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Being a warlock seems like a shitty consolation prize for everything else that's going on in Bellamy Blake's life.
Sure, his coffee never goes cold, not a single car drove through a puddle and splashed him on a rainy day, and he makes sure he casts a good luck spell on Octavia before she leaves in the morning, but.
It doesn't make the CPS think he's a good guardian, it doesn't fill out his tax return forms and it sure as hell doesn't stop people from finding out and potentially probing and dissecting him. For science.
So it's a particularly inconvenient mishap that Clarke Griffin just walks up to him one day and deadpans, "So, I heard you can do spells."
Bellamy blinks at her and barely manages a strangled "What."
They're in the middle of the science building on their campus and there's a worrying amount of people who could overhear their conversation.
Not to mention that he doesn't exactly go shouting that he's a warlock from the rooftops.
"Can you or can't you?" she demands, her hands firm on her hips and intent on staring him down.
Clarke Griffin is still sort of an enigma to him, the girl he fights in his History and Art History classes but at least they always agree that Cage Wallace is a shitty racist and a misogynistic asshole, so that's something.
Still, he’s never told her that he's a warlock.
"Where the hell did you hear that?" he hisses, ushering her towards the closest empty classroom. She lets him jostle her inside and her eyes light up when he locks the door behind them with the flick of his wrist.
Please, don't let her dissect me.
"Raven told me," she explains coolly, as if she hadn't just confronted him about his ability to perform magic.
And it makes sense. He only told Raven because she was ready to set Collins' dorm building on fire after their breakup and he never liked the jerk anyways.
It wasn't that much of a hardship to turn him into a frog. At least the asshole can see the nature he kept yapping about up close and personal now.
"Now I know who I won't be telling shit to anymore," he shoots back, adjusting the books in his arms as Clarke cocks her head at him, assessing.
She always does that and it's mildly unnerving; like she's going to stare right into his soul one day and he won't be able to do a single thing about it.
"I need help."
"I don't do love potions, money spells because they don't exist, I am not your fairy godmother and no, I don't know what is your cat, Fluffy, trying to say when she's meowing louder than usual."
Honestly, he should probably print out a list.
Clarke laughs at that, a bright sound that cuts across the silence and there's a wrinkle on top of her nose that clashes violently with the same girl who's always trying to fight him.
When she comes to, Bellamy is only mildly annoyed.
"It's not any of that. I just need help tracking someone down, that's it."
Bellamy narrows his eyes at her. "Are you stalking someone because -"
"God, do you always go for the worst option or?" Clarke sighs, worrying her lip before she continues. "I need help finding my childhood friend. His name is Wells and –“
"Facebook."
She blinks at him.
"The thing you need is Facebook. That's literally why it's there."
"He doesn't have it and I'm willing to pay for your services."
"Now you make it sound like I'm a prostitute."
Clarke lets out a huff of frustration. "Can you help me or not?"
Octavia could really use some new clothes and his cars needs a trip to mechanic.
"Alright. But," he raises his index finger in warning, "you tell no one."
Clarke Griffin nods and suddenly, Bellamy gets the feeling that he's signed a deal with the devil.
*
Four hours later, that same Clarke Griffin is sitting in his living room, not even trying to hide her curiosity as she surveys her surroundings.
Bellamy has half a mind to ask her whether she's expecting to see a cauldron or a spell book, but she's not talking and he's willing to call that progress.
"You want coffee? Tea?" he asks, dropping his bag on the floor and making his way to the kitchen of the small apartment he shares with his sister and a bunny, Atom, Octavia swears has magical powers.
(So far, the only magical thing about Atom is how much he can eat. It’s a lot. A whole lot.)
"No, thanks!"
"Suit yourself," he mumbles, shrugging his jacket off and dropping it to the chair. Octavia's left a mess in the kitchen again and he's not about to do anything before he washes the dishes.
He's almost forgotten about Clarke, humming absent-mindedly to the tune of a Queen song blasting on the radio, when she pops up next to him and scares the shit out of him.
"What are you doing?" she asks, too bright for his liking.
"Fuck, I-"
"You wash, I'll dry?"
Bellamy nods, mostly because he's too confused to do anything else, and it doesn't take Clarke long to start talking.
"Wells and I grew up together. My mom used to say that we were inseparable - if Wells was sad, then I was, too, and if we were angry and joined forces - we were invincible." A wistful smile plays on her lips. "But we grew apart and - I'd like to hear from him again. Just to know he's alright."
There's more there but Bellamy isn't going to push. Everyone's got their own story and they have the right to tell it exactly when they want to, and not a second earlier or later.
"I can help with that. Do you have something that belonged to him?"
Clarke nods, dropping the rag in favor of playing with a thin leather bracelet Bellamy's never seen her take off, now that he thinks about it.
So he nods, too, gently ushers her towards the kitchen table while she's stuck in her own thoughts, here but not quite.
It takes him only a moment to find the spell, most of them written in a plain blue striped notebook his mother used to keep in the drawer under their oven. They always were a family of domestic magic practitioners; cures for stomach and toothaches, making tea and cookies out of scratch, bestowing good luck upon people.
It always sounded very weak to Bellamy but the older he got, the more he realized how those were the really important things.
(It still didn't stop magic seeping out of his fingertips, draining out of his body, like a protest against refusing to stay soft and adapting to the world's rules. He tries not to think about it.)
Clarke hands him the bracelet and he slides the notebook to her, to keep her busy while he tries to feel for energy.
Everyone has their own, unique energy - like a footprint in the world. It anchors their souls to the ground, keeps them steady even when they feel like wavering.
Wells' is calm, liquid, an easy flow - like a river that's close to vanishing out of existence, but the current is still strong. He seems like a good person and in that moment, Bellamy knows that Clarke is not lying.
"He's fine," he tells her, feeling like he's channeling his grandmother who used to do parlor tricks and pretend like she's communicating with the dead.
But he doesn't want to give false hope to those who need truth the most.
Clarke's head snaps up and she smiles at him tentatively, her fingers darting towards where the bracelet used to be.
Bellamy goes deeper, lets the water overflow him, planes and dirt roads, corn as high as his waist, merciless sun.
"Does Arkadia mean something to you?"
Clarke freezes, the page she's been holding carefully between her fingertips sliding free and fluttering down. There are millions of different emotions on her face right now and Bellamy recognizes all of them.
"He's in Arkadia?" she finally asks, breathless like she's just run a mile.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
Bellamy hums in confirmation, returning the bracelet to her. She doesn't move and he gently places it around her wrist, ties the two strings together and pats it awkwardly.
Clarke's gaze flickers towards where his hand used to be and when she speaks, it's like she's not here at all.
"That's where we grew up, where -" she chokes on the last word, the chair scraping as she gets up. Bellamy could ask her to pay but she looks like she just wants to get as far away as possible so he lets her, handing her the bag she nearly forgets.
"I'm sorry, I-"
"It's alright," he assures her. And with a curt nod, she is fleeing down the stairs and into the night.
*
He doesn't stop thinking about her. Or Wells. There are brief flashes he's gotten to see and they are torn between happy memories of being triumphant and young, and feeling old and world-weary.
Six days in a week, he likes magic. But then there's this one in which he feels like it tells him too much, like it wants him to know more than he should.
And during that one day, he shifts and twists and turns in his bed because Clarke Griffin has been through so much and he feels it like a second skin.
*
He's not waiting for her to arrive but when the broom he keeps in the corner of the kitchen falls to the floor with a thud, Octavia looks up from her homework with a smile.
"We've got guests."
Sure enough, there is a knock on the front door half an hour later and Bellamy is already opening it before Clarke can knock the second time.
She looks like she doesn't know what she's doing here, shifting her weight nervously, but when she sees him, her gaze stays locked with his.
"Bellamy. Hi."
He moves instantly, letting her in. The December cold turned her cheeks pomegranate red and she rubs her hands when she steps into the warmth of his small apartment.
"I realized I forgot to pay you."
Of course. She always pays her debts. He should have known.
But he still can't help a snort as he motions her in.
"It's fine. It wasn't a problem."
"No, I want to, I-" she worries her lip again, tugging on the bracelet. "I found Wells."
He's not sure why that thought has his heart soaring but Bellamy smiles at her and this time she takes the tea he offers.
It takes them a while, but she picks up her legs and folds them underneath herself on the couch, rests her chin on the back and begins.
"He forgave me. Well - he said there was nothing to forgive but I blamed him for my dad's death, so." At that, she trails off, gaze somewhere far away, and Bellamy's heart squeezes painfully in his chest.
"Are you okay?"
"Mm." A beat of silence. "I could use a cool magic trick, though."
He laughs but doesn't deny her. There are two candles on the table, flickering flames, and he sends them levitating with a snap of his fingers.
Clarke beams at him, reaches out to touch them, swoops her hand underneath and Bellamy can only laugh until his sides begin throbbing painfully, until she joins in and until it feels like they're letting go of some weight they didn't even know they shared.
"Thank you," she tells him, pressing a quick peck to his cheek when she's lingering on the doorstep again.
Magic surges at his fingertips and he grabs a hold of her hand, wishes for the universe to be good to her. She really deserves it.
He doesn't know if she feels it but he does, something in the touch of his skin to hers, an unsaid blessing.
"Thank you," she repeats, voice barely louder than a whisper.
The magic in him comes unstuck.
*
After that, it's like Clarke decides to adopt him. Bellamy can't even get an hour to study because there she is, sitting down at his library table and colonizing it with charcoal, coffee cups, occasionally even a textbook or two.
The first time it happens, she's got her chin raised petulantly, like she's daring him to give her shit for it, but Bellamy just presses his lips together, biting down on a smile.
They work in silence for a couple of hours until Clarke huffs, pulling at the ends of her hair and declares, "I'm gonna set this building on fire."
It's kind of like he's been holding on a breath, rolling over his lips in a chuckle that takes Clarke by surprise. Her hair is a bird's nest on the top of her head, a pencil wound in to keep it from spilling, and she seems restless.
It's not who he imagined her to be. At all.
"Do you wanna take a walk?"
"No shit, Sherlock." She rolls her eyes, an idea flicking in them that has her pausing. "Or should I say - warl-"
He barely manages to stifle the rest of the word, steering her towards the exit and when they're out, two feet in the snow, they start laughing.
It's one of the good ones, hearty and deep, as if coming from the very bottom of their souls. There's released tension in it, trembling hands as they grab onto each other and hold on for dear life.
"I fucking hate finals," he tells her at last, tugging on her scarf. Her cheeks are red, the circles around her eyes look like they're gonna swallow her whole but she looks better than when she left to find Wells. "How are you holding up?"
Clarke shrugs, the pom pom on her hat bobbing in the night, red in all that gold. It's a little breathtaking, a little too magical.
(But he knows her.)
(How could he not like her?)
"I'll be fine. I always am." A quick smile, blink and you'd miss it. "Thanks, Bellamy."
When she squeezes his hand, his heart lurches in his chest and he knows that he shouldn't have done it.
*
They text every day during the Christmas break. Her mom is overbearing but tries and her laugh when he sends her a snapchat of his hair full of flour could move mountains, he's pretty sure.
January flies past them in a whirlwind of snow flurries, coffee breaks when they feel like they're going to go mad, Clarke coming over with a six pack every Friday.
In February, she laughs a little louder and doesn't tug on her bracelet that much anymore. On Valentine's Day, she doesn't respond to his calls and he's half on his way out to find her when his phone beeps.
Dad's death anniversary. Talk to you tomorrow.
He's reminded of the crash he'd seen, and every time he touches Clarke, it's like there are more bits to it. The dried blood in her hair, how she thought her hands are weak and she is weak when she couldn't unlatch her dad's seatbelt and -
It's too much to know about one person, and she's not even aware of it.
In March, Bellamy tells her that he's busy and he can't get the look of hurt on her face out of his head.
"Oh, but, we'll still see each other, right?" It's how hopeful she sounds that ruins him.
"I guess. I don't know, Clarke. Octavia needs me and -"
She cuts him off, raising a palm with serene features. "I get it. Take care of yourself, Bell. Let me know if I can help."
Bell.
Bell.
The one in his head doesn't stop tolling.
*
It's April when he finds a piece of paper glued to his front door with a piece of pink tape and it takes him a while to realize what's on it.
There's him and Octavia, a drawing Clarke must have finished during one of those nights they stayed up late, Octavia and Bellamy laughing at Clarke's funny expressions and all three of them feeling like they're young again.
She got them to down to every detail, to the scar he got when his neighbor's cat scratched him, to the one messy curl in Octavia's straight hair.
It's them, clear as day.
But Clarke's not in it.
On the back, there is just a scrawled note - I miss you and Bellamy knows that he's seen her yesterday, waved to her in the hallway, but it's still like they haven’t seen each other at all.
How can he even see her when he knows so much, the magic that's now dimming again allowing him to scope into the most private parts of her?
How does he explain that without making her feel like something's been taken away from her in the process?
So he doesn't.
And the clock keeps ticking.
*
Raven tells him that he's a dumbass.
She's not wrong.
*
"What the fuck, Bellamy?"
He knows he should have gone the other way instead of taking the shortcut to make it to his history class in time. Now he's never going to make it because Clarke cornered him and is now looming over him.
"Nice to see you," he shoots back, wincing instantly because it was a dickish thing to say and she doesn't deserve it.
"What happened? Is Octavia okay? Did I do something wrong?" She deflates a little, only rawness remaining when she looks at him again. The hallway is overflowing with chatter and Bellamy can't hear anything but his heart, stuck somewhere in his throat.
"No, you didn't do anything."
"What happened, then? I thought we were friends, I just don't understand -"
It's like a déjà vu when he pulls her into an empty classroom again and knows she's remembering the same thing when she scoffs.
"I wasn't honest with you," he starts. Clarke doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. "When you asked me to find Wells, I saw what happened. And then I just kept seeing. Things like you and your mom fighting, Finn, the funeral." He cringes when she swallows hard. "You get it."
Her fingers are back on the bracelet, the leather wearing out and a piece falling to the hardwood floor.
"Is that -" she struggles for words. "Usual?"
"No, not like this. But I swear I didn't do it on purpose."
Clarke wrinkles her nose, nods. "I know. Why would you? Those are not good memories."
"There were good ones, too," he supplies, not sure who's he trying to comfort - Clarke or himself. She looks as wrecked as he feels.
There was a memory of her perched on top of her dad's shoulders, somewhere near an orchard that stretched miles wide.
There was a memory of her first kiss with Wells, sloppy and awkward. The laughter that echoed throughout her house after.
A memory of the first time she'd shown her drawings to someone, the butterflies in her stomach before her mother smiled, in awe.
"How does it work?" she asks, quiet.
"By touch, mostly. I just pick up these signals, it's - it's not easy to describe, honestly."
A beat of silence as she thinks it through and then she squares her shoulders, opens her palm and offers it to him.
"Touch me again."
"Clarke - "
"I want to know what you'll see."
Something about her voice makes him do it, cover her palm with his and slide his fingertips just a little further until he can feel the pulse beating underneath her skin.
No matter how long he refrains from using magic, it always finds a way back to him.
Clarke smiles and Bellamy's knees go wobbly as it hits him.
He sees himself this time, head thrown back in a fit of laughter in the middle of his living room. There's a feeling of being bigger than Clarke's body when she's watching him.
The library is dark, only a lampshade casting light on their open books, Clarke's feet on the table, Bellamy's finger running down the black ink on the toes of her chuck taylors.
"Soft yellow light?" he hears himself ask, but he looks different. He doesn't look how he feels.
"It's a quote. 'I just want to be the soft yellow light that pours over everyone I love.'"
He doesn't know how she didn't see the fondness in his eyes, because she's feeling his smile deep to her core.
And just like that, he lets go, back to the real world instead of the hazy one, but he keeps feeling it, always does, until his heart threatens to split at the seams.
Clarke is looking at him like she wants to call him the same name Raven did and he probably deserves it.
But instead, all she says is, "I missed you."
"I know," he replies, drawing her in until her head is tucked into his chest and her hair is tickling his nose. She laughs a little, a fluttering sound that sends the good kind of shivers down his spine, and he doesn't let go of her.
Hours pass and they stand like that, holding each other like nothing else quite matters anymore. Bellamy is at a loss for words, the sheer ferocity of how she feels keeps hitting him, turning his insides to jelly when she presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck.
"I missed you, too," he croaks out. "I just didn't think it was fair that I knew all that about you. It was like cheating."
"I know a lot about you, too." She shifts so she can look at him. Her eyes are the bluest skies and the darkest storms. "I know how loyal you are, how good you are, even though you don't see it that way. I know a lot, Bell. I'll never know enough, but I want to try."
It was all fun and games up to this point and Bellamy doesn't know whether he can do it, whether it'll all go tumbling down because they've both got heavy hearts and even heavier pasts following them, but.
"I want that, too."
But he's willing to try when Clarke beams at him, presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth and laughs when he chases her lips. Electricity surges through his fingertips, seeps into her skin and her laughter moves mountains in his heart.
He's willing to try because Clarke Griffin isn't perfect, far from it, there's tar coating her soul but he wants her.
He wants the tar, the shattering, the destruction; he wants the laughter, the kisses and the jokes.
He wants everything.
It's the only thing that makes sense.