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Clarke swore loudly as she rushed out of the room and pulled the door closed with all the force she could muster. She paused for the briefest of seconds as a group of freshman walked past, seeming a bit unsteady on their feet. They spoke in hushed tones, casting furtive glances in her direction. Her face warmed. Trying desperately to block out the sound of their drunken giggling, she reached up to staunch the flow of tears. Tugging her backpack strap onto her shoulder she fled in the other direction. She barreled down the hallway, not caring who stared. They probably won't even remember it in the morning, she told herself. Leave it to the freshman to spend the last weekend before finals getting trashed. Skirting around the corner, she barely managed to avoid a collision with a very disgruntled girl wrapped in a towel. Without pause, she pushed the door to the stairwell open, taking them two at a time. She knew it was a bad idea, but the ringing in her ears and the pounding in her chest didn’t seem to care about logic or reason. Clarke could see the glowing exit sign above the door at the bottom of the stairwell, calling out to her. She had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when her vision began to blur. For one heart stopping moment, her foot plunged through empty air. A second later it crashed onto the landing, a solid two inches farther back than it should have. Her balance shot, she fell forwards into the door, the weight of her body pushing down on the release.
“Shit!”
She tumbled through the door, limbs flailing. There was a hearty tug on her shoulder, and she was free of her backpack. The gravel was approaching much too fast for her liking. She let out a cry as her arms stretched toward it. Her palms made contact with the ground, and she finally skidded to a stop.
Clarke sat there, drawing the cold night air into her lungs like an addict. She reveled in the stinging sensation of her palms, in each icy shard of December air that she forced down her throat. She closed her eyes. She was steady. She was in control. She relished at the feeling of the her tears freezing in their tracks, at the mercy of the chilly night air.
“Goddammit that hurts,” muttered a gruff voice from behind her. It was as rough as the gravel pressing into her palms and Clarke wondered how a voice could sting so much. She curled her fingers under instinctively and winced as she felt the gravel dig into her left palm. Taking a deep cleansing breath she turned around slowly.
Standing beneath the awning was a tall man in a well worn leather jacket. He was surrounded by the harsh yellow glow of the floodlight behind him. He seemed to be made up of sharp angles and a restless, defensive energy. His dark curls were loose and unruly. One hand was raised to face and the other was clutched tightly around her backpack strap. She could see his eyes were narrowed, glaring pointedly at her. Clarke couldn’t blame him.
“Thanks for the door in the face,” he grumbled, and she could feel her throat tighten. “Are you waiting for an invitation or something?” he said gruffly, lowering his hand and reaching it out to her. It was covered in blood. Clarke's eyes widened and flickered to his face. Her eyes stung as she saw the blood begin to pour from his nose. The man sniffed and touched his upper lip. He swore loudly when saw the blood. Hastily wiping his hand on his jeans, he reached back up and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Um, maybe never mind about that,” he muttered distractedly. “Here’s your back… ” he trailed off as he held her backpack out to her. He held one strap in his hand, the other dangled limply, attached by no more than a few threads. She had spent everyday of her first semester, cursing that stupid backpack. The way the straps dug into her shoulders with the weight of a premed course load. The way dirt clung to every fiber of the dingy canvas.
Yet for some reason, Clarke could see the image of the man begin to swim before her. She closed her eyes, but it was too late, she had lost control of the dam, and her tears were unleashed. The wind bit hungrily at their trails leaving her cheeks raw and exposed.
“Oh no, shit, I’m sorry,” he said, a hint of concern slipping into his voice. She heard him set her backpack down, “I can buy you a new backpack.” Her eyes fluttered open. His gaze had lost its edge, his eyes more confused than anything else.
“It’s – It’s not – the – the backpack,” Clarke sputtered, she released the curl in her fingers and slowly peeled her hands off the pavement. She didn’t bat an eye at the angry skin of her palms. She studied them for a moment, squinting to see through the stream of tears that still hadn’t broken. Not too much blood, that’s good, she noted. The man bent down, and offered her his clean hand. Her right hand looked as though someone had taken a cheese grater too it, so she settled for hooking her arm around his. He pulled her up by her armpit.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice still muffled by his hand. He was looking at her like she was a ticking bomb, ready to go off at any moment. She imagined that was an apt description. She tried to take another deep cleansing breath, pushing her hair back from her face. Her nose was blocked beyond repair, so she settled for just using her mouth, making sure her exhale was slightly longer than her inhale.
“N – N – No,” she sniffled loudly, “I m – mean, yes, but n – no.” She sucked in another frantic breath of air. Her cleansing breaths seemed to be of little use and the last thing she needed right now was break down in front of a stranger. She tried wiping away some of her tears with the back of her hand. But it didn’t matter what did, more tears quickly took their place. The man eyed her critically and picked up her broken backpack. He laid a hand on her elbow and waited for her approval. When she didn’t move away, he took that as permission to lead her to a nearby bench.
The bench was covered in a thin layer of frost that glistened beneath the streetlamp. He sat down and indicated that she should do so as well. The bench was frigid beneath her, but she didn’t mind. She let her thoughts focus on the chill creeping into the back of her thighs, slowly turning them numb. She willed her mind to the same. The man set her backpack down between them.
Her tears hadn’t stopped flowing, and her nose was still just as stuffed, but she could feel the snot inching out her nose. Real attractive, she thought reaching into the front pocket of her backpack. She inhaled sharply as she removed her hand, the zipper catching on her ragged skin. It didn’t matter though, she had gotten what she wanted. Clutched in her fingers was a pocket pack of tissues. After unceremoniously blowing her nose she glanced over at the man who was still sitting restlessly beside her. He appeared to be looking pensively across the quad, but Clarke could feel the bench move in time with his leg. Blood was starting to drip from the hand cradling the lower half of his face. It fell slowly, trickling down the front of his faded navy blue shirt.
Clarke held out the tissues, nudging his shoulder. He responded quickly, taking them gratefully. Once the blood was under control, he switched hands. Holding a fresh tissue in his clean hand, he leaned down to wipe the other one on the damp grass. When it was cleaned to his satisfaction, he straightened up, drying his hand on his jeans.
They sat there in silence. Clarke listening to the wind howl. It carried snatches of conversation and bubbly laughter around the quad. What a sight we must be, she thought as a young couple walked their way. She looked up at them through watery eyes. The couple drifted off the opposite edge of sidewalk just before reaching the bench, crunching through the grass and averting their eyes.
“I’m sorry about busting your face open,” she said quietly, her words hanging in the air. There was no response from the man and she glanced over at him. He had went through several more tissues. They sat piled in his lap while he tested his nose gingerly with the cleanest section of the one in his hand. After a moment she repeated herself.
“I’m sorry about,” he paused, looking at her carefully. As he tilted his head towards her, she was surprised to see that his tan skin was covered in freckles. They softened the harsh contours of face. “I’m sorry about whatever I did to make you so upset,” he finished lamely, looking away.
Clarke laughed bitterly, dragging the soles of her shoes against the ground. She let the sound echo in the air. Suddenly, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a small bottle of antiseptic wash and handful of gauze packets.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” she said carefully, ripping one of the packets open. She doused the gauze in antiseptic and began dabbing at her raw hands. She felt relieved to have something to concentrate on. Pouring her nervous energy into the task at hand was calming. It helped keep the trembling out of her voice. “It’s got everything to do with my lying, cheating,” she broke off to rip open another packet, “scumbag of a boyfriend.” She set to work on her left hand, cringing as she wiped at the gravel. She was able to work a few pieces free, but one just wouldn’t budge. “Can you get the tweezers out of the front pocket?” she said clinically. He dug around for a moment, pulling out a tiny pair of tweezers. “Ex – he’s – ex-boyfriend,” she added shakily a moment later as she grabbed the tweezers out of his hand.
“I found out when his – shit, ow,” she winced as she accidentally tugged on a piece of skin. She drew the tweezers away from her trembling hand, the gravel still there. She closed her eyes for a moment, and taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to soak in the cold night air. She let it calmly wash over her while her top teeth dug into her bottom lip. When the stinging in her palm dulled, she opened her eyes. She reached the tweezer back down, determined. She grasped the piece of gravel carefully, wiggling it gently.
“When his high school sweetheart showed up half an hour ago,” Clarke’s voice wavered slightly, but this time, her hands stayed steady. “Her school lets out a week earlier than ours. She wanted to surprise him and wish him good luck on his exams,” with a bitter smirk, she gave the gravel one last gentle tug. It finally came free. Clarke let the tiny rock fall to the ground. She held the tweezers out to the man, expectantly. It took him a moment, but he slowly reached out to get them. The second he laid his fingers on the tweezers, Clarke withdrew her hand and he had to fumble not drop them on the pavement. She held her left hand out in front of her and poured antiseptic onto it. Once she had prepared another gauze packet, she resumed speaking.
“Surprise. Turns out, my boyfriend already had a girlfriend,” she spat, dabbing at her hand with a bit more force than was necessary. “One that he conveniently neglected to mention,” she clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath. “Antibiotic ointment please,” Clarke held out her hand. The man eyed her skeptically. She turned to look at him, “Can you get me the antibiotic?” She waved her grazed hand in front of him, and motioned to her backpack between them. He slowly reached into the front pocket, replacing the tweezers. “It’s stinging you know,” she said impatiently. He rustled through the pocket and pulled out a small tube. “Thank you,” she said shortly.
He muttered something under his breath, but she was too preoccupied attempting to unscrew the lid with one hand to notice. “Anyway, it seemed as though she knew as much about me as I did her,” Clarke said spreading the ointment onto her palm. “I just had to get out of there as fast as I could, you know?” she sighed, looked to the man. He seemed startled by the intensity in her eyes, but nodded slowly anyway. “He started saying all this stuff about how he had thought they were on a break, and he really did care about me, and how he wanted to make it work,” she folded a clean gauze pad into a neat square and laid it on the worst of the scrape. “It was a load of crap I’m sure,” she added, “can you give me the gauze roll?”
This time the man was prepared, and quickly retrieved it for her. He handed it over, and took back the antibiotic without a word.
She wrapped her left hand with precision, bringing it around her wrist and over the palm of her hand. When was satisfied with the wrap, she let the gauze rest in her hand. Her eyes slid in direction of the stranger sitting next to her. “What is the likely hood you have scissors on your person?” she asked casually.
The man let one corner of his mouth turn up. “What?” he said, feigning incredulity, “Princess has all these fancy supplies, but forgets the most important thing.” Clarke turned her head to look at him, he had a lazy lopsided smile on his face.
“Yes or no?” she huffed grumpily, but she couldn't seem to stop her mouth from mirroring his.
“Give me your hand,” he said, as he pulled out his keys and unfolded a small pocketknife. She rolled her eyes and he held her wrist gently. His hand was warm as he softly cut the gauze. “I’m Bellamy by the way,” he said, carefully tucking the end of the gauze under itself, “Bellamy Blake.” She took notice of how the sleeve of his leather jacket didn’t quite meet his wrist, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Clarke Griffin,” she took the gauze back and stuffed it into the front pocket. Balling up all of the gauze wrappers she threw them into the trash.
They sat there in silence for a moment. Clarke was unsure of what to do next. She turned to Bellamy and saw that his face was still covered in blood.
“We should fix your face–“ she started at the same time he said, “Do you want to get some hot chocolate?” They both stared at each other, willing the other to resume first. She became increasingly aware of the way her hair had tangled and matted around the edges of her face. A faint flush creeped onto her cheeks.
“I know this great coffee place down the street called Grounders,” Bellamy began, “They make the best hot chocolate, and I’ve never seen a broken heart that one of Miller’s double fudge brownies couldn’t mend.” He smiled nervously.
Clarke bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the ground. She scuffed her foot on the pavement, considering his offer. She felt like a wreck, and she could only imagine what she must look like.
“I’m not trying to hit on your or anything,” Bellamy said tentatively, “if that’s what you're thinking. I have a younger sister, her name’s Octavia.” She could see his expression soften under the yellow glow of the streetlamp above them. “She’s a freshman. She had, uh, she had a rough breakup, chemical accident gone wrong.” He shifted nervously, angling his body towards her.
“I think I heard about that,” Clarke said. It had been big scandal and the University tried to covered it up. A chemical accident of some sort had occurred in one of the labs and a student got hurt. The details had been kept quiet, but the gossip still spread.
“She took it really hard, when he transferred out, but she’ll swear that Miller’s brownies are the only thing that got her through.” He smiled softly. And in that moment, he looked so sweet and sincere, she desperately wanted to trust him. It sounded like a much better alternative to stewing in her thoughts with a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream. “And you seem like you could use someone to talk to,” he added.
She smiled, and took a deep breath. Wine and ice cream could wait. “Sure,” she said, “But maybe we should clean you up first? You’re still covered in blood.” Bellamy laughed.
“Good idea,” He scooped the bloodied tissues off his lap with one hand. Throwing them in the trash. He made sure that Clarke was able to get her one functional backpack strap up onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry again about your backpack,” he said as they walked side by side towards the dorm building. “I’ll pay to replace it, I promise.” They paused outside while she gingerly reached into her pocket to pull out her student ID.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clarke said holding the card with the edges of her fingers. She tapped it on the keycard scanner and the door beeped. “You can pay me back in brownies,” she said with a smile.
“That’s an awful lot of brownies,” he said skeptically as he opened the door.
“I know, and I fully intend to cash in on every single one,” Clarke said easily as she ducked under his arm, and into the building.
“Whatever you say Princess,” he chuckled, following behind her.