Six Years | Bellarke

II. I Don't Blame You, Dear

When Clarke turned away from the open bar at the wedding, another drink in hand, she almost ran straight in Bellamy's chest.

The music was playing, guests were dancing, cake was being served, and there she was, in the middle of her worst nightmare.

For some reason, Clarke still wanted to hug him. Looking at her now, his gaze was harsh and relentless, but she remembered the days when those eyes held immeasurable amounts of kindness and adoration. She had missed him in so many ways over the past few years, yet somehow, that longing felt all the more desperate when he was standing right in front of her.

Bellamy's jaw was clenched, his sharp features drawn into a frown, his curls slightly tangled. He must have taken his suit jacket off, as he now just wore a white button down shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He looked incredible.

Clarke just stood there, motionless, her mouth slightly agape.

"What are you even doing here?" Bellamy finally asked. His voice was tight and bitter.

"I'm at my mom's wedding," she replied. Suddenly, her defensiveness over his comment momentarily overcame her shock and sadness. "What are you doing here?"

"Your mom said you weren't coming," he said, angrily. "She invited all of us— all your old friends— and I asked, and she said you wouldn't be here. So, we came to enjoy the open bar and because we probably know your mother better than you do now."

Clarke remembered how she originally told her Mom she wouldn't attend before feeling too guilty and changing her mind. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means that you ditched her as much as much as you ditched me back then, Clarke."

Hearing him say her name again gutted her. She took a deep breath. "I get why you're mad, Bellamy. I know I made some mistakes. Don't worry, I'm just here for the weekend. Then, you can forget all about me."

She hated how her voice cracked when she said the last words. She began to walk away from him. This all hurt too much.

"Typical Clarke, always running away," she heard Bellamy mumble.

Quickly, Clarke turned around. "You don't get to be an ass, Bellamy. I owned up to what I did. It's my mom's wedding. I'll be gone in a day."

Bellamy barely looked at her, instead taking a long sip on his beer. He slammed the empty bottle on the counter and said, "Can't wait," before walking away.

• • •

The glow of the camp fire made Bellamy's face look softer. He didn't look so serious and worried. Clarke thought it made him look more like the teenager he was.

Maybe that, or just the fact that she always ended up staring at his dark curls and beautiful freckles, was the reason she found herself drawing his face in her sketchbook.

That summer evening, Octavia, Bellamy, and Clarke had gone camping together. Bellamy had been taking Octavia on annual trips for years, so this time, Clarke tagged along. Octavia and Clarke had been best friends since middle school, and now, the two girls were sixteen, about to start their junior year in high school.

Bellamy was nineteen, but he acted much older sometimes. Two years before, his and Octavia's mother had died from a drug overdose. They bounced around foster homes for a year until Bellamy turned eighteen, and he was allowed to adopt his little sister. But also meant he was responsible for all the things no teenager should be— a roof above their heads, food on the table.