Ethan Beckett craves fun and chaos over the nuisance of rules and demands. But when disagreements begin on the ground, he's surprised to say he sides with the people who don't want chaos to be all they are.
Chaos is a drug. But death is something y...
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She spares one look at Ethan, follows a trail of blood just starting to seep past his fingers and her glare lands on Bellamy, head tilting.
Ethan wants to laugh.
"He did that to himself," Bellamy says. He looks away and moves towards the grounder's belongings, taking pleasure in the way the unknown man tenses, and picks up a leather journal, flipping through the pages.
Clarke twists on her feet to grab Ethan's chin, lifting it to look at the damage. "I'm fine." He mumbles, nerved by the way his already crooked nose twinges. He assumes it's not that bad when she pulls his fingers back to their position.
He meets Clarke's eyes to specify, "I fell."
"What. . ."
They turn at the confusion in Bellamy's voice, moving closer to see the book in his hands. A drawing of Octavia is on the paper. Eyes hardening, Bellamy flips to the next page. A drawing of their camp, and a tally of 102 marks. Ten are crossed off.
"Okay. . . That's not a good look." Ethan says, uselessly, from behind them. He flicks his eyes up, searching the grounder's expression for some sort of explanation.
When he looks back down, Bellamy's teeth have clicked shut, the muscles working away at his jaw. "Yeah, well, you're gonna love this." His voice grumbles.
Frowning, Ethan peaks over Clarke's shoulder.
Chalk dusted across the page being flattened out by Bellamy, the edges of lines and curves of detailed swirls sharpening into something Ethan recognizes.
A body stretched out amongst a grassy field.
Something so peaceful, shattered as soon as Murphy and Bellamy parted through the shrubbery.
The grounder has captured that in its entirety, the darkness of burnt trees a mess of black chalk in the background, no doubt where they had hidden.
Ethan's speechless, mouth attempting to find words.
Bellamy slaps the book especially hard against his chest when he walks past him to glare at the grounder hung up by his confines.
With a grunt, annoyed at the display of strength, Ethan catches the journal and flips it closed to turn and stare, unamused, at Bellamy. "You know, it's kind of funny. You're offended because of a drawing," He tilts his head, "But from what I remember, a certain misfit held my face in his hands while the other attempted to break my wrist."
Bellamy swings sharpened eyes towards him. Unbothered and point proven, Ethan holds his hands up in mock surrender, lips twisting in an attempt to hold back a smug smile.
"Just a drawing, right. Of course that's all you're worried about." Bellamy swipes a hand across his nose, and steps closer to tower above Ethan. "How do you explain the tally, Beckett?"
