from the fire

‘   it’s kimberly.   the girl i —   ’    she falters,  unable to meet his gaze,  afraid of what she may find there;    he knows now,  but she can’t remember much of how he reacted.    all she can remember of the last afternoon is her mother,  the look of disgust on her face,  the venomous words on her tongue —     none of which surprised trini,  but it hurt anyway.     ‘    it’s not some…    phase.   or whatever mom said.    i know i like girls.    — like her.     ’

he contemplates in guarded silence -- an extended beat that’s particularly nothing yet everything. his hands clasped together, his mouth molded into a thin, just-there line; his demeanor perfectly presented in an expression of neutrality as david studies his daughter, the worry, the fear she’s harbored for - how long now? and confirmed, his mind aches to acknowledge, june’s reaction entombed there, the look of disappointment and rage and something akin to terror. he feels a certain degree of fear, too, but for reasons antithetical to his wife’s: a fear for trini, not of her, of the years she’s lived with this cloud overcast, this secret growing, and overall, the ever-expanding thought that he’s failed her -- because she kept this from him for so long, only feeling comfortable, safe enough to disclose such an important thing after she was gone.

but this isn’t about him; he smothers his feelings of guilt, interring them to be unearthed and examined later. at present, he ventures softly towards a reply, offering first a half-sigh that catches in his throat; in his eyes, there’s understanding, everything he struggles to put into words. he feels his nails press somewhat harshly into the soft skin of his palms, turned white beneath the pressure, and from that he divines the strength to speak -- gentle, as usual, barely above a whisper. 

(  a vague recollection of those first months with june resurfaces - she’d always liked how little he spoke. he shudders inwardly at that now, revulsion creeping into the hollow of his throat  ).

“  i know it isn’t a phase.  ”  the word’s not exactly spat, but it’s parroted with something contrasting kindness. it ignites something in him he doesn’t comprehend; david sucks a breath between his teeth, hands extending palm-forward in something like surrender.  “  your mother was out of line - no, no, she was --- she was worse than that. she was----  ”  his voice rises, cracks, and he relents, anger pricking his flesh like a dozen needles. she’s still his wife; the mother of his children; there’s still something in his heart that renders him unable to insult her in front of their daughter. not love - that, he knows. he swallows back his bitterness and flicks his tongue to wet his lip.

it’s what he expected,  for bellamy to shrug his words off and deflect.  not because he knows him  (  because he doesn’t,  not personally  —–  only what he’s gathered so far,  and he knows not to rely on first impressions  )  but because he’s been here before.  trying to get people to open up,  trying to push people to allow themselves to breathe rather than being so focused on all the negatives that surround them now.  no one ever seems to give in,  so focused on trying to survive rather than to live  ——  something he’s trying to process himself,  too.  

he just wants to be okay.  and he wants everyone around him to be okay,  too.  because if he’s focusing on everyone else,  if he’s attempting to spread any sort of optimism,  then maybe he won’t fade into the back of his mind,  where his own fear is buried:  you may never see your parents again,  he whispers to himself when he’s too focused on himself,  not anyone else.   and he tells everyone else not to be afraid,  but his own fear is forcing this optimism of his to nearly consume him.  maybe it is feigned,  but it’s a piece of himself from space he refuses to let go of  —-  a piece of himself that has always made him who he is,  and he can’t lose that now.  

❝ no,  that’s not  —-   that’s not what i meant, ❞  he’s quick to blurt out,  both pointer fingers held up as he shakes them.  ❝  i just meant,  that if you were,  it would make sense. i think we’re all kind of scared right now.  i think we’re all trying not to focus on that. ❞  just like he is.   ❝  i’m just saying it’s okay.  whether you are or you’re not  ——  no one should feel bad for feeling what they feel right now.  even if it’s not fear.  even if it’s  .  .  .   disappointment,  or anger,  or whatever.  ❞  and that’s not just about HIM.  it’s about everyone.  but monty knows that bellamy has a voice,  whether or not that’s a good thing or a bad thing  —–  and he hoped that maybe,  if bellamy was owning whatever he felt,  others would follow. 

and maybe he is,  maybe monty just doesn’t know him enough.  it’s something he wants to change,  about everyone here,  but he doesn’t expect that to come easily.  there’s a reason it had been only he and jasper for so long.  

his eyes look down,  watching the blood stain against his shirt,  and his instinct is to want to help him  —–  yet bellamy has already made it clear that it might not be a real option.   so he relaxes,  eyes looking back up at him again as he watches what he believes is him attempting to let his guard down slightly,  a breath of relief falling from monty.  the last thing he wants is to make enemies here,  especially when he’s trying to make friends.  ❝  yeah,  trust me  —-  i’m trying.  ❞  

a pause,  and he takes a deep breath,  taking a chance.    ❝   where’d you learn how to do that?  ❞  he asks,  nodding down at the weapon in his hand. 

bellamy stiffens, a sudden stream of guilt trickling through him as something unseen reminds him of monty’s age - that, like everyone here, he’s little more than a child - that, unlike bellamy, he had no prior notice of this mission, that he was forced into the dropship and told about their destination in a single, sweeping motion, no time to plan, adjust, to come to terms with the imminent collision and encroaching possibility of a death more painful than what would be dealt on the colony. a million unknowns forced onto him in the span of a second; an imagination left to wander through a meadow of speculation, unsure of survival - (  maybe desiring an end by needle, a shell of a body left to float through space rather than feasted upon by whatever roams the earth ----  )

he softens. shoulders slump in something akin to defeat, but bellamy’s expression is shaped into something more amicable - not the beaming grin he’d offer octavia, but something. he eases onto the vivid grass and presents his quiver - an assortment of manufactured and handmade ammunition, some crusted with blood still from prior kills.  “  i read about it. on the colony. i got into the library a few times, but -  ”  his laughter here is bitter; in his gaunt features is the unmistakable mark of walden - it explains what he doesn’t say.  “  - but there was treasure up there, if you knew where to look. i’d found a few survival guides over the years, and i kept them, ‘cause, i guess...  ”  

his mouth fumbles for an excuse - four feels it press against his teeth but can’t will it any further, too fearful of how childish it’ll make him seem, how fucking scared, how absurd (  it’s a perfectly natural fear, some conscience within him attempts to reason, though eclipsed by his pride  ) that someone like him should tremble at confined space. he jerks from the entrance, heels digging into the muddied trench, breaths hitching as panic sets his nerves ablaze. 

this is just who he is,  the boy filled with so much optimism that he has no choice but to try to spread it.  it’s always been natural to him,  something that never even felt so necessary until he had been met with the ground,  a place that people could so easily lose hope and faith in.  he was holding on,  doing his best to see the good in everything,  even when it was questionable  —–  even when people like graham seemed to have the opposite approach. 

there’s hope everywhere  -—-  he just has to keep believing in it. 

and he knows that not everyone is going to agree with him.  he knows that some people read his optimism as something to speculate,  because there’s not a lot of it down here unless it’s feigned,  or unless it’s used towards something that could harm them all in the end.  still,  he tries —–  because this isn’t the place for enemies.  this is an opportunity for him,  to maybe finally get to know people other than his own best friend.  to work with them,  to build a new home with them  —–  to matter to other people,  too.  it’s becoming increasingly more clear that it’s not an easy task.

they’re all strangers,  but they don’t have to be.  they’re a community now  —-   or at least they have to be,  they should be.   he’s attempting to make it feel like one,  trying to do it casually  —–  but it’s an easier thought than it is put into action. 

❝  yeah,  i  —–  i know. ❞   no one ever seems to want to take it,  despite monty believing that he often times has valuable advice to share.  smart enough to succeed with the farmers and be recruited by engineers,  but that pride doesn’t do him much good when it comes to finding a common ground with the people he’s with now. 

he clears his throat,  trying again.  ❝  i just know that it’s a lot right now.  and i don’t think people should be afraid to say it.  ❞  just like he doesn’t think people should be afraid to admit they’re afraid.   they shouldn’t be afraid to admit that they miss their families,  or that they miss the ark,  or that they don’t know what to expect,  or that they’re tired and hungry and confused and lost.  he wants that to be okay.

afraid. bellamy scoffs at the notion, so hard it must bruise his throat, a harsh, hateful noise that burns. afraid reminds him of his mother’s bed-ridden pregnancy; afraid reminds him of ushering octavia into the closet crawlspace, wide-eyed and silent and nostrils dripping snot. afraid was the little boy holding onto his sister’s bony shoulders as their mother curled into herself as her life dripped from her wrists - since that day, bellamy hasn’t been afraid. there’s no closets on earth; no sharp-nosed and cruel-eyed carers of the center to stare at him in disgust; nothing to be scared of, no monsters in the night (  except for the earth-borns, some deep-embedded voice mocks; it’s a caricature of his own, but untamed, and in it, bellamy can hear the vicious smile it wears. the earth-borns who’ll kill you and your sister and your brother and even this kid, too  ).

his skin breaks on the sharp point of an arrowhead as his palm grinds into it - blood wells and pools in a rich crimson-black, trailing his wrist like a macabre stream cutting through the forest floor. he makes that sharp noise again that grates his throat and jerks his hand away from his ammunition, eyes trained into dagger-points undeservedly directed at monty.  “  you think i’m scared?  ”  bellamy’s mouth puckers, expression rearranged into a portrait of rage - he knows it’s unfair, that it’s not an accusation, but still he strikes, a cornered snake with fangs bared but unable to conjure a follow-up - some rebuke to prove he isn’t or some insult to fill the void that shifts uncomfortably between them.

in the quiet moments following, bellamy seems to deflate a little; the red in his cheeks and the flare in his eyes seem to dull. he presses his wounded hand into his already-tattered shirt, smearing blood against dirt, unfazed by the sting it brings. he seems almost childish in that second; soft-gazed and with a tremble of a lip, he seems younger than monty, and scared, too - that dreadful fear that he’s certain he vanquished years ago seeming to resurface, choking him, its teeth clamping down on his vocal chords and rendering him speechless.

his presence still unsettles her,  though rationally,  she knows he’s done nothing wrong.     he might wear the green armor now,  but that doesn’t make him rita.    she knows this,  but she can’t look at him without remembering her.     can’t look at him without the scars on her throat practically burning from the memory of who put them there,  without hearing the splash of billy falling into the water,  without being reminded that she hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in months because of rita repulsa.     none of this is his fault,  but she can’t change the way she feels about him anyway.

‹   what do you want.    ›     her expression is intentionally cold,  unwelcoming —-     something even worse than the way she looked at zack after he tackled her on the cliff,  the way she looked at kim when she apologized for pushing her off them.

tommy’s arms cross against his chest, hands stilled in a contemplative silence, a first for him - there’s barely a time when he doesn’t know what to say. he’s conditioned to looks of pity, the twitch of a lip into an uncomfortable smile as someone’s eyes translate into the apologies he can’t hear - but a look as sharp as a knife, daggers pushing themselves into his skin, isn’t something he can meet, losing confidence like an injured balloon leaking helium. her hatred’s red like the sunset ablaze on the horizon; he feels its heat, fuel for his regret simmering in the hollow of his throat, i shouldn’t be here the only thought that forms in the forefront of his mind: i shouldn’t be here, this is a mistake, the goddamn coin made a mistake.

gradually, cautiously, he untangles his arms; slender fingers flex, a nervous flutter.  ‹  you’re the only one i can really talk to  -  ›  he gives an inch of a smile, intended to be playful.  ‹  jason’s not very good yet. kinda slow.  ›