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He was a little drunk.
Okay, more than a little, but at least he could stand. It would take more than a few pints and a shot or two of whiskey with Miller at the bar to get him hammered. But it was February, goddammit, and it was cold. That, and it was the time of year where everyone put up heart-shaped decorations and gushed over flowers and chocolate. Not that Bellamy had anything against those things, but it brought with it the memory of final hospital visits and holding Octavia close as their Mom slipped away. A lot about the night their Mom passed away was like a dream; surreal and a bit like floating. But one crystal-clear thing was the soft roses lining the hospital reception desk, the walls decorated with paper hearts, and the nurses dressed in pink scrubs. He didn’t have anything against Valentine’s Day at all, but the atmosphere of the occasion was singed for him, a reluctant reminder of the loss.
Bellamy has his head resting against the grainy wood of the bar, with Miller working behind drying glasses.
“Man, it’s not even Valentine’s. Why are you so mopey?”
“I’m not mopey,” Bellamy mumbles into his arm.
Miller levels a look at him. “Go home, then.”
“No.” Bellamy shoots his head up. “I…can’t. Not yet.”
Miller nods, looking down as he dries another glass. Bellamy knows Miller is concerned he’s too drunk, but can’t help but feel judged.
They had been friends a long time, and Miller was probably the person who knew him best, aside from his sister. Thinking of Octavia brought a new wave of emptiness through him. He knew he couldn’t always expect her to hang out on this anniversary like they did growing up, now that O had her new place. Hell, she was even dating Lincoln, so being sad with her older brother was definitely not on her list of things to do, let alone on Valentine’s Day.
Miller must have known what Bellamy was thinking from the look on his face.
“You still upset Octavia moved out?”
Reluctantly, he lifts his head. “Not upset, just- just not used to it, is all.”
Which was the truth. They had spent their whole lives depending on one another; lost siblings with no one else to turn to. Bellamy was happy for Octavia for finding happiness- her friends, schooling, relationships- she had moved into an apartment with her college roommate, and now had a fulfilling life. He was proud of her, but Bellamy couldn’t deny that her being away meant that he now lost the person he could always turn to.
Taking pity on his friend, Miller set Bellamy up with another shot, which was promptly drained. He then watched warily as Bellamy fumbled to pull on his coat. “Take it easy, buddy.”
“Sure will,” Bellamy groused, and left the bar.
***
Bellamy was not taking it easy.
It took him 15 minutes to get up the stairs to Octavia’s apartment. He hadn’t thought he was drunk leaving the bar, but he soon discovered that he was, in fact, plastered. Which explains why he’s here so late at night.
Bellamy knocks on the door, breathing heavily. “Oooooooooooo, let me in.”
No answer.
Bellamy raps on the door, harder this time. “C’mon, O, open the door. Please.”
Still no answer.
He’s on the verge of tears, face hot and eyes watery. He knew he lived a lonely life but without Octavia he really was alone, the realization hitting him like a sudden weight to his chest. He crumbles down to the floor, back against the door and legs splayed out in front of him. Closing his eyes, Bellamy fights to quiet his mind and focus on the pulse in his ears.
“Bellamy?”
The surface against his back disappears as the door is yanked open, causing Bellamy to collapse into the apartment.
“Whoa, eh, I got this,” he slurs, arms cast wide to catch his balance. He looks up in surprise. “You’re not O.”
Clarke’s there, confusion skirting across her face as she stands over him, clad in pajamas. “Bellamy, what are you doing here?”
Bellamy continues to lie on the floor at their entrance, ignoring her question with his own. “Where’s O? I need to talk to my sister.”
“Well, you can’t. She’s not here.”
Bellamy pouts at Clarke’s socked feet beside his face. “Claaaaarke,” he drawls, “How is my life such garbage.”
“What-“ she cuts herself off, as if reluctantly coming to terms that, yes, a drunk Bellamy Blake is on her doorstep, and exhales slowly.
“You’ve been drinking, I take it.” Well duh, Bellamy thinks, but huffs at Clarke’s fuzzy socks instead.
He closes his eyes and suddenly he’s sliding across the hardwood. He looks up in alarm to see Clarke pulling him by his arm.
“What are you doing,” he grumbles.
“Getting you inside, what does it look like, genius.”
His frown deepens as he’s being slipped past the kitchen and into the living room, and lets Clarke attempt to lift him under his arms and onto the couch. Which is laughable, just by the size of her, but he can’t seem to work his legs to help her heft his own body.
“You can’t lift me,” Bellamy scoffs, his eyes still closed.
Clarke grunts but doesn’t give up. “Well then help me out, here. It’s not me who was passed out in a stranger’s hallway.”
That rankled him. “I’m not a stranger, Clarke. My sister lives here.” Which reminds him what he’s doing there in the first place. “Where is she?”
Clarke, actually succeeding in rolling Bellamy onto the couch, pushes back his shoulders so he doesn’t fall off the edge, and straightens up.
“She’s out. I dunno where- with Lincoln, probably. Do you need her for something important?”
Bellamy opened his mouth to answer, but can’t find the proper words. He had hoped Octavia would be here, but now that she wasn’t, he has no idea what to do, or say. He feels disassociated, without direction. What now? His sister has always been his line of safety; keeping him grounded whenever he felt himself spiraling down. And now she’s not here, and Bellamy can’t stop himself from curling into a ball from the lonely wound in his chest. He’s so lost in his own sorrow that he doesn’t even notice when Clarke crouches down by the couch, until she speaks and her breath tickles the side of his cheek. “Should I call Octavia?”
Bellamy barely moves, relaxing as he slowly warms up inside the apartment. He’s known Clarke for a while now, ever since she and Octavia met through mutual friends in their first year of college. He may not know much about Clarke, but he knows what Octavia thinks of her; that she’s strong and generous, and puts up as much of a fight as his sister does. Which he still thinks is impossible because his sister is so stubborn, but he knows he would never want to bring her down when she’s managed to pull herself out of the chasm he’s currently in. “No,” he replies. “I…I don’t want to bother her. Not if I can help it, you know?”
“Like knocking on her door at 1am wouldn’t bother her?” Clarke laughs. But it’s a good-natured laugh, and Bellamy sees her smirk as he peers over at her.
“I just needed….” He starts, but his voice fades, lost for words he doesn’t know how to say. He can’t explain it, how he’s internally breaking apart, trying to find a way to keep himself together.
“It’s okay.” Clarke utters softly. She looks around the room, then stands. “C’mon, let’s get you into bed.”
Bellamy’s too faded to joke about beds with Clarke and getting into them, just smirks as he’s being manhandled -ha- again as Clarke positions his arm over her shoulders. He can’t seem to get his feet to work properly and his legs are too weak to hold him up. He has to lean into Clarke as she supports him with a hand on his side, and shuffles him down the hall. Bellamy’s head swims, and he groans at the sudden change in movement. Tequila was a really, really bad idea.
He thinks he’s going to keel over, but then he’s in a bed and having blankets tucked around him.
“Where am –“
“Shhh,” Clarke cuts him off, and he doesn’t fight her, his vision blurring at the edges as he rolls into the comforting feel of the mattress beneath him. Bellamy is too exhausted to question anything anymore, and instead focuses on the feeling of being warm, and safe.
It takes a minute to remember that Clarke essentially tucked him in, and he jolts awake, turning his head to search for her in the room.
“Clarke.”
But she’s already gone, and he sinks into sleep.
***
Bellamy can’t help but be amused by the ways of the universe.
Against him stands a very wasted Clarke Griffin, golden hair wisped around her face, directing him up the stairs to her apartment, where he himself had been just as wasted a few weeks ago. It seems things are set to come full circle, and Bellamy feels like paying a debt is the least he could do.
He had gotten a call from Miller earlier to get down to the bar as fast as he could. With no idea what was going on, Bellamy was surprised to walk into the bar and witness Clarke being a complete mess of whiskey shots and giggles.
Bellamy sent a questioning look to Miller, who just shrugged and explained, “Octavia isn’t answering her phone and I didn’t know anyone else who knows where she lives.”
He stepped over to her, “Clarke, what-“
When she notices him there, a small smile blooms on her face. “Eyyyy. Bell.”
He quirks an eyebrow at the nickname reserved for Octavia, feeling oddly warm at hearing it said by Clarke.
“Can-“ she hiccups, “Can you believe her?”
Um. “Her?”
“My-my mom. I just-“ she hiccups again, “Can’t believe her.”
That seems to be all the explanation Clarke is going to give as she finishes the remaining whiskey in her glass. Miller shoots Bellamy a pointed look from behind the bar. Okay then, time she gets home.
So here he was again, roles switched, as he unlocks Clarke’s door and ushers them both inside.
Octavia was, once again, nowhere to be seen upon entering the apartment, and Bellamy has to prop Clarke up against the wall to untie her boots.
“Don’t-don’t forget to lock up,” Clarke reminds him. She struggles to take off her coat, and Bellamy slouches down to help remove her hat and scarf.
Clarke looks at him closely, wavering slightly. “Why are there snowflakes in your hair?”
“It’s snowing outside, Clarke,” he answers wryly, as she clutches his arms for balance to step out of her boots. Bellamy lines up their shoes and then takes her gently by the arm. He leads them past the semi-familiar kitchen to the hallway.
“Okay princess, where to?”
Clarke leans into him and closes her eyes, thinking. “The- the first one on the left.”
Bellamy snorts. “No, not the spare room, I meant your room.”
Clarke looks up at him, taken aback. “That is my room.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, that’s the spare room you put me-“ Bellamy comes to a halt. “Wait a minute.”
“Whaaaaaaaat?” Clarke whines, and slumps forward, causing Bellamy to squeeze her arm tighter to keep her from falling.
Bellamy sees how she’s about to pass out, and quickly dismisses his train of thought to focus on the matter at hand: get Clarke to bed. Which is apparently the same one he slept in. Okay.
“Never mind,” he murmurs, and turns her into the room. Now that he’s sober Bellamy can see the room being Clarke’s- desk loaded with textbooks, walls covered with sketches, and the bed covered in a warm duvet and warm quilt. How had he not noticed all those weeks ago? Yes, he was drunk, and then hungover the next morning. But he just assumed she put him in a spare room, not hers.
He sets Clarke down and leaves in pursuit of some advil and water. He returns to find that she has her face hidden in the pillows, and he takes a seat down next to her on the bed.
“C’mon, sit up for a sec,” he coaxes, pulling Clarke forward with a cool hand on the back of her neck, holding a glass of water to her lips. Clarke groggily opens her eyes and takes a sip with the help of Bellamy’s hand leveraging her neck so she can drink.
Satisfied she’s had enough to drink, he carefully pulls over the blanket, and she snuggles beside him, closing her eyes. He waits a few minutes for her to settle, and then starts to leave when he’s stopped by a hand on his arm.
“Bell, stay,” Clarke slurs quietly, before dropping off into sleep, her nose grazing his knee.
Bellamy is taken aback, both by her words and by how Clarke is pressed up against him while he sits on the bed, her hands curled into her chest and her arms flush against his thigh. He’s about to protest, but remembers how upset she was, to have drunk herself silly because of her Mom. And he has a flashback of himself when he was the one being tucked in, feeling alone, unable to hold onto anything. Except that night Clarke had been there, had even given up her own room to make sure he was okay. And now he was the only person there for her.
“Sure thing,” he whispers, and clicks off the light.
***
“Why iHop.”
Clarke looks confused at the question, like the answer is obvious. She digs into her waffles and replies with a mouth full of food, “Because it’s good, greasy, hangover food.”
“Gross.”
“And,” she continues, “I wanted to say thanks, for uh, you know, taking care of me last night.”
Bellamy’s shaking his head, taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m the one who should be thanking you for letting me crash when I came looking for Octavia. I didn’t know you let me use your room.”
“I don’t know where else you thought you could’ve slept.”
“I thought there was a spare room, but that doesn’t exist.”
Clarke laughs as she takes another bite, then points her fork at him. “Who the hell has a spare room? We’re students, Bellamy, who could pay for that?”
Bellamy honestly doesn’t know what to answer. He doesn’t remember much from his drunken night, but now there’s one thing that’s bothering him. “Where did you end up sleeping that night, then?”
“The couch.” Clarke answers simply, smiling like it’s no big deal.
“Well damn. You didn’t have-”
“Are you going to finish eating those pancakes? Or is coffee all you’re having now?”
Bellamy pauses, then wordlessly pushes his plate toward her, and Clarke helps herself to his breakfast. They stay like that, peacefully recovering in the morning sun. It’s nice. And now, as he takes in Clarke decimate another waffle, Bellamy feels that loneliness inside slowly filling up.