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Murphy wakes up when the first sunbeams caress his face and bathe the chamber in a warm amber light. Bellamy is still next to him, limp frame crouched on the floor. His sleeping figure looks peaceful and relaxed, all the pain and bitterness coated with softness. It's a nice sight. Beautiful even. For a heartbeat Murphy asks himself if he's still half asleep or still dreaming, then he remembers the events of the day before, and his face contorts in pain.
He looks at his hands, creamy and clean, no sign of blood or dirt on them. As if nothing happened. As if it was just some bad dream he could awake from a moment later. Except he can't.
Bellamy stirs slightly, opens his eyes and blinks still drowsily. “Hey,” he says, when he notices Murphy isn't asleep either. His hair is tousled, and Murphy can make out the shadow of a beard on his cheeks. He thinks he has seen him bruised and bloody, but never unshaven. It suits him, though. Gives him a more rugged look, adjusted to circumstances.
“Hey.” Murphy mirrors, his voice sounding breathy and weak to his ears. As if he's not used to speaking anymore.
Bellamy fills him in on everything that Clarke told him, about the next threat to mankind they are facing. His stomach churns as he processes this new revelation. The flush of victory didn't last long for sure.
“It's a dark place,” Bellamy says, and Murphy doesn't know if he means the world, his mind or Polis. He decides to go with the latter.
“Everything's dark down here.”
“That's a quite pessimistic way to put it.”
“Doesn't make it less true, though,” he replies and Bellamy sighs, looks at him with tired eyes.
“Whatever,” he says. Murphy feels equally tired despite last night's sleep. Exhausted even.
They stay silent for a moment. He stretches himself and sits up, but his eyes never leave Bellamy like he's afraid he might abandon him any second. It feels weird and calming to be so close to him again. Relieving and excruciating like it always has. He's used to it in some way, like you get used to the dull ache of your muscles after a long walk.
“I killed people,” Bellamy says after a while and meets his gaze.
“Didn't we all?”
Bellamy smiles bitterly and maybe he's seeing things, but he imagines a glint of tears in his eyes. He's never seen him cry before and he feels like he's witnessing something private, something he's not supposed to see.
“Not when they were sent to protect us. And while they were sleeping.”
Murphy raises his eyebrows following his confession.
“I was blinded. Enraged. Didn't think it through – And I was wrong.” Bellamy admits.
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Lincoln's dead,” he says and rubs his eyes with one hand. “Octavia doesn't talk to me anymore. My own sister hates me, can you believe this? But sometimes I think – sometimes I wonder if anyone could hate me more than I hate myself.”
Murphy watches him, hesitant to speak for a second. “You want my absolution; Bellamy?” he asks, sounding less harsh than his words intend to. “Listen, I can't grant you forgiveness. You can only forgive yourself.” Bellamy looks up at him, his face darkening with grief.
“We can't change the past. We can only learn from it,” Murphy continues. “I'm the last person to judge you. Maybe in the place you were at that time, this seemed like the best thing to do.” He takes a ragged breath. “Now you have to live with the consequences.”
Bellamy blinks, his eyes piercing into Murphy's as if he could peel off every layer of him, until he's bare and bleak. He has to draw his gaze away.
“The others are leaving. We have to go with them,” Bellamy says, dissolving the tension. Always a loyal soldier, always on duty.
Murphy nods. Not that he's keen to reconnect with them, but it seems necessary, because he's not going to survive on his own this time. He knows that he shouldn't tie his own happiness to other people, especially not Bellamy. He does it anyway. Right now, he's the closest thing to a friend he has.
***
They go back to Arcadia, Murphy even talks to the remaining delinquents. There are not many left.
Kane has become the new chancellor after Pike's death, with Abby and Clarke on his side which comes as no real surprise. With the end of the world looming ahead, the main focus is on finding a solution, a way out of this situation.
Murphy feels more and more useless as the days pass without anything to do for him. He sees no need in attending the meetings although he would be allowed to, while Bellamy spends most of his time in heated discussions.
The prospect of death and dying hangs over the camp like a sword of Damocles. They lose many of them. Some to the black rain and the radiation, others to the grounders, while a few decide to try their luck and look for a better place to live. Like in their first days on earth, fear brings out the best and the worst in people. The feeling of hopelessness among the survivors is overwhelming, and he was never someone that needed other people’s despair. So he mainly keeps to himself, he's used to being alone after all.
There's another reason he prefers to stay alone. He gets annoyed and agitated even easier than before, Bellamy's presence not only bringing back the electricity between them but also some of their old animosities, leading to a few hot-tempered encounters.
Murphy feels restless, itches for an outlet for all his anger and Bellamy is there, guilt-ridden and heavyhearted, bearing the brunt and taking it willingly. If Bellamy's the flint, then he's the steel, and oh, do they know how to let the sparks fly. He's always been fascinated by fire and its wild, destructive power, the way it can be tamed but never truly controlled. And the fact that he might burn himself or get consumed by the flames attracts him even more. Sometimes he yearns for its touch – its blazing hot kiss, immortalised on his skin – nearly as much as he yearns for his.
Fighting is good, fighting is familiar. It's the calm that he fears, the more quiet moments, when he remembers, when he feels, and the little voice in his head comes back, whispering into his ear. His rage keeps it at bay. His rage helps him to concentrate, to funnel his attention on important things. There's no place for distractions during the apocalypse. No place for his feelings for Bellamy Blake.
***
“It's decided,” Bellamy tells him one day when he finds him in alone his tent.
He looks up at him from where he's lying, head in his hands, and staring at the sallow ceiling, like any other day.
“We're splitting into groups. Every group has a different task and leader. You're coming with me.”
This piques his interest, causing him to sit up and stare at Bellamy intently.
“So I'm going with you?” he drawls and lets his gaze wander, feigning disinterest.
“Yeah. We're going to ALIE's mansion. You're the only one who has been there besides Jaha. And I don't trust him. Raven and Monty are coming with us to look for something useful.”
“And you trust me?”
“I do,” Bellamy says, and there's irritation shining through and something he can't define.
“Ah, look at that. Good ol' Murphy is welcome again cause he's of use for the greater good. Well, for once, I didn't see that coming.”
It feels like a small triumph to say this kind of things out aloud, gives him the illusion he still has the upper hand in this situation and isn’t back to following Bellamy without a question. Sometimes he needs to lie to himself to preserve his self-esteem, even though he knows he needs the others as much as they need him. It's different this time.
***
The way to the mansion isn't too far, if you know how to get there, and they manage to finish their task in about two weeks. They decide to camp in a small glade near Murphy's bunker to have a closer look and maybe find something else which could be of help to them.
He watches Bellamy talk to Raven and Monty from afar, dark and tall and beautiful, like a stygian god. And he feels a sudden rush of want, deep and low in the pit of his stomach. His breath catches in his throat till he tears away his gaze and swallows dryly. Once. Twice. He knows he's doomed.
“We're done here,” Bellamy says, when he comes over to him. “Monty and Raven got everything they needed. We're heading back to Arkadia by tomorrow.”
“And then?” Murphy asks as if he doesn't know the answer already.
“We'll look for a place to go to. Some are talking about bunkers. There might be more of them.”
“Bunkers?” Murphy laughs, unpleasantly shrill and dissonant, even for his own ears. “Bunkers?” he says again. “I'm not entering a bunker again. I've been in one for three fucking months, I'd rather die. End of story.”
“We'll figure something out, we always do,” Bellamy nearly pleads and puts a placating hand on his arm. There's a burning sensation where Bellamy's fingers meet his bare skin, and Murphy feels his pulse racing, his heartbeat pounding in his head like a war drum, loud and angry.
“Do what you want, run back to Clarke. I'm not going back. I'll die, right here or there, doesn't matter,” he hisses and pulls his arm out of Bellamy's grip violently. “And stop touching me, for God's sake!”
Bellamy seems to be taken aback for a moment. “That's not fair, and you know that!”
“Not fair? Oh, let me tell you what's not fair. It's not fair that I trusted you and you hanged me. It's not fair that you and Clarke banished me although you should have known it would be my sure death. It's not fair I was pardoned, and people still treated me like dirt. It's not fair that I helped Clarke once again in Polis, just to be left behind once again – with a heartless child murderer on top of everything!”
He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “She knew what she was capable of, Bellamy! And she still left! I'm sure she wouldn't have left you behind, though,” he nearly spits out and breaks eye contact, not able to face him anymore. His stomach burns with wild rage and the familiar sting of jealousy again.
Bellamy looks at him confused, until something in his face changes, as if all finally fell into place.
“So that's what this is all about? It's not about Arkadia, it's not even about Clarke! It all comes down to you and me, doesn't it?” Murphy takes a step back to bring some distance between them, but aside from that doesn't react to Bellamy's words.
“What do you want me to do?” Bellamy continues. “To hug you? To be your friend?” He hesitates for a second. “To fuck you? Tell me which one is it, cause I've got no fucking idea what you expect!” He is yelling now, loud and furious, and Raven and Monty are watching them from a distance. Murphy's sure, if he walked closer, he could see confusion and pity in their eyes.
He glares at Bellamy for a second, eyes equally fiery, then walks up to him, slowly and languidly.
“If you want someone to tell you what to do, maybe you should have gone with Clarke instead,” he says, voice trembling with emotion.
Bellamy looks at him as if he was beaten. “Maybe I should have.”
***
Murphy retreats to his tent after, doesn't even bother to say goodbye. It's childish and petty, but he feels better doing so. He doesn't leave his tent until noon, when his empty stomach won't stop growling angrily, expecting the camp to be deserted which he assumed from the noise in the early morning. He's surprised to find Bellamy sitting on a trunk next to their fireplace. The fire must have gone out for a while, the red embers soft glow matching the rising colour on Murphy's cheeks.
“You're still here?” he asks as if he doesn't believe his own eyes and Bellamy looks up, just grunts in response.
“You tend to state the obvious sometimes.”
“And you never fail to astonish me.”
“That's because you always expect the worst from people.”
Murphy laughs wryly. “I learned it the hard way.”
Bellamy nods. “I care for you, you know,” he says, and there's that look again.
“Hm,” Murphy hums more to himself, while he funnels his attention on the gathering clouds that are splashed on the sky like paint on canvas.
“I mean it,” Bellamy says, now more insistent.
“Is this your attempt to lure me back to the camp?” he asks while he turns his back on Bellamy and retreats towards his tent. “Cause it's not working.” His harsh words are followed by a scream when an angry kick causes half of his tent to collapse on top of him.
“Ouch,” Murphy says, while he crawls out from underneath.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, it's just fine.” He wishes he would leave him alone. This whole caring thing doesn't make it easier.
“There's blood on your cheek,” Bellamy utters and kneels beside him, touches his face and invades his space without a moment of hesitation. Close, so close Murphy can identify the constellation of freckles on his face, the dimple on his chin, the lushness of his lips. He can smell him, too. Sweat, dirt, musk, and something sweet, alluring, all mixed together.
“It's just a scratch,” Murphy murmurs and turns away.
Bellamy moves his head slightly, and his hair tickles Murphy's nose, and he laughs out, light and airy. And in the aftermath, he can't say who moves first, but one second they are staring at each other, the next second Bellamy's mouth is on his. He's warm and surprisingly soft, nearly gentle, and the way his body presses against him makes his blood sing. It's everything he's ever wanted. And not enough. And too much. All at once.
His heart is hammering on his ribs like a caged bird desperately trying to break free. He feels vulnerable. He doesn't know why, but he feels more vulnerable than ever in his whole life. As if every bone could break in two, every sinew and every muscle could tear at any moment. As if his whole body is just waiting for Bellamy to realise his mistake.
He thought they were alike once, but he was wrong. He's damaged goods, stained, tainted. Worthless. Bellamy is different. A soldier. A friend. A brother. Not an outcast like him. Not someone who doesn't belong anywhere. He sees it now. They are nothing alike. It was just wishful thinking, an illusion, a sweet little fantasy to justify his feelings.
His throat tightens, and he can feel the familiar panic wash over him, and it's like he's plummeting into an abyss. And somehow he would rather hit the ground and shatter than to fall for eternity.
“I can't,” he whispers while he pulls back, barely able to breathe, and Bellamy nearly growls at the loss of contact.
“OK,” he nods, voice still raspy and a little bit breathless. There's a tinge of disappointment. A hint of hurt on his face.
“Sorry,” Murphy croaks, but Bellamy's already up, avoiding his gaze.
“I'm going to find Clarke,” he says. And Murphy cringes at her name, all his emotions reaching their boiling point.
“Fine!” he yells after him. “I don't need you, Bellamy! I don't need anyone!”
He waited for this moment, was sure it would come sometime, sooner or later. It almost feels good that he was right in the end. That it's confirmed once again that he should trust no one else but himself. It's liberating in a way, as if a weight dropped from his shoulders finally.
At the same time, his heart is heavy as he watches Bellamy's disappearing figure till he reaches the edge of the forest and merges with the trees. Then he's gone.
***
He lies down after. Doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. Just lies there. Hopes the merciless sun that blazes on his face through the canopy of leaves would turn him into dust. Wishes the black, acid rain would burn his body till there's nothing left of him but bones as a memento of his miserable existence. Wants the wild animals to find his lifeless body and rip him to shreds.
He would prefer an animal, though, it seems kind of raw and poetic. A panther if he could choose, all grace and dark wild beauty. But even the wild animals seem to be indifferent about him. Maybe they know he's a lost case, too.
Oh, if the earth could have mercy on him, just this one time. As if anyone, especially earth, ever had mercy on him, he thinks, and laughs until his throat is sore and his voice only a hoarse whimper.
It's cold at night, and the scattered parts of his broken tent don't bring much shelter. He's still in his T-shirt, doesn't even bother to look for a blanket to protect himself. The crisp air nips on every bare inch of skin, claws and bites with untamed ferocity. His face is wet most of the time, and he can't tell if it's tears or sweat, both leaving a salty taste on his tongue. A feverish glow lies over everything like a thin veil that separates him from reality.
Sometimes he thinks about Bellamy. About his face when he discovers his cold, decayed body. He doesn't want to think about him, though.
It's not a survivor's move, he knows it. It's not something the old Murphy would have done. But the old Murphy is dead. Dead and buried, with Emori, and with Bellamy's silhouette fading into the distance. The new Murphy doesn't care anymore. Life isn't worth living if you have to die anyway. If it's just a matter of time, only a question of when and where.
On the third day, he eats the last remainder of his food. The next days he barely recognises the stinging pain in his stomach, it feels more like the return of an old, long lost friend.
On the fifth day, he sips his last drop of water. The next day the hallucinations start.
Places. People. His parents. Mbege. Finn. Emori. And Bellamy. Again and again. He's not sure how much time passes. He can't tell if it's the fever or the lack of food and water. Maybe both. It doesn't matter.
He thinks it's supposed to be this way. Recalling the faces of your loved ones when you're dying.
The thought is comforting in a way. Even the pain seems to ease off a little bit.
Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he doesn't know if he sleeps or if he's awake. The voices and images aren't any different.
When he wakes up the next time, the sun rises behind the forest, dawn kissing the night goodbye. A blurred figure appears from the treeline, and he kind of admires his brain for every new trick it's playing on him.
He closes his eyes and tries to ignore his parched throat and the way his stomach cramps uncomfortably. The rustling of leaves nearby startles him, and he expects finally some wild animal, maybe even hopes for it.
It's a person instead, towering over him, head and dark hair glowing in the gleam of the morning sun like a halo. It looks a lot like Bellamy, and once again he marvels at his imagination which seems to get more vivid the more time goes by.
He's not real, though. A ghost. A shadow. A vision. A figment of his own hag-ridden imagination.
“Stop haunting me, Bellamy. Just let me die in peace. Can't you just let me have this one thing,” he says to ghost-Bellamy and waits for him to go away. He comes closer instead. Bends down over him, then gets on his knees by his side.
“In this world, when people leave they don't come back,” Murphy murmurs, echoing his own words to Emori.
“I'm here,” the ghost says, and then its hands are on his face, warm and gentle. Murphy sighs, and if this is still a hallucination, this must be the most realistic one so far.
The soft touch is followed by a bottle being placed on his lips, droplets of water moistening his chapped lips. He coughs when the water runs down his throat uncontrolled, but the man helps him to sit up, cradles his head in his lap.
“Who are you?” Murphy whispers, more to himself. “Why are you helping me?” He speaks with a slur, slow and rusty, having trouble to articulate his words properly.
The person snorts and Murphy feels himself get lifted again, because he's to weak to get up on his own, till he can face the stranger. He takes in the dark, messy hair, the circles under his eyes and the still unfamiliar stubble on his face. He looks like he feels: grey, frail and livid.
Murphy takes in the guilt plastered all over his face, too. The hopeful look for forgiveness, to make things right again. But you can't fix something broken. You can mend it, but you can never make it whole again.
“Bellamy,” he says, still in wonder, as if there's still a part of him that doesn't believe it's him, that he came back again. That he's really there.
“Yeah, it's me you fucking dumbass,” Bellamy huffs, and there is anger in his voice and something like chagrin. “And if you hadn't decided to starve yourself to death, you would have realised earlier. What did you think you were doing? I can't believe you would give up like that!”
“You're one to talk,” Murphy scoffs, and he feels bile on his tongue, sharp and bitter. “You left me here to die, didn't you. You chickened out when it got too intense and ran back to Clarke, like you always do when things get messy.”
For a fleeting moment, Bellamy looks at him like he wants to hit him. “I'm sorry I left you,” he says instead and reaches out to graze the scratch that's still visible on his cheek with his thumb. Soft, so soft. Murphy resists the urge to push him away. “I'm sorry I – I was hurt, humiliated...confused, and I didn't know -” his voice cracks, “I didn't understand. I don't -”
“Why did you come back?” Murphy interrupts him.
“I spoke to Octavia, she and most of the Grounders decided to stay. Maybe there is another way.”
Murphy nods. Octavia. That sounds like him. Bellamy has always been all about his sister.
“Yeah, we all die,” he sneers. “Doesn't explain why you came back here, though.”
“I couldn't leave anyone back,” Bellamy says, pauses, hesitates. “I couldn't leave you back. I can't lose you.”
He looks down for the tiniest of moments and – is he crying again? Murphy sometimes forgets that he has lost people, too.
“I'm so tired,” Bellamy sighs. “So tired.”
“I know,” he breathes and extends his arm to touch Bellamy for the first time since he can remember, fingertips feather-light on his skin.
They hug afterward, Murphy's nose pressed into Bellamy's chest, inhaling his scent, and Bellamy clinging to him, fingers playing with the strands of hair on the back of his neck. It feels right, and he nearly feels whole again.
When it's dark they sit huddled together alone in the wilderness, gazing at the millions of stars at the night sky, when a bright streak of light appears and fades into the distance.
“Make a wish,” Bellamy says, and Murphy closes his eyes, his face glowing softly in the moonlight.
“What did you wish for?”
“It won't come true if I tell you.”
“Fine. Then don't.”
“Great,” Murphy says, and the ghost of a smile flits across his face.
“I wanted to tell you earlier, there might be another way,” Bellamy says, and he tilts his head back to look at him. “To survive. Tales are told about a place deep in Azgeda territory, the Grounders call it 'the end of the world'.”
Murphy snorts with disdain. “Great double meaning. Very nice. And uplifting.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “The end of the world, hm? Who would have thought? You and I, united again, at the end of time?”
“Not me, after you tried to hang me, for sure,” Bellamy laughs.
“To be clear about this, you hung me first.”
“I made a mistake.”
“So did I. Does this make us even? Maybe, I don't know. It won't matter any longer, cause we'll die, like everyone else.”
“We're not dead yet.”
“But we as well might be soon.”
“I've always loved your positive attitude.”
“I prefer to call it realism,” Murphy scoffs. “And it's just, I feel like there's no hope left. In hindsight, I feel like there was no hope left the day we set foot on the ground. We're not supposed to be here.”
“Is this why you gave up?”
“Maybe I'm just tired of surviving.”
“There's still hope left. There always was. Don't give up so soon.”
“Whatever you say,” Murphy mutters while he grabs Bellamy's hand as if to anchor himself. It's calloused and strong, and familiar. It makes him feel safe.
“Come back with me,” Bellamy whispers into the silence, squeezing Murphy's smaller, softer hand firmly. Murphy nods, his blue eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
“Just like old times, then?” he asks. “Me following you to the end of the world…”
“Yeah, just like old times,” Bellamy says, yet it feels more like a new beginning, a silver lining on the horizon.
At least he doesn't have to die alone.