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Murphy can taste blood in his mouth. He can feel it pouring out of his nose and running down his chin. It’s hot and thick, trailing across his skin agonisingly slowly.
He's aware of other things- like the sharp pain in his knuckles and the ache that seems to spread through his entire body. He can hear his own breathing; ragged and wheezing, blood bubbling out of his mouth between each painful gasp for air.
He can hear Bellamy's breathing too; erratic and strained. His raspy coughs. He really should stop smoking.
The older man rolls over and hugs his own torso.
"I think you fractured one of my ribs." He laughs soft and low, before doubling over and coughing again.
There’s a long silence before Bellamy crawls over to Murphy. His face is inches from his and Murphy can smell cigarette smoke and sweat. One of his eyes is bruised, there's a bump forming on his cheek and his lip is split. Murphy feels a pang of guilt before he remembers that Bellamy probably doesn't care. "Hey champ, you okay?"
Murphy pushes his face away and sits up, ignoring the way his vision blurs and his head spins. He wipes the blood from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand and flicks it away, cringing at the splatter of blood on the paint chipped walls.
Bellamy sticks out his hand and Murphy grabs it, they both have bloody knuckles and their hands slip awkwardly. Bellamy just laughs and wipes his hands on his trousers before hauling him up. They walk up the stairs in companionable silence and Murphy almost forgets that he's bleeding profusely.
An icepack and two bloody towels later and they're in the kitchen, Bellamy leaning against the door frame and Murphy perched on the counter.
Murphy doesn't exactly know how this started. A drunken fight in the back of a bar, half kidding and half doing it just because they could. He supposed it was therapeutic. They don't hold back, and it's amidst the bleeding and primal rage that they find peace. Complete freedom.
Or maybe they just do it to blow off steam.
"Hey uh, you hungry?" Bellamy mumbles around a cigarette. The smooth baritone of his voice jolts Murphy out of his thoughts. The click of the lighter echoes around the room and he shrugs non-committally. "Sure, I could go for something to eat."
When they walk into the diner Murphy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Bellamy's bruises stand out in the harsh fluorescent lights and his lip is swollen and bloody. He peers down at his scuffed boots and tries not to think about how shitty he must look. Bellamy grabs his hand and pulls him along through the aisle, defiantly staring at the few people who have turned to look at them in shock or disgust. They collapse into a booth and Murphy slides to the window, pressing his cheek against the cool glass and closing his probably bloodshot eyes. He hasn't slept in four days.
"Shit Murphy," Bellamy squints at him from across the grimy diner table. "I really fucked you up this time." He says, smoke drifting out of his mouth and nose as he speaks. Murphy can barely focus on what he's saying.
"You losing your edge or somethin’?" He chuckles throatily and peers intently at him, his forehead creasing in worry; betraying his flippant words.
"I'm tired okay? It’s nothing," he scrubs a hand over his face. Bellamy kicks him under the table.
"Right. You're a fucking liar Murphy." He leans back and crosses his arms.
Before Murphy has time to think of a witty comeback a young waitress approaches their table with a disapproving look on her face.
"Sir? You can't smoke in here." She says, pushing two laminated menus towards them.
"Sorry." Bellamy smiles widely and crushes the cigarette on the windowsill. Murphy stares at the last tendrils of smoke that rise from the butt until his eyes sting. He hears Bellamy order for him and reminds himself to say thank you later.
He forgets.
After a few hours they stumble back to the house, full of greasy food and too much alcohol. Bellamy splashes through the puddles on the side of the road, one hand shoved into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and the other slung around Murphy's shoulders. He accidentally drags Murphy down so he loses his footing on the pavement more than once, but Murphy doesn't really mind. He likes Bellamy's warmth and the firm weight of his arm over his shoulder.
They end up in the front garden with two golf clubs and a mound of old golf balls. The house is on the outskirts of the city and their neighbours are limited to a scrapyard and an abandoned factory. When they first moved in, Bellamy found two golf sets in the basement and decided that they couldn't go to waste.
So they do this when they're buzzed and bored. Two points if you hit a car and three if you manage to break a window.
Bellamy tosses his third cigarette to the curb and squishes it with his battered club, watching it hiss mournfully on the slick tarmac.
Murphy got used to the smell of Bellamy's cigarettes eventually; sharp, and poignant to the point where it was suffocating. It used to burn his throat and cause his stomach to flip, but now the smell soothes him almost- purely because of the association with Bellamy.
"Are you even listening to me?" Bellamy stares at him below a curtain of dark curls, swinging his club impatiently.
"Oh yeah. I'm just-"
"Tired!” Bellamy waves his hand in the air dismissively. “I know, I know." Murphy thinks he sees Bellamy's jaw tighten in the dim glow of the yellow streetlight above them before he launches into another lament about how to hit the top window of the grey building opposite them, holding a dirty golf ball in his hand.
"Go for it." His words slur slightly and he tosses the ball.
Murphy catches, throws and hits.
There's a crash, the sound of glass breaking and the wail of a car alarm in the distance.
Bellamy whoops and punches the air, shouting "Five points!" And something along the lines of "We do whatever the hell we want!"
Murphy smiles wearily. Five days and counting.
Their fighting started out careless and unsystematic; weak punches and a few kicks after one too many drinks. But now things were different. They have a reason now. It may be ridiculous and slightly crazy- but it’s something.
They get better. They grow accustomed to each other’s movements and strategies. Bellamy knows that Murphy's left eye twitches when he's about to throw a punch; he knows exactly where to hit his nose so that it bleeds. Murphy knows Bellamy's footing perfectly, and trips him when he can; he knows where all of Bellamy's old wounds are, and he hits those areas hardest.
Murphy's head cracks sharply against the concrete floor.
He hears Bellamy's sharp intake of breath and can sense his presence by his shoulder.
His head spins as he turns to face Bellamy. "You owe me ten for that. Compensation- I think that's my brain on the floor." He mutters weakly, and he hears Bellamy laugh.
The older man dutifully hauls him up and slings Murphy's arm around his shoulder. Murphy tries not to ignore how nice it feels to be this close to him. It’s fucked up, he thinks, to feel that way about someone who just kicked his ass.
Bellamy's in the bath when Murphy tells him. They do this after every fight- Bellamy treats Murphy’s wounds and vice versa, and they wash up; choosing to ignore how murky the water from the rusty taps is. Murphy's back is pressed up against the tile walls, gingerly holding an icepack to his nose.
"Asexual huh?" Bellamy's head lolls back on the edge of the grimy bathtub. He waves his cigarette lazily in the air. "So you're like a pla-"
"Finish that sentence and I'll break your fucking nose."
"Come on Murph, you did that last week," He exhales smoke from his nose and inhales it back into his mouth. "Get more creative."
And that was it. Simple.
Murphy hates his job. He hates the whiny customers, the smell of the kitchen, the stupid white suit he has to wear. He works from eight until three- ridiculous hours but its decent money and he only works Monday to Wednesday. He opens the door and stumbles inside, kicking it closed behind him. They abandoned locks after Bellamy lost their only key and had to break the door open. There isn't anything valuable enough to steal here anyway.
An hour later and Murphy’s lying in bed and staring at the water stained ceiling. He sighs and shifts on the mattress, causing the springs to creak noisily. He stares at the alarm clock- 4:47 am. He cracks his knuckles, cracks his neck, paces around the room, taps the tune to smells like teen spirit out on his night stand, rolls around on the grimy beanbag in the corner and he's considering rearranging his furniture when he hears a shout from the next room.
"Murphy! Shut the fuck up."
He swallows thickly and shouts back, "I uh- I can’t get to sleep." His voice is rough from disuse and he clears his throat.
There’s a sigh and he hears footsteps. The light in the hall clicks on and Bellamy pushes open the door, flooding the room with dim light. He stands in the threshold, rubbing his eyes. His curls are dishevelled and fluffy; Murphy absently wonders what it would be like to run his hands through them.
He's still standing there, although now he fixes Murphy with a weary stare. Bellamy's wearing black sweats and a faded grey t-shirt, and with a jolt Murphy realises that it's his.
"Why are you wearing my shirt?" His voice comes out strangled and he hates himself for it.
Bellamy shrugs. "I missed you."
Murphy blinks a few times. "Oh." He feels a little stupid here, sitting on his beanbag in the dark; knees grazing his chin as he talks.
Their odd staring contest continues for a few minutes and it's Bellamy who breaks the silence. "So uh, you can't sleep?" he rubs the back of his neck with his hand and Murphy shamelessly stares at the muscles in his arm shifting under his skin. He chalks it up to being tired.
"Yeah I haven't slept since like, Tuesday." He says it casually; like it’s nothing, like he hasn't been counting the days.
Bellamy does the math and his face crumples. "Six days...are you serious?" He doesn’t wait for a reply and tilts his head. "Come to my room." he mutters.
Murphy follows him to his room, watching his dark curls bob as he walks. Bellamy shoves the door open and gestures around the bedroom- if you could even call it that. The furniture consists of a king size mattress with about 8 blankets strewn over it and some dog eared books and cigarette packets piled on top of an old suitcase. Moonlight from the window casts pale blue light around the room and Murphy feels out of place. Bellamy is currently sat on the makeshift bed with his hands on his knees. "Don't just stand there man, you're making this weirder than it really is."
He gets in, tugging the blankets over himself and raising an eyebrow.
Murphy crosses the floor and gets in beside him, the mattress sinking with the weight of them both. He's silent for a moment as he listens to Bellamy's breathing.
"Bell, what is thi-" He's cut off by a strong arm around his shoulder, pulling him towards Bellamy. He lets out an embarrassing yelp and he can feel Bellamy's laughter vibrate through his chest. He settles his head into the crook of his neck.
"Are you sure you- are you sure you want this?" Murphy suddenly feels vulnerable here and scrambles say something else, to lift the weight from those words. "I mean, I didn't even know you liked-" he stops himself from adding the word me at the end of the sentence. "Guys."
Bellamy pulls Murphy closer to him and the ball of worry in his chest lessens a little. "I’m not picky. But I know that I like you," Murphy's chest feels tighter. "And this'll help you sleep better anyway." Murphy smiles against Bellamy's neck. "So shut up and close your eyes."
Babies don’t sleep as well as he does tonight.