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She radiated beauty and confidence. She walked tall, always, and even though she was better than everyone else, she’d never say so herself. Bellamy was never afraid to tell her, though. She’d just roll her eyes and shove him, telling him to shut up and be nice. He didn’t do nice. Not to anyone who wasn’t Clarke, apparently. She didn’t realize it. She never realized it.
He wasn’t even very good at being nice to Clarke. They were always fighting about something—anything as long as they were doing it together, Bellamy reasoned. He could start a fight about the proper amount of pepper on a steak and watch her shift into incredulity before that spawned into annoyance and they’d be off. And he loved it because he loved her. He just couldn’t voice it.
Instead, in their quiet moments, he told her she was too good for their town, too good for their ragtag bunch of friends, that she could do anything and do it anywhere. Even when she was rolling her eyes and shoving his shoulders, he saw her face soften at his words and felt the warmth against him when she stood closer to him.
The one time he even considered telling her he was having feelings for her that were far beyond those of a friend, they were at a party. He’d been drinking, yes, but he’d never been more sure of his feelings than when she was dancing and laughing with his sister, holding her tight and telling her how much she loved her. And when he finally found her again, it was in a dark corner where she was making out with none other than Finn Collins.
It sobered him up entirely too quickly and he got the hell out of there as fast as he could. He convinced himself all night that it meant nothing, they were drunk and it was just a kiss. Granted, Bellamy didn’t know much about Collins, but he knew Clarke. And if she was too good for him, she was definitely too good for Finn.
But six months later when Bellamy was shamelessly flirting with the new bartender at Sky—always trying to find someone to distract him, though he usually backed out before it got too far—Clarke walked in on Finn’s arm, laughing. When she saw him, she skipped away from Finn to throw her arms around his neck in greeting. She wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t sober, either. Slowly, his arms twined around her waist and he glanced over her shoulder to look for her boyfriend. He only found him when he was in a screaming fight with the new bartender.
Clarke fell back on her heels, her arms falling from his body, and just stared at them. Raven was telling him how shitty he was, that she only moved here to be with him. He told her that she was crazy and that nothing was going on between him and Clarke. And Bellamy leapt forward to tell him he was an asshole, maybe punch him in the face, but Clarke’s hand wrapped around his bicep and he realized where his priorities were.
Her previously bright, shining eyes were rimmed with tears. Her lips were quivering. She was breathing erratically. So, instead of punching the asshole, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to his car. She didn’t actually cry until she was buckled in and he was sliding in next to her. He didn’t start the car, he didn’t reach out for her hunched over form, he just sat there and watched her until he was sure she wasn’t going to drown in her sobs.
“Clarke,” he tried, slowly and quietly.
“Don’t,” she begged him and he nodded even though her face was still buried in her palms. Eventually, she sat up, tears still falling, and he leaned over to squeeze her knee. “Take me home before he comes out, please.”
And that was the last they saw of Finn Collins. She never brought him up or the night she found out she was the other woman. She smiled softer at Bellamy, though, and he rarely picked fights just to get her riled up. They still happened naturally, though, but he really did want to be nicer to her. She deserved the best.
“You’re in love with her,” Octavia accused one day and Bellamy laughed—too hard, too loud. “Okay, Bell,” she said with a roll of her eyes before bouncing off to annoy someone else, he assumed.
Then again, at Miller’s birthday party, she kept her eye on him while his eyes were trained on Clarke. “Just say something, you idiot,” Octavia urged and Bellamy just left her in the living room while he went to the kitchen to get a beer.
“Your face is going to get stuck like that one day and then none of the girls will throw themselves at you anymore.”
He chuckled and turned to look at Clarke. “Please, I scowl all the time and I have to beat them away with a bat,” he argued, though he wouldn’t have been able to scowl at her right then even if his life depended on it. Or hers.
“And you always do,” she noted and he shrugged. “Why is that?”
“None of the girls I actually like are the ones throwing themselves at me,” he reminded her. And she crossed her arms and furrowed her brow in thought.
“You flirt, you charm, and then you go home alone,” she told him as if he wasn’t aware of his habits. “It’s like you’re afraid or something.”
“No, I just always realize I’m not interested after putting in all that hard work,” he promised and she sighed.
“So, then tell me,” she urged as she stepped closer to him. “Who are these girls you like that won’t throw themselves at you?”
Bellamy smiled tightly and handed her his beer. “Goodnight, Clarke,” he said with a kiss on her forehead. While he walked away from her and outside toward his car, Octavia nearly tackled him on the porch.
“What the hell?” He yelled, reaching for the post in front of him to keep balanced.
“Yeah, what the hell, Bellamy?” She asked and he sighed. “That was like the perfect opportunity to tell her how you feel.”
“You don’t know how I feel, Octavia,” he lied and she narrowed her eyes.
“Everyone knows how you feel,” she insisted. “Except for Clarke.”
“Goodnight,” he said, leaving her behind again. He didn’t want to have the conversation again. He didn’t want to be told how terrible he was at hiding his feelings. He didn’t want to hear that, although he was terrible, the thought of him liking Clarke was so out of the realm of possibility to her that she didn’t see it at all. And so he vowed to be better—at hiding his feelings, at changing his feelings. He needed to move on. He needed to stop pining.
Things changed. Bellamy kept a safe distance from her when they were hanging out with their friends. He never reached out to her to talk or catch up. And when she did, he kept things short and to the point. Octavia still rolled her eyes at him and Miller kept asking if he and Clarke finally had a real fight that kept them from being normal. But Clarke never mentioned anything and she never made an effort aside from her weekly texts. Things changed, but Bellamy didn’t move on. He didn’t stop pining.
And when Clarke wound up on his doorstep after almost two months of him keeping his distance, he didn’t even know how to respond to her anymore. So, he didn’t. He just opened his front door—not sure how she got into his building in the first place—and stared at her.
“Where have you been?” She asked. Finally, he thought. But then quickly took it back because he wasn’t doing it to get her attention—really. He was doing it because he was weak and needed to be stronger.
“Here,” he shrugged and she shoved him aside to walk into his living room.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused and all he could do was laugh.
“I saw you two days ago,” he reminded her. Clarke sat down on his couch and stared at him until he finally closed his door and joined her.
“Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other as much as we always do,” she agreed, her knee falling from against her chest to rest on his lap. He tried hard to to let his intake of breath become too noticable. “But you haven’t spoken to me like a human being since Miller’s party. And even then, you just walked away from me.”
“What can I say? I wasn’t really in the mood to discuss my love life.”
“And you haven’t been in the mood to discuss your life life with me either,” she told him and he just sighed in return. “Octavia just rolls her eyes when I ask what your deal is. Everyone else thinks we’re fighting. And I just… I don’t know what’s going on. Are we fighting?”
“Nope,” he promised weakly.
“Then what the hell is your problem with me?” She asked, turning to face him. Now her legs were folded in between them, no longer touching him and he backed against the arm of the couch and mirrored her position.
“I don’t have a problem with you, Clarke,” he told her. She ran her hands through her blonde waves and rested her elbows on her thighs, leaning closer to him. He didn’t mean to look down her shirt. He bit his lip and looked toward his ceiling before focusing back on her face. “We’re fine. You’re over thinking this.”
“I’m not crazy,” she argued, exhausted now. Sad. Bellamy could see it in her eyes. They always betrayed her. “You’re avoiding me and I hate it. You are the only one who knows what happened with Finn and you were the one that was there for me. You slept on my couch and made me breakfast. And after that, you were so nice to me which, yes, was weird, but I liked it. And then, bam, you disappear on me. You can’t do that. That’s not fair.”
“Clarke,” he sighed but could hear the edge in his voice. He knew it wasn’t fair to her, but he honestly didn’t think she’d pick up on it. And it seemed like she hadn’t until she showed up at his doorstep.
“You can’t just… Save me and then drop me like that, like I’m nothing to you,” she said, laying flat against his cushions with her hands over her face. Like she was embarrassed.
Did she really think that’s how he felt? Like she was nothing? “Clarke,” he laughed, pulling on one of her hands until she was sitting again. He didn’t let go. “You don’t need saving. You’ve never needed saving.”
“Because you’re always saving me,” she insisted. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but you are. And this time, it was different. It seemed more personal for you, which made it more personal for me.”
“Personal how?” He asked. He was practically whispering. He had to finally let go of her hand to run his through his hair.
“You tell me,” she begged and he sighed dramatically. The time had come—to tell the truth or lie completely.
“You’re not… The only one who needs saving every once in a while,” he admitted, eyes focused on his ceiling. “And you’ve saved me a time or two, you know? Or maybe you don’t.”
“You’re crazy,” she laughed and he looked at her, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “And that didn’t answer my question.”
“It was personal to me,” he said slowly. “You being hurt—by anyone—is personal to me. You don’t deserve that. You’re too good-“
“Not this again,” she sighed with a tired, exaggerated roll of her eyes.
“Too good for him, too good for Ark, too good for… Me.”
“Okay, so you’re an idiot, too,” she told him—she was breathless. Like everything he’d been saying had literally knocked the wind out of her. “You don’t get it, do you? For months, I’ve been looking at you in this whole new light. Except—surprise—it wasn’t new, exactly, just reignited. You’re Bellamy Blake. You’re the guy that saves the girl. Usually that girl is your sister and it’s sweet and it’s endearing, but when it’s me and not Octavia, it’s… You’re- you’re not that big brother. You’re not that Bellamy Blake. You’re the Bellamy Blake I’ve had a crush on for years. You’re the Bellamy Blake with an Adonis like body and a jaw that could cut cheese. You’re the Bellamy Blake who insists I’m too good for everyone and everything when, really, you’re the one who’s too good.”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to tell her that she was insane for not seeing how he truly felt about her. He hadn’t acted towards her as a big brother in years because he never wanted to be her big brother. He wanted to be her friend. He wanted to be her everything.
So, when words escaped him—as they usually did in Clarke’s presence—he tried something new. He pushed himself forward, cradling her head between his palms, and kissed her. It wasn’t anything like he expected their first kiss would be like. It wasn’t feverish and passionate. It was melting.
First her hands clasped around his wrists and her lips moved against his. Then, she tugged on his collar and pulled him against her and, while she melted against the cushions of his couch, he melted into the cushion of her body. He maneuvered them so he wasn’t crushing her—because he would, given the chance—and rolled them onto their sides. But he didn’t let her wander too far from him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her body flush against his and her leg hitched around his waist. That was when the fever hit, when they couldn’t contain themselves anymore.
It was like falling apart and coming together all at once. It didn’t make sense how terrifying it was while, at the same time, being so refreshing. It was Clarke. His Clarke.
Hands roamed, shirts rose, skin exposed, and tongues swept—first against each other and then against skin. It was everything he never let himself want. It was Clarke. And it was perfect.