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Age 10
Wells Jaha stands apart from the group of children, watching them run and play. He doesn’t join them. He can’t. It would not behoove him and his station.
Also, most of the other kids don't like it when a ten-year-old uses words like "behoove".
“I wish you would join them,” says a voice from his left, and Wells jumps as he turns to see Clarke standing beside him.
“You know I can’t,” he says. “My father…”
“Your father wouldn’t mind,” Clarke says. “He’d want you to be happy.”
It’s an argument they’ve had many times -- or not an argument, per se, but more of a script of nudges and reminders. Clarke knows that nothing will change. She doesn’t tell him to join the crowd, doesn’t say he should. Just that she wishes he would. Wishes he could.
“Perhaps my father wouldn’t care,” Wells agrees. “But it doesn’t matter what he wants. It doesn’t matter what I want. You know that as well as I.”
“I do,” Clarke says, and it’s always a weight off Wells’ chest to hear her say it. Nobody else has ever seemed to understand it. He stopped trying to explain after the first few. The kids just blinked and ran off to play without him. The adults laughed and patted him on the head, telling him what a good son he was. Only Clarke looked at him with eyes that saw both the honour and the weight, and nodded.
“You feel it too,” Wells says softly. “Your parents’ roles must weigh on you.”
Clarke shrugs. “In a way,” she says. “But what I do has no reflection on them. It is only what they do that puts pressure on me.”
“Is it hard?” Wells asks. “Feeling like you have to be the best at whatever you do? The best doctor or the best engineer -- or both, even?”
Clarke is quiet for a moment. “It isn’t easy,” she says at last. “I enjoy the learning. I enjoy the idea of making a difference in people’s lives. But it does sometimes feel like there is a lot riding on an accident of birth. I don’t want to let them down.”
Wells doesn’t ask if “them” refers to her parents or the people of the Ark. He knows the answer is complicated. “How will you choose?” he asks instead. “Does it ever feel like choosing between them?”
Clarke smiles. “No,” she says. “That at least is easy. I don’t have to choose. I know I can find happiness in either role, so I’ll do whatever will bring the most good. If I’m better at medicine, I’ll be a doctor. If there’s a dearth of engineers, I’ll be an engineer.”
Wells smiles. “You make it sound so simple,” he says. “Devoting your entire life to what other people need.”
Clarke shrugs. “It’s what we do,” she says. “It’s what we all do here. The Ark needs all of us to be our best. If I can help -- well, it would be selfish not to.”
“Sometimes I wish I could be selfish,” Wells says, his voice just above a whisper. He’s not proud of it. But there are days when the pressure makes him feel like he’s going to pop. This is the life he has been raised for, and he is good at it, but there are days when he does not want to be good.
Clarke’s gaze doesn’t change. “I know,” is all she says, and there is no judgment, no chastisement, no distaste whatsoever. There is only acceptance and understanding. Exactly what he needs.
He wants to tell her that, wants to tell her that she is everything he could wish for in a friend, that he will be honoured to serve their people at her side. He wants to tell her that she’s perfect, that the Ark is lucky to have her, that he’s lucky to have her. He wants to tell her -- so many things, all tangled together and complicated until he’s not even sure what it is that he wants to say. A million words bubble to his lips -- I don’t know how you do it and You are the kindest person I’ve ever met and I love you.
“Thank you,” he says instead. “Should we go study?”
Clarke casts another look at the playing children, wistful, and yet with no hint of desire or regret or envy. “Let’s,” she says.
Age 14
School dances really aren’t Wells’ thing. He finds them dull, sweaty, and loud, though he understands why such occasions for frivolity are necessary at times. He’d just rather be reading a good book.
Fortunately for him, Clarke feels the same way. So instead of joining the mass of sweaty teenagers jumping around on the dance floor, the two of them find a cozy spot in the corner to read, heads pressed together over the page. He tries not to get distracted by the touch of her knee against his, or the smell of her floral shampoo. Clarke complains if he takes too long to finish a page.
When the sound of footsteps approaches, Wells glances up. He smiles at the parent chaperone checking up on them, then returns to his reading. The footsteps don’t leave, however.
“You two are such a cute couple.”
They both look up, startled, and for a moment, totally unsure how to react.
Wells manages an awkward laugh. “Oh, we’re not-”
“Ew!” Clarke says, much more forcefully. “We’re just friends! None of that gross stuff.”
Wells looks over at her, slightly shocked by her ferocity. She’s usually much more polite, especially to adults.
The chaperone smiles patronizingly at them. “I’m sure,” she says. “That’s what they all say.”
“We’re friends,” Wells repeats, a hint of irritation slipping into his own voice in spite of himself. Can't she just leave Clarke alone? “We just don’t like dancing.”
The chaperone sighs. “You’re young,” she says. “Give it time, dear. Soon ‘that gross stuff’ will be all you can think about.”
Clarke’s nose wrinkles. “I doubt it,” she says. “It all sounds very… moist. And germy.”
The woman chuckles. “Your mother is a doctor,” she says. “She knows more than most about germs. But I knew her when she was your age.”
“Are you trying to make sure we aren’t up to anything,” Wells asks pointedly, “or encourage us to get up to something? I should have thought you’d be grateful to have two students making your job a little easier.” He hates the woman’s knowing gaze, hates the way Clarke seems so uncomfortable beside him. He just wants her gone, wants Clarke to be able to relax again, wants to go back to their book in peace. Is that too much to ask?
The woman gives them one more searching look, then shrugs. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” she says. “But you’re right, I have other couples to break up. Stay safe!”
They watch her leave in silence, but the tension she brought remains. Clarke speaks first.
“Wasn’t that ridiculous?” she says.
Wells shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, it certainly wasn’t accurate,” he says. At least, most of it.
“I’ll say,” Clarke says emphatically. “Sheesh, does she assume everyone is in love with whoever they’re sitting next to?”
“Well, it’s not like we’re strangers at an informational meeting or something,” Wells says. “We’ve known each other for ages.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’re in love or anything,” Clarke says.
The revulsion in her voice makes Wells want to recoil, but he doesn’t. He smooths the thoughts from his face, paints a mask over them, pretends words like maybe it does and speak for yourself don’t hang just below the surface.
“They’re just being thorough, I guess,” he says instead. “Two teenagers off in a darkened corner by themselves...”
Clarke’s nose wrinkles again. “Can’t two people be friends without wanting to suck each other’s faces off?” she says. “Honestly, it sounds exhausting.”
Wells smiles weakly. Sometimes it is, he thinks. “Have you finished the page?” he says instead.
She turns it, and for the rest of the night, Wells stares down at letters that blur together meaninglessly.
Age 16
They’re walking back to their quarters after classes one day when Wells finally screws up the nerve. He’s been thinking it for months, the feelings hidden behind a facade that feels thinner every day, but the timing never seemed quite right, the moment never exactly perfect. She deserves perfect. But he doesn’t want to wait. If he keeps putting it off, one day it’s going to explode out of him, all messy and unformed and that’s not what he wants. She doesn’t deserve messy.
“Hey Clarke,” he says, trying to pretend like his heart isn’t pounding, his palms aren’t sweaty. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“Oh?” Clarke says, glancing up at him. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you as well.”
“Really?” He wonders what it could be, wonders if it could possibly be the same thing, if they’ve both finally reached this point at the same moment, that would be like destiny, like cosmic purpose, like -- he tries to cut the thought off, she hasn’t even said anything. He smiles at her. “You first, then.”
Clarke laughs. “No, you said it first, you go first.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says. “Yours is probably more interesting. You go.”
Clarke bites her lip. “I’d insist,” she says, “but I’m not sure which of us is more stubborn and I don’t want to be here all night.”
Wells laughs. “Smart girl.”
Clarke smiles at him. “Okay,” she says. “So you know how I always found it odd how everyone has been getting all mushy lately, so obsessed with romance and dating and everything.”
“Yeah,” Wells says. He bites his tongue, trying not to sprint ahead.
“And I just didn’t get it, right,” Clarke continues. “I didn’t know why it mattered so much. I didn’t get what they were talking about.”
“I remember.”
“And it was getting to the point where I was wondering if I had to be missing something, because everyone was talking about it nonstop but I didn’t feel any different.”
Wells’ heart feels like it’s slamming itself against his ribs, like it’s going to punch its way out of his chest. There’s only one place this could be going, right? “I didn’t feel any different either,” he says. Because I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.
“Well, I figured it out,” she says. Her eyes are glowing, and the happiness as she looks at him makes his knees feel weak. “I’m aromantic.”
That… was not what he was expecting. “You’re… what?” he says. “What does that mean?”
“Aromantic,” she repeats. “I don’t experience romantic attraction. To anyone. Probably never will.”
“Oh.” Wells blinks. “That’s… interesting.”
Clarke’s smile slips. “What’s wrong?”
Wells immediately feels contrite. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly. “I’m just… surprised. I’ve never heard of that.”
“I read about it in a book on sexuality,” Clarke says. “We’re going over sexual health right now in Medical Studies. It’s fascinating.”
“And that’s not… weird for you?”
Clarke shrugs. “Humans are weird,” she says. “You get used to it.”
“I meant -- you being… aromantic. Is that weird?”
Clarke frowns, looking thoughtful. “I mean, I don’t really know any other way to be,” she says. “It’s not what I expected, sure, but whenever anyone talks about all that mushy stuff… it feels like they’re speaking a different language.” Her smile returns. “And now I know -- they pretty much are. Honestly, I feel more normal now that I have a word for it.”
“Oh,” Wells says. “Well… I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” Clarke says. “Now -- what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Oh. Right. Crap. “Oh, it’s nothing important,” Wells says. “Not compared to yours.”
“Don’t be silly,” Clarke says. “If it matters to you, it matters to me. Come on, what is it?”
“No, really,” Wells says. “I don’t want to take away from this moment for you. This is -- it’s exciting. We should celebrate, or something.”
Clarke laughs. “How do you propose doing that?” she asks.
Wells laughs too. “However you want,” he says. “We could go exploring. We could play chess. Or I think I’ve got a few dried apple slices stored away from the last time those were in the rations -- I wanted to save them for a special occasion.”
“And this qualifies?” Clarke’s eyes are shining again, the way that makes Wells’ mouth go dry and his heart swoop and every fiber of his being want to focus on keeping them that way. “Those are such mundane celebrations, you know.” Wells starts to frown, but she speaks over him. “And they’re exactly my style of celebration. You know me so well. Let’s go.”
She presses a kiss to his cheek and starts walking again. Wells stands motionless for a moment, then follows, shaking his head.
Clarke Griffin really is something.
Age 17
Clarke stands with her hands on her hips, surveying their camp around the dropship. “We need more shelters,” she says aloud. “Wood will do for the structure, maybe leaves to keep the rain off.”
“Good idea,” Wells says. “I’ll recruit some extra hands.”
Clarke glances at him, an eyebrow raised. “Think you can?”
Wells’ spine stiffens. “Of course I can.”
The eyebrow drops, and she looks away. “Be my guest.”
Wells looks around, picking a group of sturdy-looking teens, and heads towards them. How hard can it be to get a few rowdy kids to help out with something that will benefit them as much as everyone else?
He clears his throat as he stands before the group, greeting them with a smile. “So we’re planning to build a few more shelters, and we could use your help -- who wants to cut down trees, and who would rather collect leaves?”
The group of teens glance at him, then go back to chatting. A few giggle and whisper. Wells tries not to let it sting.
“Come on,” he says. “The more of us that work together, the faster it gets done. Then we don’t all have to cram into the dropship every time it rains.”
This time, they don’t even look up.
“They’re not going to listen to you, you know,” Clarke says, her face stony. “You’re not the Chancellor’s son anymore. Or rather -- you are, but down here, that’s a liability. You can’t just trade on prestige anymore.”
“I’m not,” Wells says, trying not to sound whiny. “I’m just trying to be reasonable-”
“Being reasonable only works if people respect your reasons,” Clarke says. “No one here does.”
Wells almost asks if that includes her, but he doesn’t. He’s afraid of what her answer would be.
“You do it, then,” he says.
“Gladly,” she says. “But not these ones. They’ll be too stubborn now.” She scans the camp, then walks over to another group of teens. “Hey, guys,” she says. “We’re building some extra shelters for the camp, and we need more wood -- any of you think you’re strong enough to fell a few trees for me?”
A tall boy who looks like he’s spent too much of his time in the Sky Box working out swaggers forward. “I bet I could,” he says. “What’s in it for me?” He looks her up and down in a way that makes Wells’ skin crawl.
“Hey!” he says, stepping forward. “Back off!”
The boy looks at him, a grin crossing his teeth. “Are you on offer?” he asks. “Because I’d gladly help out your friend for the chance to teach you a lesson or two.”
“I don’t need your help, Wells,” Clarke says irritably. “As for what’s in it for you…” She gestures to a couple of the girls seated nearby. “How about slightly more privacy next time you spend a night disappointing one of these lovely ladies?”
The boy turns red, stammering some kind of defense, but one of the girls stands with a laugh. “That sounds like a worthy cause,” she says. “I don’t need to hear everything that these guys get up to. C’mon, guys.”
Around half a dozen of the group slowly get to their feet, gathering knives and other weapons.
“Branches will do if you can’t get the whole tree,” Clarke tells them as they head off. “Go for the smaller trees -- we don’t have the equipment for the massive ones.”
One of the girls gives a mocking salute. “Whatever you say chief,” she says. The group laughs, then disappears into the forest.
Wells is quietly impressed, but he can’t help being skeptical as well. “How do you know they’ll actually come back with wood?” he asks as they head towards another group.
“I don’t,” Clarke says shortly. “They could get a few hundred feet out and then decide to screw around all afternoon. Or they might cut off a few branches, and then get distracted and not bring them back. Or they might try to cut down some decades-old monster of a tree, get halfway through and then give up. But regardless, we’re no worse off, and we might be better off. Something is better than nothing. It’s a start. Hey, guys, can you give me a hand with something?”
They’ve approached a cluster of younger kids, most of them probably around twelve or thirteen. Wells wonders what they could possibly have done to be imprisoned so young. They look nervous, but as Clarke enters their midst their faces have a certain eagerness to them. Wells hangs back, watching her work.
“What?” one of the kids asks.
Clarke smiles. “I could use a whole bunch of big leaves,” she says. “I want to build some extra shelters for the camp, so we can all have a little more space. The leaves will keep the rain off. I think I saw some plants that would work down by the river.”
The kids look at each other. “We can do that,” one of them says. “It doesn’t sound too hard.”
“It may not be hard, but it’s important work,” Clarke says. “And I’d really appreciate the help. I think there’s some baskets or bags in the dropship that you could use to carry them back.”
A few more questions and encouraging words, and nearly the whole group is racing off to the riverbank, with just a few swinging by the dropship to grab the containers.
“I don’t know how you do that,” Wells says as she surveys the camp once more.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the natural born leader?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“I do,” Clarke says. “Sometimes I wonder if you do.”
“Well, it’s impressive,” Wells says. “You really know how to talk to them.”
“I know how to motivate them,” Clarke corrects. “I know what they want, and I know how to make them think it’s the same as what I want.”
“Right,” Wells says. “Impressive. Really. I could learn a thing or two from you. Thank you.”
Clarke gives him a withering look. “I’m not looking for your approval,” she says. “In fact, I’m not looking for anything from you at all. You’ve done enough. Go try to be useful somewhere else.”
She walks away, heading for another group to recruit into pitching in. Wells watches her go. She never stops surprising him, he thinks. Never stops impressing him. Never stops being so, so good at everything she does. At everything people need her to be.
She doesn’t want to hear it from him, though. Maybe she never will.
But maybe she doesn’t need to.
And the one time Clarke did
Clarke kneels next to a pile of upturned dirt. She stares at it, unblinking, making no move to wipe away the occasional tear that drips down her cheek.
It doesn’t seem real yet. She knows it is. She dug the grave herself, lowered him into it, shoveled the dirt back on top. But it doesn’t seem real.
He was her best friend. And then he wasn’t. And then… maybe he could have been again.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I was so angry at you for so long. I’m sorry I was cruel. I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t care if you forgive me; I’m sorry for every second I wasted trying to hate you when-” Her voice catches, and she covers her mouth as a sob breaks free.
“I love you,” she says, the tears are coming faster now. “You were my best friend. You were the only one who really got me. You were everything to me. You took care of me, even when I didn’t want to admit I needed it. And then I threw it all away, and now you’re gone. And I’m never going to be the same.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll take care of them,” she promises. “I’ll be the leader you would want me to be. I’ll do what needs to be done.” Her voice breaks again. “I just wish I was doing it with you at my side. Because we were the perfect team, weren’t we?”
She smiles through the tears, a million memories swirling in her mind. “We just -- fit, you know? Like two sides of a coin. You felt like my other half. And people always think that the most powerful love has to be romantic, but it doesn’t. You were my best friend, and I loved you. I love you. I’ll always love you. I’ll always remember you.” She pushes herself to her feet, legs trembling, but her movements sure. “Thank you,” she says, to the person who stood at her side for years. To the person who she can still feel beside her.
As she walks away, she hopes he knew -- knows -- what he means to her. And she hopes she can make him proud.