Work Text:
After the clapping dies down, there’s an awkward beat of silence. Then the familiar first notes of that Enrique Iglesias song come on, the one that’s been everywhere for months now, and Bellamy feels Clarke nudging him toward the center of the room. He tries to lean down and whisper “What are you doing?” to her but he doesn’t even get past the first word. The stupid plastic crown on his head slips down into his eyes and distracts him.
And then somehow Clarke’s dragged him to an empty bit of tile, her hands on his shoulders, his hands at her waist, and they’re swaying back and forth while their classmates stare.
He doesn’t really know how to dance, but neither does she. This whole thing would be painfully embarrassing if he were here with anyone else.
With Clarke, it’s just a little bit weird, and even then, only because everyone’s watching them.
“So,” she says, “how does it feel to be king?”
If she weren’t wearing a cheap crown too, he’d think she was making fun of him. But her fingers are sliding up through the curls at the back of his neck, and this dance-swaying thing isn’t so bad, really, now that he’s got the hang of it, so he just says, “I think you should be asking me what it feels like to be your hero.” Then he leans in a little closer and sings along, so only Clarke can hear: “You can take my breath away…”
Bellamy’s not sure if he’s trying to be funny or romantic or a bit of both, but when Clarke leans up and kisses him, he decides it doesn’t really matter. He barely even notices the other couples moving onto the dance floor around them. He’s only thinking about her.