Work Text:
the book of john; a memoir
genesis;
he was a whirlwind. no, a hurricane.
everyone bellamy looked at had the same stars in their eyes- but him, oh, not him. he had this... fire. and it could not be extinguished. trust that they tried. god, how they had tried.
the boy left ashes everywhere he stepped, and people choked on his smoke. could you blame them?
(could you blame him?)
sometimes bellamy got too close. played with fire. touching, teasing, tampering with the most flammable parts of his mind and the gun powder in his bone matter.
there was a brightness to the fire; a warmth, if you struck the match just right. he could be gentle, a flickering flame.
but bellamy had gasoline affections, and he poured, he poured and he poured. the boy had no moves left, only to combust.
and so he did.
his name was john murphy. the boy who burned others, and then he burned out.
the climb;
if you ask him, bellamy will tell you about the lithe, pale fingers and how they felt between his own. how they left static electricity in the lines of his palms, how it sunk into his bloodstream, ignited him.
he’ll tell you about “those ocean eyes”, and if he ever says it another way- well, he won’t. how his gaze chilled him to the bone, made him feel like glass. he’ll tell you how he grew to see them differently, when the fire returned- coursing in the roundabout of frosted-over irises- and how it made bellamy feel this sweltering heat in the back of his mind, how it made him feel... alive.
if you ask him, he’ll tell you what it felt like falling out of love, and back in again. how it was never the right time, or the right place. he used to talk about what it felt like watching the other half of his soul drift away, into the arms of another- but he’s too proud to mention it anymore. or maybe it’s that they tell him his arms were never opened wide enough.
he’ll tell you about that kiss under the light of a flare gun in the blistering cold. he’ll forget his own name before he forgets the way murphy’s hands trembled, the way the chill of a sunless dawn clung to their faces and throats. he’ll tell you about the softness of murphy’s hair under his chin, and how his fingers twitched with nerves he didn’t know he had.
but there are some secrets you never tell, stories you never share.
his name was john murphy. the poster boy for the living dead.
the fall;
he was a phoenix. he convinced himself he was eternal, that he’d always rise again.
but who would have told him his feathers were frayed and his thin bones were too close to breaking? who would have dared?
bellamy remembers murphy's blood (so, so much blood), how thick it felt in his hands, which made sense. he remembers murphy saying something like, “intestines? more like out-testines.” and hearing that final- albeit wet and heartbroken- laugh from the older man that murphy had always loved to hear.
he remembers how his eyes never really looked fogged over, or glassy like they should have been. how they glimmered and shined until clarke closed them, gently with the tips of red-coated fingers, like trapdoors bellamy would have been willing to open again and fall right back into. how they probably sparkled until they lowered his broken little body into the ground, and then some.
he remembers how murphy didn’t cry, smiled the whole time. told bellamy he wasn’t fit to live, that he’d hit his expiration date long ago. told him not to miss him too much.
he remembers the last thing murphy told him.
“write about us, okay?”
epilogue;
so i did.
i still love him. god how i love him.
i don’t know if he loved me. i hope he did.
we built some huts by the ocean. emori lives here, too. she asked us to call it “camp murphy.” clarke figured it was the least we could do.
we’re all kind of old now. i asked clarke about the lines around my eyes, they kind of crinkle up if i smile. she said those were laugh lines. she said those were his fault.
i like them.
i never met anyone quite like him. i never met anyone with that same fire that he had. everyone here is tired, broken, sad. it’s like they’re all waiting for something, or someone. i'm not.
(though i still find myself wishing on clovers and stars that he'll come back one day.)
sometimes i think maybe he was wrong, that maybe he was the only one of us that was fit to live.
his name was john murphy. the boy who left and took all the light out of the world with him.
for J.M. (2132-2161)
Loving son and loud asshole.