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There is a chill in his bones that just won’t wash away, no matter how high he turns the tap, no matter how long he lets the water run for. The water rains down on him like shards of ice, guilt pricking his skin, remorse thrumming against his neck. The water that runs down his body comes away clean, circles the drain and disappears, but he sees rivers of blood, staining him red and gruesome.
He remembers the faces, the mouths twisted in agony, the eyes pleading for mercy. He remembers the blood stained earth, the smell of metal and gunpowder in the air and the pained, frightened moans. He remembers the hard, popping sound of bullets piercing the night sky, the bright flash of muzzles and the soft ping of the metal casings hitting the ground. He remembers that sick feeling deep in his gut, the one that hasn’t really left him since.
And then he remembers the silence. The deafening silence that followed, that seemed to stretch into the void, pounding loudly in his ears with the absence of sound - it is still what feels the heaviest on his back.
His fist forms a tight ball before he slams it into the tiles with a hard wet slap, but he doesn’t feel the impact. He rams his fist into the wall again, a sickening crunch echoing in his ears, but it doesn’t register. A strangled sob escapes his lips but he tamps down on it, shaking it off with a flick of his head. He examines his raw, red fist, but it’s the monster on the inside that inflicts the real pain, the wounds that hurt more than anything that bleeds.
He lets the water pound down on his head, forces his breathing to calm, unclenching his fist and testing the joints. He works hard all day not to let the darkness control him, makes sure he is all that he can be to the people that somehow, inexplicably, still rely on him. Some even trust him. Need him. It’s easier to believe during the day when survival is a practical task that can be chipped away at. Alone, in the night, darkness creeps back in and overwhelms him, and he knows that really, no one needs him at all.
It would be so much easier for everyone, for himself, if he’d never listened to Pike, if he’d never trusted Echo, if he’d never let Clarke get away. If he’d never thrown away that radio. If he’d never listened to Shumway. If he’d never taken Octavia to that dance. If he’d never pulled that trigger, that lever, that knife. It would be so much easier for everyone if he’d never done any of it. If he never existed.
But Octavia had insisted, with her eyes, with her smile, with her hope. And Kane had insisted, with his trust, with his belief, with his acceptance. And Clarke. Fuck, Clarke had insisted more than anyone. She had insisted with one hand in his and his heart in the other. Every touch, every look, every small smile had convinced him that he was important, that he was more than the sum of his wrongs and rights, that he had a purpose.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block the images of golden hair and luminous blue eyes from his mind. They haunt him, those eyes, with their clear, unwavering belief in him. They haunt him, cut him, bleed him, because he can’t believe them. Not when he knows they are misguided. Not when he knows better. Not when those eyes make his hand move downwards, when they remind him of pink lips, soft skin and scandalous curves.
His hand tightens around himself, his thumb swiping over slick, sensitive skin. Fuck. Not this. Not another weight on his already weary shoulders. But those eyes, they continue to haunt him. They make him flick his wrist, increase his speed, they make him huff and moan while the water beats down on his head. They make his bones thaw, if only for a moment, warmth spreading from his chest down to his toes, spilling out in thick streams over his hand.
The moment is fleeting, and when it’s over the chill returns, settling deep in his bones. The water keeps hitting his skin like a million tiny needles. It's no longer guilt that stings. Its no longer what he did wrong, what he didn’t do well enough, it’s what he is and what he isn’t enough of. He isn’t good enough, or enough at all. Everything about him is wrong, the evidence dripping down in heavy, thick dollops before the water washes it away.
He feels their eyes on him, as he moves through camp. He sees the looks he gets, the unspoken accusations, the raw grief, the barely concealed anger. They have all come here, despite their grievances, despite their thirst for vengeance, out of desperate necessity. Together they are supposed to be stronger, and they all cling to that hope, that somehow, between Skaikru technology and Grounder knowledge, they can survive. The need for survival is stronger than than the thirst for blood, for now at least.
Even from his own people, the ones he’s always fought for, he gets eyes full of accusation. Mistrust rolls off them in waves as he walks past, as conversations come to a halt as he enters a room, as seats quickly empty when he sits down for meals. The only time anyone cares to listen to him is when Clarke stands next to him with her arms crossed and blue eyes gleaming with fierce determination.
They don’t trust him, and they don’t understand why Clarke does. They don’t understand why he’s still here, acting like he’s the one that is going to save them all when they still remember how spectacularly that has backfired in the past.
He agrees with them. He doesn’t understand either, all he knows is that when they are alone, Clarke’s eyes aren’t so sure or determined. He knows that she doesn’t let anyone else see the doubt that sometimes consumes her. And more than anything he knows that for some reason he can’t understand, and he definitely can’t explain, without him she can’t find back to that strength she needs to show the rest of the world. So he stays.
His days are spent in the council room where the voices are hard but hushed. No one wants panic to spread, no one wants the world to end sooner than it has to. Raven doesn’t sleep, barely eats, barely talks, knowing humanity is hers to save. Monty’s eyes are wide and wet as he scrambles to keep up with her, face growing paler and more sallow with each passing day without a glimmer of hope. Kane mollifies bristling clan leaders after Clarke has rubbed them wrong way trying to get any information they can use at all, tempers flaring ever higher, nerves being worked ever thinner.
His role in it all is to talk her down every time she has to raise her voice, to talk to her in his most soothing tone until she is calm enough to go back and apologise and try again. Sometimes he has to step in front of her when swords clang and insults are being shouted out in trigedasleng. It’s hard on them all.
Finally, weeks in, when Raven looks like you could blow on her and she’d fall over, they find something. No one wants panic to spread, but no one wants false hope to take root either. There is an old bunker system, far enough away that none of the grounders have ever seen it, but close enough that they can make it on foot eventually. Now they finally have a maybe.
Raven eventually sleeps, and Clarke’s eyes shine with hope and determination. Maybe it can work, she says, but it already sounds like she has decided it will. She is already making plans, thinking about what to take and what to leave behind, who can walk and who can carry those that can’t. How many people they can fit. She doesn’t falter even though her maths are a wildly optimistic interpretation of Monty’s calculations. Her determination burns hot, and it almost, almost, reaches him, but his bones are still cold.
He knows that even if the bunker is habitable, even if it is sealable, even if the long journey there will take care of some of the problem on its own, they won’t all fit. He thinks about the 300 people who fell like shooting stars to the ground because he threw away a radio, he thinks about the 300 people who melted like candles because he pulled a lever, he thinks about the 300 people who bled into rivers because he gave someone the matches to set the world on fire, and he decides. He decides to stay behind.
He doesn’t tell anyone, because he doesn’t want anyone to try and talk him out of it. He gets involved in preparations for leaving, but he doesn’t make any of his own. He doesn’t comment when Clarke discusses plans for hunting while they are on the road, doesn’t flinch when she talks about the order they need to establish as soon as they arrive. His smile is thin when hers is beaming with the realisation that they could actually pull this off. She still believes it is they and not her that will.
For once he’s glad Octavia isn’t there to see right through him, to fight him, to make his decision harder on him. He can only hope that wherever she is, Roan or Indra or whoever she is with has the common sense to bring her to the bunker, he can only hope word even reaches her. He feels utterly useless in the one task that was always irrevocably his; protecting his sister. But at this point, he realises, it hardly matters anymore. She hasn’t needed him to protect her for a while now.
The night before everyone is due to leave Clarke finds him alone in his room. He’s managed to stay away from her all day, managed to avoid almost everyone all day, but he’s been careful not to cross her path especially. Because he can’t hide from her like he can hide from everyone else. Because of course she knows something is off straight away, and he can handle most things, but he can’t handle those eyes.
“Why aren’t you packed?” she says, slowly, calmly, dangerously.
Her jaw is clenched tight and her eyes don’t meet his fully, filling him with cold dread.
“There isn’t room for everyone, you know that."
“That’s not what I asked."
He sighs heavily, runs a still-bruised hand through his hair and looks away from her now glistening eyes.
“I’m not going."
“When did you decide this?"
“It hardly matters now."
“It fucking matters to me, ok?”
She is angry now, even though her voice is still low and even, but her eyes are hard and wet and narrow. Her fists are clenched tightly at her sides, twitching slightly like she’s considering throwing a punch.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."
“Harder? It should be fucking hard. It should be fucking impossible!"
There is fire spitting from her mouth and lightning flashing from her eyes and not for the first time in his life he’s a little unnerved by her.
“Clarke..” he tries, aiming for soothing but achieving only further rage.
“Why the hell would you even think you could make a decision like this without talking to me about it?"
“This isn’t your decision to make, this isn’t something we do together. This is something I have to do on my own. It’s the easiest decision I ever made."
Its not entirely true what he tells her, but it knocks the winds out of her sails and she deflates in front of him. It was easy enough for him to decide to take himself out of the equation, he’s not scared of the no doubt painful and violent death he has chosen. What isn’t easy is knowing he has to see them go, without saying goodbye. What is harder still is that he now has to see her go and he has to say goodbye first.
When she starts speaking again her voice is small and pleading.
“But I need you, Bell."
“You don’t, you’ll be fine."
“You know that’s not true."
Her eyes are red now, flooded and heavy, thick drops clinging to her lashes. One or two fall to the floor, as loud as bullets fired into a an oil drum. He might be the gunman and he might be the bullet, but she is the bleeding wound in his heart.
“I’m tired, Clarke, tired of fighting myself at every turn, I’m tired of this war my mind has waged on me. I’m tired of hating myself and then hating myself for hating myself. I’m exhausted."
She simply swallows hard and lets her tears spill over, staining her cheeks. The previously hard fists are slack by her side instead, and she curls into herself, wrapping her arms around her as if it will protect her from the pain.
“If you want forgiveness, I’ll give that to you,” she tries, slight desperation in her tone.
“I don’t want you to forgive me, I want me to forgive me,” he sighs, throwing his hands up to her as if in prayer. “And I won’t."
She’s trembling slightly, and fuck, this is exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. He can live easily with his own sacrifice, but he doesn’t want to dwell on hers.
“I don’t deserve that space."
He puts as much finality and conviction behind those words as he can, well aware that she will cling to any hint of doubt, any small crack she can slip into. She meets his determined glare with big, wet eyes and his knees nearly buckle. He watches her bottom lip tremble, watches the frown on her forehead deepen, watches the pain spread like wildfire through her body. A loud sob escapes her lips and even though he told himself he wouldn’t do this, he takes two big steps and wraps his arms around her.
“Fuck you,” she sobs into his neck, small fists thumping his chest furiously, but there is no power behind her words or her fists. “Fuck you for leaving me, fuck you for deciding without me and fuck you for not telling me."
He lets her hit her with her ineffectual fists, lets her curse him raw, lets her tears soak his shirt. He holds her tight as she cries herself dry, inhales her heavy, sweet scent and lets his cold bones feel her warmth for the last time.
She burns him with her tears, scorches him with arms that cling to his neck, ignites him with lips pressed against his. His bones are cold but his skin is on fire everywhere she touches him, and she runs her hands over him feverishly as if she is trying to burn down the world before its time so they can go down together.
She tears at his clothes and then her own, desperation in her hands and punishment in her mouth. He lets her set the pace, the direction, but when she pushes him down on the bed, still cursing him to the heavens he grabs her wrists gently and stills her wild fury.
“We still have time."
She freezes, sobs helplessly one last time and lets him pull her close, lets him run his fingers slowly over her cheeks, drying her tears with his thumbs. When he kisses her she melts slowly into him, opening for his tongue, softening around him. He pulls her under him, twining his fingers into hers and sliding into her gently, carefully. They move together like they move together in life, in wordless understanding, in seamless synchronicity. Together, in everything.
When she comes, she cries again, and when he puts his cheek against hers he no longer knows if the tears are hers or his. When he tries to roll off her she wraps her arms around him tighter, holding him in place until both their breathing slows right down. She only lets him move off her when he assures her she’d be more comfortable draped over him instead. She falls asleep with her head on his chest, bright hair spread around her like a halo.
He listens to her erratic breathing all night, fingers running through her hair, or over her cheeks, or in circles on her back. He doesn’t stop touching her all night, allowing himself one last thing he knows he doesn’t deserve but doesn’t have the willpower to turn down.
When the grey morning light filters through the shutters she wakes with a hard jolt, grabbing on to his hand with such fierce strength that he’s certain he’ll have crescent shaped cuts on the back of his hand for weeks.
“I don’t want to go without you,” she warns, voice raw with emotion.
“You have to. They need you."
“They need you too."
“Not anymore."
“I need you."
It sounds more like a prayer than anything else, but they both know this hasn’t changed anything. They both know an apocalypse can’t be stopped, you just have to figure out how to survive it.
“You don’t.” He kisses her fingers gently, then her forehead, pulling her close and savouring her.
“I love you.” She says it with a soft kiss pressed against the skin covering his heart, mostly to herself.
“You can’t. I don’t even love me."
He doesn’t come out to say his goodbyes or to press another soft kiss against her lips, he just stays in his room as he listens to horses and rovers and people buzz with excitement, before the noise fades to complete silence. He sleeps for the rest of the day, dreaming of blue and gold and when he wakes up its only the scent of her that lingers on his sheets and the red angry marks on his hands that remind him it wasn’t all a dream.
Time is painfully slow when days have no purpose, and it begins to lose its meaning as his life does. Clarke checks in occasionally, when conditions are right and when she has something to say, when there are deaths to report or they have to deviate from the original route. She tells him how rivers are more swollen than anticipated so they had to walk the long way round, or when fallen trees and rocks force them to double back. She tells him where the hunting is especially good, like she is leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind so he can come find them.
He barely listens, one eye on the geiger counter Raven left behind for him. In the weeks, he guesses, since they left the levels have been steadily rising, as per Monty’s predictions. He doesn’t need her breadcrumbs, he needs her to get to the bunker before the levels are too high. Before all of it is a waste.
When he doesn’t hear from her in almost a week he nearly loses his mind. He curses himself for not going with them, for not helping them get there at least, before slinking off to meet his destiny. There is nothing to fill the void as he waits for the radio to light up, no menial tasks to perform or epics to reread, there is just time and him alone with thoughts that still haunt him. It’s the first time he realises time in itself can be torture, each passing second punishing him with its relentless advancement.
Finally, when he’s already got a backpack slung over his shoulder and a foot out of the door, the radio crackles. Her voice comes through loud and clear, breathlessly elated. They’ve made it, they’re safe. He slumps down by the table, relief washing through him.
“There is still space,” she says, the hope in her voice masking the horror. They must have lost far more people on the way than she let him know.
“Clarke..."
“Bellamy, please."
“There is no time."
The geiger counter in front of him tells him this, for all that time stood still since they, since she, left, the destruction of this world hasn’t.
“You’ll get here quicker on your own."
“It’s already too late."
She pleads, she shouts, she cries, she argues, but he is unmoved. He chose his path and he is at peace with his situation now that he knows she is safe. That they all are. But then she threatens.
“If you don’t come, I’ll come get you myself."
And the thing about Clarke is that her threats are never empty, so he has no choice. He is out of the door ten minutes later, the radio clutched tightly in his hand.
Outside the world is rioting, strong winds tearing at grey leaves, silent birds soaring towards the sky without purpose. It is eerily quiet save for the roar of the winds, he rarely sees animals that aren’t already dead or grotesquely deformed. The colours are all wrong, grey and red and blue instead of green and brown and yellow, warped and dangerous and dying.
The rain burns instead of cools, fat drops singing his skin and turning the ground black. There isn’t a day without surging storm clouds over his head, volatile and electric, poised to destruct. The world dies screaming, protesting violently at every turn, fighting for survival. He dies silently, whispering reassurances into the radio, walking fast and with purpose but without hope.
Clarke checks in every day, telling him to hurry, which he does, even though he knows it won’t change a thing. She asks if he’s been getting headaches, if he’s nauseous, if he feels dizzy. He tells her no while he holds on to a tree for support, clutching his head with one hand, stomach empty and purged.
“I’m almost there,” he tells her, as the skin on his back turns an angry, fluorescent pink and he can’t even sleep anymore cause it itches too badly.
He walks with heavy, unsteady steps, slightly off balance. He is bone tired and cold, but he keeps moving towards her like she’s a magnet pulling him in. He keeps walking so that she won’t.
“Octavia is here,” she tells him, in an effort to motivate him as talking becomes harder. “She says quit dicking around and get here already."
It makes him smile even though his mouth hurts with sore gums and cracked lips.
“Tell her I’ll be there tomorrow."
Finally he spots the bunker, all grey concrete and high walls that look more like death than salvation. He sinks down to the soft ground, into the black mud, taking a long, slow breath as he leans back against the hard wall. His hands tremble uncontrollably even as he rests them on his knees, his skin violently red and raw, flaking off in layers, puffed up and blistered. His fingertips are bright white and numb, unable to feel the rough fabric underneath them.
His eyes sting and burn as he reaches for the radio, turning it on with great effort, white spots dancing across his vision and making him retch and heave.
“I’m here,” he tells her. I made it.
She cries softly into the radio, a silent pain stretching between them as they avoid talking about what they’ve both known for weeks. He is too late, the levels are too high, they can’t open the heavy metal doors that separate them. He is already dead.
“I’m really glad you made it,” she whispers, voice unsteady but soothing, like caramel in his ears. “I’m coming to get you."
“Ok,” he coughs, lips stained red with his blood, breathing heavy, lungs full of lead.
“You know I love you even if you don’t,” she says, and he’s tired, he’s so tired. His bones are cold but his heart is warm and he knows it couldn’t have ended any other way.
“I know,” he stutters, as his body starts to convulse and he can no longer grip the radio in his hand.
He falls to the ground, shaking and twisting, coughing and sputtering and he can no longer see the heavy grey clouds above him. His senses leave him one by one, but his hearing is the last to go. As the world fades to black he sees blue eyes and golden hair, and in his ear she hums softly, her voice low and calm and he thinks he recognises the melody, thinks maybe he’s heard her sing like that in another life. And before the end he is warm to the core, comfortable and rested, filled with light. And finally, finally, he feels right.