Chapter Text
The heart is a metaphor.
Lexa sighs into her paperback copy of “A Skyscraper's Oath.” Really? This is the assigned reading for next term? Talk about cliché. The heart is no more than a machine, an elaborate engine that pumps blood around the body. Perhaps she should be majoring in anatomy for dummies, rather than English Lit.
Things were different, back at her old school. In more ways than one. They'd been reading the classics, Austen and Dickens, tales of woe and daring and... more woe.
Costia's favourite was Wuthering Heights, a story of vengeance, disguised as a 356 page love poem. She'd spend hours locked away in her, their room, reading until the sky bruised pink and blue, and Lexa's neck ached from staring up at her.
Watch a nebula for long enough, and it may turn into a star. Wish upon a supernova, and ashes will dust bare arms.
Maybe this was a mistake. Breaking up, moving away. Just because she wasn't in love with Costia, doesn't mean they weren't happy. She's cold coffee and off-key songs, not quite a perfect fit, but better than empty brick and white walls.
Her eyes were the wrong colour, Lexa tells herself. But she's been seeing in shades of grey for so long, she isn't sure what “right” looks like any more. Maybe it's not stupid metaphors, heart beating out of your chest when she kisses your cheek, breaking in two when she captures his lips. Perhaps it's just... stability.
God, what an awful word.
Stifling a yawn, Lexa turns back to the book. Her first official day of classes begins tomorrow, and she's loath to fall behind. But there's still unpacking to be done, and she can't forget to call-
Wait, is someone knocking on her door? As far as she can remember, Lexa didn't tell anyone which college she was transferring to, much less give them her dorm number.
“I'm coming,” she snaps, the sound of bone on wood echoing through her (mostly empty) space.
Could this be one of those “hey neighbour can I borrow a cup of sugar?” encounters? Lexa is pretty sure that kind of stuff only happens in movies, but maybe-
“Raven, you asshole, I'm gonna... Lexa?”
The world doesn't stop turning. Lexa's book sits on her rickety table, page folded over. The harsh overhead lights flicker once, twice, three times, before cloaking the dorm in darkness. Freshmen laugh and chatter in the distance, static from a show nobody's watching.
The world might not stop turning, but Lexa's does.
Clarke Griffin stands frozen in her doorway, a snapshot from three years ago. If at all possible, she somehow got hotter. And taller. For the first time in a long time, maybe too long, Lexa's heart hammers wildly in her ribcage.
“Clarke?”
The blonde, for her part, seems pretty unfazed by the chance encounter. Not that Lexa is surprised. Clarke is a “roll with the punches” kind of girl. Five years in the glass fish tank labelled 'high school' taught her that.
“All the colleges in all the world, and you just had to walk into mine.”
“Clarke, I think you were the one who-”
“Lexa, I'm kidding. I must have got the wrong dorm. Wow, you really haven't changed a bit, have you?”
If I were the same, some hapless teenager made of lilacs and violet, I'd beg you to stay, dream of merging the metaphors between our bones. But you made me strong, a tower of stone, and now all my petals have turned to dust.
“I guess not.”
Maybe Lexa should invite her in. That's not weird, right? Just two old friends catching up over drinks, awkwardly sharing details about the last three years of their lives.
“I should...” Clarke trails off, runs her hand through tangled hair. Lexa tries not to break character when her finger gets stuck in a knot, fights the urge to make some lame joke or laugh just like old times. This is not “old times.” She doesn't even really know Clarke, not any more.
But she's part of you, isn't she? All blood and root, six letters burned into the nape of your neck. You think in the shape of her mouth, could map the catacombs of her ribcage, better than your own. Don't try to hide it, your favourite colour is blue, not gold.
“Goodbye, Clarke.”
“Yeah, see you.” (When? Soon, tomorrow, next week? In another lifetime, perhaps? She doesn't specify.)
And though Lexa would never admit it, she doesn't stop watching until Clarke fades into the corridor, a blur of zip-up leather and washed out florals. It doesn't hurt half as much as the first time.
….......
When Lexa thought about high school, she pictured colourful punch and late-night parties, dreamed of finally understanding the lyrics to her favourite songs. They sang of two halves become whole, and I could only listen, to the beat of my lonely drum.
She never expected to spend her senior year in love, certainly didn't think that it would hurt quite so much. “I love you” is supposed to be sung at brunch and promised on side-walks, bleeding forever into paper cups.
It shouldn't be whispered to four walls, a sin beneath cotton covers. I want you like you want him, stuck in a cycle of chapped lips and self loathing, repeat until successfully broken.
That's why, when Clarke asks “Hey, have you signed up for any classes at UCL yet?” Lexa shakes her head, casts her gaze down to dirty tile.
“Actually, I think I need to start over,” she lies. “You know, new school, new state.”
In truth, she can't stand the idea of attending the same college as Clarke and Finn, becoming an ink stain in the story of their great love affair.
“Wait, what? Lexa, we've been planning this since we were kids. Start together, finish together, remember?” She clutches cold fingers, smile all cracked, but still warm like the sun. Lexa's chest aches too much to smile back.
“We're not kids any more, Clarke. I just... I don't want the same things that you do.” You want Paris and Berlin, pin-points on paper maps. The only universe I've ever found worth exploring is skin deep, city lights under your t-shirt.
“The same thing? It's a college degree, not a death sentence. Your second choice school isn't nearly as-”
“Close to you,” Lexa almost finishes. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but she's determined to prove an exception to the rule. Anything is better than standing on the sidelines, an extra in a rom-com she isn't part of.
“California is just the same as any other university in the country.” (Three thousand miles of open road, but we'll still be looking up at the same moon.)
“Lexa, come on, you can't be serious about this. We're going to share a dorm room, help each other figure out our majors.” More than anything, Clarke just sounds confused. How could she ever understand, what it's like to crave someone you can never have?
“I have to go,” Lexa mutters darkly, thankful for the absence of street lights. Don't let her see the canvas on your face, a mask of watery paint.
She runs all the way home, trying to fall out of love with the sound of Clarke's voice, hold her own hand for a damned change. No amount of Taylor Swift or Hagen Daz will fix the crack in Lexa's chassis, but maybe the classic “break up routine” will make her feel less alone.
Not that this is a breakup, of course. They weren't girlfriends, nor lovers, constellations who weave the fabric of time in order to be together. (But god, how I wish we were.)
….......
English class goes... okay. Lexa struggles to keep up, namely because she still hasn't read the stupid book. She couldn't make it past the first page, too much prose for her taste. It may as well have been penned by an angsty fifteen year old, not unlike her former self.
When the professor calls on her to answer a question regarding “key themes,” the girl beside her (Olivia? Octavia?) is nice enough to angle her notebook, so Lexa can skim over the small print notes.
“Thanks,” she whispers, when Indra moves on to question someone else.
“It's cool. But, uh, Indra can be kind of strict sometimes. You might want to think about reading the first few chapters before our next class.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
She doesn't expect to see Clarke again. For starters, the campus is so big that Lexa somehow managed to get lost three times on her way to the cafeteria. And it's not like they'd be taking any of the same classes.
Clarke is probably majoring in fine art or photography, minoring in great hair and nice skin. It's been so long, yet I still remember your love of tone and shade, the look on your face when we went to the beach to sketch turquoise waves.
Lexa certainly doesn't plan on walking into Biology 101, only to find her childhood crush sitting in the front row. What's more, the only available seat is to the left of Clarke.
“I guess the fates are pretty determined we should talk, huh Lexa?” the blonde jokes, as she slides into place beside her.
This time, Lexa laughs. “It seems that way.” They're silent after that, thighs brushing underneath the ceramic worktop.
Lexa tries to concentrate on the “safety protocol” lecture, but ends up staring at the doodle on Clarke's wrist, the inky masterpiece that makes Van Gogh look like an amateur artist. Clearly, her former best friend hasn't changed all that much.
(If that's really the case, why is she studying pentadactyl limbs, instead of turning dust into dreams, with only the tools in her pencil case?)
Lexa decides to ask her.
“Why are you here, Clarke?” The words come out a little harsher than she'd meant, charcoal between pointed teeth.
“Well, uh...” Clarke even wears uncertainty well, blushing bronze instead of red. “Finn and I broke up before college started. A few weeks after you left, actually.” She looks up from the invisible tapestry between her thighs, land meet sea. (Blue kissed green.)
“I suppose... I just wanted a fresh start.”
“Me too,” Lexa says, just quietly enough to feel like a secret. “But I kind of meant “what are you doing here?” as in this room, this class?”
“Oh.” She freezes for a second, almost like she's asking the question to herself. “I'm planning on becoming a doctor.” Something flickers across Clarke's face, shadows in a light room. Uncertainty, maybe?
Lexa has only ever known her as a small town girl with paint in her veins, skyline resting between shoulder blades. Sure, she's always an expressed a desire to help people, but... It's none of my business.
“That's wonderful, Clarke.”
She smiles in response, the kind of grin that would make a lesser girl go weak at the knees. “So what are you doing here?”
“Here as in-”
“Both.”
Lexa pauses, unsure how much of the past three years she's willing to spill. “I broke up with someone too,” she says, unable to add “her name was Costia.”
“And I heard this college has a good English programme. That's my major. Biology is just... a back up option.”
“That's wonderful, Lexa,” Clarke mimics, smile turned smirk. Lexa nudges her under the table, tries to remember that Rome wasn't built in a day, that happiness comes at a price.
But then Clarke nudges back, fireworks on denim, and her train of thought crashes into the nearest bridge. My heart isn't a metaphor, just a cut out shape, and I don't know how much longer this body can contain my brain.
For the first time, she glances at the clock on the wall, notices the huddle of students stampeding out of the door. “I have another class in five minutes,” Lexa blurts, breaking whatever spell she's under.
“That's cool. But I was thinking, maybe we can be lab partners?” Clarke offers, packing books into her own bag.
And because Lexa is new here and her dorm doesn't quite smell like home, the weight of Clarke's arm on her shoulder makes it a little too hard to say no.
“I'd like that.”
“Then it's a date,” Clarke beams, already lost to the chaos of the hallway.
All Lexa can think is: if people were natural disasters, she'd be the tidal wave to bring the Earth to it's knees, only flowers left to grieve. (Hurricane's got nothing on me.)
She walks to English in silence, tries not to smile at walls and windows, faces she doesn't know.(But I'm picturing you, freeze frame behind my eyelids, a crumpled polaroid.)
When she fails, Lexa can't bring herself to mind at all.
“Okay so, uh, not to scare you or anything, but my friends can be kind of... intense?”
They're standing outside Clarke's dorm, after the blonde spent the better part of ten minutes convincing her to “hang out” with Raven and Octavia. “To celebrate our new lab partnership,” she'd said, fingers clasped in faux prayer. Lexa reluctantly agreed.
It's been a long time since she hung out with anyone, minus the litre bottle of wine in her mini fridge. Is “hello” still the standard greeting for communicating with peers? Should she adopt the more informal “hey,” perhaps accompanied by a high five?
(Okay, maybe it hasn't been that long.)
“I think I'll be fine,” she says, more for her own sake than Clarke's. “Besides, I already kind of know Octavia.”
“Sure you don't need me to hold your hand?” Clarke teases, pointedly staring at Lexa's clenched fists.
“No, I-”
“I can hear you two whispering in the hallway,” Octavia calls, right on cue. Speak of the devil and he doth appear. “Get in here, before Raven eats all of the sour patch kids.”
Her comment is followed by muffled groaning, which she suspects is the product of either murder or making out. “Should we, um-”
Clarke opens the door with her right hand, tugs on Lexa's wrist with her left. I in black, you in blue, we'd make the picture perfect bruise.
“Ugh, you guys are so gross,” she greets, surrendering her grip on Lexa's arm to aim a throw pillow at the pair. Raven (or, at least, the girl who Lexa can only assume to be Raven), flips her off, but manages to disentangle herself from Octavia.
She's all dark hair and jagged edges, but her eyes seem friendly enough. And I liked you because she did, wonder when the lines began to blur, when what was once mine became “hers."
“You must be Lexa, right? Clarke's told me an awful lot about you.” Raven winks, and Clarke hurries to change the subject.
“I rented a movie,” she blurts, brandishing a copy of Pitch Perfect.
“People still do that?” Octavia asks, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Ever heard of Netflix?”
“Shut up, O,” Clarke retorts, elbowing her friend in the ribs. “It'll be fun.”
Lexa isn't sure that they have the same definition of the word “fun,” but she flops down on the sofa regardless, trying to keep a respectable distance between herself and Clarke. Her (former best friend? New friend?) has always been very... tactile.
Which is totally fine of course, except her seventeen year old self is probably locked up behind a cage of glass, and one more fragile touch may break her in half.
Count the candles on your birthday cake, wonder if all the past will wash away. (Is my heart still a child's, my liver a teen's? Tell me, will I still want you at twenty three?)
“I brought popcorn,” she offers, combing through her bag for assorted movie snacks.
“I like her already,” Raven mutters to Clarke, and though Lexa has never cared much for fitting in, never really understood how party invitations equal self esteem, she still smiles a little bit.
“Salted or sweet?”
Halfway through the third movie of the night, Raven and Octavia not-so-subtly “get too tired to stay up,” and head back to their apartment. Lexa considers leaving, figures that Clarke probably wants to retire to her bedroom, too.
She even gets as far as “I should go and-” before Clarke cuts her off.
“No! I mean, you don't have to. I was going to put some music on, this film kinda sucks.”
She's right, it does suck. “The 100” is some artsy post-apocalyptic drama, too far-fetched to make for good quality television. “I guess it's not too late. I can stay a while longer.”
For some reason, Clarke is thrilled by the news, look on her face like she just saw her first sunset, witnessed a garden in bloom. “Cool. I'll, uh, I'll go and get my iPod.”
Do you remember the taste of my lips that night// I stole a bit of my mother's perfume?
“Wait, you like Halsey?” Lexa is beginning to realise that she has a lot to learn about Clarke Griffin, and maybe she won't be as easy to dissect as the frog from yesterday's Biology class. You got a chest full of secrets, wish I was part of your treasure trove.
Clarke calls out from the kitchen, raising her voice to be heard over the clattering of pots and pans. “Dude, when I had ten cents to my name I still pre-ordered Badlands. Totally worth it.”
Cause we'll be looking for sunlight// Or the headlights// Till our wide eyes burn blind
She resumes her place beside Lexa, two glasses in hand. Her eyes shine under the low budget lights, an entire galaxy behind her retinas. “I'm glad we met,” she murmurs, and Lexa wonders if she's talking about the first or the second time. Does it matter?
“Me too.” Was Clarke supposed to show up at her door that night, remind her what it feels like to be young and reckless all over again? Lexa certainly isn't used to staying up this late on random Tuesday nights in September; her decaf high usually ends before 10pm.
Is this my reckoning, the chance to make amends? Is this my punishment, for a time when I wanted more than just friends?
Could you imagine the taste of your lips if we never tried to kiss on the drive to Queens?// Cause I imagine the weight of your ribs if you lied between my hips in the backseat
“You really mean that?” Clarke asks, and Lexa gets the feeling that there's a lot more to her question than she wants to admit.
….......
“Hey, Lex, would you rather be a dragon or keep a dragon as a pet?”
Clarke's random interrogation would be easier to understand if she were indeed drunk or high, but Lexa is fairly certain that “sleepover exhaustion” is not a valid form of substance abuse.
“Keep a dragon as a pet.” Who would be crazy enough to trade curves for claws, long hair for pointed teeth? She's fourteen years old, and make-up is more than just war-paint.
Ask me at age eighteen , and you won't get the same answer. How would I fight fire, without smoke billowing from my lungs? How could I resist the urge to kiss you, without steel for bones?
“What about you?”
“I don't know. I mean, on one hand, scales are totally cool. Plus, I'd be able to fly, and who doesn't want to see the world from cloud level?”
“But...”
“It'd be pretty lonely. You know, hypothetically speaking, I'd be the only dragon in the whole world.” Lexa frowns. She doesn't like the sound of those words in that order.
“In that case, I change my answer.”
“Really? You'd do that for me?”
She isn't sure whether they're playing the game any more. “You should never have to feel lonely, Clarke.” Everybody's looking for someone, but stars were never meant to be Earth-bound.
Their fingers meet under the bedsheets, lock in an iron grip. Lexa doesn't know it yet, but she's falling just a little in love.
….......
Feet first, don't fall// Or we'll be running again// Keep close, stand tall
“I do.” I really, really do.
The next few weeks of term pass by in a blur of early starts and sixty three page assignments, set to the tune of Clarke's bad science puns. See: “Are you my sinoatrial node? Because you're making my heart beat,” and “what do you call a stable friendship? Homie-ostasis.”
(Lexa may or may not have laughed at the last one).
She even manages to make it through the first few chapters of “A Skyscrapers Oath,” which seems to feature around some big-shot city lawyer, who rekindles an old romance with her highschool crush. The writer is no Dickens, but it's not as bad as she first thought.
“-all I could think about was the weight of the sky and the colour of the sea, and how they didn't mean a damned thing, not when he was laying right next to me.
You've got religion in the palm of your hand, and I'm just the fool praying to God that you won't leave.”
Okay, maybe it deserves a little more credit than “not bad.”
“Lexa, can I ask you something?” They're sitting cross-legged on Lexa's bed, currently working through the chapter of their textbook entitled “Genetics and Epidemiology.”
“You can talk to me about anything, Clarke.”
“Uh, thanks.” She clears her throat, traces patterns into Lexa's purple sheet. I'm shattering like glass, you're painting clouds upon my ceiling. (It feels like I'm in paradise, but somehow I'm not breathing.)
“So there's this art competition. It's no big deal, not really, except the winner gets their work showcased in a local gallery...”
Lexa tries to stay neutral, though she longs to give Clarke a hug, whisper “I'm proud of you” like they're still thirteen years old. (She hasn't even had a chance to put pencil to paper, but I'm already mapping her success in gold.)
“- and an internship.” She bites her lip, presumably wondering what to say next. “Which would be great and all, but it coincides with my degree, and how would I even begin to tell my mom that I'm not totally into the idea of-”
“You should do it,” Lexa murmurs, already sold on a few syllables. Cause you were born to be a supernova, don't get stuck as a white dwarf.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Lets be real here, there's no way I can actually make it as an artist.”
“Why not?” The blonde stares at her like she's gone mad, but Lexa remains undeterred. “You're good, Clarke, really good. I see your drawings in the margin of your notebook, scribbled on scraps of paper... you're better than you think.”
Silence falls over the room, and Lexa can't tell where her breathing ends and Clarke's begins. Would that they were one.
“Just be honest with your mom. Maybe make her dinner first.” The comment is supposed to be light-hearted, but like all machines, her double pump runs out of steam. Not a metaphor, or even a simile, a story without any punctuation.
“Thank you.” The words are soft, catching; making a home on unholy ground. I'll carve you out of my chest, got no room for anything but the emptiness.
“I was just telling the truth.”
Clarke stares down at her knuckles, probably sees 'starry night' reflected back.“Come with me. To dinner, I mean. My mom loved you when we were kids, she'll be thrilled that we reconnected.”
Lexa tries to refuse, mutters something about this being a “family affair.” Not that she dislikes Ms Gri, Abby or anything, but she'd rather not open the door to her past, all wonky eyeliner and ripped jeans.
“You're family, too,” Clarke says, turning back to the textbook, and oh, okay, maybe Lexa is more screwed that she's ready to admit.
“I'm free this weekend?”
When Clarke pulls her into a hug, arms wrapped around Lexa's waist, she does her best not to inhale. She smells like coconut and fresh coffee, broken prose you'll never read.
(But maybe I can scan the pages.)
They listen to the radio on the drive upstate, “Young God” filling the space between their seats.
She says, “Oh, baby girl, you know we're gonna be legends// I'm the queen and you're the queen and we will stumble through heaven”
“This is my favourite song,” Clarke says casually, like it doesn't matter, like Lexa won't care. But she does. She wants all of her favourites, old and new, wants second, third, fourth times if she can't have firsts.
The last time they had this conversation, it was 2011, and Clarke's favourite song had been “America's Suitehearts” for the better part of two years.
But do you feel like a young God?// You know the two of us are just young gods// And we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath// And they're running, running, running
That's not the only thing that's changed since then.
….......
Lexa has never cared much for school dances. Too much standing on the sidelines, making awkward small talk in too-big clothes. What's the appeal of spinning in circles, dancing with gap-toothed boys to a song she's never heard before?
It all seems very “teen movie,” cheesy speeches followed by not-so-fruit punch.
But when Clarke says “Will you come to prom with me?” her heart stutters and stammers, rattles it's bone cage for the third time this week. The word “no” doesn't even enter her head.
“I thought you'd be going with Finn,” Lexa murmurs, trying to still shaking hands, calm the storm under her skin.
“You're more important,” Clarke shrugs, presenting matching corsages. When she fastens the flower around her wrist, sparks fly where finger meets pulse, butterfly wings come undone.
“See? It's a perfect fit.”
Lexa stares just a little too long, notices that their lips are mere inches away. With just the flick of a brush, a single pencil stroke...
“I'd love to,” she blurts, stepping away from the other girl.
Because I never liked the smell of smoke, ash clouding my throat, hot to the touch. Until I met her, all orange and yellow, a watercolour of my dismay. Maybe if I'm lucky, she'll set us both aflame.
I love a girl with thousand degree burns, and all the world is black and white (apart from her.)
….......
“- like “here mom, here's some burnt goo, how do you feel about me applying for an art internship and dropping out of my last year of college?”
Lexa snaps back to reality, only catching the last half of Clarke's sentence. “... totally,” she mumbles, hoping her friend won't notice any different.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Pasta, Lexa. How do I make pasta?” (She may be many things, but “culinary mastermind” isn't one of them.)
“Okay, so first you boil the water and-”
“Boil the water? You know what, write it down for me.”
Clarke crinkles her nose as she spits “boil,” as though Lexa is rambling about mermaids and goblins, life on other planets. “Cute” is not a term she'd usually use, but Lexa figures that she can make an exception. Just this once, just for Clarke.
There's a light in the crack that's separating your thighs// And if you wanna go to heaven you should fuck me tonight
“I didn't know you could cook, Clarke,” Abby remarks, meeting her daughter's gaze across the dining table.
Lexa almost chokes on her store bought spaghetti, which she had hastily purchased after Clarke's first attempt was so “al dente” it threatened to pose serious dental implications. (She's still got sauce on her shirt from the aftermath of that comment.)
The blonde clears her throat, glaring at Lexa through her raised glass. “Yeah. I guess it's, uh, something I picked up this semester. Not without Lexa's help, of course.”
“Oh, I don't know about that. Clarke makes a mean Filet Mignon. You should try it some time.” If looks could kill, Lexa is fairly certain she'd be tonight's main course, served up with cold fries and stale bread.
Abby nods, twirling pasta round her fork. “I'll have to hold her to that.”
A lull falls over the room, all muffled chewing and tapping feet. She finds herself wondering how many dates Clarke has brought home to meet her mother, how many “Finns” she's kissed at the back door, gloved fingers cupping her face.
Something twists in Lexa's gut, but she pulls out the thorn before it can make roots. I'll take solace in the fact that I'm the only one who stayed, even if you don't want me that way.
“So Lexa, do you have any plans for after graduation? I know Clarke is headed off to medical school...”
She opens her mouth to answer the question, mutter something non-committal about “working on her writing.” But then Clarke interjects. “Actually mom, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“...I don't want to be a doctor.” And there it is, the truth that Lexa has known since she first sat beside Clarke in biology, the way her smile splintered at the edges, sketches spilling over the lines in her notebook.
“There's this art competition; I'm talking once in a lifetime kind of opportunity. And maybe before I wouldn't have considered it, but I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't at least try-”
Abby purses her lips, silver scratching china. “We've been over this before, Clarke. Drawing is a hobby, not a career. If your father were here...”
“Dad would want me to be happy. Why don't you want the same thing?” She's part fire, part glass, about ten seconds away from blowing up or burning out.
Lexa reaches for her hand under the table, extinguishing Clarke's flames, but fanning her own. She tries not to think about the sky and sea, snippets from books that will never be. (Dumb metaphors be damned, this haribo jelly is beating out of my chest.)
“Of course I want you to be happy, but that's really not the point. What about financial stability, medical insurance? Do you expect to pay the bills with paint?”
“Basically, yeah. That's kind of how the whole “I'm an artist” thing works.”
Abby sighs into her water. “Lexa, I think maybe you should go.” She stands up to leave, but Clarke tugs her back down, nails digging into skin.
“There's nothing you can say to me that you can't say in front of her.”There it is again, a chorus of “maybe she does” and “perhaps we do.” She's tired of being forever fifteen, eyes averted in the locker room, confessions not quite whispered against collarbones.
“All I'm saying is that you should give this some more thought. I don't want you to do anything hasty, anything you'll regret.”
“I've wanted this since I was six years old,” Clarke says, and she sounds sad, small, like if it wasn't for Lexa's grip she'd fade into the walls.
“It's true,” Lexa adds, even though this isn't her battle to fight, war to be won. “Clarke was born to be an artist.” The phrase is cheesy, overused; at least seven different kinds of cliché. Claiming anyone was “born” to do anything than live, breathe, and die is territory she usually avoids, but for the second time today she finds herself making an exception. Just for Clarke.
Abby sighs again, boring holes into her cold spaghetti. “I need some time to think about... all of this.”
“I get that. We should head home, anyway.”
Clarke embraces her mom on the way out, but it's stiff and uncomfortable, like two relatives who haven't seen each other for a long time, forced to exchange Christmas gifts of chocolate and soap. Nothing quite says “are we half cousins on my mother's side?” like bath products and caramel creams.
“Thank you,” Clarke mumbles, once they're out of earshot, back in the safety of their metal box. “For coming with me. You didn't have to do that.” Lexa wishes to god she'd stop being so damned grateful, turning her snow-globe heart on it's head.
“I wanted to.”
They hold hands all the way home, and she can't help but be disappointed, when they reach their destination and return to separate dorms. If only you were mine and I was yours.