Too Much That Time Will Not Erase

[Bellamy Blake]

Tag: Bronte Pottinger

whatever

THE HELL WE WANT

Night was always the worst. It forced Bellamy to be left alone with his thoughts. During the day, he was able to find a multitude of distractions. With the ceasefire in effect, Arkadia -- formerly known as Camp Jaha -- was able to truly start developing. They had given everyone quarters, their own rooms within the fallen Ark, and even have designated areas for other purposes. They were able to plant crops, they collected the vehicles found in the garage. Basically, it was allowing for them to start building a sustainable lifestyle. There was hope. But Bellamy wasn't naive enough to believe this peace would last.

Still, it kept them busy. That was what he needed. But when night came . . . it was increasingly difficult to find said distractions. There was no reason for him to be at the guard tower or keeping watch. In fact, he was told to get some rest. That, was far easier said than done. Sleep was a luxury that was not granted to him so easily. For whenever he closed his eyes, he was haunted. Images of those he had killed in Mount Weather -- innocent men, women, children -- and those same groups from the Culling. It was all too much.

He was bathing in so much blood, drowning in it. Which was what made him avoid his apartment. He didn't want to be alone. In a place that should be safe and secure, it instilled only fear in him. But he couldn't break down. He wouldn't. Even with Clarke gone. Especially with Clarke gone. For that, was a whole other betrayal in itself. He found his way to the hangar, now abandoned by everyone for it was closed. But at least it was somewhere public.

At least it would not confine him in the walls of a secluded area. Besides, there was still a chance he could stumble upon someone. He casually entered, aimlessly wandering around. Making his way to the piano, his finger trailed over one of the keys, without pressing it. Just merely touching it. He had played a few times on the Ark, though hadn't touched the instrument since his mother was floated. Now, it served not only as a reminder of that. But of Mount Weather too. He was lost in his thoughts, victim to their burdens. Silently longing for a distraction. Something. Anything. Someone. Anyone. He just didn't want to be alone . . . and yet could never make such an admittance.

[Bronte Pottinger]

Bronte had long awaited the moment when he would be able to get ahold of Bellamy Blake. The problem, of course, was the stigma attached to mental fatigue and its resultant lack of manly appeal. If anyone needed Bronte's services as impromptu therapist, it was Bellamy Blake. However, there was probably no one less likely to ask for it than the very person that needed it the most. Bellamy had worked so diligently to establish order when they arrived on this damnable planet. His actions since that moment have all been validated and justified, especially in Bronte's eyes. He was well-aware of what it took to be a leader, and Bellamy had everything the positions required. What he didn't have, at least it seemed this way to Bronte, was a shoulder to lean on. Even men as strong as Bellamy needed someone to talk to occasionally.

Bronte had been present when Bellamy was told to "get some rest" and having been around people like Bellamy his whole life, he knew exactly how little rest Bellamy was likely to get. Men like Bellamy never really rested. They were always on the go. The problem then became, that meant that their minds were never really at rest either. Knowing this, Bronte slowly but surely followed Bellamy to the hangar destination. It wasn't really stalking, but rather happening upon someone purposefully in the same destination. Maybe it was stalking. Oh well. Bronte's intentions were good. That was what mattered.

"Do you play?" It was a soft opening, but one that encourage a response from Bellamy as Bronte made his way between Bellamy and the door. Long legs carried him gracefully to his position, effectively blocking Bellamy's line of escape. This was going to happen. Bronte knew exactly what he had to do. He had to make it almost forced... the therapy of course.

"I sneak in here sometimes to play on it. Music heals the soul, you know. Play something for me." Bronte was pushing just enough. He moved slowly to the piano, placing his long graceful fingers gently on its dusty top. It was a coded language to which only Bronte was privy, but he knew all too well the need for ease and discretion. Bellamy would be a tough nut to crack, but Bronte was up to the task.

Bellamy Blake

[Bellamy Blake]

Tag: Bronte Pottinger

whatever

THE HELL WE WANT

The unexpected voice startled Bellamy, though he made no show of it. Years of lying to the authorities, of protecting his sister on the Ark had allowed him to build a stoic demeanour and disallow words, accusations, or anything that else that could be thrown his way to phase him. At least outwardly. It was a skill that he had to hold on to, especially with all that happened recently. His eyes remained on the piano of where his finger was skimming over. He recognized the male's voice, briefly glancing toward him before returning his gaze to it's initial location. Bronte. The male was among the group that Bellamy felt fiercely protective of. The original 100 sent down to Earth. Each one of them held a special place in his heart, and it was them that he had stayed for before, and who he stayed for now.

The rest of the Arkers, he of course swore to protect . . . but the 100, they were his priority. He had wiped out an entire civilization to save them, and he would do so again. That was the horrible thing, he supposed. He didn't regret his actions. He would do them again, and suffer the aftermath all over if it meant that they remained safe. Bronte, was among those. His words resonated with Bellamy. Music heals the soul. It was true. If one still had a soul. If one's soul wasn't so blackened by all the destruction and death, all the pain they had inflicted on others. "I used to," he admitted to Bronte, still not yet looking at him. His words held truth, but he wasn't about to go into a deep explanation as to when he played, and why he stopped. Or why he wouldn't play now.

Lowering his hand from the instrument, he finally turned to Bronte, seeing that he was standing near the doorway though did not yet clue in as to the younger male's strategic position. "I don't anymore," he finished bluntly, though without rudeness. Merely, his guarded tone that he knew he had to speak in. "You can go ahead if you want. If that's why you're here." Bellamy didn't want to stop him from it, even taking a small step away from the instrument to allow Bronte the space to approach it should he desire to. Instead, he focused on the former delinquent, wanting to ask how he was holding up, yet refrained from the question for right now. It was so much easier to focus on the others. It was so much easier to take care of them than himself.

[Bronte Pottinger]

Bronte could already feel the tension. While it was true that Bellamy made little outward sign against his desire to talk to Bronte, it was still discernible in the small quiver of breath that Bellamy took and this bodily direction when approached. Likewise, though, it was also true that Bellamy felt at least somewhat safe with Bronte as Bellamy didn't feel the need to turn around immediately when Bronte approached. That was the first step: establishing trust.

This was the easier of the steps, for Bronte at least, because he trusted Bellamy with everything that he had. Hell, he even trusted him with his life. He followed Bellamy diligently and understood him on a level (or at least he assumed he understood him) that was deeper than a simple delinquent looking for the next top-dog. That's what the Skybox did to you though, it made starkly clear society's desire for a strong leader. Bellamy filled that role and Bronte knew of its need.

"You really should take it up again. I bet you were great at it!" This wasn't Bronte blowing smoke up Bellamy's ass. It was a softball coping mechanism that Bronte wanted Bellamy to remember was available to him.

"I'm not sure that I know why I am here actually. Just to kind of be alone but not really alone. I guess." Bronte's voice was familiar and warm. He knew that sometimes that was the only reason why people spoke to him. His voice was deep enough not to be feminine and yet warm enough to be almost maternal in a sense.

"Will you play with me?" Normally Bronte would have coded this question with a sexual innuendo (and it certainly wasn't that Bronte didn't find Bellamy attractive) but this was more about getting Bellamy to remember that he wasn't alone. If they could share something, no matter how small, then perhaps Bellamy could see him as someone with whom sharing could be done.

Bronte slid himself onto the piano seat and down to the right-hand side of it. "You play low and I'll play high," Bronte invited as he patted the seat next to him. After situating his long legs, Bronte made a few runs of very common songs played on the Ark. HIs graceful fingers never fumbled with the keys, as he was taught better than to do so. These tunes were accompanied by a smile, a sweet and welcoming smile. Bronte's full lips and his light seafoam green eyes beckoned Bellamy forward.

Bellamy Blake

[Bellamy Blake]

Tag: Bronte Pottinger

whatever

THE HELL WE WANT

Bellamy almost offered a faint smile at Bronte's words, spoken with such confidence and sincerity. But alas, the expression was lost before it even formed. A smile was not exactly easy to come by. Bellamy continued to casually look at the former delinquent. He knew who Bronte was. And not only because he was among the 100 who had been sent on the dropship. He was well aware of the way the other delinquents would go to him as a person to talk to. A person who could give them comfort, ease, and peace of mind. They had needed that. With all the trauma that everyone had endured,

Bellamy was actually glad that there seemed to be someone, untainted, undefeated by all that Earth threw at them. Everyone was resilient, but it was revealed in different ways. Bellamy had heard from others and the way they spoke highly of him. A supportive figure for the others. The older male imagined that must have been an asset within Mount Weather as well, when everyone was trapped together. It gave Bellamy a deep respect for the male he was now in the presence of, though never articulated to him. Pulled from his thoughts by his question, Bellamy did not move. To allow himself to play the piano seemed . . . like a luxury he was undeserving of. Music did indeed soothe the soul. But Bellamy was undeserving of that peace. That serenity that could come from it.

So he didn't move. He didn't sit next to Bronte to play. He just watched him, listened . . . mesmerized by the melodic sound that filled the otherwise silent air and his skillful fingers as they effortlessly hit the each key on the piano to create the wonderful sound. Really, Bellamy shouldn't even be listening to it because it gave him almost an instant solace. He didn't deserve that. He had to live with what he had done and deserved the pain associated with it. Yet . . . he could not tear himself away from the soothing presence of Bronte and the sound he offered. His eyes remained fixated on the younger male . . . watching him, listening, absorbing every detail. The song was a familiar one, but not a melody that Bellamy would partake in. Just selfishly bask in. Only when he stopped, did Bellamy finally speak.

"You're good." An understatement, but words of praise and compliment that could be offered. "How long have you been playing for?" A safe question he supposed, as he barley leaned against the instrument, standing on the side of the vacant space on the stool that was designated for him. An apology for not accepting Bronte's offer seemed futile. His presence lingered, though still uncertain as to whether the younger Arker would rather be alone. "And if compose too, we could always use some new music around here," he encouraged, not quite kidding. There were a few talented musicians among them. As Bronte had pointed out earlier, music was definitely a great way to soothe one's soul. And people here needed that. They needed to find some fragment of peace, if only for a few moments.

[Bronte Pottinger]

"Thank you very much. My mother taught me as a child," Bronte's reply was sweet and attentive. He didn't want Bellamy to believe that he was there simply to play on the piano. He also didn't want Bellamy to think this time was all about Bronte. No, this was Bellamy's time. This was his chance to use Bronte as the kind and receptive ear that so many people seemed to enjoy doing. It was Bronte's one tangible skill and he wanted so desperately to be useful to the group. Likewise, he had a great respect for Bellamy and he wanted Bellamy to know that he could talk to Bronte if he wanted to.

"I will see what I can do about getting some people together who have played. You will join us won't you?" Again, quietly prodding and accepting. This was the trap. Bronte approached Bellamy in this way not out of any sort of manipulation, but rather because he knew men like him. He knew that Bellamy would luxuriate in the pain he felt. He knew that Bellamy would feel like he didn't deserve to heal. He had to be tricky with guys like Bellamy.

In fact, Bronte was about to do something that he wasn't sure about. He turned away from the computer, crossed his long legs at the knee and folded his hands in his lap. With a quick toss of his hair over his shoulder.

"Actually, Bellamy. I'm glad I found you here. I wanted you to know that you can talk to me. I know we haven't been close or anything, but everyone needs someone to talk to about their problems. After all you've seen and all that has happened to you, I just want you to know that I am here." This was the softball opening. What he wanted to do was scream at him for being so obdurate. He wanted to shake him and tell him that he deserved to be forgiven. He did what he had to do in order to save his people. No one could blame him for that. However, that would have to wait. Instead, he had to offer his services because a man like Bellamy would never outright ask for help. That did not mean, however, that when Bellamy inevitably refuses this conversation will be over. Oh no, this was just the beginning.

Bellamy Blake

[Bellamy Blake]

Tag: Bronte Pottinger

whatever

THE HELL WE WANT

Ther was something oddly refreshing about the way that Bronte spoke of his mother. A childhood memory, spoke without sadness or remorse. Instead, there was a lightness to it that was so incredibly seldom to hear when others spoke of their childhood. Refreshing. Yes. That was the best way Bellamy could describe it. He could see why others craved Bronte's company. His mere presence was enough to soothe's one soul, perhaps more than music allowed. He didn't dare ask more about it though, assuming that whatever Bronte felt comfortable with sharing, would be vocalized. Bellamy didn't often respond well to people overly prying into his own childhood -- excluding the innocently phrased and posed questions. He wouldn't do the same to another.

"I'll listen," he assured him. Rather than actively participate, he could at least assure his presence as one of the spectators and listeners. "I'm not much of a music man," he added on. It wasn't the same all encompassing essence of him as it was to others. Even watching Bronte play blatantly separated them. He then listened to the younger male's words regarding having found Bellamy, offering himself for the male Blake sibling to talk to. It touched Bellamy, truly honored him that the man would make such an offer. It was a gracious offer indeed. The sentiment hardly lost on him. But . . . it was not one he would take him up on. How could he be so selfish as to dump the burden of his actions onto others. No. He couldn't do that. I bare it so they don't have to. This was just one of the ways he would do that.

"Thanks," he said in response. Regardless of the simplicity of the word, it was thick with gratitude, the impact of what it meant to him reflected in his tone of voice for those who actually cared enough to really listen. "Likewise," he countered. Not because he felt obligated to . . . but because he knew the exhaustion of taking care of others, without having no outlet for yourself. Bellamy supposed that was what his co leader was for him. A support. An outlet. It made her leaving that much more hurtful. But he refused to let his mind settle on that right now. "You've done a lot for our people," Bellamy began to express, verbalizing his earlier thoughts about having recalled many instances of when the delinquents sought out Bronte.

"Just make sure you take care of yourself too." His concern was genuine. He loved each and every one of the delinquents especially. Where he may fail in taking care of them, he hoped they had other strong supports around them. Besides, as he often recognized, it as far easier to focus on the others than on himself. "That you have someone to talk to, and someone to listen. Just like you did for the others." He wanted the younger male to know that his actions never went unnoticed. Not by Bellamy, and certainly not by the other delinquents. "Speaking of which, how are you holding up?" He had to at least ask. He had to at least put the offer out there instead of just assuming that it was.