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The second tattoo covers his left pectoral: black lines twisting and expanding in every direction like some sort of weird flower or octopus with too many legs. It looks awesome, even though he’s not quite sure what it’s supposed to be. The tattoo is still a little tender, the skin swollen and angry red around its edges, Emori finished t only a few hours back.
Murphy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor while Emori leans back on their bed, arm extended across it and hand resting on top of an upturned crate they use as bedside table.
Murphy holds the needle against her wrist. The line looks wonky and terrible. She hasn’t fidgeted at all during the whole three hours it has taken him to put that terrible bracelet on her. Her voice hasn’t hitched while they joked and talked.
It’s been nearly a month since he started working at the kitchens and his failed attempt at running away. Things are not completely back to normal yet, but Murphy can feel them getting there.
"It is done," he announces and she lets go of the crate to take a closer look at it.
"I love it."
"Don’t lie. It looks terrible."
"Yes. It does," Emori pecks him on the corner of his mouth.- I still love it.
He laughs, burying his face in the crook of her neck. The fingers of her good hand tangling in his hair and pulling a little like she knows he likes. He doesn’t shudder anymore when she plays with his hair. That’s progress, or so does the arkadian doctor he’s forced to talk to every week tell him. He’ll need just a few more years, and he’ll be a normal human being again. Or as normal as he ever was, anyway. The doctor says baby-steps are the way for things to go. Murphy wants things to hurry up already so he can stop risking Emori getting tired of waiting around for him to please her as he did before.
Emori drags his head up for a kiss, scorching and demanding. The angle is weird since he’s kneeling on the floor and she’s still half laying on their bed.
She presses herself up into him, and he freezes for a moment too long. Of course, she notices. Emori steps away, checking her tattoo, rubbing the ink with his other hand. He wants to hold her, to tell her he’s getting there. Take her and do what she wants him to and to hell with it.
"Hey asshole!" they both start when Matthew pushes his head into their tent, eyes going wide at the sight of them. Murphy’s not sure if it’s because of Emori’s hand or his scar covered torso. The boy clears his throat and croaks- Briefing in the kitchens.
"I’m coming."
Matthew nods and hurries away. Murphy feels like a coward when he steps out of their tent.
Murphy avoids talking to Emori the next few days. Well, it’s not so much avoidance as it is a lack of time. Skaikru is hosting this years’ “Color Festival,” which means they’re going to have to feed to a lot of people. Lola, the kitchen’s leader, is in a perpetual state of freak-out. She has her minions constantly running around fixing stuff and baking. For reasons unknown Murphy’s named the official “oven specialist.” He’s in charge of making sure there are enough pies and cakes – and he even cookies, because now that he has a brand new makeshift oven he’s going to use it as much as humanly possible- for everyone. They’re trying to out-bake the kitchens in Arkadia, which is not difficult. Murphy has tasted the food the arkadians do. It’s even worse than the one the canteen at Droptwo used to be before he came around with his bag of spices.
By the time the Festival arrives the usually stuffy kitchens are full of prepared food, plates towering high and everyone’s nerves are worn thin. They drag tables into Arkadia’s main square, pilling the food as nicely as possible under the watchful eye of the guard. On the other side of the square the food-table of the Arkadians looks frankly terrible. The group is feeling pretty smug when people start appearing around noon.
It’s weird seing the grounders dressed in white shirts and shifts, an array of small pouches full of colorful powder hanging from their belts. They smile as they take the food and sometimes trade a small bag for a pie. The center of the square is full of writhing bodies, pounding fists in the air at the rhythmic sound of a band of drummers and fiddlers standing to the side. From their vantage point at the food table, they can see the clouds of color exploding all around the group. Everyone – grounders and skaikru – are laughing and fooling around. After three hours Matthew’s face is covered in colorful imprints of lips from all the girls and boys that have traded giggling kisses for food. On Murphy’s other side, Andrea has her share of kisses and fingerprints all over her face, neck, and hair – the dark arkadian garb hiding but the brightest of colors there. Murphy’s the one with the least color on him, and he’s perfectly ok with that. Murphy has gotten a few kisses on the cheek from Octavia, Miller and even an overly drunk Jasper. He’s sure he has a giant paw imprint on his back where Lincoln enthusiastically patted him with an orange hand.
A giant grounder smiles from across the table at Murphy.
"I hear you are the skaikru best bakers," he barks loudly and a huge blue-green-orange hand falls on his shoulder, leaving a smear on his dark jacket. "I commend you. These" he raises a plate in demonstration, "are amazing."
Murphy can’t help but feel smug about that.
Emori finds him when the sun is starting to set. She’s dressed in a long white shift and already splattered in a rainbow of different colors. Her cheeks bright red from the moonshine she’s already had. She offers him a metal coup and her fingers are warm against his.
"I had never been to a Color Festival before!" she shouts in his ear over the pounding of music and the loud voices of hundreds of people. "This is amazing!"
Murphy watches her jump around the crowd, not a worry in the world, slapping fists-full of orange and red powder in the air. Her laugh is shrill and carefree, eyes fever-bright. She might not be the best warrior, or the tallest or the strongest. But with her hair flying wildly around her and a splitting smile on her face, she’s the most beautiful person he has ever seen. Pushing his weariness away, Murphy downs the moonshine cup and steps into the fray.
Not five minutes later he’s positively drenched in color, dragged around a current of electrified dancing and music. After his third cup of awful moonshine he’s giddy. When Emori kisses him, he drags her against his body, feeling her solid, strong and there.
She moans into his mouth, pressing herself firmly against him and he knows what she wants.
They leave the party shortly after, tripping over themselves, more than slightly drunk. Emori’s eyes are fever-bright and she has lost her glove somewhere in the fray. He doesn’t care, he loves that misshaped hand. And when she drags his shirt off and leaves a bright blue imprint on top of his new tattoo with her bad hand, he’s sure his heart will explode.
His hands are clumsy when he pulls her shift off and she grabs his wrists, looking him deeply in the eye for a whole minute.
"Are you sure you’re okay with this?" she asks very softly.
Murphy gives a half shrug.
Sex was never anything he gave much thought to. On the Ark he had done as the other boys did: tease the girls and try not to look too awkward doing it, never really understanding what exactly he was implying and not caring. None of the girls was ever interested, which was a huge relief. After he was arrested, some nights he could hear Miller taking care of himself as quietly as possible. When they landed on earth, he could walk away whenever the sex talks started without it looking like he was running away. Murphy had a very general idea about how sex worked, but he never found anyone he really wanted to do it with, so he guessed it would be smarter to avoid the matter entirely or risk looking like a prude.
Then he found Emori, who was genuinely interested in him. And it’s not like he wasn’t interested in her. He liked her and wanted to have her around all the time. He wanted to cuddle and make her laugh and see that pleased gleam she sometimes got.
But that whole sex thing he didn’t know how to handle, he didn’t understand that drive that everyone seemed to have. Of course, Emori noticed. That conversation was painfully ridiculous and uncomfortable. But she didn’t push for more, she went at his pace and taught him ways of making it fun.
Murphy didn't develop a sex drive overnight. It was something he could perfectly live without. There were things he liked about the whole thing: the satisfying arch of her back, the feeling of her fingers tangled in his hair, the way her mouth opened without a sound and her eyes turned black. How she whispered "I love you" in trig.
And then Ontari ruined it. Murphy is tired of Ontari’s shadow ruining his life. It’s been two months since he came back and maybe it’s the moonshine rushing around in his veins, or maybe it’s the way Emori looks in the firelight.
She has waited for him. And he is tired of making her wait. This is probably the closest he’ll be to wanting to do this again.
Murphy takes her head in his hands and kisses her, dragging a soft moan from her throat. She presses herself against him, her hands shy around his back.
"I am perfectly sure about this," he whispers and she’s the one to drag him to the bed, while enthusiastically licking into his mouth, her hands bolder now.
He falls back, dragging her with him and it takes a moment for them to get into it like they used to. But they manage and it’s not like everything is as it was, but he knows they’ll get there.