Bellamy had never felt so sore in his entire life. That's was saying something considering how his early life consisted of hard manual labor on the Ark, and later hard manual surviving on the ground. Nothing tones up muscles better then running for your life and hurling spears at your enemies. Really, he was in the best shape of his life. He shouldn't have felt like he had been run over by a grounder army.
But little had he known, true work didn't start until the fighting died down, and they began to build.
That first winter hit then hard, and when Camp Jaha had finally clawed its way from under the frost, plans for sturdier, warmer buildings were soon underway. Everything needed an upgrade- a new medical center, a storage warehouse , a mess hall, and plenty of cozy little homes for new families to flourish in. Wick and a few other volunteers had set about making all kinds of lists- necessary building supplies and tools, as well as the projected amount of labor needed to complete each project within the allotted time. Everything needed to be don't before the next winter began.
Knowing that the labor would be the most difficult part to find, Bellamy has graciously offered his services, though his knowledge of building was limited. He had even dragged a few of the reluctant delinquents with him, much to their annoyance.
It was the worst mistake of his young life. Every nerve and muscle in his body was on fire, screaming at him for being an idiot and volunteering his services to the cause.
Building, as it turned out, completely sucked.
He had been at it for almost two weeks now. They had finished the new med bay- which he knew was worth it, if Clarke's grateful, beaming smile was anything to go by- and the storage warehouses, along with a few small hits, including his own. Hey, if he was going to get anything out of this torture, it was going to be four walls and a comfy bed. The warm fireplace didn't hurt either.
It still didn't make up for his aching body though.
The other didn't seem to understand his plight. Octavia told him to stop being a baby (" you're such a wimp, big brother. Suck it up") Miller had just laughed and pointed out that he now walked like and old man, all hunched over and looking half-dead. Jasper and Monty had been a little more sympathetic, offering to whip up some sort of pain-alleviating herd concoction(that had turned out to be a very bad idea. Bellamy would never look at plants the same way again).
Clarke had been genuinely concerned, and thank fuck someone actually cared that his body was under serious duress.
"Sorry," she had told him, wincing when he tried to roll his shoulders loose as they locked up once again. "I would help, but-"
"No, the led bay needs you more," he had replied, with his best Don't Worry About It face. "Can't have one of our only medics getting sore hands. How would you stitch out sorry asses up then?"
Clarke had smiled at his attempt to reassure her, but the worry in her eyes had lingered, so he decided to keep quiet about how much pain he was really in from then on. The building needed to be done, like now, before the winter swept in and offed what few people they had left. And there was no need to stress out the princess any more then he already did by letting her know that he was slowly dying a very painful death. (Not that he meant to stress her out at all. It was a force of habit, really. Completely unintentional on his part.)
Now he way laying face down in his cot after a long, sweaty day of lifting and chopping. His hands throbbed with new blisters that would soon callous. His head pounded from what he was guessing was dehydration (he couldn't know for sure. He should probably ask Clarke at some point.) He was trying not to move because whenever he did one of his muscles would lock up. When he tired to stretch the seized muscle, another would cramp up in its place it was a never ending cycle of a painful spasms and sore limbs. Not to mention the excruciating, pulsing in his lower back.
