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Down here, Clarke would’ve thought she’d be the one hyperventilating, but instead she watched helplessly as Bellamy gasped for breath.
They were back under the Mountain, having darted into the tunnels as a last resort for escaping their Ice Nation pursuers. Everything had been fine–that being a relative term, because she had felt her stomach roll at the first bin they had passed, picturing decaying bodies–as they raced through the dark, dank passageways, just glad to be alive. An arrow had barely missed her shoulder earlier in their escape, only diverted by Bellamy grabbing her hand and jerking her out of the way. He had saved her life, and now she was watching him run out of air, too paralyzed with shock and fear to move.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She pleaded, finally dropping to her knees.
Bellamy just made more horrible sucking sounds, his lungs desperate.
“Bellamy!” She cried, hands gripping his arms, his shoulder, his face. “Bellamy! Look at me!”
“Don’t let them,” he gasped, “take me.”
“We lost them, we lost them,” she repeated. “We’re safe, for now.”
“Don’t let them,” he gulped, “drain me.”
Ice, fear, and guilt shot through Clarke’s veins, as she realized he was talking about another enemy altogether, one from their past, one who had been done away with simply by pulling a lever.
At least their flesh and blood had been done away with. Ghosts and the lingering terror they carried with them couldn’t defeated as easily, though. She knew that better than anyone.
“Breathe, Bellamy. Please, breathe, for me. Breathe!” She cried out.
He couldn’t though–memories, terrible ones, ones she had no idea he had harbored all this time, had his chest and throat in their iron grip. Her words weren’t enough. Her hands weren’t enough.
He needs air. He needs a moment to breathe, her mother’s calm voice echoed in her ear.
How do I give him that? She almost called despairingly back, tears filling her eyes as she watched Bellamy spiral into a panic, drifting further and further away from her.
There was no answer to her question, and panic began to eat away at her too. Without a plan, she brought his face inches from hers, yelling at him to breathe, feeling the too-short gasps of breaths that barely made it past his lips puff onto her own.
And then she wasn’t feeling air, because she was kissing him, not prettily, not gently, a hard press of her mouth completely over his, sloppy and spontaneous and the only thing she could think of that would get him to slow, to pause, to stop.
Stop he did, freezing under her sudden attack, his jaw working tensely under her palms.
Just as suddenly she pulled away, closing her eyes and curling her hands into fists underneath her own chin, her breath now shallow at the unexpected warmth spreading across her chest.
“Clarke?” He still didn’t sound good, but his breaths were slow and even, and that was all she could ask for at the moment.
“You were having a panic attack,” she murmured in unsolicited explanation. “They taught us in medical that holding your breath can stop that, so, when I kissed you, you held your breath.”
A beat stretched in the tense air before he said roughly, softly, “Thanks.”
She choked out a laugh, daring a peek at him. He was just Bellamy, staring at her with his usual mix of exasperation and awe.
“Are you okay?” She asked.
“I’m fine.”
Liar, she wanted to say, because there was still fear in his eyes.
That was a demon for another day, however, because shouts in Trigedasleng echoed faintly from down the passageway. Exchanging silence and a grimacing glance, they both rose and and began running, side by side.
Clarke wasn’t going to forget, though–not his frightened gasps, not the terrified glaze of his eyes, not the rough feel of his lips on hers. She wasn’t going to forget any of it, couldn’t, not anytime soon.
It was just another burden she was willing to bear, and she would do it gladly, because it was for him.