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"So- Bellamy, you're legal right?" Murphy swirls his cup around and looks up at him expectantly.
"Wh-" Bellamy lowers his glass, frowning comically. "What?"
Murphy laughs and the sound echoes around the tent. "Are you over eighteen, is what I’m trying to ask."
"Oh!" he smiles brazenly. "Yeah, I’m twenty three. Why?"
It’s late and they're both a little drunk, so it feels okay for Murphy to ask something as personal as this. "So you have the words right? Of your soulmate or whatever?"
Bellamy pauses for a minute, and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah but uh- it's kind of depressing."
Murphy crawls off the mattress and makes his way over to the mound of blankets that Bellamy's sat on.
"Okay you can't just say that and not show me."
"Don’t you have your own?" Bellamy looks a little sullen in the dim light, and he shifts uncomfortably when Murphy scoots closer to him and punches his shoulder.
"Nah, I’m seventeen." he shrugs.
Bellamy raises his eyebrows before swallowing the last of his moonshine in one gulp.
"Alright." he mumbles, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal a sentence on his wrist in neat black script.
Murphy is enthralled. He grabs Bellamy's arm and moves it closer to the light, leaning in closer than is probably necessary. Murphy's hands are softer than Bellamy thought they would be.
"Oh wow. So this just like- appeared when you were eighteen?" he's huddled over Bellamy's knee and doesn't seem to care when the older boy attempts to lean back.
"Yeah. Hurt like a bitch though."
Murphy is silent for a while, turning Bellamy's wrist gently left and right.
"Murphy? You okay there?" Bellamy says hesitantly, feeling more than uncomfortable with his current situation.
Murphy backs off and drops Bellamy's wrist, screwing up his face. "It's too dark, I can’t read the words."
"Well uh, they say; 'please no, this can't be happening'.'" he says quietly, tugging down his sleeve and looking anywhere but Murphy.
"Oh."
"I’ve heard that you either get the first words or the last words that your soulmate says, and you know what the worst thing is?" he pours himself another glass of moonshine, ignoring the way it sloshes over the rim of the glass and onto the floor and his shoes.
"You can't even tell. But I know that these?" he holds up his wrist. "These are last words."
Murphy's forehead is creased in either thought or worry, Bellamy can't really tell.
"Nah Bell, I’m sure they aren't. I hear people say shit like that all the time and they aren't in near death situations." he tries weakly, looking at him with an attempt at a smile.
Bellamy just shakes his head and drinks from the tin cup in his hands.
They don’t talk much for the remainder of the night, drinking in solidarity and exchanging a story or two; but there's no real conversation.
When Bellamy wakes up in the early hours of the morning with Murphy's head on his chest, he doesn't quite have the heart to push him away.
~
They don’t think anyone notices. There are lingering glances and gentle touches that would be considered more than friendly among many in camp. There are hushed words and thoughtful gestures, dweeby nicknames and playful exchanges of teasing remarks.
Then there are the things that they keep from everyone else; the pieces of themselves that they give to one another. Stories of lost childhoods and feelings kept inside for years.
It’s all very innocent. They share a drunken kiss one night and then act like it never happened.
Neither of them says it but they're glad for each other's company. They're glad to have someone to rely on.
Octavia corners Bellamy behind the dropship one night.
"Bellamy- what are you doing?" she says it like a statement instead of a question, her face hard and determined.
"I- what are you talking about?" Bellamy plants his feet firmly in the dead grass, and crosses his arms defiantly.
"Murphy." she stares at him, trying to read his facial expression.
"We’re just.." he hesitates. "We’re friends alright? Why do you ca-"
"Well, you don't act like friends!" Octavia looks around, lowering her voice to just above a whisper. "Has he said the words? On your wrist?"
Bellamy's jaw is set when he looks away.
"Listen Bell, I just want you to think about this. If he isn't your soulmate what are you going to do? You're gonna hurt hi-"
"I don’t want to talk about it anymore O."
Octavia's gone in a flash of black hair and braids, and Bellamy is left alone with a sinking feeling that she might be right.
~
After a night of drinking with Bellamy, Murphy wakes up curled on top of a small wooden table with a stiff neck; and he has so many regrets.
"Bellamy- what the fuck did we drink last night?" he sits up and his head spins.
Bellamy shuffles around in the blankets and his head pokes out from beneath them, hair askew and dark circles under his eyes. "i don’t know. Monty and Jasper mixed a bunch of shit together and told me to have fun."
"Okay-" he cracks his neck and slides off the desk. "That was a mistake."
Bellamy laughs and then clutches his head. He mutters something about his brain hurting and Murphy just shrugs his jacket on and tells him he'll be back soon.
Murphy is filling up flasks of water when he hears shouts from camp, the unmistakable sound of battle cries and arrows flying through the air.
A grounder attack.
He sprints through the narrow path back to camp, his heart pounding in his chest. His throat is dry and his feet strike against the ground rhythmically. He can hear his own ragged breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears before the sounds from camp become deafening.
He slips in through the gate, crouching low against the ground and behind the tents- hoping that the grounders won't see him.
There are sky people running in every direction and faces blur past as they run for cover. Arrows impale the ground and he can hear some gunshots in the distance.
He weaves through the crowd, searching for Bellamy; on the verge of screaming his name into the sea of people.
He reaches the edge of camp and he sees him clambering out of his tent, eyebrows furrowed together and panic in his eyes. Relief floods through Murphy and he watches Bellamy rush towards him and stop suddenly.
Then he sees the spear.
Blood pools rapidly at Bellamy's stomach and he stares down at himself, attempting to grab the wooden shaft of the spear with weak hands. He grabs a hold of it and pulls as hard as he can as he sees Murphy sprint towards him. Blood spurts out over his hands and he drops the spear.
"Bellamy, stop! What are you doing?" Murphy is next to him now, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back into the tent. Bellamy can see his bottom lip trembling.
Murphy helps him to lie down and smoothes his hair back on his head hurriedly before bundling up a blanket and pressing it to Bellamy's wound.
"Shit Bellamy, I don't- I don't know what to do." his words are rushed and frantic, his hands clawing at the material and trying desperately not to cry.
"There’s too much bl-" he pauses and screws his eyes shut, swallowing thickly. "Murphy it's too deep, you can't do anything."
"No! I can’t, I- I have to try." he's crying now, tears falling onto Bellamy's bloody hands clasped in his.
"It’s okay." Bellamy offers a small smile but his eyes are lidded.
"Bellamy. Bellamy no- no."
Murphy holds Bellamy's face in one hand and tries to shake him awake with the other.
"Please no, this can't be happening."
Bellamy stirs and a grin breaks out across his face.
"Hey, you said it," he says, holding out his wrist to show Murphy the words.
His blood is splashed across his palm, covering the words on his wrist with dark crimson.
Murphy stares at him in disbelief, eyes darting across his face.
"I’m glad that it was you." He says with a smile.
And then his eyes close and it's all over. Bellamy Blake dies in John Murphy's arms, and he couldn't do anything about it.
~
A few months later he turns eighteen.
When the ink rises from below the surface of his skin its searing pain, but Murphy forces himself to watch the words forming on his wrist.
And when he's able to read them his heart clenches and he chokes back a sob.
'I'm glad that it was you.'