Work Text:
If Bellamy knows one thing about the internet it’s that Clarke’s good at it. She’s always drawing pictures of fictional characters he’s never heard of (it’s mostly hot girls making out, which he can support even if he has no clue where they’re from) and, from what he can gather, people seem to really enjoy them. She’s popular on the internet.
Look, the thing about Clarke Griffin is that she’s a little intense and a lot socially stunted in real life, but on the internet that seems to work for her. (Those traits also work for Bellamy, but that’s a whole other story.) He’s pretty sure she has more Internet Friends than Real Life Friends, which is something he’ll never say to her face because he’d rather she didn’t cut his head off. In Real Life she has him and Wells, and Roan if you can count her half brother that she’s constantly squabbling with. But on the internet she has Harper and Jasper (roommates from Portland, Oregon, with whom she plays a lot of online games), Raven (some girl she video chats with. A lot), and Lexa and Anya (feminist bloggers that she adores).
So yeah, Clarke is an internet person. Bellamy… not so much. He has a Facebook account, but his profile picture is always changing between 2012 memes because Miller knows his password and he’s a menace. Also because Bellamy can’t figure out how to change his password. Or how to delete his account altogether. He also has a Google+ account but apparently they’re not cool or whatever. But Bellamy wants to be an internet person because it’s such a big part of Clarke’s life and he feels like he’s missing out.
The most logical thing to do seems to be to make a Tumblr blog because that’s where Clarke spends the most of her time and, let’s be real, he’s only doing this because of Clarke. He finds Tumblr dot com (and did everyone know it wasn’t spelt ‘tumbler’? Why is there no ‘e’?) and makes an account. He sets his username as ‘bellamy-blake’ because that makes sense, right? And he does a search for ‘clarke griffin’ which, surprisingly to him and unsurprising to probably anyone else, doesn’t give him what he was looking for.
He could probably send her a text asking for her URL but he kind of wants to figure out the site a little before he tells her that he’s signed up. Also he just wants to avoid her teasing. Luckily he’s borrowing Clarke’s laptop because his is six years old and groans every time he tries to open a Word document, so he opens up Chrome (‘you can use Safari and I’ll use Chrome because I don’t need you fucking up my search history with all the weird porn you watch’ ‘Hey, I don’t watch weird porn. I watch very normal porn’ ‘Bullshit I bet you like mythology porn’). It’s not hard to find her blog—it’s the second thing that comes up when he types ‘tumblr’ into her search bar—but when he clicks on the link, he is definitely not expecting what loads.
Her top few posts are messages from people she clearly knows well, with little in-jokes and references that he doesn’t understand but then there’s—well there’s him. A drawing of him. A really beautiful drawing of him.
Look, Bellamy knows that she draws him—she lives with him, it would be weirder if she didn’t draw him. But he’s never thought much of it. Clarke draws whatever is in front of her—vases, sandwiches, even the TV remote on a few occasions. So, yeah, of course she draws him. But he’s only seen messy outlines, with maybe a little bit of shading but that’s it. But this—this isn’t just a messy outline. This realistic colour and painstaking levels of detail. Every one of his freckles is carefully mapped and the moment is so perfectly captured that can tell exactly when it was drawn, even though there was nothing memorable about that afternoon. The sun was setting, leaving everything in soft yellows and browns. He had made them both teas, and they had sat in silence, Clarke stretched across their couch sketching, and Bellamy folded onto their armchair, tea balanced on one knee, his hands wrapped around the cup, book balanced on the other knee, his thumb splaying it apart. Just like he is in Clarke’s drawing. A little stunned, he clicks on the picture, disappointed when he can’t find a caption of some sort.
Now if he had stopped there he could have lived in his own bubble of denial where Clarke drew him because he was the only person around and there is no other meaning behind it. But then he comes across another message, this one from an anonymous user.
‘How’s it going with your roommate?’ it reads. ‘Have you told him how you feel?’
There’s no one else that this person could be talking about other than him. It’s just him and Clarke. Two roommates. Just them. They had a Siamese fighting fish at one point but it died two months ago despite Bellamy’s passionate care for it. And Clarke’s only ‘feelings’ towards it was that it was ‘boring’ and she had ‘no emotional attachment to it’. So, yeah, this is about him.
His heart is beating stupidly as he scrolls down to find Clarke’s response and he can barely breathe as he reads over it.
‘Dear anon, as well as the other many people who are interested in my relationship with my roommate (or B, as you know him). I think it is fairly obvious by now that I care a lot about B. And in an ideal world I would tell him how much he means to me. But here’s the thing: I know we are told that love is the be all and end all but I don’t agree. I really like what we have now. I don’t need to be his girlfriend. I don’t need him to kiss me or hold my hand. I need him. And I’m perfectly content with the way I have him right now. If the opportunity presented itself to further our relationship, I wouldn’t be against it. In fact I’d be enthusiastically for it. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: I love my best friend but it doesn’t make me sad, or make me wish for more. It makes me feel at ease—this steady reminder that I have someone that I care about more than myself. I don’t think I’d lose much from not telling him how I feel, but I think there’s the potential to damage something really precious to me if I do. So no—I have not told him how I feel, and I don’t plan to. But I need you to know that I’m not sad or pining, and that I am happy and I will be for as long as I have him in my life.’
Bellamy shuts down the laptop and closes the lid, letting his hands hover just over the lid.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
He’s thought about this moment a lot. Well, not this moment specifically, with the tumblr stalking and whatever. But the general idea of Clarke being in love with him. Usually when he entertains those thoughts he thinks about kissing her and about waking up to her in the morning and all that sappy shit.
But now? Now he’s just a little lost. It feels like his brain and his body aren’t quite attached—like he’s floating in a stream, his body caught in one current and his mind caught in another. And he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Look, Bellamy’s the kind of guy that will calmly take care of spiders and snakes. He wouldn’t think twice about putting himself on the line to save one of his friends. But when it comes to his feelings, he’s a downright coward. So he scribbles out ‘going to Miller’s’ on a sticky note, pins it to the fridge, and leaves before Clarke has the chance to come home from work.
+
It’s dark by the time the bus comes, and raining a little. He texts Miller when he finds a seat.
I’m coming over
Yeah sure invite yourself over. Politely asking is for losers.
Love you xx
I have a boyfriend.
The door to Miller’s apartment is open when he gets there, which is to be expected because Monty always forgets and Miller, a convicted ex-thief, thinks it would be funny to see someone try to rob him.
“Hey,” Bellamy greets as he walks inside and closes the door behind him (he locks it too, because he doesn’t believe in taunting fate).
Miller grunts, standard, and doesn’t look away from the TV. Bellamy settles on the couch next to him and rests his feet on the coffee table. Miller silently hands him a cold beer. This is why he likes Miller. Miller’s the kind of guy who will awkwardly force conversation with someone when he first meets them, trying to appear polite. But once he gets comfortable, he drops all pretences and will happily sit in absolute silence. And this is what Bellamy needs right now; he needs to watch trashy TV and quiet his mind.
Miller switches to The Bachelor, a show he insists he hates but at the same time refuses to look away from or let anyone talk over. He grumbles every time a girl called Keira comes onto the screen so Bellamy starts making up reasons why she’s just misunderstood to piss Miller off.
“God, she’s so cocky,” Miller grumbles.
“Maybe she’s just trying to cover up her insecurities.”
“Shut the fuck up, Bellamy.”
Halfway though the show there’s the sound of someone fumbling at the door and eventually Monty tumbles in, bleary-eyed and confused. Bellamy knows his shift at work finishes at five, but Monty likes to stay later because he actually likes his job.
“The door was locked,” he mumbles, puzzled, as he shuffles over to the couch.
Miller rolls his eyes at Bellamy as Monty flops onto the lounge and buries his face into Miller’s lap.
“You’re such a mum, Blake,” Miller accuses.
Even with Monty’s head in Miller’s lap, Miller’s fingers absently raking through his boyfriend’s hair, Bellamy doesn’t feel like he’s intruding. That’s the kind of couple Monty and Miller are; affectionate but not in an in your face way, being around them is enough to make anyone feel comfortable. It makes Bellamy smile and ache at the same time.
When The Bachelor finishes, Miller nudges at Monty’s head so he wakes up, and the three of them play Mario Kart. Monty dominates, obviously, but actually seems to feel guilty about it. Miller, for his part, gloats any time he gets close to winning and Bellamy somehow keeps managing to end up going the wrong way along the courses. They play Yoshi Falls every second race because it’s the only course where Miller can keep up with Monty. Bellamy just keeps falling off the map but his cheeks hurt from grinning and at one point Monty laughs so hard he shoots beer out of his nose so he’s not all that concerned.
+
At some point he needs to leave; the last bus of the night is coming and he just really fucking wants to see Clarke.
He’s the only one on the bus so he sits up the front and makes flat conversation with the driver because he’s pretty sure that’s etiquette or something.
He lets himself into the apartment quietly, worried about waking Clarke. (It’s only 10:30 but, honestly, that doesn’t mean much when it comes to Clarke’s sleep schedule.) It turns out he didn’t need to worry. Clarke is curled up the couch, blanket across her legs, and laptop on her knees. She has clearly just had a shower as her hair hangs in damp waves, leaving dark patches on her giant grey hoodie. She looks up when he enters, giving him a small smile that causes a familiar tug in his chest.
“Hey,” she says softly, “how was Miller’s.”
And this is everything he wants. Clarke, with her clean pink skin and tired smile. With her soft blue eyes behind her ugly glasses that she somehow manages to pull off. This girl, sitting right in front of him, is better than anything he could of ever dreamed of.
“It was fun,” he answers distractedly. “I missed you,” he adds without thinking.
She looks a little sceptical but she grins wider and lets out something between a snort and a giggle. “You saw me this morning.”
“Yeah,” he says, folding himself onto the couch across from her. “I know.”
“Okay…” she says, looking increasingly suspicious but still smiling. “I missed you too, I guess.”
He really, really fucking loves her. He loves the way she argues with a fire in her eyes, loves the way she tries to smile through her tears. Loves how she shows him memes just so she can tell him why she doesn’t think they’re funny/doesn’t get them. Loves how aggressive she gets, how she sucks at making small talk. Just—Clarke. All of her.
He’s been silent for a while and he must be staring at her funnily because Clarke’s frowning at him when he comes back to reality.
“Are you alright?”
Before he can get in control with his mouth he’s answering with a blurted, “I love you.”
Clarke’s eyes go wide, her jaw slack as she says nothing and blinks at him. “What?” she finally manages, her voice weak and her eyes still big.
“I think you heard me,” he says, the corner of his mouth ticking up. For all his bravado, his heart his pounding wildly in his chest and he’s having trouble speaking through the tightness in his throat.
“I…” Clarke starts, clearly struggling to find words.
“Hey, no. You don’t need to say anything. I just wanted you to know,” he reassures her. “Just—take your time. I don’t need a response right now.”
He starts getting up from the couch but Clarke locks her hand around his forearm in a vice-like grip.
“Shut up.”
“I wasn’t ta—”
“Shut. Up.”
He nods, a little lost, and settles back into the couch because that’s where she seems to want him to go.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, the kind of barb that is normally paired with a grin but right now she seems to be glaring him down.
His heart starts speeding up again and he really just wants her to let him go to his room. “Okay.”
“I love you too.”
“Okay,” he says again because she’s still glaring at him. He swallows. “Could you try and look a little bit happy about it?”
Her face splits into a grin almost immediately. “Yeah, I guess I could.”
Before he can let himself think about it, he’s launching across the couch and pulling her face to his. The kiss is fervent and he mostly just tastes her teeth because she’s laughing at him (but trying very hard to kiss him despite it). She eventually gets impatient with the odd angle (his torso across her knees), huffing into his mouth as she tugs at his belt loops, sliding her knees down so that his hips can rest between hers. He grinds down into her and the moan she lets out in response is downright sinful.
She makes a little noise in protest before pushing him back a little. “Not that I don’t like where this is going,” she says, breathless and chest heaving (he did that to her). “But I’ve seen the way you and Miller eat on this couch. It’s like you think your mouth is in between the couch cushions and I’d really rather not end up covered in week-old Doritos.”
“Bed?” he asks, already pulling her up.
“Bed,” she agrees.
+
Bellamy likes Clarke all the time—even when she’s being annoying (yeah, he doesn’t get it either). But if he had to pick a favourite Clarke, it would be this one—naked, her thigh across his stomach and her head on his shoulder, eyes pale in the morning light, and lazy smile across her lips.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough.
He kisses her nose because he can’t help it. “Morning.”
She ducks her head to bury her nose in his shoulder, almost as if she’s embarrassed, which is ridiculous considering what they were doing last night. But then again, Clarke’s always been kind of weird with ‘romantic stuff’.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks as she untucks her head.
“Of course.”
“Why did you decide to tell me you loved me last night?”
He looks away to stare up at the ceiling. “I, uh, saw your tumblr.”
When he looks back at her, her brow is furrowed in confusion. “Wha—Oh. Oh.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“The messages?”
“Just one.”
She nods. “That’ll do it. And, uh,” she shifts a little, looking uncomfortable, “that’s what made you realise?”
He laughs a little, brushing her hair from her face. “No, Princess, I’ve known for a while now.”
She smiles up at him. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Not how I planned to tell you though.”
“Oh really?” she challenges, raising a teasing brow. “And how did you plan to tell me? Serenade me? Or with flowers?”
“No, flowers die.”
“Edgy,” she mocks.
“Shut up. I don’t know—I hadn’t really gotten to it. I just thought it would be better than me just throwing it at you.”
“Nah,” she smiles, a finger trailing along his chest. “I think you did just fine.”
+
Dating Clarke doesn’t dramatically change his life—just changes small things that make all the difference. Like when he wants to kiss her he just does, and she kisses him back and tugs at his hair. And he sleeps in her room, which is great because she has the better view from her window and it smells like her—wood and vanilla. And when she gets a message asking ‘any updates on B?’ she answers with ‘we fucking’ and lets her ask box run wild. He doesn’t think he could imagine anything more perfect.
He still doesn’t know how to use Tumblr, though.