you want to help him, but you’re afraid of Bellamy getting hurt by being with you. You’re afraid of him leaving you because he can’t accept your choices. You’re afraid of your father turning his back on you.”
It’s all true, of course – no one knows him better than Raven – but it all leads to Wells having to examine certain aspects of his relationship with his father he didn’t really want to get into. It’s not that – he’s not blind. It’s been worrying him since his father asked him to marry Clarke, and he knows him claiming he wants to truly be with Bellamy will shed more light on cracks he doesn’t want to look at. But …
Wells thinks of Bellamy – his smiles, the cocky one when he’s bragging, the embarrassed one, the bright and open one. He thinks of his grumpiness in the morning, of the warm, pliant weight of his body against his shoulder when they’re watching TV at night. He thinks of the man who lost his job to boastful bravado but also because he fought for his friends, the man who sacrificed his private life to fix a mistake they both made, without ever complaining.
He wants this. If there’s a chance to make it work, he wants to take it.
“Look” Raven says again, pulling him out of his thoughts. “There’s only one question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to be with Bellamy? If he wanted you too, would you give it a shot?”
“Yes” he answers without hesitation. “Yeah, I would.”
“You wouldn’t give it up for your father’s sake? You’re sure?”
He did so for others. Then there were the ones he held onto, but who ended up leaving anyway.
He’s ready to try again. If Bellamy’s willing.
“I’m sure.”
“Then you’re all good. Focus on the two of you” she smiles. “And Wells … a team is all about mutual support. If your dad really sees things as you do, he’ll support your relationship.”
Wells knows that. He knows that’s how it should be. He doesn’t think that’s how it will be though, and that’s what scares him. That’s what hurts.
“We need to talk.”
Wells isn’t sure it’s the best way to start a conversation, not when Bellamy’s been avoiding him, but he knows he can’t keep on chickening out forever. Their evening last night was awful, Wells making miserable attempts at recovering at least their usual friendly banter, and Bellamy looking somewhere between sad and uncomfortable, like he was expecting bad news. Wells seized the couch, Bellamy shuffled into the bedroom, and that was it. Today’s dinner was as awkward as the last, and … it’s time. It’s make or break.
“Bellamy, I need to talk to you” he insists when the other man keeps busying himself around the living room – cleaning and organizing things again and again – pretending not to have heard him.
Bellamy looks in his general direction, but not quite at him, for a moment before sighing: “Alright” and plopping down onto the couch. Wells goes over to him and sits crossed legs on the other side of the coffee table.
They’re both silent for a long minute, until Wells says: “I like you” at the same time Bellamy mutters “I’m sorry”.
They stare.
“You like me” Bellamy says in a breath. It’s not a question. He looks – not surprised, exactly, but worried. As if he’s expecting Wells to take it back or immediately follow with a more depressing annoucement.
“I do. Why are you sorry?” Wells inquires, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Bellamy, what’s wrong?” he insists when the other doesn’t answer. Finally, he edges: “Do you have … regrets?” That gets a bitter laugh out of Bellamy, who runs a hand over his face.
“God, of course I have regrets, Wells. We’ve been doing so well, and I just had to go and make everything complicated. I should’ve found a way to calm Murphy down back at the bar. The point of this all is to protect your reputation, but now they all think you married a gangster.”
Wells is confused at first, but he follows Bellamy’s stare to the stack of tabloid magazines and more legitimate newspapers laid out on one side of the table. It’s been there since they started this, the both of them casually monitoring what was said about them, Bellamy genuinely wanting to help and Wells making sure the whole thing wasn’t getting too intrusive for him. He hasn’t looked at it for over a week, but he sees now that Bellamy has bought the newest edition of the Arkadia Daily. The cover page is a picture of police officers taking a lanky, dark-haired white man away. In the background, Bellamy is sitting in the back of an ambulance, getting his cut cleaned up. The picture is a little blurry, but he’s recognizable, a red circle drawn around his face making sure the reader doesn’t miss him. The title reads “Wells Jaha’s husband: Cinderella, or just a thug?” in bold yellow letters. Underneath it, the magazine dramatically wonders how Thelonious Jaha could have shared pie with such a suspicious individual.
Bellamy’s playing with his hands, frowning and refusing to meet Wells’ eyes. “I’m sorry” he repeats, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in himself.
Anger flares hot and red inside Wells’ chest, but not at Bellamy.
“Don’t. Don’t apologize.”
He rounds the table to sit next to the other man, hands going up to frame his face. “If anything, I’m sorry, Bellamy. I told you this before, I never wanted this for you. You’re helping me, and all you’re getting in return are scavengers waiting for an opportunity to make money off your private life.”
“This is bad” Bellamy insists.
“I don’t care. So you grew up in a bad neighborhood with a few sketchy guys. So what? You went out there to protect your friend and his livelihood. I don’t care what they say about me and I won’t let them dirty your name. I’ll give an interview, make a statement, organize a damn press conference if I have to, but –” he cuts himself off and wets his lips. Bellamy’s skin is warm under his fingers. He slides his hands down to settle them on each side of his neck, thumb brushing the underside of his jaw.
“Please don’t apologize for who you are.”
They quietly stare at each other for a moment, before Wells bows his head a little and murmurs: “I’m sorry too.”
“I knew what I was getting into” Bellamy repeats for the umpteenth time, although now they both know that’s not exactly true. “It’s getting old, Wells.”
“I meant what we did. Kissing and the rest.” He doesn’t get an answer, so he barrels on, wanting to be, for once, as honest and clear as possible. “I don’t regret it myself. It’s just – I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me anything, or like it has to mean something.” He looks into Bellamy’s eyes. “It does to me, just to be clear. I – I like you.” He stammers that last bit embarrassingly. “But if you’d rather forget about it –” Wells can’t finish his sentence. He gets a little choked up, and it’s annoying, because he was planning on being cool until the end and act like he could take rejection graciously. How is Bellamy meant to believe that if he’s being like this?
As of now, he doesn’t know what Bellamy believes though, because he’s staring at him with raised eyebrows and unreadable eyes. Finally, he asks: “Was that why?”
“… Why what?”
“I’ve been trying to make this happen since basically the beginning.” He leans back a little, hands moving in frustrated gestures. “One moment I felt like you were really into me, the other you were pulling away. I ended up thinking I was making it all up. Was that why you were playing yo-yo with me?”
Wells feels his blood rush to his face. “You- you were? I thought you – I didn’t think it was that. I mean, I wasn’t sure. I thought –”
“And you think I would force myself to make out with you because I’m scared of your father? Honestly, I don’t know what part of that concept is more offensive.” He doesn’t look happy. Wells suddenly feels stupid, and doesn’t know what to say. He rakes his brain for a way to recover.
He settles on the truth.
“I know it’s stupid” he admits, letting his hands fall off Bellamy’s shoulders. The other man catches them and holds them in his lap, despite still looking sullen. Wells is a little relieved. “I think I was just too scared to believe that I could have something that would be good and mine again. I was scared you wouldn’t want me, scared you’d leave even if you did, scared that my father wouldn’t accept this. I was being a coward, honestly.” He wets his lips. “And I didn’t want to pressure you. Really. I’m not looking down on you, it’s just – you’re basically stuck here.”
“I’m not afraid of your father, of all people.”
“I know. I still felt like every step of this – of what we’re doing, it was taking control away from you and I didn’t want to –“
“Wells.” Bellamy cocks his head to the side to study his face; brings a hand up to stroke a thumb along his cheekbone. “You weren’t being a coward; you were measuring the weight of your actions. That’s what adults do. But I’m a grown man, and if you think I might be uncomfortable with something, you tell me about it. Don’t be a silent hero. Especially when there’s no one to save.” He smirks. “And pro-tip” he announces, “if I kiss you first, chances are I’m not uncomfortable with the concept of, you know. Kissing you.”
Wells laughs and pushes his face into Bellamy’s hand with a sigh.
“If anything” the other man murmurs, scooting closer to him, “Shouldn’t I be the one worried about pressuring you? I’m the one doing the favor here after all.”
Wells kisses the tip of his fingers, the inside of his palm, of his wrist. “No”, he murmurs against Bellamy’s skin “it’s all good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I like you too, by the way.”
“Okay.”
Wells thinks his heart might just burst out of his chest.
Kissing this time feels different to Wells. It doesn’t feel like he’s stealing a moment – like maybe the world had a second of inattention and accidentally gave him what he wanted. He’s sure of himself, of being wanted back, and he knows they have time to figure this out. They kiss slow and tender, Bellamy coaxing his mouth open and sighing against his tongue.
Wells runs his hands slowly down the planes of Bellamy’s chest and stomach, letting himself feel the fast, deep thrumming of his heart, the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton undershirt, the way his muscles clench under his touch.
“Bellamy” he whispers when the other man is peppering his throat with wet kisses that send shudders down his spine. “Hm?” Bellamy answers, pressing a light kiss in the hollow between his collarbones. He’s taken off Wells’ tie and is halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.
“Haven’t you had enough of this couch?”
Bellamy looks up to him, eyes dark behind his eyelashes, and smiles wide and bright, taking Wells’ breath away.
“I sure have.”
The first time they make love, it’s slow and sweet, each of them trying to draw it out for as long as possible, trying to reassure each other that yes, this is real. This means something. Wells shudders as Bellamy’s hands roam hungrily over all the skin he can reach. He drinks in the way he looks and sounds under him – how he arches up against him when Wells sucks the skin right under his jaw and moans when he pinches his nipple.
“I’m happy” he whispers, and Bellamy smiles, soft and genuine, before leaning up to kiss him again.
Wells thought that actually dating Bellamy simply meant making what they were faking, real.
As it turns out, it’s much better than that.
He likes him – likes a thousand things about him. However Wells also realizes they still have a lot to learn about each other. It doesn’t worry him. It’s thrilling, actually, and every little thing he notices about his boyfriend – his husband? The word feels way too heavy – fills him with warmth. After weeks spent pretending to be a couple, this is what makes him happiest. Bellamy got to know his life for the sake of their act, but Wells didn’t really get a chance to do the same.
“Hey” he greets with a smile when Bellamy pulls up in front of his office. He climbs into the old Rover Jeep after throwing his garment bag and suitcase on the backseat, all the while ignoring Raven’s wolf whistles from one of the 1st floor windows.
“Good day at the office?” Bellamy asks, craning his neck trying to spot Raven.
“Yeah.” Wells pulls Bellamy in by the lapels of his leather jacket and kisses him sweetly. When he draws away, Bellamy’s smiling, a little embarrassed. He gruffly tells him to buckle his seatbelt. Wells has noticed that he’s been a bit shier since they got together. He’s not that good with being vulnerable in front of others, Wells realizes. He thinks of the open, almost desperate look on Bellamy’s face when they make love, and can’t help but lean over to kiss him again.
The drive to Bellamy’s house is nice and quiet, although anticipation is thrumming in Wells’ bones at the idea of visiting the place where Bellamy grew up. He only ever saw the front of it on pictures in magazines.
Clearly they come from wildly different environments. The neighborhood is not exactly the poorest of the city, but it’s still located in South Arkadia, and it shows. The streets are narrow, there are holes in the cement of the curb and of the road and a few streetlamps are malfunctioning. The houses too are narrow, and small. Still, all the metallic gates are barbed and covered with chains. It’s a world away from the wide, sunlit white-fenced suburban houses and the cozy residential buildings Wells has always inhabited.
The small garden is nothing spectacular but it’s clean, as is the house. The furniture is either cheap or home-made, and Wells imagines a younger Bellamy putting together slightly crooked chairs or stools. He wants to see pictures. It’s all wood or fake-wood, painted in deep blue, while the walls are white or light brown
There are pictures hanging off the far wall of the living room, and Wells looks on curiously.
“Your mother?” he calls, pointing at a woman with dark brown hair on one of the oldest-looking pictures.
“Yup” Bellamy confirms, coming to stand next to him. Wells hums, and Bellamy grins: “Are you about to tell me she’s beautiful?”
Wells smiles back. “Would you like that?”
“Why does everyone’s dead mom have to be beautiful?” It’s a subject they’re both comfortable with by now. “She looked okay, I guess. She had a nice smile.”
“Yeah, she did.”
They stare in silence at the pictures for a moment. Bellamy’s sister Octavia is on the pictures as well, but neither of them comment on it. It’s the first time Wells sees her face, though. They don’t look much alike, but their posture on some of the pictures suggest he’d find more similarities in their mannerism.
He charms Bellamy into showing him a family album so he can see more. It’s mostly pictures of him and his sister; half of their mother’s look like she was photographed by surprise.
A few kid’s drawings are hanging off another wall. “Yeah, um, that’s O’s. I put the rest away, but – it’s kind of part of the house’s ornament at this point.” ‘O’ is probably Octavia. Bellamy looks fine being on his own now, but it must be sad, living alone in a house that used to be fuller.
Wells is glad they’re together.
He gets the full tour of the house. Everything is quaint and perfectly organized, like Wells’ place since Bellamy moved in. He tells him he’s been taking care of the house since he was eight; it’s a habit by now. They take a look at the bedrooms and finally they get to the garage.
“I don’t actually use it to park my car, I leave it in the alleyway. The garage is more like a storage room.”
He opens the door, turns on the light … and an innumerable number of pieces of furniture welcome them. They’re all made of hardwood. Machines he assumes are used to cut and polish the material are sitting in the far right corner. Wells coughs a little at the sawdust floating in the air, blinking up at the piles of design chairs piled up on a wide table. Some of them have patterns carved into them, others are tended with cloth or old tapestry.
“Wow” he breathes.
Bellamy laughs, sounding a little nervous. “Is that a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow’?”
Putting a hand on his waist, Wells murmurs: “You show me?”
And Bellamy does, eyes more alive than Wells has ever seen them. He goes on and on about which design currents he likes and which ones he thinks will take off again, explains the kind of wood he uses and the kind he wishes he could afford, how the machines work, and Wells listens carefully because this, he realizes, isn’t just what he happened to learn in school.
This is important to him.
Besides, Wells makes houses. It’s not that far off.
“That’s your passion. I didn’t realize.”
“Yeah” Bellamy agrees quietly.
They’re lying next to each other on the bed in Bellamy’s bedroom, which used to be his mother’s.
“What do you want to do with it?”
“Start my own business. Sell them.”
“I see” Wells murmurs. They’ve spent almost an hour in that garage. He likes the pieces, actually loves some of them, and Bellamy is clearly talented at the craft. He wonders if that could work out. Bellamy seems to read his thoughts, because he chuckles. “Are you worried I’m being too much of a dreamer? Don’t worry, I’m not going to stop working and burn all my savings in a risky business. I’ve got stock, I can go slow. And I know what fighting scrape and nails to get what you want feels like.” He turns his head to look at Wells and swallows hard, face suddenly serious. “And I know sometimes you just don’t get it. Trust me on that.”
There’s an edge to Bellamy’s voice that makes Wells roll on his side and caress his face softly. “Well you’ve got me” he murmurs, then kisses him soft and slow.
Time goes by, and Wells thinks they’re as happy as they could be at the moment. He gets to spend his evenings, nights and mornings with Bellamy. They keep going on dates, minding the press even less than they previously did. It’s not like there’s much to write about them anyway. ‘Newsflash: married couple is in love.’ Nothing exciting. A few tabloids relay the information that their passion seems to have kicked up a notch since the ‘bar incident’ and wonder if it’s a result of Wells’ ‘chivalrous defense’ of his husband.
Although Miller also confirmed what happened on TV – which Bellamy didn’t like, not wanting to involve his friend in their drama – he did give several interviews, including a TV one, to clarify what had happened. Bellamy watched the whole thing, which was embarrassing, especially because he got carried away and declared that Bellamy Blake was ‘a beautiful and giving person’ to the people he loves, that he ‘risked his safety for his friend’ and he wasn’t going to allow news media to ‘slander his husband for ratings.’
Bellamy laughed at him. He also kissed him. In Wells’ opinion, it was an overall success.
The first meeting between Bellamy and Raven is a bit less of a success, mostly because it’s not actually their first, and the actual one at the town hall was, by all accounts, not that great. Wells doesn’t really know what to do.
As it turns out, there’s nothing he needs to do: Bellamy and Raven somehow start getting along. He’s not sure how it happened.
“Turns out they have more in common than they thought” Gina explains. “Also they love you.”
As for Miller, he doesn’t comment on their new relationship status, but he keeps giving Wells free drinks when he swings by, so he supposes the bar owner is glad for them.
To sum it up, they’re happy and people are happy that they are.
Well, except one person.
“You’ve got a phone call.”
They’re having dinner on a Saturday night. For once, Wells cooked, claiming that there was no reason a good student couldn’t follow a recipe. He settled in the kitchen all afternoon and forbade Bellamy to even set a foot there. Bellamy pointed out, from his seat on the couch, that it was an open kitchen so he could see everything anyway. Wells ignored him.
Just like he’s been ignoring his cellphone desperately vibrating on the table for the past ten minutes.
Bellamy frowns at it, and Wells turns it off. “Sorry.”
“You could have just picked up.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s not important.”
Bellamy hums. Wells can see he’s not convinced, but for now he doesn’t feel like having the conversation picking up the phone entails, especially not in front of Bellamy.
“It’s your father, isn’t it?”
He hesitates, then nods wordlessly.
“It’s about that fight at Miller’s making the headlines?”
“No, come on, that was a while ago. Not to mention, it had a positive outcome. They’re now spinning the Cinderella story at full throttle.” Wells smiles apologetically when Bellamy grimaces. He hates when the press calls him that.
“Then what is it?”
With time, Wells has learned to read Bellamy, and the way he’s looking at him right now – sitting straight on his chair, eyes eerily neutral but face closed – means lying or evading will get him in trouble.
He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “He’s … worried about our relationship status.”
By which he means, he’s worried about Wells actually falling in love with Bellamy. Thelonious Jaha is not an idiot. No one who cares missed the increased liberty with which they touch and kiss in public, and if that wasn’t enough to worry him, Wells’ passionate interview on TV was the nail in the coffin. He’s been demanding answers and Wells has been evading.
He expects to have to explain all that to Bellamy and is already scrambling to find ways to say ‘My father thinks you’re not good enough for me’ without hurting him, but Bellamy scoffs, nods in understanding and resumes eating.
“… You’re not curious about what that means?”
“I know what it means. He’s been clear he didn’t want me to – what was it again? Confuse you.”
“Wait. He threatened you?!” Wells has never heard of it, and the thought of his father going behind his back to tell Bellamy he’s worthless makes him furious.
“Not really” Bellamy reassures him, softening his voice. “He just said he wouldn’t let someone like me be with you.”
“That’s offensive, and that’s still a threat.”
Bellamy smiles. “I’ve heard worse. Look, he doesn’t even know for sure that we’re together, so what does it matter?”
“I want him to know.”
The declaration surprises both of them, but Wells sees Bellamy’s shoulders sag in what looks like relief, and he feels surer. “There’s no point in delaying” he murmurs. “Him finding out now or later won’t change his reaction. We might as well do it now.”
“You’re going to call him?”
“… No. I want to do it face to face. I’ll pick a date.”
Wells turns his phone back on to send the text, but can’t even finish it before it starts ringing again. It’s not his father though, but Harper, who leads his PR team.
“Tell my father I’m texting him right now” Wells huffs when he picks up, frowning. “He doesn’t have to go through you –“
“This isn’t about your father. It’s about Bellamy.” She sounds upset. “Someone’s threatening to sell information about his mother to the press. We need to meet up.”