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Murphy’s apartment complex is, well, an absolute nightmare.
The sickly yellow wallpaper plastered to paper thin walls peels like dead skin, (often keeping Murphy’s hands occupied when he’s feeling especially antsy, and keeping his apartment looking positively repulsive.) The floorboards creak, and there is a myth that the old man in 219 once saw a spider comparable in size to that of his hand- from wrist to fingertip, he swears it- dart across his floor from underneath a particularly gnarled wooden plank. The neighbors are loud, the lobby windows are barred, the place holds the perpetual stench of spoiled milk and something akin to death- and Murphy swears to God that the fire escape (which doubles as his highness’ royal balcony) creaks and rumbles when merely the pigeons perch on it.
But it has it’s perks, he thinks, as he strains to stretch tall enough to stare through the peephole at 4:30 pm each day, waiting for the new guy Murphy has so cleverly dubbed 207- the mystery man’s apartment number- to walk past his door, one sun-paled leash in each tightly curled fist.
An Australian shepherd coated in rusty red spots rises just below the man’s waist on the left, and on the right, a two-legged Chihuahua, with some kind of puppy-wheelchair contraption strapped to them pads along on their teeny-tiny little puppy feet- and is undoubtedly Murphy’s favorite. That little guy is the highlight of his day.
He will pet those dogs if it’s the last thing he ever does.
***
The next day comes around, and the next, and the next- and Murphy follows his routine unperturbed. Completely lacking of any puppy-petting-business. Stale, dull and Chihuahua-less.
7:30 AM: The morning rooster crows in the voice of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson singing for him to “get his candy-ass out of bed.” Murphy puts his two months of self-defense class to use by promptly karate-chopping the “snooze” button on his phone.
7:35 AM: The meaner, slightly more aggressive, “I’m-not-playing-around-dickhead!,” alarm rings, harassing his ears and coercing him to actually rise for the day. There’s a crackle of bones, muscles shifting as he reaches up and yawns. Rough sheets pooling around his hips, and the gritted-teeth hiss that escapes with the rush of cold air on his naked legs peeking out from the blankets as he goes to stand. The drop isn’t far, seeing as his mattress rests on the floor. “Why waste money on a bed-frame?” is his motto, and not a very catchy one at that.
8:00 AM: By now his teeth are brushed and perpetually un-flossed because, well, “why waste money on floss?” His pale face has been attacked by a hot washcloth and is looking splotchy and flushed, just how he likes it. (Turns out you have to return a lot less “Good morning!”s when you look suspiciously like you’ve just tried a trendy new poison ivy face mask.)
8:30 AM: The Lucky Charm marshmallows have been devoured, the actual cereal flung at the pigeons on the fire escape in a way that may or may not constitute as bullying, and his coat and shoes are on. This is where he stands in front of the door and tries to not cry over the prospect of actually arriving to work. He’s convinced he deserves better than the shitty job he’s been graced with by the powers of the universe and intends on complaining about it thoroughly- though he knows he’ll never work up the nerve to quit.
9:00 AM: Murphy locks up his bike against the rack and stares at the doors of “Ontari’s Ice Palace.” When applying for the job, he did the math easily and went ahead in assuming that renting out skates wasn’t going to be the most captivating career path, but he had this glowing, optimistic little idea in his head that he would get to watch the more practiced skaters spinning and twirling and gliding amongst the ice, weaving through crowds of smiling couples and giggling pink-nosed children, clutching onto the hands of their mothers or fathers.
How fucking naive of him.
10:00 AM- 3:00 PM: [redacted] [because it’s fucking terrible and frankly, not worth noting]
4:00: Murphy storms out of his workplace grumbling strings of colorful vocabulary about skating, children, couples, people with skills, his fucking heathen of a boss Ontari (but seriously, are you allowed to throw skates at your employees?), and ice in general. Sometimes he worries the phantom smell of feet will never leave his tortured nostrils.
4:30: Peephole. Puppies. That weird ache in his chest that he can’t explain. A hand on the doorknob and- and-
And.
He can’t. He doesn’t want to be a bother, right? The guy’s probably busy, might not have time to stop. Maybe the dogs don’t even like to be petted. Maybe 207’s an asshole.
Maybe next time.
5:00: Sulking. So much sulking.
***
It’s next time when he works up the nerve.
Murphy shovels another forkful of Courage Lasagna into his mouth when the clock hits 4:30. Right on time, 207 strolls around the corner and his dogs follow, padding across the dingy hardwood with bright eyes and wagging tails.
His eyes dart to the door and his empty hand juts out and clasps the rusted knob. His brain suddenly needs manual instruction to function. Twist. He twists. Push. He pushes. Speak.
Murphy looks up, parts his lips to form words that sound at least vaguely like, “Pet dogs?” This signal to his brain immediately falls short, along with Murphy’s jaw, which drops a bit at the sight of him.
Him. 207. Dark chocolate curls spilling out onto his forehead, framing his ears and brushing past the base of his skull with creeping tendrils. Freckled caramel skin pulling and shifting over an unfair amount of muscle, shining and shadowed in all the right places. Kind brown eyes and a gentle, inviting half-smile.
Murphy stands there, statue-still with his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, plastic lasagna tray gripped with white-knuckles in one hand and a bent fork in the other.
His Courage Lasagna did not prepare him for this.
“Um, hi?” 207 says with a lilt, examining his rather strange neighbor with squinted eyes. The pale boy says nothing, eyes beginning to look glassy as he forgets to blink. The man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another at the lack of reaction, and his larger dog decides to sit, seemingly knowing this interaction might take some time. “I live in 207... I don’t think we’ve met?”
The man’s deep, mellow voice makes the hair stand up on Murphy’s arms, and all he can process is that it’s entirely fucking unfair how attractive he is, and how angry it makes him that 207’s voice is doing things to him that he doesn’t understand.
So, naturally, the next thing Murphy says is, “Shut the fuck up.”
As soon as the words come out of his mouth, Murphy feels his heart die. He feels his organs drying up and falling into the acid of his stomach like dead leaves. He feels his cerebrum snap in half and shrivel up. Not even exaggerating. He wonders absently if the drop from the fire escape would finally release him from this eternal cycle of suffering.
Fuck.
207 tenses, raises a thick brow. “Well, alright. Nice to meet you too,” he all but snarls, and Murphy feels the sweat beading on his forehead and neck. He parts his lips, attempting to force out some semblance of an apology or to explain- but quickly clamps his mouth shut and squeezes his eyes closed, fear constricting his chest and making all of his muscles tighten up. He’s completely shut down. Error. Error. Error. Processes canceled. Rebooting.
The freckled man decides he’s done waiting for his particularly rude neighbor to move out of his way, so he shoves past and his obedient, energy-packed balls of fluff follow quickly behind. Murphy’s hand twitches towards the tinier one, the light of his life, but something in his shorted-out brain tells him this not the time nor the place.
And now that he’s gone and Murphy’d it all up, the time will probably never come.
He drops his head in resignation, slightly sweaty fringe brushing against closed eyes and fluttering as he sighs with wordless acquiescence over the whole situation.
Stepping back into his doorway and dropping his crooked fork onto the hardwood with a muted clatter, Murphy shuts the door easily behind him and presses his back to it, sliding to the ground like the defeated protagonist in a low budget film. He wraps his arms around his tray of cold pasta as it rests like the holy grail upon his knees. “You are all I have left,” he whispers, reassuring the nearly forgotten dish of it’s importance and general grandness, as he scoops the last square into his mouth with a bare hand. If one shall behave as a heathen, one shall eat as a heathen, he thinks, before toppling over and chewing what may as well be his last meal horizontally in a weak gesture of fatalism.
And- as if lying on his doormat with a cold plate of microwaved lasagna after slam-dunking his chances of happiness down the elevator shaft wasn’t demeaning enough- his neighbor chooses that very moment to so kindly give him his mail, (bills he can’t pay right now, bills he probably won’t pay right now, and likely some ads for lawn care for the lawn he does not own,) which rains down upon him from the mail slot like a hail of pain and disappointment. A sign from the gods telling him, “You’re a huge fucking loser and you’ve failed entirely at living and functioning as a human being.”
They always know just what he needs to hear.
***
It’s three more days of painful stoicism after the incident when Murphy hears it.
He’s got one elbow on the counter, leaning his cheek against his palm so his whole face squishes up and he looks vaguely like a drop-kicked teletubbie. It’s kind of a slow day at the rink, and he’s watching a father nudge his son along the walls, smiles on their faces, cheeks and noses pink, with a kind of cruel, fluttering feeling in his chest that he won’t try to decipher. There’s some obnoxious pop music pounding faintly from the speaker to his left, and on his right a group of girls chatter excitedly over concession stand nachos and cups of severely overpriced hot cocoa.
He tries not to listen, he really does. But he’s a people-watcher, a people-listener, always has been. The brunette with the tight ponytail and the red leather jacket that Murphy almost envies says something along the lines of, “How is so-and-so?” Murphy doesn’t catch the name over the lyrical stylings of an artist that he’s probably too cool to know the name of. The pale blonde with streaks of pink in her hair leans forward, eyes brightening, twinkling with sudden amusement as a phantom light-bulb materializes above her head. “He’s doing great. Apartment’s shit but he loves his new job... but listen, oh my God-” she stops to snicker into her hand and then sighs through her grin, and Murphy’s suddenly intrigued, leaning in as to hear better and trying to look inconspicuously somewhere past the gaggle.
“-he called me up a few days ago and said he met a new neighbor of his,” the girl snorts to herself and by now Murphy is growing increasingly frustrated with her inability to carry a story. “So he turns the corner, and this guy’s standing out in the center of the hallway staring at him. He told me he noticed immediately that this dude’s like, the Edward Cullen of the complex.”
Murphy’s lips stretch into a barely-visible frown at the reference. Who?
The other brunette- the one who looks too stoic to be fun at parties and is draped over the blonde like a blanket- pipes up. “What does that mean?” Red-leather laughs heartily at her confusion and answers through a mouth of half-chewed nachos, “I’m guessing it means he’s sort of cute, but hella creepy.” Murphy cringes at her use of the word “hella” but reminds himself he originally had to look it up on Urban Dictionary and concludes that he’s probably no better. She looks to the woman telling the story for confirmation, and the blonde nods over her drink in approval. She finishes her hot cocoa and slams the mug down like she just downed the last of a bottle of Vodka, parting her lips to continue the story that Murphy’s now very invested in.
“So, dude’s standing there-” “Hey, sir, we need skates.”
Wait, what?
Murphy shakes his head and is slapped rather harshly back into reality as a cold-eyed young woman and her heavily tattooed (presumably) boyfriend stare him down, both equally frightening. She taps her fingers on the counter impatiently and Murphy scrambles to get their sizes and the corresponding skates. He wonders in the back of his mind how on earth this tree of a man intends on ice-skating with any semblance of grace, and how the tiny, terrifying brunette at his hip plans on not getting crushed under the weight of him when he inevitably falls.
By the time he’s sent them off with their skates and returns to leaning over the counter like he’s trying to slither out, and can catch on to what Blondie is saying now, he realizes he’s already missed half of the story, and feels an immediate sense of loss. He turns with squinted eyes to the couple who disturbed him and grumbles quiet complaints, hurling weak insults of observation under his breath as they glide clumsily over the ice in a way that would be really endearing if he didn’t fucking hate them now.
“-so this guy, and he thinks he’s a total vegetable at this point like... he hasn’t said one word, I shit you not-” the blonde giggles to herself and twirls a nacho around in the cheese with this horrifying, evil little grin as if she’s stirring a cauldron before continuing, “and the dude just screams, “Shut the fuck up!”” She gasps, squeezes her eyes closed as if this is the most admirable piece of comedy she’s ever lied her grubby little nacho hands on. Murphy stares absently into the distance for a moment, waiting for this information to register. “Like, he’s insane! I-” she leans over to clutch her stomach as the other girls at the table begin to laugh half-heartedly, clearly not finding the line quite as amusing. “Bellamy says the dude’s probably some kind of deadbeat anyway, just, a total freak. The woman next door told him he's essentially the fucking worst, always pissy and yelling and being an asshole.” “They should get on just fine then,” Red Leather supplies, but Murphy isn’t listening anymore.
So, at this point, he decides, naturally, to organize his thoughts. It goes something like:
1.) Fuck.
His brain does that thing again, where he feels like his skull has been reduced to a soup bowl and he’s only ladling out commands such as, “Error 261: No Signal Found” which isn’t ever particularly helpful.
So- like any rational human who’s just been slightly humiliated at their workplace and found out that their entire apartment complex thinks they’re an insufferable dick and isn’t sure what to do about the feeling- he leaves his post unattended, storms through crowds of bundled up patrons who look like a bunch of stupid fucking marshmallows, marches into the backrooms, swinging the door to his boss’s office open wide. The mouth to the lion’s den.
He kind of feels like a badass.
Ontari sits there on her swivel-chair throne, eyebrows knitted as she looks at the twitching, red-faced disaster in her doorway. “What do you want, Murphy?” she says, in that slow, monotone drawl that gives him goosebumps in the worst of ways.
“I quit.”
She freezes for a moment, staring at her monitor with her fingers hovering over the keyboard- before bursting into some kind of sadistic sort of laughter. The woman rubs the corners of her eyes with a thumb and a forefinger as her booming chuckles gradually die out. She sighs, punctuates it with, “Get out of my office,” and is still smiling, looking easily right through him. He’s never been a person to her, just an investment, a piece of eye-candy (which is not something his mirror ever suggested, yet here he is.) He suddenly recalls all the times Ontari threatened to fire him if he didn’t agree to- well... his fists curl up involuntarily.
Murphy sniffs, dragging an index finger under his nose, a nervous tick. He steps a foot further into the office. “I fucking hate this job and I’m quitting,” he repeats, staring her down with an empty look in his eyes. “That good enough for you?”
The scarred-face woman drops an arm over her eyes as she leans back in her chair, rasps out, “Where are you gonna go, Murphy? You’re not qualified for anything but flipping burgers and bagging groceries, the pay you get here is more than you deserve, and-”
“-not worth the shit you put me through, Ms. Azgeda,” he clips with a tight-lipped smile, nails biting crescents into his palms. He steps forward and roughly snatches a pen and a piece of paper off of her desk, all but violently scribbling down something that might be considered a signature to a doctor or an elementary school teacher. “There’s my autograph, feel free to copy and paste that fucker all over the paperwork,” he says, with just a bit too much pride in his voice. He pivots on a heel and heads for the door, mock-saluting on his way out. “Take one last good look at the ass that got me that pay raise!” Murphy shouts, slamming the door for good measure, and he hears something clatter against the wood behind him as he goes. He imagines her, face flushed as she chucks staplers and paperweights at the door and window as he heads for the back exit, and smiles devilishly to himself, wearing that wolf-like grin all the way to the parking lot.
He may have just made the worst impulse-decision of his life, but god damn, it felt really, really good.
***
Well... until it didn’t.
You see, Murphy got into a new routine, not completely unlike the one he’s always had, but still different.
3:00 PM: Murphy wakes up.
3:00 PM: Murphy continues waking up.
3:00 PM: Murphy does not floss. Or go into the bathroom to do anything other than relieve himself.
(He considers going to the doctor to ask why his urine smells strongly of whiskey, but comes to the conclusion that it’s because he’s only been drinking apple juice and whiskey, and also that he hasn’t been to the doctor since he was 13 and that “why does my piss stank like whiskey?” probably isn’t a question for a children’s pediatrician.)
4:00 PM: Murphy throws Lucky Charms cereal and leftover pizza crumbs at the pigeons. He no longer enjoys it, but does so for the sake of ritual, as the great ancestors would have wished of him.
4:30 PM: Murphy locks himself in the bathroom. He stays away from the forbidden peephole. The forbidden puppies. Forbidden 207... well, Bellamy. But he isn’t supposed to know that, and it makes his stomach churn uncomfortably to think of it.
5:00 PM: Murphy naps.
6:00 PM: Murphy naps.
7:00 PM: Murphy naps.
8:00 PM: Murphy sulks.
9:00 PM: Murphy sulks and watches Animal Planet recordings. Fucking meerkats.
10:00 PM: Murphy looks for an ounce of self-respect or will to live at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.
11:00 PM: Murphy does something self-destructive, such as turning his bills into paper airplanes and launching them off of the fire escape, or drunkenly trying to cut his own hair.
12:00 AM: Murphy sulks about looking like Dora the Explorer after drunkenly cutting his own hair.
1:00 AM: Murphy sleeps. Fitfully. On the floor.
And when he stretches, and his bones shift and crack and his fingers brush the gnarled, dusty hardwood and his angular nose presses uncomfortably against the musty-smelling mattress and he’s suddenly aware of how unpleasant, how disappointing his meager surroundings are, how threatening the darkness is, how quiet and empty his home is, he feels alone.
But the pigeons are on his fire escape and their little pigeon bellies are always full and someone still cares about him enough to shove his mail through the mail slot, so he’ll survive.
He always does.
***
It’s a particularly chilly Saturday in the shithole when Murphy decides that just surviving kind of sucks.
There’s frost creeping up from the bottom of the windowsill, intricate patterns webbing together like patterned lace, and his lips and the skin beneath his fingernails are fading into a particular tint of violet that worries him. The heating in his apartment has never been top-notch, but he’s decided to avoid using electricity as much possible- you know, since he compulsively quit his job and doesn’t have the skills nor mental health to pursue a new one. He has money for food and water if he pisses off of the fire escape, bathes with a wet washcloth, and brushes his teeth dry, like some kind of unusually-hygienic barbarian.
Murphy tried bundling up in blankets and shoveling warm soup into his mouth like his life depended on it, (and didn’t it, though?) His efforts turned up fruitless as he continued to shiver and quake underneath Mt. Blanket. He considered briefly what most people do when cold, and then a brilliant idea occurred to him. A fire.
Lacking a fireplace/wood was no issue, he had a fire escape (which is basically the same thing), and knew just what he would use for fuel.
And that’s how Murphy ended up plopped down in front of his door, waiting for his neighbor to jam envelopes through the mail slot with the passion of a thousand suns. The way they launched from the slot to the middle of his floor was enough entertainment to keep Murphy feeling human, and still made him laugh until his stomach clenched and his ribs ached even after three years of it going on unperturbed.
Right on time, the bills shot past his shoulder, and Murphy scooted his large, swaddled, man-baby self over the unkempt floor to retrieve them. Though what came unexpected was the following knock, suggesting that he had a package.
Murphy doesn’t get packages.
He scrambles clumsily, layers of blankets and scarves falling off of him like a snake would shed it’s skin as he clambers to the door and wrenches it open with nearly frostbitten fingers.
The box at his feet is small, and has a little white sticker in it’s center listing his address- wait.
3539 Mecha Ave. Apt. 207
Arkadia, Virginia 90890
1.) Fuck.
Murphy squats to turn the package over in his hands, trying to determine how important it is. He wonders if it would kill anyone if he left it in the hall, or chucked it down the stairs. The asshole had relayed over-exaggerated stories of him to his little girlfriends, calling him a “vegetable” and “Edward Cullen,” which, as far as Murphy’s concerned, are the highest of insults. If nothing else, this was an excellent plan for revenge. And there’s no feeling more rewarding, more satisfying, than Superman punching someone else’s valuables off of the fire escape handrail and into the dumpster below.
A small part of Murphy’s brain, the part he usually tells to shut the fuck up, alerts him to the fact that is also a great opportunity to apologize, to go to 207’s, and Bonus Points: Maybe find out if the Australian or it’s owner has softer hair than the other.
Murphy mentally scolds himself for that thought, which was actually quite scandalous for an asexual such as himself, shutting the door and cringing as the hinges crackled as if they were freezing into one position- which he’s pretty sure shouldn’t happen.
That reminder of the state of his home jolts him back to his plan of playing with fire on his balcony like any reasonable, well-seasoned adult. He ducks down to pick up his bills and, as he heads out of the door- blankets overhead and light for the joints and cigarettes he can no longer afford clutched in a gradually stiffening fist- he tosses the package onto his kitchen counter, momentarily forgotten.
He’ll deal with it later.
***
Later comes sooner than he thought it would in the form of a frustrated, harsh banging on his apartment door. The sound echoes as the visitor continues pounding, relentless. Visitor?
Murphy doesn’t get visitors.
Murphy takes his sweet, sweet time lighting up the last envelope and it’s respective sheet of paper, knowing full-well he should definitely pay that one, and tosses it through the bars that he leans forward against. The metal is cold on his cheek and against the insides of his thighs as he dangles his legs through them. He watches with a certain rare brightness to his eyes as the paper fades from white, to crimson, to russet, to black, to nothing. The embers travel up from where the flame first touched the paper and bits of bright orange and black ash flutter behind as the paper floats with ease to the dumpster below, a black crumple of nothing by the time it joins the rest of it’s family, Bill, Bill, Bill, and Uncle Spam. Murphy snickers to himself at his own dad joke, before he makes note that the pounding on the door that he thought had become white noise has actually ceased.
He turns cautiously, one thick, cottony pink blanket draped over his shoulders like his very own ermine cape, and finds a figure standing at the window like a ghost, one brow quirked up under ebony locks as Murphy meets his eyes.
“What the fuck?!” Murphy all but shrieks, jumping to his feet and diving for the windowsill when the sudden jolt of the fire escape makes the whole contraption creak and quake. 207 stifles a laugh and extends a hand, unexpectedly, but fear overtakes Murphy and all of his muscles as the floor threatens to fall out from under him, so he juts out an arm and clutches the man’s wrist with all of his weight. He notices warily as he throws a leg over the sill and ducks, climbing back inside, that the tan thumb pressing against the veins on his wrist is enough contact to make him shudder, but he’ll blame it on the cold if asked.
“Thanks, now what the hell are you doing in my apartment?” Murphy bites, looking anywhere but the man who’s currently and likely unknowingly standing on his bed, one heavy boot sinking into an already flattened excuse for a pillow.
“You got a package that belongs to me. Went all over the floor asking if anyone got it, dude next to you says he dropped a similar package off at your door earlier.”
Murphy blanks.
“So?”
“I would like to have the thing I purchased.”
Some gears click into place, miraculously. Murphy flushes from head to toe as he sheds the last of his blanket skin, scurrying over to the kitchen counter to retrieve the little box.
He juts out an arm abruptly and shoves it into the taller man’s chest, muttering a half-assed apology as he does so. 207 reaches up and takes it from him, that stupid meaty thumb trapping Murphy’s fingers to the box so that he has to tug his own hand down and away with as much as grace as someone like Murphy can manage. His hand smacks into the counter behind him with the excess momentum, and Murphy curls his bruised knuckles to his chest, biting back a hiss of pain. Stay cool, dude, he reminds himself, and with that brilliant piece of advice, he slinks to his bed and collapses, covering himself with blankets and sheets like a frightened tortoise.
He waits for the footsteps and the slam of a door that never comes, and peeks out from under the blankets to find the man still planted where he was, scanning the apartment with a look not unlike pity in his eyes.
“Are you gonna leave, or do I need to show you the door? It’s the big rectangle in the wall behind you, can’t miss it.”
“Your apartment is really cold,” he supplies, looking entirely unfazed by Murphy’s comment, and the pale boy scoffs as best as one can scoff with their knees tucked to their chest and their mouth and nose muffled by a boot-print decorated pillow.“No shit, Nancy Grace.”
“Isn’t it “No shit, Sherlock?”” 207 quips, deep voice rumbling and echoing through the near barren apartment. Murphy chuckles to himself, enjoying what resemblances the man’s personality has to that of an elderly man, but his following smart remark his quickly cut off. “Come to my apartment, just for a minute. I have a few heaters, you can borrow one.”
Murphy's eyes go wide like saucers, stupefied. His heart flutters for a moment, and his soup bowl brain threatens to malfunction again. Even if he won’t use the heater, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell the man he’s suffering on purpose, and is too shocked by the current situation to consider it anyway. “Why?”
“I still think you’re an insufferable asshole, but I’m not gonna let you freeze to death.” The man taps a stocky finger to his dimpled chin, a very punchable smirk resting on his lips that Murphy thought only the romantic-interest-gone-wrong in movies wore. “Consider it a thanks for keeping the package safe.”
Murphy snorts at the irony of that, considering his next move was to Kobe the bitch into the dumpster beneath the balcony, but even his stuttering, malfunctioning pea brain can figure out that this, this right here, is a perfect Puppy Petting Opportunity.
So he stands, rising from the grave, and follows the man out of the big rectangle in the wall.
And if he watches his ass like he’d give it a pay raise, that’s none of anyone’s business. Ace or not, he can appreciate artwork when it’s put it front of him, whether its Da Vinci or Da Hinei.
He knows his father his frowning down upon him from the heavens for that one, but he grins to himself and it’s the most his face has moved in weeks, so he considers it a win.
***
You see, Murphy had a plan.
He was going to walk in, receive the heater, and “notice” that 207 had dogs. He would ask, politely, for their names, and if he could pet them. He would squat, pat them gently, attempt to thank the man for the heater, and exit with dignity.
But Murphy and plans have always had a... rocky relationship.
Curls/207/New Guy swings the door open and reveals a better decorated, cleaner, and significantly warmer apartment than Murphy’s. Just generally much more habitable.
Murphy thinks he’s got this and shoves his fists into his pockets as 207 turns the corner to retrieve, presumably, a portable heater. He takes the little package with him, but Murphy pays no mind to it.
He’s waiting patiently and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet when it happens. Something no amount of Courage Lasagna could have possibly, in any world, prepared him for.
Three things:
1.) The pitter patter of tiny feet on hardwood, too quiet to be a baby, too loud to be a really large bug.
2.) The sounds of wheels turning, the sound skipping like a scratched record when crossing the end of a plank.
3.) Fuck.
Murphy’s reduced to a shivering, blubbering mess as the Chihuahua stumbles forward, back and only legs pushing it’s weight forward, front wheels (They’re new! And purple! Oh, God!) doing the heavy lifting. Murphy falls to his knees in it’s presence, treating the little animal like absolute royalty as he bows his head, honoring them the only way he knows how. The puppy snaps at a strand of Murphy’s hair and tugs, and this small act, this barely-noticeable contact, has big, warm tears rolling down his cheeks at a breakneck speed, no forming time allotted as they materialize one after the other.
So that’s how Bellamy finds him, his house-guest on the floor, curled up, shaking and sobbing almost violently over his disabled dog, and he can easily say, with minimal disappointment, that this isn’t the first time this has happened.
“You okay?” the older man asks, a comforting lilt in his voice as he decides this might take a while and shuts the front door, dropping the heater next to it’s frame.
The boy on his floor groans, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I- just-” he chokes on a sob, and Bellamy quirks a dark brow and stifles his laughter. “I really wanted to pet your dogs but you’re really beautiful and I didn’t eat enough lasagna and then I quit my job because I was embarrassed and everyone hates me because I’m a dick because I hated my job but now I’m really bored and lonely and wish I hadn’t quit my job because I’m not qualified for any other job and I’ve just wanted to meet your dogs so bad and now I finally have and I’m just-” he hiccups. “I’m just so happy.”
Bellamy blanks.
Murphy breathes, finally, and resumes his religious petting of the tiny dog, cooing things like “Oh, hello tiny pupper,” and “I love you, who’s a good ‘lil fella?” in between gasping sobs.
Bellamy briefly considers calling the police, but then Murphy looks up pitifully and Bellamy meets his wet, red-rimmed cornflower blue eyes and is filled with nothing but inexplicable adoration. And with that feeling in his bones, he shuffles over to the couch, drapes it’s decorative quilt over the boy’s trembling shoulders, and sinks down next to him onto the floor, scratching behind the Chihuahua’s nearly microscopic little ears and trying to look preoccupied.
Murphy smiles weakly, too overwhelmed to think about how much he wants to kiss the curly-haired angel of a man next to him right now, and sighs in pure contentment as the Australian Shepherd steps elegantly off of the couch cushion it was previously gracing and pads across the room to rest at Bellamy’s feet. His owner promptly runs a freckled hand over it’s patchwork of white and auburn fur, and Murphy pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them, watching, entirely pleased and finally feeling whole.
“And to think I don’t even know your name,” Bellamy mutters, and Murphy- to his own bewilderment, doesn’t break down, or malfunction. He feels relaxed, safe, and all of the anxiety that’s haunted his every move for years has fallen away. He feels like he can answer a simple question about himself like a functioning human. He knows his name, and it’s not, “Jo- Johnson, uh, Monkey,” like so many of his coworkers were previously convinced.
“Murphy. John Murphy, but Murphy’s fine.”
“John, that sounds nice,” Bellamy starts, but Murphy shoots him at threatening glare, which Bellamy responds to with an only half-sincere apologetic smile. Murphy notes absently that it’s dazzling and beautiful and the last thing he ever wants to see, but reminds himself he was once convinced he was in love with a girl who held the door open for him at the grocery store, and that he needs to calm the fuck down.
“My name’s Bellamy Blake, in case you were wondering who’s home you’re in.”
“I know,” Murphy supplies, quietly, and then flushes, pink blush rising from the base of his neck up to his cheeks.
“And how do you know that?” Bellamy quips, grinning ever-so-slightly as Murphy winces and blushes and scratches at his nose.
Murphy sighs in defeat, offering “Some girls at the rink were talking about you,” and returning to let the puppy nibble on his index finger as if his work holding up his end of the dialogue were complete.
The raven-haired man groans internally, understanding exactly how Murphy knew they were speaking of Bellamy. “I’m sorry about that, really. I didn’t know you, and in my defense you were the most interesting part of my week.” He rushes out the last of the sentence as if it were all one long word, and Murphy finds himself giddy with the notion that maybe, perhaps, just possibly, that he makes Bellamy, the downright god of a man in 207, nervous.
“All can be forgiven if you can supply the names of your angelic companions here,” the brunet offers, a lopsided smile on his face as he gestures to the dogs. Bellamy perks up immediately, head ducked in shame flying up into view within an instant, and Murphy wonders if he often gets whiplash at the prospect of sharing his dog’s names.
“The big one here is Rusty. He’s getting old but he stills pulls me into traffic every other day, and this is Rocket, I named her that originally because with only two legs I figured she’d be really slow and I liked the irony, but she’s got some pimped out wheels, I’ll tell you what,” he punctuates, a gleam in his eyes. “So it works out either way.” Murphy grins, admiring the way Bellamy speaks of his pets with such passion, and finds himself staring. He shudders, disguising it as a shake of his head, and slaps the dopey smile off of his face, deciding quickly to say something mean so Bellamy doesn’t get any wrong ideas about Murphy’s opinion of him. Guy’s a dick, remember?
“You know rockets don’t have wheels, right?”
Bellamy freezes, hand hovering in midair as he stares motionlessly, absently at the ground.
“Get out of my house.”
“Wait, wh-”
“Apologize or get out of my house before I call the police,” he says, all in one breath, and Murphy tenses up, looking with intense focus at the other man, trying desperately to decipher whether or not he’s kidding. Bellamy’s face shows no signs of humor or amusement, and Murphy, naturally, panics.
“Are- are you kidding? T-tell me if you’re not because, because-”
Bellamy rises swiftly, begins moving towards the kitchen and Murphy stiffens, placing a palm on the floor so that he can spring upwards and dart for the exit at a moment’s notice. “Repent for your sins,” Bellamy demands, index finger hovering near the microwave.
Murphy’s face twists up in confusion as he wonders what brand of satanist’s house he’s walked into this time, but then Bellamy presses “9”, followed by “1”, (both on the microwave, mind you) and then turns to look deeply into his guest’s eyes, an unspoken threat in the air. Murphy now, albeit slowly, understands that this is a joke, (a joke that can hardly be understood), his mouth flattening and lips curling inwards as he stifles the oncoming laughter bubbling up in his chest. You can’t use a microwave to call the police, Murphy thinks, as if this is an incredible new scientific discovery, and Bellamy’s eyes knowingly twinkle, like, actually twinkle, at the prospect of meeting someone who shares his rare sense of humor.
As they both stare from across opposite ends of the kitchen, either boy is turning over the same thought.
“Maybe I’ll end up liking this guy.”
***
And liking this guy he does. He liking this guy? He end up liking guy? Liking this guy he ended up? He- he likes this guy.
He really, really does.
So much in fact that that Murphy’s visits over had become habitual, daily, scheduled. So often that that Rocket and Rusty began waiting at the door for him at 4:30, an unfortunate but admittedly endearing parallel to Murphy’s previous life with the two dogs.
(If Bellamy also waited at the door, well, that’s none of your business.)
So often that on his seventeenth visit, (but who’s counting, right?), when Murphy failed to show- Bellamy felt something he could have never imagined he would feel for the boy.
First, disappointment. Disappointment which quickly turned to concern, worry, fear.
And concern, worry, and fear were what dragged Bellamy to Murphy’s peeling green door (the one with the faded shark sticker on it.) Nothing more.
He knocks once, twice. Nothing more. He waits a second, two seconds, three. Nothing more. He turns the creaking, rusted doorknob and takes a step inside. Two steps, three steps, four. Nothing more.
There he is, sitting with his back to the couch, envelopes scattered around him like a protective circle. His head hangs in his hands, his unwashed fringe sneaks through barely parted fingers and frames his face, his suddenly small-looking figure curled up tightly. Bellamy inspects his rather cozy appearance, blue briefs and a gray graphic tee with an alien ship in it’s center, reading “I WANT TO BELIEVE.” Bellamy imagines absently for a moment, and just a moment, how said shirt might feel rather soft under his hands, eyes lingering a second too long on the other man’s exposed calves as he follows the curve of his knees to a set of pale thighs, and harshly scolds himself, tearing his gaze away.
Friends, at most. Nothing more. You fucking creep.
“Oh, hey Bellamy,” Murphy sighs, snapping his guest back to reality. “Sorry I didn’t text, this all kind of sprung up on me.” He gives an apologetic half-smile and looks too endearing for his own good, forcing Bellamy to take a few steps forward and settle on the floor next to him. He reaches a freckled, (slightly trembling) hand to one of the torn envelopes on the floor, noting that Murphy might need to pay his water bill.
It’s not until he notices the paper clutched in Murphy’s hand, scrunched and wrinkled, that he understands the situation.
It’s a rather informal letter from the landlord that reads,
“Hey Asshole! Pay rent or get out!
Landlord C. Wallace”
Bellamy’s mouth turns down into a deep frown as he looks to Murphy. “Why aren’t you paying your bills or your rent?” he asks, quietly, softly, in his best wounded animal voice. It’s patronizing, but it works. Murphy sighs weakly in defeat and avoids the raven-haired man’s eyes, further peaking Bellamy’s concern.
“Hey, come on...” he whispers, voice fading out as he decides if he should say what he had planned to say next. “We can figure this out.”
And with that, Murphy looks quickly to his right and stares up at him with wide, watery eyes. The pale light from the cloudy skies outside Murphy’s windows falls over his face in streams, highlighting the sincerity in Bellamy’s eyes, a look that is so unfamiliar to the younger boy it nearly makes him weak. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude, filling him up to his eyes and leaving a tight feeling in his chest, and he can already sense soup-bowl brain making it’s valiant return.
“I- I didn’t get a job, after I quit my old one. I know you told me to but I was nervous and tired so I didn’t, and now it’s catching up to me and I just- I don’t know what to do.”
Bellamy knits his eyebrows, filled with something akin to pity, but different. Sympathy, maybe. He knows this feeling. The feeling of being too exhausted to get up each morning, overwhelmed with dread over merely existing, doing the day to day of things he didn’t care about.
His mom died, he quit his job. He fell in love with history all over again. A history museum in Arkadia was hiring a security guard, and he figured, what better place to put his police training to use? So Octavia moved in with her fiance, Lincoln. Bellamy sold the house and moved himself, Rocket, and Rusty to 207, in what may be in the top ten of shittiest apartment complexes in the world. And he was happy. And.
And then he met Murphy. And.
And he was happier.
He looks at the boy as Murphy wrings his hands and squeezes his fingertips until they turn yellowish-white in that nervous way he does, and he has an idea. Not a good one, but an idea.
“We’re gonna get you a job.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You can. Tell me what you love.”
Murphy makes a face not unlike skepticism, quirking up a brow and frowning.
“Fire,” he says immediately, too quickly, and Bellamy stifles a laugh. Pyromaniac. He'll make a note of it.
“What else?”
Murphy pauses to think, and then blushes. Bellamy smirks in a way that he knows makes him look like a douche, but he can’t help it. “What is it?” he prods, and Murphy dons a small grin, looking down at his hands. “Dancing.”
Bellamy raises his eyebrows and breaks into a big, gleaming smile, all teeth and surprise. “You're lying...” he muses, unable to imagine Murphy following any sort of choreography- or guidelines in general, and Murphy starts to laugh as he realizes how it must sound, shoulders shaking as he squeezes his eyes closed and tilts his head back. “Not like- seriously, or good. Just for fun, you know?” Bellamy nods absently, gaze following the curve of his smooth throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as Murphy speaks, and he’s hardly paying attention anymore. Murphy’s lips fall closed again, still stretched in an easy smile as he watches the ceiling, but then he turns suddenly when Bellamy doesn’t speak, and catches the way his eyes are lingering. “What-” he starts, but Bellamy clears his throat quickly, startled, and shuts him down before he makes things weird.
“What else?” he asks, eyes darting away to look emptily across the room as he beats himself up.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Murphy hums in thought, and then his slouch straightens and he drops his knees to the side like wings, now sitting criss-crossed like a child. “Dogs.”
Bellamy smiles now, having finally gotten the answer he wanted originally.
“So be a dog-sitter.”
“Like, watch dogs all day? For money?”
Bellamy nods slowly, meeting Murphy’s eyes again in habitual response to the other boy shifting his body towards Bellamy, eyes bright and the veins in his neck and forehead sinking back where the belong as he relaxes, making him look young again, as he should.
“But how would I find someone who needs one?”
Bellamy stifles his smile and looks down, plan going just accordingly, and Murphy ducks his head excitedly, twisting his neck to look up at Bellamy from underneath. “What?” he says, voice higher than normal, and the man above him shudders, just barely, as Murphy places his hands on either shoulder and shakes him lightly, overexcited and demanding like a child.
Something happens then- the curve of Murphy’s short but lithe fingers curled over Bellamy’s broad shoulders, ice cold fingertips nearing the tops of his shoulder blades and thumbs stretching out just far enough to brush against what little of his freckle-dusted collarbones are exposed- Bellamy goes soup-bowl brain.
He considers never responding, sitting like this forever so those hands don’t move. Murphy has other ideas, and shakes him again, albeit still gently. “Why were you smiling?” he whisper-shouts, grinning widely as he eagerly awaits an answer.
“I need one.”
Murphy is stunned for a moment, utterly dumbfounded as he stares up from beneath his lashes.
“Who what now.”
Bellamy chuckles at his deadpan confusion, and repeats himself easily, a rare lazy smile on his face.”I have two dogs, and one of them requires special attention. I have a day job. Might as well be you. You already know what to do with Rocket and they trust you.” (I trust you.) (Is what he doesn’t say.)
“Are you- are you serious?” he says, grin growing from ear to ear, and Bellamy nods quickly, ebony-curls bobbing as he does so, watching Murphy’s eyes follow the movement. The boy’s hands slide from Bellamy’s shoulders, down rather than out, and Bellamy tries his hardest to suppress the shiver that threatens as Murphy’s palms move over his collarbones and slide away at his chest.
“I- I’m- you-”
Bellamy’s lips part to say something like, “No problem,” or “Sure thing!” He doesn’t get the chance, as Murphy flings himself forward and wraps his arms around Bellamy’s neck, hair brushing against the taller man’s face, the weirdly-berry-like scent of him in his nose, and Bellamy prays to whatever God that’s fucking with him that Murphy doesn’t feel how violently his heart pounds, their chests pressed haphazardly together, fabric of their shirts shifting against each other as Murphy sighs deeply.
“I could kiss you right now,” he mumbles, a lilt to his voice which is muffled by Bellamy’s shoulder so it sounds like a whisper.
Bellamy flushes. He’s kidding. He’s kidding. He’s kidding. Suddenly he becomes hyper-aware that Murphy isn’t exactly wearing pants and is threatening to kiss him, and the butterfly wings in his stirring stomach flutter, rather unpleasantly.
1.) Fuck.
***
You
6:57 PM
so i’m much gayer than originally planned
princess
6:59 PM
I KNEW IT!!! ALL THESE YEARS!!! LEXA OWES ME SEVEN BUCKS!! WHO IS HE!!!!
You
7:00 PM
...
princess
7:02 PM
cmon bellamy it cant be that bad. you crushing on your uncle or something??
You
7:05 PM
... it’s lasagna guy
princess
7:06 PM
oh. my. god.
princess
7:07 PM
tell me everything.
***
So he told Clarke everything, and what happened three weeks later- he told her that too.
He told her about how Murphy was painting flames on Rocket’s walker while Bellamy held her squirming little hot-dog form in his lap, and how he had extended a paintbrush and left a thick orange streak down the middle of Bellamy’s face. He told her about how the boy had laughed, bright and whole, and noticed that Bellamy didn’t want to let go of Rocket to wipe the paint from his lips. He told her about how he had leaned forward, smudging at Bellamy’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and how he’d decided that life was too short to not kiss the dog-sitter. How he’d parted his lips and Murphy had surged forward at the signal, and he’d let him. How Murphy’d failed to drop the brush and how Bellamy’s dark hair and freckled neck had ended up dashed in orange, and how Murphy’s lips had matched when he pulled away, and how none of that had solved the original problem, but had in fact worsened it.
He’d relayed all of this in the form of a single eloquent text.
You
12:45 AM
gay intensifies
He’s mostly positive it conveyed the scene well enough.
And Bellamy told her about how Murphy’d come over in the dead of night and rapped his fists against the door until Bellamy had whipped it open, fire extinguisher poised and ready to subdue the presumed murderer, when all Murphy had wanted was to tell him he was going to get his GED and had been inspired at three in the morning and really wanted to tell him. He told her about how he’d dropped the fire extinguisher and enveloped the shorter man in a congratulatory hug, clapping his palm against Murphy’s back until Murphy whimpered out, “I can’t breathe.”
He told her of how he’d gotten down on one knee, delirious with the combination of pride and exhaustion, and asked Murphy out for celebratory drinks. How Murphy’d said, “Like a date?”, and rubbed his tired, hooded eyes, and Bellamy had whisked him out of the door by a clammy hand and dragged him to the local dive bar for whiskey at four, and how in the parking lot the pale boy had said, eyes bright and glassy and illuminated by the moonlight, “This is the worst first date I’ve ever been on,” and how he’d stretched up onto the tips of his toes and pressed a feather-light kiss directly on Bellamy’s chapped lips, stinking of alcohol, and how impressive of a feat that was for a drunk.
He’d learned in the silent car ride back home, his “friend” behind the wheel, that Murphy was no lightweight, and was pretty much just pleasantly buzzed, which had made that stupid kiss under a flickering light-post all the more special.
You
5:04 AM
cha;nge my cobtact nn na!me to b ellamy gayke
princess
5:05 AM
you are drunk leave me alone normal people are trying to sleep at this hour
And he’d told her about his favorite day of all, about how Murphy had found a dog park nearby after driving home from class and wanted to walk the dogs there.
How he’d brought along a bag of Lucky Charms with all the marshmallows picked out, and wouldn’t tell Bellamy what they were for until they found a place to sit and sent Rusty free. Little Rocket wheeled laps around the legs of the bench and over their toes, and was perfectly content in doing so.
He told her about how the milky-skinned boy to his right had tucked a tuft of hair behind his ear, giving Bellamy a better view of that little devilish grin, as he unzipped the bag and tossed a handful onto the dewy grass in front of him.
The taller man stared at the food on the ground and looked to his “friend” in mild horror, as he smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes, much like a predator hunting prey, and stared aimlessly at the ground where he’d tossed the cereal. He told her about how suddenly the wind got harsher and a blur of gray flashed before his eyes and nearly scared every ounce of shit out of him, and how he’d realized too slowly that the tornado of wings and chirps were starving pigeons, and that Murphy had dragged him out here only to feed birds. Bellamy had seen the pigeons that hung out on Murphy’s fire escape, how they looked ready to burst, and knew that he was friends with a real life old man.
And he told her about how in that moment of realization, so perfectly, a little elderly lady sauntered up, hunched over a walker with a bored-looking Basset leashed to it. “You are a sweet couple, you two,” she mused, and Murphy looked to Bellamy and grinned, nudging his knee with his own as if to say, “Play along.” Bellamy had put on his best dazzling smile and nodded to the woman, throwing an arm around Murphy. He ignored the way his heart fluttered and how Murphy had sidled up closer, wiggling comfortably into his side and fitting there so perfectly, like a puzzle piece.
“And what a beautiful young lady you are!” she exclaimed sweetly, and Bellamy stifled the immediate and overpowering urge to bark out a laugh, merely snorting and then following it up by wincing as Murphy pinched his thigh and muttered out a very, very fake expression of gratitude. A thank-you so insincere sounding that Bellamy was astounded that even the old woman fell for it.
“How long have you two darlings been married?” she asked, reaching down slowly to pat her miserable-looking dog’s head. Murphy is blushing fiercely, at a loss for words and kind of still pouting at this point, so Bellamy takes the reigns. “Eight years, yes ma’am. We have our two sons, Rusty and uh-” he glances down with narrowed eyes that soften when Rocket clambers up, wheels shifting loudly as she approaches to look at the Basset with curiosity. “Rocky. They’re troublemakers, but we love ‘em to death.”
The woman smiles weakly, lips stretching slowly as she nods in understanding. “My late husband Ernest and I never had children, though I can imagine they’re a gift.” Bellamy half-smiles and turns up his eyebrows in the middle, going for sympathetic and agreeable, and the old lady seems to buy it, saying her goodbyes and moving along the path.
He told her about how he waited for Murphy to scoot away, and watched as the birds returned to peck at their offerings. He told her about how Murphy didn’t move back to his side of the bench, but instead suddenly threw an arm around Bellamy’s middle and propped his chin up on the larger man’s shoulder, looking at him with this dopey grin and twinkling eyes. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Murphy shrugs. “You’re a good husband.” He told her how he’d thrown his head back and laughed at that, and how the sky above him was gray and cloudy as always, but somehow reminded him more of home than ever.
“You’d be a much better husband if during one of those eight years you had actually appreciated all the work I do tidying up the house. I have to do everything myself around here,” the brunet says, all at once, and Bellamy sneers, but with a smile in his eyes. “Yeah, right. You’re just fuckin’ Mr. Clean, aren’t you?” he quips, locking an arm around Murphy’s head and putting him in a light choke hold. Murphy struggles for a minute, laughing loud enough to make the birds scatter into the air, until he taps out on Bellamy’s arm, who finally releases him, finishing his opponent off by dipping down to press a kiss into Murphy’s hair.
“That’s how people kiss newborn babies.”
“Precisely.”
And he didn’t forget to tell her about that one night.
Bellamy’d been talking to his sister on the phone as they exchanged stories of their new lives in their new homes, and she’d asked if he’d made any friends. He said, “Yeah,” and had gone on about his “friend” for nearly an hour before she’d cut him off and said, “Sounds like he’s more than a friend, big brother.” He blanked for a moment, soup-bowl brain. And so they’d said their goodbyes and he’d ended the call, and sooner than the phone touched the wood of his bedside table he was up.
He was up and he was walking, out of 207 and barging into Murphy’s apartment. The boy sat up from the couch, a slice of pizza between his teeth and meerkats on the television. “Behwomy?” Bellamy had snatched him up from the couch and dragged him to the window by his elbow, climbing through and swatting the pigeons away as Murphy protested incoherently, pizza flapping in the wind as they stood on the creaking fire escape.
“You like dancing, right?”
(fin.)