He sneezed. Brett cannot help but look up at the sky person for the eleventh time in the past hour. The ship fell from the sky like a comet, but this one with people. Do people live on stars? He thought stars were people they lost, but perhaps they are more than that.
The grounder watches his guest with caution, an axe balancing by the handle in his palm. He has been watching them, watching him, this man who appears to lead the skylings, this man who sheds his bravado once he is alone, but picks it up once it is time to go back. The man with a tiny axe who has no idea what to do with an aggressive panther.
The man speaks, and Brett rests the axe on his lap like a small sleeping animal. The moment of change flickers over that freckled face, and Brett wonders what is going on in his head. His curiosity bleeds all over the floor and even his blind Greini can see the spark in sky blue eyes. She huffs, making her quiet presence known to both of them, her head tilted towards her grandson with a mouthed word. Talk.
Brett considers his options. He shouldn’t expose his location to a stranger, but then he already did the most idiotic thing one could do. All is left is damage control right now. Gonasleng has always come reluctant on his tongue, but he tries. Nothing comes out. He opens his mouth as though contemplating again, but a frown squeezed out the light.
He gets up, his bulk blocking the candle light for a moment, casting a long shadow over to the other side of the room. The silver-haired elder begins to hum, muttering something beneath her breath, something sly and silken. Something that ignites a defensive spark in the young one. Brett picks up a wide oval container which is filled with water, and he grabs the cloth that looks the cleanest from the wall.
Then he settles on the floor next to the man, quiet eyes looking straight at him, unafraid and enquiring. Tentatively, he reaches for the stingy patch, trying to catch it by the peeling corner. He doesn’t move further until he gets some sort of permission though.
His own axe in unfamiliar hands demands his attention but his eyes continue to sweep the room. Focus not lingering for more than a few moments on each foreign bauble and instrument. Stalks of grasses and flowers parceled together hang upside down from the ceiling, furs with patterns he couldn’t have fathomed draped across hand made wooden furniture, so many textures and patterns and smells in one small, dimly lit room and Bellamy can’t help his overwhelming curiosity for it all.
A sigh from the corner of the room has the sky boy snapping back to the gravity of his situation, but his held breath filters out gently when he sources the murmur to the elderly woman sitting at a low table. He silently chides himself for writing this granny off as a non-threat, reminds himself that he doesn’t know these people, doesn’t know their intentions, and most of all- brown eyes slide suspiciously back to the young grounder- why this man saved him. If perhaps he wants something in return. A small laugh bubbles and dies in Bellamy’s throat, there’s nothing he has to give. Nothing but my life, He thinks distantly, not much value there.
The blond opens his mouth as if to respond, but decides against it. Bellamy frowns, acknowledging the entirely probable possibility that these folk do not speak his tongue.
“Fuck..” he whispers lowly to himself, one hand sweeping his bangs from his face and the other reaching to tentatively touch at his aching side, trying to feel out the expanse of the wound. He can’t remember anything but red red red. Brimming through his shirt and running down his wrist. It’s difficult to approximate with all of the sharply pungent foliage they’d packed into and around it. Bellamy finds himself sniffling, fighting congestion at the onslaught of wet spice on his senses. Vaguely he wonders if this is on purpose, if the grounder hadn’t saved him at all, if he’s just prolonging his life for some kind of ritualistic-
The tall earth boy stands, effectively distracting Bellamy from his line of ridiculous speculation and turning his attention on the quickly closing distance between them. Bellamy’s head screams at him to move, but his body whimpers in protest at the slightest attempt to get up. His legs don’t respond immediately and he fumbles in his movements, ending up doing nothing more than scooting himself back against the wall.
Bellamy bites down a grunt of pain his side rewards him with for his unproductive shifting of position, a shiver of useless adrenaline running up his spine when the grounder sits before him. Bellamy holds those calm blue eyes with his own steely gaze, some act of defiance in his mind (like he hadn’t just cornered himself against the wall). He can make out only the lines of the boy’s features in this shadowing, but not the finer details.
The grounder reaches out and Bellamy flinches, muscles going rigid and pulse bounding. Bellamy spares a glance down, sees the man’s fingers snag some raised corner of the muddy patch and still there. When Bellamy looks back up to meet those light eyes, there’s something in them. A reflection of his own buried curiosity, and a question.
Bellamy thinks he understands, and figuring that he hasn’t anything to lose, braces himself for that tug with a clenched jaw and a slight nod.
