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The first time she had hugged him, running into warm arms and wrapping herself around the solidarity of him, as coarse hands had rose to encase her within his assurance, it hadn’t exclusively revolved around the man himself, but rather the past and people she had come to associate with him.
Her experiences on the ground had been less than pleasant, mostly. She’d seen things that she thought were now seared into her memories, and been slashed with the ugly labels of ‘weak’ and ‘coward,’ though she thought ‘murder’ stood most prominent against them all, and her head felt heavy with the weight of guilt that rested on her shoulders.
And yet, with a single glance at him, the bad had faded away, and hit after hit she’d been rammed with the memories.
First rainfall.
Flowers that glittered in the dark.
She’d barely had time to think before she’d flung her body at his, and was snatching viscously at the memories before they could fade back to forgotten (as they always did).
The second time she’d been trapped by reapers, and on the brink of being sliced open and roasted over a fire, when a make-shift rescue team had hurtled through the mines, and unprepared and outnumbered, the reapers had been taken care of with minimal casualties.
It’d been Bellamy who had crushed their bodies together, whispering over and over again in her ear (you’re okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I won’t let go, I need you I need you I need you) as his hands found solace on her waist, his head in the crook of her shoulder.
His words comforted them both, and she’d slowly placed her arms against his back, before twining pale, shaking fingers in his jacket as silent sobs had escaped her throat, because she had been so close. He’d held her tenderly for a few minutes, until her sobs and his whispers had subsided.
After that, it had become an addiction a habit. Either returning for missions or setting out on them, they’d pull one another aside, away from prying eyes and the knowing looks of Octavia, Raven and Murphy (what? I don’t get a hug?) (Shut up, Murphy) and merely hold one another, promises lying in their arms, before pulling away, leaving the other to worry for their return.
On the nights when Clarke had nightmares (DadWellsFinnCharlotteAtomAnya), or Bellamy would wake up, a silent scream waiting on his lips (Mom’TaviahurtingdyingClarkehurtingdying), they’d crawl into each other’s bunks, Bellamy holding Clarke, and Clarke wishing away his nightmares until he could only feel the softness of her hair brushing against his cheek, instead of the overwhelming ache loneliness offered.
The love between them plainly grew, though both too blind to see it. And it was fact, that they did not share their first kiss, until Bellamy lay on his back in the forest, Clarke’s eyes surrounding him, with a spear in his chest.
She sobbed and framed his face with her hands, begging, pleading, screaming his name. (Bellamy please. Look at me, look. Please don’t, I need you, I need you, I need you. I can’t lose you, too.)
The trees around them seemed to shield against the desperation in her voice, though shrouding around them as if to protect the moment, broken people in a broken world, dying people in a long-dead world.
She clutched to him as she first once had, but there was no assurance in the way he held her. She fell atop his body, head next to his as his fingers skimmed patterns on her back.
As she leaned back up, she’d stared into his eyes that seemed to be fading, and without hesitance had met his lips. Gentle, and soft, and without a hope to be ever more, on his last breath had been a declaration, had been regret, had been a curse on his weak heart, and an apology to hers.
And with her lips stained red, and her heart gone cold, she loved him without hope, without need or wish. Only resignation, as she finally understood the cruelness of the heart.
She dreamed of him that night, and every night after.