Lost Love Found [ #Wattys2015 ] {Bellarke}

What Hurts the Most

Clarke's POV

Eventually, Clarke was able to pull herself together.

The walls that she had so carefully constructed, walls that had been built so high that they were nearly impenetrable, had crumbled. Walls like that, strongholds forged by heartache and betrayal, were not so easily mended. And, somehow, Bellamy had managed to level it with nothing but a kiss. He had kissed her as if he was a pyre in need of a spark, as if he was a lightning rod in need of lightning.

Clarke reached up and brushed her fingers across her swollen lips. She could still taste him. She could still feel the residual heat of his body running through her veins.

His body - muscles crafted out of iron, bones fashioned out of granite. Bellamy Blake was no ordinary twenty-three year old. Hardened by years of guard training and weighed down by responsibility, Bellamy was able to withstand such emotional turmoil. Clarke, however, was not so lucky. She was nothing but a shell of her former self.

Clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white, Clarke shut her eyes and willed the images away. Images of her and Bellamy, images of her and Finn, images of her and Lexa, were all shoved back to the dark recesses of her mind. Emotions, especially those involving love, were dangerous things. So dangerous that, in fact, they meant almost certain death.

In the time that it took to draw a steady breath, Clarke had already resolved her problem by rejecting the one thing that made her human - her sentiment.

Clarke Griffin rose to her feet, brushed off her pants, swiped at her face and walked towards the front of the mountain. She had a job to do.

. . .

Bellamy's POV

Bellamy slammed his fist into the wall with such force, that his knuckles immediately bled and concrete cracked.

He wanted to make himself feel pain. He wanted to make himself feel pain in the same way that he was able to feel Clarke's hands upon his skin.

Unfortunately for Bellamy, he was drunk. That meant any true pain he felt would be instantaneously absorbed by the alcohol in his system. Wanting nothing more than to become oblivious to his emotions, he had tossed back shots so fast that he wasn't even sure how many he had taken. But now, he yearned for consciousness and the ability to process his own humanity.

He leaned his forehead against his arm, his breathing ragged and unsteady.

Stupid, he thought to himself, stupid, fucking jackass.

Pushing Clarke to quickly, telling her that he needed her, that he would follow her wherever she asked, was probably the dumbest thing Bellamy had ever said to a girl. She wasn't emotionally ready. She was still recovering from Finn's death and mourning the loss of those they killed. Whatever respect she had for him was gone, destroyed, obliterated. And Bellamy had been so careful. He had always kept his distance, kept Clarke at an arm's length. All those moments he had wanted to say more, wanted to comfort her in the ways that she needed to be comforted, he had resisted it all.

But tonight, his drunken, wayward mind had different ideas. He had been angry, yes, but seeing Clarke standing there, wide eyed and concerned for his wellbeing - it melted his heart. With his inhibitions suppressed, he had let his heart control his actions. And, despite everything, Bellamy had kissed her. She tasted sweet and tasted of nighttime.

And the worst part about it was that he wanted to do it again. The rush of her skin and the roughness of her gestures had intoxicated him like no alcohol could. Clarke was unique in the way that she carried herself, in the way that she commanded the room. No other girl fascinated and inspired Bellamy more than her.

Bellamy growled, deep and throaty, and tossed another fist at the wall, weaker this time.

What was he thinking? Clarke Griffin was definitely off limits. She wasn't his, she wasn't anybody's. Abby would skin him alive if she found out that Bellamy was interested in her daughter. In her mind, Bellamy was still a killer, a rebellious man who had risked everything for his sister.

Bellamy shoved himself off the wall and wandered into the bedroom in search of some real clothes. Walking over to the other side of the bed, he tripped over a sketchbook, probably Clarke's. He bent down and picked it up off the floor. Lazily flipping through it, Bellamy noticed landscape drawings, drawings of animals and flowers. All of them were really quite good. He had no idea that Clarke was such a good artist. She seemed to capture life's essence and craft it with extraordinary... Bellamy's hands stopped on the last page.

It was a portrait - of him.

The drawing, it was of him in the forest outside Camp Jaha leaning against one of the large trees. The picture was drawn from the knees upwards. He was smiling, openly and candidly, playing with a knife in his hand. It was almost like a photograph with Bellamy staring directly ahead as if looking at a photographer.

His fingers lingered on the page, tracing Clarke's finely sketched lines. She had drawn him not rugged or hard looking, but content and carefree - happy.

Is this really how she saw him?

Bellamy shut the sketchbook quickly and tossed it onto the bed. He should've never looked at it. Looking through someone's drawings, it was almost like reading someone's journal. It was something personal and he didn't need to be thinking that Clarke might actually like him in that way.

He reached over the bed, grabbing whatever clothes he could find and donned them. Bellamy resolved that he would search the rest of Mount Weather for what little supplies might still be left. Right now, Clarke needed space and Bellamy was willing to give that to her.

. . .

When Bellamy walked outside through the massive steel doors carrying a backpack and a pack full of newfound supplies, he found Clarke sitting on a log with her back to him. Her head was bent, her shoulders hunched in defeat. It looked as though she had just finished burying the dead. Bellamy approached slowly and when Clarke heard him she quickly rose to her feet.

Her eyes were puffy, her clothes covered in dirt and her hair mangled with a day's worth of digging. Her sketchbook immediately came to mind, as did her lips. He refused to let the thought show and, instead, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Meanwhile, Clarke was staring at him absently, her eyes vacant of their usual life.

Bellamy cleared his throat. "Clarke, I -"

"I don't want to hear it." She spat.

He clenched his jaw and shot her a hard look. Clarke's entire demeanor had changed in an instant. Did she really hate him that much? Did she really regret kissing him that much? After all, she was the one who asked him.

"Have it your way, Princess," he replied through gritted teeth and shoved a pack in her direction. "We're going home."

"Home? We have no home." Clarke exclaimed with bile in her voice, taking the pack and shrugging it over her shoulder.

"Yes, we do. How do you expect to ever have a home when you're so set against having one?" Bellamy challenged.

"A home implies attachments. I don't do attachments."

"Your mom, Monty, Raven, you don't care about any of them?" He asked, coming to stand directly in front of her.

"Of course I do!" Clarke yelled, glaring up at him. "But -"

"Okay then, let's go." He said, brushing past her and striding down the slope. He didn't even bother to look over his shoulder to see if she was following.

"You're insufferable!" She called out after him.

Bellamy glanced over his shoulder, smiling wickedly. "It's what I do best."