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On second thought, Bellamy should probably have thought to check in with his sister before becoming Instagram buddies with her new roommate.
It's just that he doesn't actually know anything about this girl. All Octavia's bothered to tell him is that she's a year older and already graduated college, that she's working a job that has to do with art or design or something along those lines, and that she's good with sorting out leases and bills and 'that kind of stuff so quit worrying, Bell'.
And, yeah, he gets that it's part of Octavia's new resolution to be an 'independent adult who can handle her own shit'. Hell, he kind of admires her for the way she's sticking to her independence guns. So instead of trying to pry more information from his uncharacteristically tight-lipped sister, he decides he'll just try her roommate's Instagram page for whatever else he can get.
It's social media, after all. If it's being posted for all the world to see, then Octavia can't really get mad at him for seeing it, right? He's part of the world.
In his defence, he hadn't been entirely sure what 'Follow' actually meant. He'd genuinely thought it was just like some kind of vague, subscription type thing, like when you hit 'Accept' on one of Groupon's numerous attempts to send you updates on the latest offers.
It's only when Clarke Griffin actually follows him back that he realises the gravity of what he's done.
First, he takes a full minute to quietly, silently freak out and devolve into a violent, whirling turmoil of internal panic.
Next, he calmly exits the Instagram app and opens up a fresh text.
So when you follow someone on
Instagram, they can actually SEE
you? Like, they know exactly who
it is that's FOLLOWING them?
??? uhhhhh ya? it'd be real fuckin
creepy if you COULDNT, just sayin
…….. wtf did you do
As soon as he wraps up his lengthy, maybe slightly overly detailed explanation of his social media mishap to Murphy, he instantly regrets it.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Once Bellamy goes through the exasperating process of disowning his friend, he actually does receive some legitimate advice.
'dude just leave it,' Murphy advises a few minutes later, clearly already completely over being entertained by the whole thing. 'she's already followed you back. it's weird if you unfollow her now.'
Which is a solid point, Bellamy reasons. It's not like Clarke Griffin wouldn't know who he is, anyway. He's got his name in his profile bio, as well as a bunch of pictures of both his face and Octavia's on his page — which means that Clarke Griffin followed him back on purpose.
So he takes his (former) friend's advice, and leaves it.
Which, for him, means doing nothing while spending far too much time turning it over and over in his head, of course. He also spends a little less (but still a considerable amount of) time looking through her feed, trying to catch a sign of Octavia. She's pretty, he thinks, all blonde hair and blue eyes and cheeky expressions. Pretty enough to make him forget what he'd even started scrolling through her stuff in the first place for, he realises with a start as prickly warmth floods his cheeks.
He feels so fucking awkward about it that he doesn't even dare post anything new for the next few days. (Then again, it's not really much of a stretch. He doesn't post all that often to begin with; maybe once or twice a month.)
But when he opens up Instagram one day and suddenly sees a new photo from Clarke, he actually lets out a physical, tangible breath. Like, a little (a large) ball of air actually rushing out of his lungs and through his windpipe, exiting his mouth in an unexpectedly cathartic release.
It's not even a particularly nice photo, or anything. It's just her posing with a tall, broad sort of guy, the two of them sipping Slurpees together, poking their pink and green tongues out at the camera. Perfectly ordinary snapshot of everyday life.
All the same, he's so immensely relieved that he just closes the app altogether, sighing to himself as he slumps back down on his couch.
And then he remembers that he should probably like the photo — as a gesture of good mutual acquaintanceship — and opens the app back up, scrolling for a couple of minutes to find the post and double tap on it.
About a week and two more Instagram pictures from Clarke later, he finally works up the courage to post something new himself. Not that he's constantly stalking her feed, or keeping track of her social media movements in any way, shape, or form, of course.
It's a pretty careful, safe selection. It's not Thursday, but it's an old photo from a hiking trip he and Octavia went on a few years ago (because fuck Murphy and anyone else who keeps trying to educate him about 'hashtag T-B-T'). He keeps the caption simple enough, just something brief but heartfelt about missing his hellion of a little sister, and hits 'Post'.
He gets the notification a couple of hours later. It's a whole lot of ridiculous, because he's fully aware that Clarke probably just double taps every other post that comes up on her feed anyway like most people do — but so what? She liked his photo.
Well, a photo of him and Octavia. So she presumably hit 'like' because it's her roommate's face on the screen.
But he's the one who posted it, so, whatever.
And then one day, he discovers Instagram Direct.
He knows what comments are, thank you very much. (He has a Facebook account.)
But he never realised you could actually private message someone on Instagram until he suddenly sees the little red number in the corner of his screen.
Well, he thinks once he's gotten over the initial shock. At least now you know what that icon even is.
He undergoes a second wave of shock when he sees that it's from Clarke Griffin. Clarke Griffin, with whom he's never exchanged so much as a word of greeting.
And then he has to deal with a third, albeit smaller shock when he reads through what's pretty much the first positive reaction to a classical art meme that he's ever gotten.
Thankfully, Clarke's message is pretty generic. It's just a 'hahaha' and then a link to what appears to be a Tumblr dedicated entirely to art history memes. They go back and forth for a good thirty minutes with exchanging their favourite gems before the conversation trickles off, and then dies down.
Clarke signs off with 'ttyl', Bellamy closes the app and allows himself a small, contented smile, picking up the remote to resume the documentary he'd hit pause on when their conversation had really started heating up.
But then he suddenly wonders why she'd gone to the trouble of directly messaging him, instead of just commenting on his post.
She's just one of those people who don't like clogging up comment sections with chitchat, he supposes uncertainly as he presses play. One of the considerate ones.
On a more serious note, he quickly reminds himself that it could be anything. He's not about to make any presumptions regarding a person he's never even properly met before, save for a mutual Instagram follow and a month or two of liking each other's pictures.
All the same, he doesn't feel too guilty about direct messaging her again a few days later, with the link to a mythology meme blog.
Especially not when she responds within minutes, with a lot of haha's and lmao's and, well, just generally positive and cheerful reciprocity.
In all honesty, he kind of just forgets that he and Clarke aren't actually friends.
She posts a picture of her and Octavia hanging out in the living room of their little apartment, captioned 'Sunday Funday, better than a Monday / Can only do it one way, and that is the Netflix way'. The whole thing's really just made up of sweatpants and bags of Doritos and the TV in the background, his sister pulling a funny face as she hams it up for the camera, her dark hair already falling out of her messy top knot.
He rolls his eyes, already tapping on the little speech bubble to comment.
@thebetterblake please also find a few minutes to study for your midterms. You can't get an A in Jessica Jones.
It takes all of sixty seconds for the notification to come in, alerting him to his mistake.
@thebetterblake: @thetallerblake how the hell did you find me even on @princessgriffs acc
She doesn't even give him an extra minute to respond, already letting loose with a tiny barrage of incoming text messages.
r u following clarke on ig?!??!????
clarke just said u're following her on
ig & also she's following u 2??????
FOR LIKE ACTUAL WEEKS NOW??!?
??????????????????
wtfff when did this become
a thing hoW AND WHY
He takes a deep breath before tapping on the reply box.
It's Instagram, O. Not like I broke
into her parents' house looking
to dig up dirt on her corrupt past.
Also, nice try, but Jessica Jones is still
not going to help with raising your GPA.
no, just my self-esteem :P
O.
ok ok fine WE'LL STUDY…… after this
Clarke direct messages him a few minutes later. Nothing major, just a brief 'sorry, I thought your sister already knew'.
'Nah it's alright,' he tells her. 'Not your fault O's such a drama queen.' He pauses, and then adds: 'Maybe a little bit my fault though.'
He definitely doesn't stop to wonder why he'd felt guilty at all about keeping Octavia in the dark about his relatively limited interactions with Clarke.
Thankfully, Octavia doesn't seem to think too much of it either.
In fact, she even starts mentioning him in some of her Instagram captions. Usually it's just to taunt or annoy him — like when she uploads a picture of Friday night drinks with Clarke and a few other friends, and captions it 'cheers to the fkin weekend! (don't worry @thetallerblake i've alr done my homework ok ASK @princessgriffs IF U DON'T BELIEVE ME)'.
And yeah, okay, he feels more than a little affronted by the shamelessly public call out on his protective, hovering tendencies. Despite that, it's also largely gratifying to be able to receive updates from Clarke on the side, via entertainingly deadpan narratives on Octavia's brash, tipsy antics and photographic evidence of his sister being forced to drink water throughout the night.
'How is going out with my sister fun if your top priority the whole time is making sure she doesn't fall over in those heels?' he wonders to Clarke when she reports that they're on their way home in an Uber. 'Also, how is anything fun for anyone in those heels?'
'to be fair, octavia is a hell of a lot better with heels than i am,' Clarke confesses. 'i saw her do cartwheels in 3-inch boots once. that's wheelS, mind you. as in, PLURAL.'
'I'll be impressed when she does it without a drop of alcohol in her system,' he tells her wryly.
A week later, he posts a picture from his visit to the archaeological museum, and not only does his sister not like it, she also has the nerve to comment 'S E E @princessgriffs told u he was a huge nerrrrrd'.
But then Clarke comments back — just a little artful cluster of fancy strokes and symbols that he's pretty sure is supposed to be a depiction of a shrug — and the prickling of embarrassment evaporates from his system within a split second.
He does, however, spend a few extra minutes contemplating whether or not he should ask Clarke what else his sister seems to have been telling her about him.
He doesn't in the end, because he's awkward and pathetic. Also because he's a little afraid of what it's going to mean if Clarke doesn't want to tell him, and genuinely fearful of hearing the answer if Clarke decides she does want to tell him.
But, well, mostly because of the awkward-and-pathetic bit.
"You're coming up for Thanksgiving."
He frowns, sure he's just misheard his sister. "Sorry, O, I think you've got that the other way round?"
Octavia huffs, and the familiar image of her rolling her eyes impatiently instantly flashes up in his head, nostalgic affection panging through him.
"No, you hopeless dolt," she says. "This is a change of plans. I'm not coming to you. You're coming here."
His brows snap together, and he lowers the shirt in his hands back down onto the pile of laundry he's sorting. "What? Why?"
Octavia huffs again, muttering something under her breath that doesn't sound particularly patient or forgiving. "Because Clarke's not going home for Thanksgiving," she explains slowly, like he's a child. "And we can't all three of us fit in your cramped up shoebox of an apartment."
He blinks for a few seconds, because just those two sentences alone are overwhelming his brain an unexpected amount.
"Okay," he says once he starts to get a grasp on things. "One — you still live here four months out of the year, so technically, it's your shoebox, too. And two — what do you mean, all three of us?"
Octavia scoffs. "Honestly, Bell. I'm not going to leave my roommate alone for Thanksgiving. What kind of person do you think I am?"
"You left your brother alone to go to college a hundred miles away," he points out, poking at a pair of his crumpled up boxers.
"Ninety-three miles," she corrects snippily. "I'm already in my senior year, Bell, you seriously need to get a new line."
"I will when you get a new comeback," he says, a little petulantly.
"I'm texting you directions to our building for when you get off the freeway," Octavia continues, deliberately ignoring his half-hearted grumbling. "We'll see you Thursday. Bye, Bell!"
"O—" he starts to say, but stops at the unmistakable blare of the dial tone.
He sighs, tossing his phone onto a pair of dark jeans. He supposes he should just be grateful for the heads up. Six whole days' advance notice — that's definitely an improvement for his whirlwind of a sister.
Clarke must be rubbing off on her, after all.
'Are you sure you don't need me to pick up anything on my way over?' he asks Clarke for what he's vaguely aware has to be the seventh or eighth time. 'It's really no trouble at all.'
'everything is F I N E,' Clarke assures him, along with a laughing emoji. 'really, we've got it all under control. just make sure to get here by 6pm sharp.'
"No, really, let me know," Bellamy mutters after reading her reply, setting his phone aside before he can be tempted to read it again on the spot. "Anything at all, Clarke. Extra drinks, extra napkins. Pumpkin pie for dessert." Focusing out on the road, he blows out a tight breath, shaking his head. "A bag of ice, so I can maybe chill the fuck out."
He can't even remember the last time he's been this fucking nervous. It's really not that much of a big deal, considering he and Clarke have already been messaging back and forth for the last three months. They've even gone beyond meme exchange and discussion, pulling in little details from their personal lives, and having entire conversations about things that don't even remotely involve Tumblr blogs and Twitter joke accounts.
At this point, they're practically this close to bona fide friendship.
He's just fidgety, and jittery, and fucking restless, okay?
He can't seem to stop drumming his fingers against everything — the steering wheel, the dashboard, the bottle of wine in his hands as he rides the elevator up to the third floor. His fingers continue tapping their relentless rhythm out on his leg, even as he knocks on the plain blue door with his other hand, right under the chipped, grey plastic letters spelling out '3B'.
Even though he's already somewhat prepared for it, he still goes speechless when the door flies open to reveal Clarke Griffin wearing a breathless smile and a sleeveless, knee-length dress, the blue of the chiffon-y fabric just deep enough to make her eyes shine even brighter than they usually do in her Instagram posts.
(Or maybe that's just the incomparable superiority of real-life Clarke Griffin compared to Instagram Clarke Griffin. But, like, just maybe.)
"Hi," she says, her smile stretching wider as she brushes stray curls of blonde out of her eyes.
"Hi," he echoes automatically, blinking rapidly when he realises that his jaw's working again. He shakes his head, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "Hey. Uh, I brought—"
"Wine," she exclaims, reaching out to take the bottle he's holding up in front of himself like some kind of ineffectual shield. "You are now my favourite person of the week."
"Rude!" Octavia's familiar voice yells from inside the apartment.
Clarke rolls her eyes, grinning brightly at his wry expression as she moves back to let him in properly. "Come on in! We're doing the shoes-off thing now, by the way," she informs him when she sees him raising a brow at the neat rows of Converses, flats, pumps and boots laid out on the tidy rack by the door. "Your sister's officially sold me on the whole barefoot deal, so thanks for that. But mostly, I acknowledge the fact that it's a hell of a lot easier to keep the place clean when we're not tracking dirt and mud all over."
"You're welcome," Bellamy says, a little bemusedly as he starts to pull off his shoes. He and Octavia have always preferred a no-shoes apartment, but he'd never really stopped to wonder whether she'd taken that with her when she'd moved in with Clarke. "Sorry about being late, by the way."
Clarke waves dismissively as she leads him down the tiny hallway and into the kitchen. "It's literally six-oh-two, Bellamy. You're practically early. Wells isn't even here yet."
Wells? he's just about to ask — but his train of thought is cut off by the hard slam of a petite body into his, dark hair tickling at his nose.
"Hey, big brother," Octavia breathes into his shoulder, her arms tightening around him.
"Hey, O," he says, burying his face into his sister's hair as his own arms wrap around her affectionately.
Octavia hugs him just a little harder, and then she abruptly pulls back, her nose scrunching as she sniffs at him. “Are you wearing cologne?”
His face flushes hotly, and he forces himself not to glance up to check if Clarke’s paying attention. “What're you talking about? I always do.”
Octavia’s forehead wrinkles. “Yeah, but never any that smells this good.”
“I'm growing as a person,” he deadpans, finally taking his first proper look around their kitchen. “Jesus Christ. You guys just get done filming an episode of Chopped here or something?”
“That’s a compliment,” Octavia informs Clarke, who's grinning as she peers into the oven.
“I definitely picked up on the tone of pride,” the blonde says with a warm smirk. She glances at her phone, squinting at the screen. “All right, that's my cue. Back in a sec.” She flashes them both another bright smile before disappearing from the kitchen.
“Where's she going?” Bellamy asks idly, stepping up for his own peek into the oven. A large tray of what appears to be macaroni and cheese is sitting in the warm orange light, the thickly bubbling surface already nicely browned up.
“Giving Wells a hand, probably,” Octavia says with a shrug, thrusting a large wooden fork and spoon at him. “Like you're going to give me right now. Salad. Go.”
He laughs, moving over to the large bowl of greens accordingly. “All right, got it, boss.” He pauses midway through his first couple of tosses. “Who's Wells?”
Octavia throws him an impatient frown from where she's fussing over the freshly roasted turkey that's cooling on a large pan. “Wells. You know who Wells is.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Uh, why would I know—”
And then he suddenly realises why the name sounds so familiar.
“wellswellswells,” he blurts out loud.
Octavia scoffs. “Yeah, just FYI, he usually just goes by his given name when he's off Instagram.”
Bellamy decides not to confess that he hadn't realised that the tall, broad man who occasionally features in Clarke's feed is actually named 'Wells', and had simply assumed that his username was some kind of generic, random selection of a common saying. After all, the heat prickling over the back of his neck is embarrassment enough, thank you very much.
"Right, yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "So, uh, Wells stayed in town for Thanksgiving too?"
Octavia nods as she pulls out wine glasses from a cupboard. "He and Clarke usually visit their parents in D.C., but they both decided to blow it off this year. Long story," she adds with a shrug. "Maybe don't bring it up? Not that they're not cool with people asking. They're just fucking sick of talking about it all the time."
"Noted," Bellamy mutters, just as the oven goes off with a loud 'ding'.
Right at that moment, the distinct sound of the front door banging open echoes from the hallway, followed by muffled laughter spilling into the kitchen.
"Hot stuff, comin' through!" a male voice announces cheerily, a split second before its owner appears in the doorway, a large casserole dish in his arms. "Octavia—"
"Got it," she says instantly, slipping a large dish coaster into place right as he lowers the vessel down on the table, so that it sits nicely on the silicone rectangle. "God, Wells, that smells fucking amazing."
"Nutmeg," he says proudly, shrugging out of his jacket. His eyes, already crinkled in a wide smile, land on Bellamy. "Hey! Bellamy, I take it?"
"Yep," Bellamy says, regretting it almost immediately because he literally never says 'yep'. He suppresses the urge to cringe, grasping the hand Wells stretches out in greeting instead. "And you're Wells."
"I'm Wells," Wells confirms with a nod and a laugh, as Clarke comes up beside him, grinning wide. "I mean, Clarke's probably told you all about me by now—"
"Starting with how annoying he is," the blonde cuts in, elbowing Wells sharply as he half-heartedly covers up his snigger with a hand. She shoots him a pointed but playful glare, and Bellamy tries not to rationalise the pang of something in his gut at the sight of her all giggly and touchy with Wells.
Fuck. Fuck.
He should have known, shouldn't he?
Of course someone like Clarke would already have an amazing, handsome, good-humoured boyfriend — let alone one that can cook like a fucking boss, if the smell drifting from the covered dish is any indication. Of course the good looking guy from Clarke's Instagram posts would be her boyfriend. Why the fuck hasn't he ever realised that the good looking guy from Clarke's Instagram posts is her boyfriend?!
Not that that's any of his concern, of course.
Despite his lingering awkwardness, dinner turns out to be much more enjoyable than he'd thought it'd be.
Both Clarke and Wells are excellent conversationalists. They're both smart, well-informed, perceptive, their remarks peppered with a generous dash of humour — although hers tend to run a lot more snarky, of course. Then again, he's no stranger to Clarke's flair for making interesting conversation.
Wells, on the other hand.
Throughout the whole dinner, Bellamy pays as much attention to Wells as he can while still being passably subtle about it. Even so, he still can't find a single thing he doesn't like about the guy, and that's fucking annoying.
Wells Jaha is just a goddamn perfect human being.
He's confident without being arrogant, humble without being self-deprecating. He's got a good grasp on socioemotional sensitivity, and has an easy knack for achieving sharpness without being rude. He makes sure to ask Bellamy about his own life, about his work and his thesis and his interests, and to include Bellamy on the occasional references to countless inside jokes peppered throughout the conversation.
He even takes the trouble to compliment Bellamy on the fucking wine he'd brought.
He's just so… so wholesome.
It kind of makes Bellamy feel frustrated that Wells isn't dating Octavia instead. He'd be fucking thrilled if his sister ever brought a guy like Wells home for Christmas dinner.
But mostly, he's just really majorly bummed out that — well — Clarke has a boyfriend.
He keeps feeling bad about it, too. It's not like she's not allowed to have a boyfriend. Neither of them ever hinted at anything in their Instagram conversations. She never led him on. Why the fuck shouldn't she have a boyfriend, especially one as incredible as Wells?
So he just keeps feeling bad, and then reminding himself that he shouldn't feel bad, and then feeling bad again over the fact that he feels bad.
Jesus Christ.
It's all just terrible — only it's not, because it's a lovely dinner, and all the food is great, from the turkey to the mac and cheese to Wells' sweet potato casserole to the pumpkin pie Clarke had picked up for dessert (he only just manages to turn his disbelieving laugh into a cough), and he's having a genuinely enjoyable time with Octavia and Clarke and Wells, so it kind of just makes him feel like he's the one that's terrible.
He instantly declines when Octavia suggests (more like commands) that he sleep on their couch for the night.
"It'll be close to midnight by the time you get home, Bell," she argues as he pulls his jacket on. "You might as well just crash here and drive back in the morning."
"It's fine, O, really," he says with a wry smile, leaning in to hug his frowning sister. "Plus, aren't you worried that if I crash here, you'll never get rid of me? I mean, you already moved a hundred miles away to do just that."
"Ninety-three," she snaps, but her arms tighten around him anyway. She sighs as they pull apart, her brows drawing together in concern. "Are you sure? You know Clarke wouldn't mind if you did."
"Oh, yeah," Wells says, appearing in the hallway with a wide grin. "She definitely won't mind."
"Shut up," Clarke says primly as she emerges from the kitchen and shoulders past him. "Only people who actually live here get to say that. Although," she says, smiling warmly at Bellamy as she moves to stand beside Octavia, "yeah, I really wouldn't. I mean, hot cocoa and Netflix with us definitely sounds like a better deal than getting behind the wheel while you're still struggling to hold off the food coma, doesn't it?"
He swallows, trying not to envision the picture she's painting in his head — but it's way too fucking late for that.
"Yeah," he finally says after a long moment. He shuffles from one foot to the other, looking between the three of them awkwardly. "I... should really get going," he adds, fully aware of how lame it sounds, even to his own ears.
He doesn't want to read too much into it, but for the briefest flash of a moment, it really looks to him like Clarke's face actually falls.
"Yeah, okay," she says, blinking up at him. She looks like she's debating something in her head for a second, and then suddenly she's stepping forward, right into his personal space.
It takes him a while, but he only properly catches on that she's hugging him when his arms are already moving, winding around her waist automatically.
"Thank you for coming, then," she says, their embrace making it possible for him to feel her jaw moving against his shoulder. It's a little surreal, and he has to remind himself to breathe normally when she pulls back, offering him another smile. "Drive safe."
He has trouble meeting Wells in the eye when he shakes the other man's hand goodbye.
Not that he has anything to feel remotely guilty about, of course, he reminds himself as he gets into his car. It was just a little farewell hug. Totally normal behaviour between friends, nothing out of the ordinary. Perfectly platonic.
Even so, he can't stop replaying it in his head throughout the entire drive home, over and over like it's stuck on loop.
'you make it home okay?' Clarke asks just as he gets out of the shower.
He debates whether to respond for a full minute, but then he sighs, pulling up the text box to type. 'Yeah. I texted O a while ago, she didn't get it?'
'don't know. she totally KO'd on the couch like half an hour after you and wells left hahaha'
He blinks. So Wells didn't stay to spend the night with Clarke.
Again, not that it's any of his business.
'Haha it's okay, she deserves the rest, especially after that amazing dinner,' he says instead. 'Seriously — I always knew O could cook, but I never knew she could cook like THAT.'
'hey, i helped too,' Clarke protests, and he can just picture her smiling now, one brow cocked like she does whenever she's being contrary on purpose. 'i bought the cheese for the mac myself, ok. literally THE most important component of mac and cheese. carried it home from the store with my own two hands and everything.'
He grins in spite of himself. 'Wow, the CHEESE,' he says, his thumbs flying across the keyboard. 'All by yourself, too. Good job, princess.'
He freezes immediately after hitting 'send', his eyes widening. 'Princess'? Where the fuck did that come from?
'you can't deny that it was good cheese,' is all she says in reply.
He stares at it for a long moment, one minute stretching into two.
'Yeah,' he finally types slowly, 'it was.' And then, before she has time to say anything else, he adds, 'Goodnight, Clarke.'
He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and grabs a book instead, telling himself not to rush to check for her response.
Turns out he has nothing to worry about after all, because it never comes.
He's not sure if he actually changes the way he talks to Clarke, but he sure feels different.
He spends a lot more time trying to come up with responses, for one. It's kind of stupid whenever he takes the time to reflect on his choices properly, because it's not like he's ever been inappropriate, or even outright flirty with her. So the only real differences now are that, a), he takes three times as long to reply (with usually the exact same thing he would have replied with anyway), and also, b), he now experiences only about half the amount of fun he used to have with talking to her.
He can't really tell if Clarke's seeing anything different in the way he talks to her now. She seems oblivious enough, replying with the exact same level of promptness and frequency and enthusiasm as she always has. They've even switched over to regular text messages now, after she'd gotten his number from Octavia when the Instagram app was down one afternoon.
He still checks in to Instagram every couple of days, though. Mostly because Octavia still insists on finding increasingly unnecessary but admittedly creative ways to mention him in every other photo she posts with Clarke in it, or shout him out in every other comment she makes on one of Clarke's posts.
He'd feel embarrassed by it, but honestly, at this point, he feels like Clarke's just as much his friend as she is his sister's. They've gone from talking every few days to almost every day now, and it's definitely a lot less about the Tumblr joke blogs and history memes than it is about each other. He's mindful to steer clear of the subject of her love life, but between the two of them, they've covered pretty much everything else that they've got going on. Totally normal friendship stuff.
Sometimes he even visits Instagram just to hit 'like' on her posts. (Including the ones where Wells makes an appearance, yes. He's awkward and pathetic and also a little bit jealous, but he's not petty.)
And then one day she texts him a picture of her Starbucks cup, with 'CLARK' printed on it and an unfamiliar phone number scribbled underneath.
'Is this your way of letting me know that you've changed your number?' he asks. 'And also the spelling of your name?'
'no,' she replies after an emoji — the one of the brunette girl in the pink top forming an 'X' with her arms. 'i think it's my barista's way of hitting on me, tho.'
He takes a little longer to come up with a response to that than usual.
'Bold move,' he finally decides on.
'yeah i thought so too,' she says after a few brief moments. 'but she still loses points for spelling my name wrong, so. sorry, katie.' And then later adds, '… at least i THINK her name was katie???'
'Maybe it was Kati,' he says dryly, to which she answers with 'LMAO' and a string of laughing emojis.
He's not sure why, but he's already typing before he can remind himself not to push the topic.
'Then again, it's not like you're exactly available to begin with.'
He spends the next thirty seconds staring at his phone screen, half holding his breath when the three typing dots appear.
'nah she still gets points docked for 'Clark'. thanks for playing anyway, kati.'
He spends the rest of the day despondently lecturing himself for walking right into that one.
Even though he already basically talks to her all the time, he's still pretty surprised when his phone starts ringing one day, and it's Clarke's name flashing across the screen.
"Is this Katie?" he asks when he brings the phone to his ear.
A burst of warmth goes off in his gut at the sound of her snort. "Actually, it's Kati," she tells him, and he can already tell just from the sound of her voice that she's grinning. "Without the 'e'."
He laughs, shaking his head. "What's up, Clarke?" He pauses, the smile dropping from his face. "Everything okay? Where's O?"
"It's fine, everything's fine," she says, her voice reassuringly dismissive. "Octavia's good, too. Although I'll admit that she is the reason I'm calling."
He blinks, setting his laptop aside on the couch. "Uh oh. What's going on?"
"I've been tasked by your sister to book you for a Christmas visit," she informs him, her tone dry but jovial.
He huffs an involuntary laugh, more relief than actual amusement. "Why am I not surprised that you've been living with her four months and she's already giving you orders?"
"I can only imagine how you've survived twenty years," she agrees, all grave mockery. "She wants dates, by the way. I'm under strict instructions. Specific arrival and departure dates, to be exact."
"'Arrival and departure'," he repeats, frowning. "So like… an extended visit?"
"She's pretty insistent that you spend the holidays here with us, yeah."
"Oh." He fidgets, shifting on the couch. "I take it that means I'm staying… at the apartment?"
With you? he adds silently.
"That's the idea," Clarke says, sounding amused. "So, dates?"
It takes a few minutes, but they quickly work a rough plan out between them.
"So we'll see you on the night of the twenty-second," Clarke summarises over the sound of a pen clicking in the background. "And then you're leaving on January third, in the morning."
"Sounds about right for now," he says. "I'll have to see about moving some shifts at the bar around, but that should be it."
"Twelve days." She sighs, the sound crackling slightly over the phone. "Well, I guess this is as good a deal as we're gonna get."
His nose wrinkles in mild suspicion. "How much time did O tell you to wrangle?"
"A full month."
"Not gonna happen," he says with a snort.
"That's what I told her," she exclaims, a hint of mournfulness lacing her tone. "But does she ever listen?"
He laughs at the mental image of his sister scowling at him, and lifts a hand to rake through his hair. "I apologise. For what I'm sure is the hundredth time."
"Don't," she says, easy and warm. "It's actually kind of sweet. I mean, you know she's only doing all this because she's worried about you, right?"
He pauses, blinking in mild confusion. "About me?"
"No, her other brother," Clarke returns, a teasing lilt to her husky voice. "Yes, you."
He frowns, bewildered. "What could she possibly be worried about?"
Clarke hesitates. It's brief, no more than two seconds, but he almost feels like he can hear her thinking.
"I think," she says slowly, "she's worried that you're becoming a bit of a lone wolf."
He raises a brow. "So her solution is to… what, try and keep me on your couch?"
Clarke laughs, but it's short, trailing off into another long pause. "I think she just wants to show you that you don't have to be," she says finally.
It turns out Wells isn't even in town by the time Bellamy arrives.
"He's spending Christmas with people he actually gives a shit about," Raven explains breezily. "You know, instead of the people he pretends to give a shit about on a daily basis."
Raven's something new that he didn't get to experience his last visit. He likes her, though.
At least, he thinks he does. He's not entirely sure, considering he's too busy dividing any and all time spent with her between being really fucking impressed or borderline afraid.
"Speak for yourself," Jasper retorts loudly. "Wells likes me. It's glaringly obvious that I'm his favourite."
Raven snorts and elbows a smiling Clarke, the movement sending her right into Bellamy's side. It's just a slight bump, but all the same, he has to remind himself not to lean into it.
"Fine," Jasper amends. "Second favourite, then."
"I don't think Wells would approve of anyone playing favourites," Monty observes mildly. "Least of all himself."
"We'll be sure to break it to him gently when he gets back," Miller says, dry as a desert.
Miller, he definitely likes.
Wells Jaha aside, the little group his sister and her roommate have gathered around the table are truly a mismatched bunch. They're all different shapes and sizes, with completely different interests and vocations ranging from biotech to engineering to art to law enforcement. Half of them aren't even in college anymore, which makes him wonder how they'd all even met. Miller is, for sure, a lot closer to Bellamy's age than he is to Octavia's.
But seeing them all together like this, it's pretty sure that they do have a few things in common. Like drinking. And loud, rude jokes. And more drinking.
It's… nice, he realises once he's midway through his third beer of the night. It's an adjustment from the quiet nights on the couch he's used to, but it's nice. Fun, even.
Staying with Clarke and Octavia isn't nearly as awkward as he thought it'd be, either. He settles in on the couch with no trouble at all, and spends the first couple of mornings cooking eggs and toast and bacon with Clarke while his sister sleeps in a few extra minutes. At night, they huddle together on the couch with mugs of hot cocoa and old episodes of Friends and Parks and Recreation, sharing four blankets between the three of them.
Thanks to Octavia's inability to sit still for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch, it somehow always works out that either he or Clarke inevitably end up in the middle, which also works out to them sitting side by side every single time.
It's a lot more than nice, he realises one night when it's just him and Clarke left on the couch, Octavia having long padded off to bed with a monster yawn. Somehow, just being like this — it makes him happy.
He tries not to read anything into the little, contented smiles Clarke gives him, or the way she brushes her hand over his arm every time he makes her laugh with some snarky commentary on Monica's high strung yelling, or Joey's mental ineptitude. If it were anyone else, he'd probably think she were flirting with him — but she does it all the time, even when Octavia or anyone else is present. It's pretty safe to assume that everyone already knows about her and Wells, so their obvious indifference to it quickly leads him to the conclusion that she's just a physically affectionate person.
After all, it couldn't be that Clarke's flirting with him. Of course not. She has a boyfriend. He's met her boyfriend. She wouldn't flirt with someone else, least of all someone who's personally acquainted with her boyfriend.
Case closed, he tells himself sternly when she nods off to The Nightmare Before Christmas, her head dropping sideways and down onto his shoulder. End of fucking story, Blake.
All the same, he makes a conscious, concerted effort to keep any movements slow and delicate, trying his best to avoid accidentally jostling her awake.
On Christmas Day, all three of them wake up unusually early.
They don't exchange presents or anything — that's for later — but they do make chocolate chip pancakes and hot cocoa and spend the entire morning lazing around the living room, watching all the Big Fat Quiz episodes they can get their hands on.
Sometime in the afternoon, Octavia heads into her room to put on exercise clothes (complete with a sports bra underneath). She emerges a few short minutes later, raring to go.
"Clarke, you're on onions. Bell, you're on potatoes," she commands authoritatively as she piles her heavy mass of dark hair on top of her head, securing it all with a few strategic twists of a hair tie.
"Why am I always on potato duty," he grumbles, smiling good-naturedly despite himself.
Octavia aims a light kick at his shin as he passes her by. "Because you're a hopeless crybaby when it comes to onions. Don't worry, we're doing roast potatoes this year. No mash."
"You're saved!" Clarke quips, tossing a dishcloth at him.
Under Octavia's capable direction, they slice and mince and baste and dice away for the next two hours. Once the giant slab of roast beef is set out to cool and the potatoes are slid into the oven for their turn, Octavia loops an arm around Clarke's and pulls her out of the kitchen, yelling over her shoulder for Bellamy to occupy himself for a bit while they get ready. He shrugs, unconcerned.
Since his version of 'getting ready' is throwing on the one nice shirt he'd brought with him, he gets ready, and flops back down onto the couch to kill some time while they wait for the rest to arrive.
An hour later, the front door to the apartment flies open with no warning.
"Christmas is here!" Jasper announces merrily, arms thrown wide.
"We are also here, too," Monty adds wryly as he trails in behind him, a large white bakery box in his arms. "Sorry, he's a bit too used to dorm life. He's forgotten what a doorbell looks like."
"Also how to knock, apparently," Bellamy says dryly, but he lets himself be yanked in for a trademark Jasper Jordan hug, all warm and tight and completely unforgiving in its enthusiasm.
Bellamy directs them into the living room so they can put their presents down by the tree — not a real tree, of course. It's a large portrait of a tree, painted by Clarke and tacked up against the living room wall by Octavia, to make up for the lack of space for a real one.
They happily bounce onto the couch to keep watching Glee which, for some reason, is already playing on the TV. Even though Bellamy's reasonably sure he's never put on Glee — like, ever in his life.
Octavia appears in the living room in a satiny green top and dark fitted jeans, one brow going up at the sight of the duo sitting entranced on the couch by the musical stylings of the New Directions. "Who put on Glee?"
Bellamy holds up both his hands. "Don't look at me, I didn't even realise it was on until—"
And then Clarke emerges right behind her.
Her fuller frame is wrapped up in a dress with relatively modest sleeves that come up to her elbows, but makes up for it with a deeper neckline that shows off a generous hint of her ample cleavage. The dress is red, but it's a red so deep that it's almost mahogany against her fair skin. Her hair falls in loose curls around her face, and when she looks right at him through her soft, smokey makeup, he pretty much just stops breathing altogether.
She moves over to him, her lips curved in a smile. "Until?" she prompts, one brow arched.
He blinks, suddenly aware of the fact that his sister is long gone, having already lost interest in the conversation.
"Until it was already there," he finishes after a beat. He shakes his head. "On the TV, I mean. Wow, you—" He clears his throat quickly. "You guys look great."
She cocks her head, grinning like he's just made a joke. "Thanks, Bellamy. You don't look so bad yourself."
He laughs, one hand moving up to tug nervously at the collar of his plain brown button down. "Yeah, figured this wasn't gonna be a black tie type of deal."
"Would be kind of weird with the whole shoes-off thing," she agrees dryly, before turning to greet Jasper and Monty with a warm hug each.
Raven and Miller turn up soon after, her a few minutes behind him.
"We gonna get this party started or what!" is Raven's boisterous greeting to the entire living room, as she brandishes two unopened bottles of tequila. She rolls her eyes at Bellamy's concerned squint. "After dinner, of course, grandpa."
Dinner is a boisterous affair, with everyone yelling at and over each other as they pass roast beef and potatoes and Octavia's special corn salad around the table. Raven lays claim to the last three slices of garlic bread before anyone can protest, and Jasper somehow manages to spill copious amounts of Tabasco sauce all over his plate and Miller's.
Monty brings out dessert once they're done — a dozen large, shiny eclairs, stacked up nicely on a large platter, courtesy of Clarke. Looking at the sheer size of each eclair, Bellamy really can't see why anyone would need more than one. But as he watches Jasper and Miller wolf down theirs within seconds, their hands already stretching out to claim another, he's privately impressed by Monty's foresight.
Everyone helps to push aside furniture to make space for Raven to set up the Wii she'd brought with her, and within minutes, Octavia and Jasper are already deep into a Just Dance battle, shimmying and waving their limbs about to cheers from the rest as they try to match the movements on screen.
Bellamy watches Miller attempt to do body rolls and do a double shot of tequila at the same time, and it's the first time in a long time that he genuinely can't stop laughing.
"You should move here."
He blinks owlishly at his sister as she pops open a fresh bottle of sparkling wine.
"Okay," he says warily. For his typically expressive sister, a deliberately neutral tone is pretty much the best way to let him know Something Big is coming. "Um. Why?"
She rolls her eyes, setting the corkscrew opener aside on kitchen counter to level him with an exasperated look. "You're getting your Ph.D in less than five months, right? After that, you can go anywhere you want, Bell. You can teach here! Or whatever else it is you wanna do with a Ph.D, you can do that here, too."
He shakes his head slowly. "That doesn't make sense. I can already do all that back home."
Octavia blows out an exasperated breath, shoving stray locks of brown hair out of her eyes. "That's not home, Bell. That's just the first town we landed up in that didn't spit us back out." She sighs, her expression turning sombre. "I like this place, Bell. I really, really like it. And I think you would too."
He huffs a laugh, but it's weak. "Oh, yeah? Why d'you think that?"
"Because you'll have friends here," she says, her jaw set. "Real friends — not just Murphy. No offence, you know I'm cool with him and all that, but he's just one person, Bell. You can't live your life that way."
He blinks, his brain still struggling to catch up. "You can't be sure of that, O."
"Yes, I can," she says, her tone firm. "Look, like it or not, you already have friends here. You have Wells, and, for better or worse, you're gonna have Jasper and Monty and Raven and Miller from now on, too. You have me."
He takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the pounding of his heart as the truth of her words descend on him.
Octavia laughs suddenly, her shoulders jerking in a careless shrug. "Besides," she says, her lips curving in an impish smirk, "you have Clarke."
His head whips up to stare at her, a complete failure in discretion. "What? What's that supposed to mean?"
Octavia rolls her eyes and grins, planting her hands on her hips. "Come on, big brother. I'm not blind, you know. You and Clarke. I get it. It's a thing."
"No, it's not," he says instantly, his palms growing clammier by the second.
She laughs, oblivious. "Yeah, right. I make sure to talk to all my friends every single day, too. I can't help staring at all my friends with my chin on the fucking floor when they get all dressed up, too. Because friendship."
"It's not like that," he insists, a line of heat prickling a discomforting trail up his neck
Octavia huffs affectionately, shaking her head. "I'm an adult, Bell. I think I can handle you having the hots for my roommate, especially when she clearly feels the exact same wa—"
"What the fuck, O!" he bursts out in a panic, staring at her wildly. "How can you say that!"
She drops her arms, looking at him with a thoroughly confused expression. "How can I say what?"
"That," he exclaims, waving his hands frantically. "All that, about me and Clarke!"
Her brows furrow, her bewilderment clearly deepening. "Why can't I say that about you and Clarke?"
"Aren't you— it's not—" He looks at her, pained. "Don't you have any respect for Wells?"
His sister's open mouth suddenly snaps shut, her face tautening in contemplation. "Wells."
"Yeah, Wells," Bellamy snaps, flustered as he rakes a hand through his hair. "Isn't he your friend, too?"
Octavia's sharp gaze narrows ever so slightly. "Right. My friend. Wells." She pauses, her head tilting a few degrees sideways. "Who is also Clarke's… ?"
Bellamy huffs at the prompting arch of her brow. "Boyfriend," he finishes for her, his frustration deepening with the word.
Octavia folds her arms neatly across her middle, bobbing her head in a brisk nod. "Uh-huh. And Clarke told you this… when, exactly?"
He pauses, thrown completely off track by the unexpected query. "What do you mean 'when'? She just— I mean, it's—" He flails about for the right words, feeling himself drop further and further into confusion with every second. "It's just like that, isn't it?" he finally blurts out, incredulous.
To his utter surprise, Octavia shrugs.
"I don't know," she says lightly, a complete contrast to the seriousness she'd been sporting just moments before. "Why don't you ask Clarke?"
His face scrunches in disbelief. "Ask Clarke what?!"
Octavia blinks, her face a perfect caricature of innocence. "About her boyfriend."
"Why would I do that?" he manages to ask once he's stopped gaping.
Octavia stills, her expression clouding over with something dark and threatening.
"Because," she says slowly, her hard, emerald gaze fixed on his, "I think it's important that you ask, Bellamy."
He stares at her, stunned. In nearly twenty-one years, he can count the number of times his little sister has called him 'Bellamy' to his face on one hand. He wouldn't even need all five fingers, too.
"No?" Octavia asks silkily when a full minute has passed and he's still struggling to come up with a response. "Fine. I'll ask her, then." And with that, she raises her voice to shout a decisive 'Clarke!'
Bellamy's eyes widen in panic. Finding his voice, he's just about to put up some kind of protest — but then Clarke appears in the kitchen, all flushed and happy and smiling bright.
"Yeah, what's up?" she asks, a little breathless as she takes a few steps to bring her closer to them. Outside, the ruckus of the group ratchets up just a little. Apparently, a couple of them are really, really good at Just Dance. (More specifically, Miller and Monty are really good at Just Dance.)
Octavia cocks her head dangerously, deliberately turning away from Bellamy's horrified gaze. "Hey, tell me again — when does your boyfriend get back in town?"
Bellamy watches as Clarke's brow furrows in obvious confusion. "My what?"
Octavia bares all of her teeth in the parody of a grin. "You know. Your boyfriend — Wells."
Clarke's bafflement lingers for a split second, and then she bursts out laughing, giving Octavia a playful nudge to the shoulder.
"Seriously, Octavia?" she says, her eyes all crinkled with amusement. "You know, you better not let Wells' girlfriend hear you say that. If Luna follows my best friend all the way back here just to kick my ass, I'm sending all my medical bills to you."
Octavia turns to smile at him then, acidly sweet. "That's all right," she says, her tone taut with feigned cheeriness. "If that happens, Bell will be more than happy to foot the bill. Won't you, big brother?"
Clarke turns to cast a puzzled frown at Octavia, but the younger girl is already pivoting sharply on her heel, stalking out of the kitchen without a backwards glance, the freshly opened bottle of wine in one hand.
Leaving him in the kitchen.
Alone — with Clarke.
She wheels round slowly on the balls of her feet to face him.
"Um," she says carefully, both brows furrowed in disconcertment. "I feel like something's happening. What's happening?"
He swallows, staring somewhere over her right shoulder instead of meeting her gaze directly. "Octavia's trying to persuade me to move here."
"Oh," she says, with a surprised laugh. "Well, that's—"
And then she stops, frowning abruptly.
"Sorry," she says, her forehead crinkling. "What does Wells have to do with that?"
He heaves a deep sigh, and squares his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height and taking one step closer to meet her gaze dead on. "Do you mind if we not talk about that right now?"
She leans back reflexively without actually stepping back, looking up at him with a thoroughly perplexed expression. "Sure, yeah, we don't—" She tilts her head, a hint of awkward concern flashing across her face. "Everything okay?"
"No, yeah, it's fine," he says, shaking his head. "I just really, really want to kiss you right now."
A loud, roaring chorus of cheering applause suddenly rips through the apartment, streaming in from the living room to the kitchen and filling up the inches of silence between them.
A slow smile stretches across Clarke's face.
"Well," she says, a warm flush blooming in her cheeks, "it's about damn time."
By the time they make it back out to the living room, they're practically mirror images of flushed faces, tousled hair and rumpled clothes.
Thankfully, no one notices thanks to Raven yelling insistently that it's time for presents.
(Well. Octavia gives them the smuggest smirk that's ever been smirked in the history of smug smirks, but Bellamy decides it's safer not to respond.)
They've got some kind of Secret Santa system going on, with everyone getting allocated one person to give a present to. Since Clarke had drawn Bellamy's ballot for him, she's the only one who knows who his assigned recipient is. She'd been very helpful with the actual present, too, giving him suggestions for the kinds of things the person likes.
He's doubly grateful for her help when Miller opens the two-pack of freezable whiskey glasses, complemented with two shiny Whiskey Stones, and actually gets so choked up that his only reaction is to get up and hug Bellamy tight.
"Told you," Clarke whispers when Miller returns to his seat on the couch, staring lovingly at his new drinking aides.
Bellamy grins, leaning into her when she bumps her shoulder against his.
Raven presents Octavia with a sleek leather jacket, and then receives a blank white envelope from Monty with surprise that quickly melts into knowing cackles.
"There are a lot of things you could buy Raven that would be a good present," Clarke explains wryly in a low voice, "but ultimately, the best thing anyone could give her is a gift from herself."
Cash, Bellamy realises in amusement as he watches Raven wrap Monty up in an enthusiastic hug, the envelope clutched in one hand. Smart. Monty's quiet, but he's easily the second most impressive thing Bellamy's encountered on this trip. Right behind Raven Reyes, of course.
Octavia cheerfully returns Jasper's delighted hug of thanks for her gift of a large, padded pair of headphones before turning to the group.
"All right," she announces, gesturing to Clarke. "Last one."
Clarke steps forward to present him with a small box, neatly wrapped with brown paper.
"Somehow," he says as he accepts the box, his wide smile marring his attempt at a dry tone, "I'm finding it hard to be surprised that it's you."
She shrugs, grinning brightly as he starts to tear the present open carefully. "Who else was it going to be?"
He blinks at the box underneath.
"What?" Jasper asks, impatient with excitement. "What is it?"
He stares down at the present, dazed. "It's— uh—"
"Whoa," Raven exclaims, leaning recklessly over the back of the couch to see. "Shit, that's cool."
It's one of those iPhone lens kits, that come with a set of three different lens attachments for phone cameras. It is cool, and it's also definitely not within the $50 gift budget he'd been informed about.
Clarke shrugs, still grinning wide. "Something to help you with your Instagram game."
Octavia snorts, effectively snapping the thick atmosphere in a heartbeat. "I think of all people, Clarke, you already know just how fucking good my brother's Instagram game is."
The rest of the room erupts with teasing cheers, and Bellamy shakes his head, hooking his arm around Clarke's shoulders to pull her in for a hug.
It's a little just so he can hide his own smile in her hair.
It's mostly just because he can.
Five months later, he throws the last of his things into the backseat of his car, brushing his hands off before sliding into the driver's seat.
He pauses when his phone buzzes in his pocket, shifting to pull it out from his back pocket and squint at the new alert.
@princessgriffs tagged you in a photo.
Smiling, he slides his thumb over the notification.
two weeks + three hours later, @thetallerblake's new apartment is finally all ready! (yes that's @wellswellswells and @thebetterblake in the background being SO helpful by lying face down on the couch
)
He knows it's kind of weird to just sit in his car, grinning at his phone screen all by himself.
But right now, today, he honestly couldn't care less.
@thetallerblake: Can't wait to see you guys in a bit. Even if it's just to fix all the damage you've already done to my new place @thebetterblake I don't care what a good deal it was, THAT LAMP IS NOT STAYING