The morning light through the canvas of Bellamy's tent was the pale gold of early hours, and Lily had learned by now the particular quality of it — the way it made the space feel suspended, as though the camp outside hadn't started yet, as though the world was still giving them a few minutes before it asked anything of them.
She was not thinking about the world.
"Bell," she breathed, her nails finding his skin, and he groaned low in response, his eyes closing for a moment before finding hers again as he leaned down to kiss her.
His hips moved faster now, more erratic, and her sounds were swallowed into the kiss. But the pressure had grown unbearable — hot, tight, all-consuming — until she had to break away just to breathe.
She gasped, her mouth falling open, until it finally broke over her. Her body arched up against him, legs trembling, the tension snapping in a wave that made her whole body pulse. For a moment she felt weightless.
"Bellamy—" breathless, her back arching, her vision blurring at the edges.
He followed not long after, and then they lay still, breathing unevenly, the tent quiet around them.
"Happy Unity Day, I guess," he said, rubbing his nose against her neck, making her giggle.
"Happy Unity Day," she answered, as he shifted back just enough to kiss her again, her fingers finding his hair, as their mouths moved against each other. There was no urgency in it now. That was the thing she kept noticing — how the urgency had become something else in the weeks since the first time, something quieter and steadier, the kind that didn't need to prove itself. She had not expected that. She had not expected a lot of things.
"You've got to train with the guns again today," he whispered in between kisses.
"You said I'm good," she answered. He smirked just before he lowered his head, so that he could kiss down her neck. She let out a contented sigh, feeling his naked skin against hers. This had become ordinary in a way she was still learning to hold — the warmth of it, the particular ease of being with someone who knew her and had not left.
"It does not mean you can stop training."
"You're making it a bit difficult to go fulfill my duties." Her words made him chuckle, and he moved up so that their eyes could meet.
"Am I?" He chuckled. Then after a last kiss, he moved from above her, so that he could start to get dressed.
She thought about how strange it was that this had become ordinary. Not long ago she had lain awake in the dropship cataloguing everything she did not understand about him. Now she knew the sound of his breathing when he was asleep and the particular way his jaw shifted when he was thinking something he had not decided to say yet. She knew that he was gentle in ways he would never let anyone else see, and stubborn in ways that frustrated her even when she understood them, and that he had a habit of checking on her without calling it that — appearing at her tent with a question about medicine when what he actually wanted was to see that she was there. She knew all of this, and she had not planned to know any of it, and now she could not imagine not knowing it.
It was a dangerous kind of ordinary. She was aware of that. The Ark would come down soon, and with it a version of the world that would not look kindly on whatever this was. Marcus would come down. The Council. The rules that had governed all of them for three generations. She did not know what shape things would take when that happened, and she had been deliberately not thinking about it in the small warm hours of the morning when it was easy not to think about anything.
Lily moved up, covering her naked chest and she stayed where she was for a moment, her chin resting on her knees, watching him. There was something she liked about this — the particular quality of early light through the canvas, Bellamy moving through it with that ease he only had in here, unhurried, unguarded. Out there he was always the version of himself that the camp needed. In here he was just him, and she had come to value the difference more than she knew how to say.
Then she looked around for her shirt, frowning when she didn't see it.
"Where did we put it?" she said, confused. Bellamy gave her a glance as he was buttoning his pants, and with a little smirk he bent down to take her shirt and hand it to her.
"How was it there?" she asked with wide eyes.
He chuckled, "Do you want me to fold it next time?"
"Next time." The word lodged itself in her chest without her meaning it to, and she felt it sitting there, changing the quality of the air in the tent. He noticed and stopped moving. She looked at him, and his eyes stayed on her face with that look she had learned to recognize, the one that was not quite readable from the outside but that she had begun to understand from the inside.
"You okay?" He asked, cocking his head to one side.
She looked down at the shirt in her hands. She had been carrying this since yesterday — the particular tightening in her chest thinking about what she saw the day before.
"Lily, what is it?" He asked again, his voice becoming tense.
"I've seen Bree walking out of here, yesterday." He let out a breath, and Lily felt silly for bringing it up; she and Bellamy had not said anything that gave her a claim on this, and she had not asked for one, and yet there it was, the thing in her chest that she did not like and could not seem to put down. Having started this thing with Bellamy was making her feel so good, and safe. She didn't want it to stop. She liked him, and after those weeks she could not picture herself being away from him and what they were doing. But there was something that was bothering her, and she could not push it away.
"Just… I know that you used to do this with Bree and Roma, and I…" She took a deep breath. "I'm not like them. That's all I wanted to say."
Bellamy nodded silently, handing her the shirt. Lily was unsure of what he might be thinking in that moment, and for an instant she was sure he'd send her away from his tent. She observed him put his shirt on, fixing it against his body, his hands moving with that methodical calm he had when he was thinking. Lily felt paralyzed. Was he angry? Had she ruined everything? A part of her was desperate at that thought, but another — quieter, steadier — felt that it had been the right thing to say. She was not Bree or Roma. She was not up to do what they had done, not up to be what they had been to him. She silently stood up, putting on her clothes. And when she was about to take her bag, he spoke again.
"Why are you taking that?"
Lily frowned, looking at her bag, confused. "I'll bring it back to the dropship," she said, almost unsure. But he shook his head.
"We're going to shoot, you don't need it," he said, putting his jacket on. He crossed to her, his eyes searching for hers.
"You can leave it here, and you can put your change of shirt there." He pointed at the side of the tent. Lily went still. She looked at him properly, the way she was not always able to when he was this close.
"You can stay here, if you want. This place is too big for one person." Then he looked at her intently, taking the bag from her hand. "I've told Bree that we won't be seeing each other anymore." Lily's eyes widened in surprise. "I hope you want it to be a next time."
Before he could move, Lily reached out, her hand touching his face, so that she could lean forward and kiss him. She felt him exhale against her — the full, releasing kind of breath, the kind that meant something had been let go — his hands moving around her waist as hers moved to his shoulders. Their lips moved against each other with sweet passion, as their bodies got so close that there was no space between them.
The shooting sessions had been going for two weeks now, and Lily had developed a complicated relationship with them. Bellamy had organized the groups himself — rotating, methodical, working through the basics in the clearing just inside the east wall — and the camp had improved in ways that were visible and practical and that she was glad for, which did not make standing with a rifle in her hands feel any less strange. She had grown up believing that the answer to violence was never more violence, and she still believed that, mostly, and yet she was also standing here, correcting her stance, which seemed to contain a contradiction she had not entirely resolved.
"Relax your shoulder," Bellamy said from beside her.
"Or I'll feel the kick harder." She adjusted, remembering what he had told her. "Right."
"You're doing good." He said, and she could feel his lips turn up. "Just breathe a little. You look tense."
"I never thought I would shoot anything," she admitted, keeping her eyes on the tree line. "Let alone anyone."
"It's a precaution." His voice was even, patient. "In case the Grounders attack, I'd prefer you to know how to defend yourself."
She glanced at him sideways and felt, despite herself, the particular warmth that still caught her off guard sometimes.
"Thank you," she said. "And I know you're right, just… it's a bit out of character for me."
He shook his head, "I don't think that's true."
She frowned, as she turned towards him. "You think I'm violent?"
"I think you're stronger than you realize." He said looking at her, but she found herself glaring at him.
"Rifles are not strength, Bell."
He smiled at the nickname — she had started using it without noticing, somewhere in the past weeks, and now it simply came out. "Never said that."
Lily observed him feeling herself relax.
There was a particular ease to being beside him like this — outside, in the morning light, with the camp moving around them and neither of them needing to explain anything. She had not known that ease was something she had been missing until she had it, and now she was aware of its absence on the days when they were busy in different directions, when the camp needed things from both of them separately and she went a whole day without seeing him properly.
"How have you learnt how to shoot?" she asked.
Something shifted in his expression. Not the old closure — not the way it used to go when she asked something that reached past the surface — but a cloudiness, like weather moving in. "I've been a training soldier on the Ark," he said. "For some time. Learnt some basics."
She turned to look at him fully. "What? Really?"
He nodded, and said nothing else for a moment, his eyes going somewhere distant.
"I thought you were part of the working class," she said carefully.
"Yeah." He let out a breath as he nodded. "Yeah, I was."
The silence that followed was the kind she had learned not to fill too quickly. She waited, keeping her eyes on the tree line, giving him the space she knew he needed to decide whether to let her in.
"Lily…" he said after a bit. "I'm sorry for what I said, about you and about your mother. It's just… I've seen my mother accepting… she did things for me." He stopped and she was glad he did. He didn't need to finish the phrase for her to understand, and she really didn't want for him to think about it. She knew that some women did that to get favours from the guards, she didn't knew that Bellamy's mother did it too. It must have been horrible for him to see it.
"I assumed that was what had happened to you too. And your mother." He kept saying not looking at her. "I put it on both of you, and it wasn't right."
"Bellamy—"
"My mother wanted to help me," he said quietly, his eyes still on the middle distance. "She wished to give me a better life. And then there was a masquerade party, and I thought…" He paused, jaw tightening. "I thought nobody would have noticed Octavia. That she could have one evening that was different." He took a breath. "They found her there. They took her, and the next day my mother was floated."
Lily moved closer without thinking about it. Her hand found his face, gently, the way she had learned he could receive it — not as something that asked anything of him, just as something that was there.
"It's not your fault, Bellamy."
But he shook his head, "I should have protected them."
"You did." She kept her eyes on his. "For years you did nothing but protect them. You have no fault in anything — the same goes for Octavia. And your mum." She felt him hold very still under her hand. "The Ark and its laws have nothing human in them. They just wanted an easy way to keep order, but in time they could not see what they were doing to their own people."
He looked at her in silence, and she could see the tears he was not letting fall, and the effort it cost him, and she did not look away.
"That's why you hate violence?" he said, after a moment.
"I want to believe that there could be other ways to handle the breaking of a law," she said. "Death hidden behind justice — it's just hypocrisy to me. They dropped us here because they needed more oxygen. They don't do it for the people, they only want to buy themselves more time. They always wanted more time." She could feel the anger rising in her.
"They tried to keep order, but they stopped being able to see what they were doing to their own people."
"You're talking about your father?"
She looked down. "He believes in order," she said. "And that strict rules are what will keep people alive on the Ark."
"And what do you believe?" He asked observing her.
Lily thought about it for a moment, but she had no clear answer to that. "Sometimes I'm sure of what I believe." She said. "Sometimes I'm not."
"Down here sometimes violence is the only way out," Bellamy said with no harshness in his voice. And Lily nodded.
"Maybe." She nodded. "But I don't want to believe it."
He stepped closer, and she felt the shift in him. "See?" His voice had dropped to that lower register. "You are strong. Your stubbornness speaks more than a rifle."
"If we are talking about stubbornness," she said, and felt her lips curve despite herself, "that is something we have in common, it seems." She reached out and pulled him closer, and his arms came around her. "I'm sorry about what happened to your family."
"Thank you," he said, and leaned forward, and they kissed — not the urgent kind, not the careful kind, but something in between that had its own particular weight, the kind that came from knowing someone well enough that the kiss carried everything you had not said out loud.
She was still close to him when she heard footsteps at the edge of the clearing, and had just enough time to register their particular purpose before Clarke's voice reached them.
"Lily." Her expression was careful in the way it got when she was managing something. "Kane's on the radio. He's asking for you."
She felt Bellamy go still beside her.
"I'll go see what he wants," she said, and his hand closed around her arm before she had taken a step.
"It's too dangerous," he said quietly. "Remember Jake—"
She turned to him and kept her voice low, away from Clarke's hearing. "He's my father. What should I do if he wants to talk to me?"
"He should be less forward about it." His jaw had set as he looked at her. "Have you told him? About Jake?"
"Are you out of your mind, Bell?" She dropped to a murmur. "Who knows what he'd decide to do to him once he's down here."
"Probably it wouldn't be such a bad idea." Bellamy said and she looked at him steadily.
"This is my burden to carry. I'll deal with it." She said.
Bellamy frowned at that, "So, I should step back?"
"I want you to trust me, Bell. That's all." She insisted. "Please."
He was silent for a moment, and she watched the muscle in his jaw shift, and waited. Then he let out a breath. "I don't agree," he said. "But I'll do as you want on this."
She glanced across the clearing. Jake was at the edge of it, and for just a moment his eyes moved in their direction before he looked away, and she felt Bellamy notice it too — felt the way his stillness changed quality beside her.
"If I catch him come close to you," Bellamy said, his voice flat and even in the particular way that meant he was completely serious, "I'm bringing him away myself and leaving him for the Grounders. He just needs one time."
"Bell—"
"One time." He released her arm. "Now go. I'll see you later."
The communications tent smelled of equipment and the particular warmth of machinery that had been running for hours. Lily sat down and put on the headset and found him already on the screen, and there he was — the same lines of his face, the same stillness, the same quality of presence that had always made rooms feel smaller. She had been looking at that face her whole life and still could not read it. She was not sure she ever would.
"Lily," he said.
"Marcus."
He paused as if he was thinking of what to tell her, which made her frown. "The Council has finalized the plan for the first Exodus ship. It will launch within sixty hours." He said formally, like always. "I will be on board."
She waited in silence, without taking her eyes away from him. She was not understanding his behaviour. He had been calling more frequently since the radio was restored — more than she had expected, more carefully than she knew what to do with. She was still learning what it meant, still deciding how much of herself to spend on trying to understand it.
"Why are you telling me?" she said. "I'm not in charge here. That's Clarke's territory. You should be telling her."
Something moved in his expression — not quite a shift, more like a settling into a different kind of stillness. "I just wanted you to know," he said.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Why are you so eager to talk to me all of a sudden?" she asked. Her voice came out sharper than she inteded to.
He seemed to be about to say something, but then he seemed to decide against it. She watched his face, and waited. He was acting really strange.
"It is the Unity Day," he said.
The particular weight of the silence that followed was familiar. She had grown up learning that silence, the one that meant there was something he was not going to say.
"Of course," she said.
She moved to stand, but then she stopped.
She thought of Bellamy's face, and the fact that he was now safe from the Ark. Then she looked at Marcus on the screen.
"I don't know if you've kept your promise to help Bellamy," she said quietly. "But if you did — I'm thankful."
He held her gaze. She held his. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then she said, "Happy Unity Day, Marcus."
She pulled off the headset and set it down and walked out into the light, and did not let herself think about the expression on his face until she was far enough away that it no longer felt like it could reach her.