Chapter Text
With twenty-eight years and a half behind him, Bellamy Blake thinks there are very few things that could render him speechless.
Watching the feisty blonde turning on her heels – curls angrily bouncing around her shoulders as she storms away – is definitely not one of them. Her steps are short yet surprisingly quick, she’s heading in the direction of the arched double wings of the entrance.
The whole situation could be comical, even.
But then he feels the cold liquid finding its way through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him shiver.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
He hears the faltering clacking of her heels before the low murmur of the surrounding tables starts to pick up again.
Someone clears their throat, asking him politely, almost whispering, if he would like to still place an order for the kitchen or he’d rather settle the bill.
Slowly, very slowly, his mouth quirks up in a smile.
He swallows the remainder of his water and asks for the check. He’ll pick up some junk food around the corner.
The Odyssey, he thinks, and smiles all the way home and he holds onto that warm feeling until he falls asleep, forgetting completely about the stain on his shirt.
*** A couple hours earlier ***
"BELL, COME ONNN!!" Octavia's voice rings through the apartment, urging him on.
He's about to finish taming the unruly mop of hair on top of his head but there's that one stubborn curl which just keeps falling back to his forehead. It's not quite long enough to reach his eyes but it's long enough to tickle a strip of skin above his eyebrows over and over. It annoys him.
“Damn it,” he mutters when his eyes catch a glimpse of the small canister of honeybee texturising wax in the mirror's reflection. It's sitting oh so peacefully on the small mahogany shelf he’d installed himself above the towel rack before his flatmate moved out.
The wax is a leftover from the times Nathan Miller used to live here, occupying the other room (now designated guest room) down the hall. Miller had this uncanny ability to cramp the shelves with a variety of fair trade facial care products, some smelling like ripe summer fruits or Christmas; and Bellamy didn’t say a word, because Miller was a friend since he could count and an amazing flatmate. If his only addiction was to collect sweet smelling toiletries, anyone living with him could consider themselves damn lucky.
But anyway. They are still best friends and they still meet up for a couple of beers now and then, and Miller still texts him inappropriate memes at the most inappropriate times.
Honestly, it’s a true miracle it had taken Miller as long as it had, when a few months ago, he finally had gathered enough courage and asked his longtime boyfriend (now fiancé), Bryan, to move in together. Just the two of them. So Miller moved out, but there are still a few of his things scattered around the apartment. Like that blue gooey shaving gel that prickles his skin on contact, so Bellamy never uses it, or that box of fruity hair wax he’s eyeing, more and more determined as the clock is ticking away.
Well, Miller moved out about twelve months ago - just barely after The Pandallectomy - as Octavia likes to refer to the poorest choice in his entire dating history.
He’s known Echo from before by sight, she had been tagging along with a different group of people on trivia nights, and it’s not like he had been completely blind to her affections. That is, until one particularly hard night, haunted and still recovering from his bad break up with Gina, Echo and her exploring touches and sickeningly sweet smiles had not felt so intruding or so sickening anymore. (He knows why now, and Octavia has never blamed him, or has even been mad at him, though his sister had admittedly got carried away at the time, just like him. It’s a trait, not a curse, a rather powerful trait - which, if he didn’t know better he’d say, is something he has passed down to her.)
He and Echo had some fun, he supposes, regardless of the circumstances; but in hindsight, it lasted exactly ninety-one days beyond its expiry and ended in a near catastrophe.
That’s enough down the memory lane, he sighs and grabs for the wax. He couldn’t care less that it’s pineapple scent.
"The love guru is waiting, we cannot be late!" Octavia's shrill voice rings, more impatient.
"Who's this guy again?" he asks, wary, from behind the closed doors of the bathroom. "Wait, scratch that. What on Earth makes a guy open up a matchmaking business?"
"Bell, that's so not the point! Mister T is very popular in his field. You should feel very, very lucky we’ve got this appointment in the first place! HURRY UP!"
He chuckles, S o impatient . He can practically feel her energy radiating through the walls. His lips quirk up higher at the edges. The mental image of his sister stomping her feet in frustration, the way she used to stomp her feet as a three-year-old, is more than enough to dissolve some of the tension of his own.
Just as he's about to reach for the handle to step out, the bathroom door is yanked open.
“O! Don’t do that! You weren’t raised by the wolves.”
She stares at him, mouth agape. Her eyebrows twist into a crooked line.
"Oh my god. No. No way," she shakes her head, planting her tiny hands on his chest and at the same time pushing him backwards, forcing him to take a step back into the bathroom.
"O! What the hell? I'm ready to go," he knocks her hand gently away and instantly starts his assessment on the damage his sister's fingers have possibly done to his perfectly ironed shirt.
It took him ten minutes to smooth the wrinkles, but his sister has clearly forgotten about that, despite her never-ending grumbling about the fact. (Oh my god, Bell, you’re going to burn a hole in that thing! )
He's patting on the light fabric stretching over his chest - a dark grey cotton shirt - smoothing it gently in an effort to flatten the minuscule wrinkles away.
"It took me ten minutes to iron this shirt!" he stares pointedly at his sister.
Octavia's mouth quirks up in amusement, her eyes have taken up that odd sparkling demeanour she does on the occasions when she's holding back on a grin.
She's shaking her head slowly.
She takes a step away from him, drops her hands and tilts her head, assessing.
"Of course you did," she teases. "But ... I cannot let you out on the street, hopefully on a date, with that thing on your head," gesturing at his shiny, slicked back hair.
He sags.
Deep down, he knows she's right. It is slicked back – the way he used to wear it in his late teenage years. In his defence, the last girl he was involved with liked his hair all slicked back. Octavia hated said girl “friend” and respectively, hated and hates his hair like this.
Bad habits die hard.
***
Fourteen minutes later and they are on their way to the mysterious Mister T.
His hair looks still wet from the impromptu second shower when they get there, but he has to admit, O is good at this. She's good at fixing his mess.
He catches a glimpse of his own reflection in one of the big showcase windows they are passing by on the street and smiles. The Arkadian is full of these kinds of shops: floor to ceiling windows, minimalistic design otherwise, offering their expensive merchandise on display. Suits. Fedoras. Fancy faux leather bags with big designer logos.
Of course, Mister T's fancy office is located on one of these streets. He twists his mouth in disgust, but quickly recovers before O notices and asks. She is doing him a favour, after all. No matter that he doesn’t exactly feel like doing this right now, but yeah, he admittedly hates to be the centre of attention when it’s about his love life or lack thereof.
They are waiting at the red light, long enough that he dares to take another peek at himself. He allows a tiny nod taking in his reflection.
Artfully dishevelled, as O has put it. Yeah, she's good at fixing him.
And her fixing – possibly – probably – most likely got him a date tonight.
** *