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Bellamy loved the simple ritual of sitting in the quiet cool of a shady cedar with Clarke, sipping their drinks and sharing their break time.
One morning as they leant against the trunk, Clarke’s left hand resting casually on his knee, something shifted between them.
“Do you ever think about your future?” she asked.
“No,” Bellamy stated, revelling in her ability to delve straight into the deep stuff.
“Never?”
“I’ve been living day by day since Octavia was born. I haven’t had the luxury of wondering what kind of life I’d have.”
“And now?”
He looked up from his cup at the edge in her voice and noticed an intensity in her eyes usually reserved for more urgent moments.
“Now’s no different,” he said truthfully.
“But you have hope, right?” Clarke continued, unperturbed.
“Hope that we’ll survive this?”
“Hope that one day we’ll be free to do more than just survive.”
Bellamy sighed and leant his head against the rough cedar bark.
“We may never be rid of the things we’ve done, Clarke.”
“Maybe...” she paused. “But we have each other, and our children will be free.”
“Our children?” Bellamy swallowed, looking at her sideways as a blush crept up Clarke’s cheeks.
“I-I meant…” she stuttered, “our people’s children.”
“Of course,” Bellamy smiled shyly and raised his cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
“To our future generations,” Clarke tapped her drink against his, “may they be free from Freudian slips of the tongue.”
Bellamy coughed, choking on the small amount of liquid he was allowed.
“Freudian slip,” Clarke clarified, “it’s an unintentional…”
“I know what a Freudian slip is.” Bellamy recovered.
They spent the rest of their break in easy silence, staring at the blue sky above them, but all Bellamy could see were two curly haired monkeys climbing that tree.