Work Text:
Murphy stumbles along the edge of the forest, trying (and failing) to be quiet. The light from the moon shows him the way and makes it seem like the plants are glowing different shades of turquoise, green and milky white. He trails his knife against the huge trees he passes, partly to find a way back and partly because he just feels like it. The actions leave deep white slashes in the trees like scars and Murphy glances at them momentarily. The metal from the drop ship is cold and familiar in his hands and his fingers ghost over the initials carved at the handle. He wonders what the letters mean to people here, what they think when they see J.M. or hear the words "John Murphy". He decides that he'd rather not know.
After a while he comes to a clearing, and sees someone's silhouette. Gripping the knife tighter, he warily surveys the stranger from behind the trees. Tall and muscular, the person is perched on a log and hunched over in front of a small fire. Murphy doesn't give much thought to charging in and instantly regrets it. The person surges forward and has him in a choke-hold before Murphy even raises his weapon. His fingers claw weakly at his attacker's arm pressing down on his windpipe before he's being dragged into the light of the fire. He vaguely hears a shocked cry and, "Murphy? I- What are you doing here?" The flames from the fire are spinning in front of his eyes.
The smooth baritone of Bellamy's voice seems to echo in Murphy's head before he lets him go. He crumples to the floor and Bellamy steps back.
"Hello to you too asshole," He mutters, hands reaching up to touch his neck tenderly -that's definitely going to bruise- straightening his jacket on his shoulders and brushing the dirt off his knees. Bellamy's throaty laughter makes his stomach twist and he scrambles to pick his knife up off the ground.
"Hey, I'm really sorry," Bellamy pats the space beside him on the log, "Didn't realise it was you." He looks up at him fondly and a little sheepishly. Murphy's chest aches.
"So. What brings you here this late at night? Did you want to jack off in peace?" He teases, watching Bellamy pick something off the ground. The older man laughs again, before holding up a tattered book.
"I came here to read, the noise at camp distracted me. I also don't appreciate hearing Monty and Jasper whisper to each other until 4 o'clock in the fucking morning." his smile causes small crinkles to form at the corner of his eyes and Murphy absent-mindedly thinks that he'd like to be the one to make Bellamy smile like that.
"What do you uh, read?" He squints his eyes, trying to read the words on the cover of the book, but they're too faded.
"Its a book of Greek mythology. Stories from the time, you know?" Bellamy looks up to the sky and sighs. "My mother used to read them to me when I was younger. I read 'em to Octavia too," He scratches the back of his neck and stretches his arms over his head. "Its kind of dumb, but it reminds me of when things were good. Or at least not totally shitty." He closes his eyes and the light from the flames dances over his face, making the freckles stand out against his dark skin. The column of his throat is exposed and Murphy notices some tiny freckles there too. It's ridiculously endearing, and he finds it hard to look away.
Then Bellamy's eyes are on his and he stares him up and down slowly; eyes trailing to his lips and back up to meet his gaze.
"Would you like me to uh," he licks his lips and Murphy feels incredibly guilty as his eyes follow the movement closely, "Read to you? From the book." Murphy nods his head slowly, not sure what else to do. The moon is still high in the sky and casting a pale light over the both of them. It feels good to be there with Bellamy- it feels right. He starts to read and Murphy takes a chance and leans forward to lie in his lap. He expects to be berated or pushed to the dirt but there's only a small huff of surprise. Bellamy runs a hand through Murphy's hair and continues reading from the book.
Murphy falls in and out of sleep, the soft lilt of Bellamy's voice soothing to him. He half listens to a story about a man called Icarus, who ignored his father's warning and flew too close to the sun with wings made of feather and wax, melting them and plummeting to his death in the depths of the ocean. But he's more focused on Bellamy's hand stroking his hair- something which hadn't stopped since he lay down. This should probably be weird but- it feels good, and Murphy doesn't really want it to stop. The story eventually draws to a close and Bellamy nudges his shoulder lightly.
"Hey Murphy," he says lowly, "You're not fucking asleep on me are you?" Murphy stirs before sitting up and frowning at Bellamy through half lidded eyes.
"Not asleep," he says, dragging out the first word, "Not yet anyway. What time is it?" He rubs at his eyes before focusing on the person in front of him. Bellamy ignores the question but he's smiling crookedly at him, and Murphy thinks that maybe he's leaning towards him.
"What? You want a review on your story or something?" he says flippantly, avoiding Bellamy's gaze.
This time Bellamy really does in, and whispers under his breath, "Murphy- can I kiss you?" Murphy frowns and chews his lower lip. Well, that confirms his theory that Bellamy is into guys as well as girls. He can't deny that he wants this, and he's never been one to think through decisions anyway, so he leans forward and presses their lips together. It's slow and easy; with Murphy deepening the kiss, revelling in the way their tongues slide against one another. After a while Bellamy nips at Murphy's lower lip and pulls away. Murphy makes a noise something like a whine at the loss of contact and he kind of hates himself for it.
"We should do this again sometime," Bellamy murmurs, the glow of the dying embers from the fire making his eyes glint in the night. He picks the book up from where it had fallen on the floor, his knee knocking against Murphy's as he stands up, sticking his hand out for the younger man to hold.
"Come on slow-poke." he teases, and Murphy tries to defend himself with a measly, "Fuck you," as he clambers to his feet.
Bellamy's hand is heavy in his, and Murphy can feel the warmth radiating from it. They make their way back to camp- Bellamy striding purposefully through the forest; his free hand feeling for the gouge marks along the trees from Murphy's knife, and Murphy loping along behind and smiling smugly to himself. They make it back to camp in the early hours of the morning, creeping to their separate tents and trying their best not to wake anyone else.
Everything changes.
The next morning they trade shy glances before heading out to find Jasper with the others. They keep their minds focused on the tasks at hand, but the blissful feeling from the night before doesn't fade.
They start to meet at the edge of the forest more regularly.
They don't talk much, but they never really have. Murphy likes the companionable silence, and both of them find it much easier to express their feelings through actions rather than words. Sometimes Bellamy reads him other stories from his book, and on rare occasions they'd speak about their lives on the ark. Only in passing- maybe a snide comment about the rules, or queries about friends (or lack thereof) on the ark. Neither of them even try to approach the topic of parents.
Their kisses become frantic and rushed. Murphy's hands are everywhere; tangled in Bellamy's hair, running over his shoulders, gripping his hipbones. Bellamy holds Murphy's face in his hands like it's all he needs, kissing him with feeling and a piece of his heart on his sleeve. Murphy does the same in his own way, kissing back with reckless abandon, fingers curled into Bellamy's shirt, holding on with all he has.
They're both better for it. They sleep a little easier and are more relaxed than usual. Sometimes when working together their fingers would brush or their shoulders would bump lightly; Murphy fights the urge to lean into the touch and Bellamy freezes momentarily -but no one notices the lingering glances or small smiles.
Soon it stops altogether.
Murphy grew more needy, craving reassurance and drowning in self pity; and Bellamy got more closed off, weighed down with the pressure of leading the group. Things became strained between them quickly. Murphy could tell that the mutual trust they had was slipping, but he can pinpoint the exact moment when it stops. When Bellamy kicked the crate out from under his feet. He remembers the look in his eyes when it happened; sorrow and confusion melting into disappointment.
He hates it. He hates even looking at Bellamy's face after that.
Murphy got bitter and wandered the forest aimlessly, going back to the clearing more often than he should. His fingers trace the gouge marks he made and he makes more, viciously slashing at the trees and erasing every trace of the old scars and the old memories that go along with them. Sometimes, when he's feeling sad or drinks a little too much, he remembers the first night, and he can't help but remember the story of Icarus and his wings, and that maybe he is Icarus, and that Bellamy is the sun.