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Bellamy wanders slowly through the halls of Alpha Station on his way back to his room from another condescending lecture in Lieutenant Shumway’s quarters. He doesn’t belong here, he realizes, among the privileged. They have televisions and succulents and art. What does he have? A cramped closet of a room and a secret hidden under the floorboards.
“Hey there, Freckles,” a sultry voice accosts Bellamy from behind, tearing him from his inner monologue. “What’s your name?”
He pivots and looks the owner of the voice up and down, takes in the way his torn jeans cling to his slender thighs in all the right places, and feels his heart flutter. The stranger’s eyes are the kind of blue that remind Bellamy of how the sky must look from Earth. He swallows. “Bellamy.”
“Bellamy, hmm? Pretty name for a pretty face,” he says, then drags his eyes over the other man’s arms, exposed due to a lacking guard jacket, with a hint of something that Bellamy can’t quite place sparkling in his gaze.
Bellamy waits for him to introduce himself, and breaks under the weight of curiosity when the silence only stretches between them. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?” he asks.
The stranger takes a step forward, inserting himself into Bellamy’s personal space. Not that he minds. “You can call me whatever you want, Bellamy,” the brunette purrs, a coy smile toying at his full lips.
The realization dawns on Bellamy later than it should have, and he notices a sick sort of sensation burning in his throat that feels suspiciously like embarrassment. Foolish, foolish boy. He straightens his stance and levels the stranger with a calculated glare, trying his best to hide the disappointment in his tone. “You’re a prostitute.” It comes out more like a statement than a question.
A brief look of uncertainty crosses the other’s face, but is quickly replaced with one of desire. He cocks his head, places a hand on Bellamy’s broad chest, and leans in on his tiptoes to whisper, “I can be anything you want me to be.”
“Prostitution is a crime,” Bellamy informs him even though he probably knows. “And so is propositioning a member of the guard.”
The stranger’s expression shifts from lust to disbelief to panic as he stumbles back. “Shit. Fucking shit,” he mutters, raking his fingers through his hair. “Mbege didn’t mention any new guards. God dammit.”
Bellamy quickly crushes the sympathy that’s stirring up in his chest. “Prostitution is a crime,” he repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
The boy laughs, bitter. “That didn’t stop the Chancellor from inviting me into his bed last night.”
“The…the Chancellor? But he has a son about your age.”
“Yeah,” he says, and the look in his eyes speaks volumes.
Nausea begins brewing in Bellamy’s stomach. All he can think about is Commander Grus and the way he put his disgusting hands on Bellamy’s mother and the way she endured it because she only wants what’s best for her children and he— he can’t do this.
Bellamy hears himself ask again, “What’s your name?” The stranger glances over his shoulder down the hallway, probably calculating how good his chances are of escaping if he makes a run for it. Bellamy panics momentarily. “I’m not gonna turn you in,” he promises, realizing he actually means it. “Just tell me your name.”
Now it’s the boy’s turn to glare. “Why the hell should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to. You could not tell me and take off, but I’ve already memorized what you look like by now and it wouldn’t be hard to find you in the database, which would guarantee your arrest. Alternatively, you could have a little faith, just for a moment, and let me prove to you that I’m telling the truth.” Bellamy shrugs. “Up to you.”
Bellamy watches the war wage in the other’s mind. He bites his lower lip in contemplation and Bellamy internally scrambles to look anywhere else, feeling guilty that he’s basically the same as all the other lascivious guards. He’s staring down at his dirty combat boots when he hears the boy speak up, quieter. “It’s Murphy.” Bellamy makes timid eye contact with him, finding that he has his head ducked too. “John Murphy.”
“Murphy,” Bellamy echoes. He enjoys the way Murphy’s name feels on his tongue, like it belongs there. He takes a step toward Murphy, who flinches, distrusting, waiting for the punch line, the shock baton, handcuffs, call for backup, god knows what. Bellamy raises his empty hands, splays them out to show he means no harm. When Murphy settles slightly, Bellamy laces their fingers together, grinning. “Come on.”
Murphy gives him a curious sort of smile, intrigue and confusion evident in his features. “Where are we going?”
Bellamy’s heart is beating so hard he can barely hear his own words when he leans in to whisper, lips brushing against the shell of Murphy’s ear, “It’s a secret.” He sees goosebumps appear on the other boy’s arm.
They arrive just outside the door to Bellamy’s compartment, and he lets go of Murphy’s hand to hold a finger up in a “wait here” sort of gesture. He slips into the room, finding Octavia sitting at the table sewing, doing what she can to help their mother earn some extra rations. She glances up at him, and immediately notices that something is off. “What is it, Bell?”
He takes a seat at the table with her, smiling like a fool. “Do you trust me?”
“You know I do,” she says hesitantly. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” assures Bellamy, leaning in closer. He drops his voice to a low rumble. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Octavia knits her brows together, confused. “What? That’s not funny, Bell.”
“I’m serious, O. Listen, I know it might seem strange, but we can trust him. I promise.” He nudges her knee with his own. “So, do you wanna make a new friend?”
Bellamy feels full of bliss when Octavia’s eyes light up like all the stars in the night sky. “Is this real?”
He nods excitedly as he moves to the door, practically on the verge of combusting. He ushers Murphy inside quickly, closing the door behind them. Octavia and Murphy lock stares, each frozen in their own respective version of surprise. “Octavia, this is my friend Murphy.” The boy blinks up at him—just as shocked that he’s being referred to as someone’s friend—and offers a quick nod in her direction. “Murphy,” Bellamy continues, “I want you to meet Octavia, my sister.”
Murphy blinks dumbly for a moment, before laughter starts to shake his shoulders, bubbling past his lips, resounding through the small room. “Yeah, okay. Good one, Bellamy.” Octavia flicks her eyes to her brother, unsure how to react. Murphy cocks an amused eyebrow. “Who is she really?”
“It’s not a joke,” says Bellamy, placing a hand on Octavia’s back to guide her closer. “She’s my sister.” He watches Murphy’s smile falter, then slowly fade as he takes in Bellamy’s sober expression.
“You’re…you’re serious?” he asks, eyes wide in astonishment. Bellamy nods. “How…what, I— how does that even work?” Murphy examines Octavia intensely like she might disappear any moment, and she shrinks away from his scrutinizing gaze.
“Our mom, she uh…she’s in the same business as you.” Bellamy glances at the floor, and Octavia wrings her hands together nervously.
Murphy flushes, possibly from shame or guilt or both. “Oh,” he croaks, then finally remembers his manners. “It’s nice to meet you, Octavia.” He gives her an awkward half-smile, which, amazingly enough, seems to put her more at ease.
“Y-you too,” she says quietly, practically a whisper. She bites her lip. “Do you wanna see where I hide?”
His eyes sparkle with wonder at the suggestion. “Fuck yeah, I do. It’s gotta be damn good if you’ve been kept a secret for this long.”
A wide grin tugs at Octavia’s lips, and Bellamy is just so fucking happy to see her so fucking happy.
Three hours and five fairytales later, Bellamy and Murphy emerge from under the floorboards, Octavia having finally drifted off after all the excitement of meeting another person after thirteen years. The boys collapse on Bellamy’s bed, surprisingly exhausted as well. Murphy crosses his arms behind his head. “Can I be honest with you?” he asks the ceiling.
Bellamy turns to face Murphy, raising an eyebrow. “Have we been anything but?”
“Fair enough,” Murphy chuckles. “It’s just— when you brought me back here, I originally thought it was because you wanted…my services.” Bellamy opens his mouth to protest, despite the fact that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Murphy’s lips the entire night, but the other boy holds up a hand. “That wasn’t the case, though. You knew about me and, hell, maybe you even like me, but you didn’t come on to me. You were just…nice.” He pauses, takes a shaky breath, and fixes Bellamy with a sincere smile. “Thank you.”
Bellamy aches with rapture. He always falls too hard and too fast and if he doesn’t look away he knows he’ll get hopelessly lost in those sky-stained eyes. He clears his throat, diverts his gaze, and his mouth moves without permission. “Why do you do it?” He regrets the question as soon as he says it, but Murphy doesn’t appear to be offended. He just looks kind of…sad.
“My father was floated a little over a year ago,” he begins, and Bellamy wants to tell him he doesn’t have to explain himself, but he doesn’t want to interrupt either. “And my mother…she trades my rations for moonshine.” He shrugs. “I’ve gotta eat somehow.”
“Murphy,” Bellamy breathes, like an apology, full of contrition. He reaches over to trace his fingertips along Murphy’s jawline, and he’s falling, he’s falling so hard and—
and—
and Murphy’s lips are on his.
It’s gentle and warm and innocent; it’s all the things Murphy pretends not to be.
Murphy pulls back first, eyes shining. “Thank you,” he repeats simply, voice husky and cracking with emotion.
Bellamy smiles, presses their lips together again. He can keep one more secret, right?