Chapter Text
Finn is going to kill her.
He's out of state for one month, and she's gone and fallen half in love with Lexa Woods, who probably views this whole thing as nothing more than a reciprocated high school crush. Clarke only wishes it was that simple.
In another life, perhaps I wouldn't be quite so cruel, but in this one you were blind enough, to believe the shuddering ocean was a shallow swimming pool.
“Your... your boyfriend?” Her jaw is doing that thing again, and Clarke is pretty sure she's going to die on the spot.
“My boyfriend,” Clarke parrots, trying to make the term seem more natural coming out of her mouth. It feels wrong, somehow.
Lexa doesn't explode with the fire power of a thousand suns, direct her (well earned) rage at Clarke and storm out of the theatre. They'd been about to kiss, for fuck's sake, all because Clarke has, like, zero self control. Surely she deserves to be exposed for such a fraud?
Lexa is polite, instead, and it hurts so much more.
“Oh. I didn't know you had a...” She turns to Finn. “Hello.”
Finn throws an arm around Clarke's waist, territorial to the last. “Uh, hi. And you are?”
She's special, Clarke wants to say. Wonderful comes to mind, a string of synonyms she's never heard of and yet now finally, finally understands.
“This is Lexa, she's playing Viola in that production I told you about. Twelfth Night.”
Finn doesn't respond, though he studies the subject in question as if trying to fathom the missing piece of a puzzle (spoiler alert: it's their mouths slotting in a jigsaw of colours). “That's nice,” he says, eventually. The silence that follows is awkward at best, unbearable at worst.
Clarke tries not to stare at Lexa's lips, looks at Finn's instead. They're chapped, pursed in a disapproving frown.
“I should...” Lexa trails off.
Clarke doesn't want her to go, not if she can't follow, go “some place” like they always do after school.
“I'll see you later,” she promises, doing her utmost to sound casual. Lexa exits through the stage doors, and doesn't look back.
And then it's just Clarke and Finn, Finn and Clarke.
She holds her breath.
….........
Of course Clarke has a boyfriend.
Lexa was naive to believe anything else- that Clarke liked her, really liked her, that this was somehow “special”- that the other girl was ever acting out of anything other than boredom. She kissed me because she was lonely, lied because I made it so easy// all her claims were building blocks; send tumbling.
Lexa thinks about the poem, Clarke's faux-confidence that she could re-write Act 5, create a kinder sort of love.
“Fuck,” she whispers, standing alone in the parking lot. Not that Lexa ever usually swears. That's more of a “Clarke” thing. She's just testing it out, trying not to throw up.
“I'm an idiot.” Only a lone pigeon is around to hear the proclamation, and he (she? They?), just fluffs dirty feathers and flies away. How fitting.
Lexa is, without a doubt, the most “screwed” person ever to exist, now or in any other age, time, place, or universe- and it's all because of college credit, chance encounters, and Clarke Griffin.
(Ironically, she couldn't be a more perfect fit for Shakespeare).
….........
“What was that about?” Finn asks her, as soon as they're alone in the echoey room, space enough for Clarke's stupid heart to leap out of it's cage// gone to join it's counterpart, escape into the flickering dark.
“What was what about?”
He grips her wrist a little too hard, forcing Clarke to meet his eyes.
“Don't play dumb with me, Clarke. You're too good at that.”
She tries to laugh it off. “Jesus, Finn, we were running lines, that's all. How was the long drive?”
He doesn't let go of her arm. “Clarke, you know why I-”
“I know, I know. I know.” If she affirms enough, maybe he'll take the bait and talk about himself. After all, “The life and times of Finn Collins” is Finn's favourite topic. It works.
“The drive was okay. Exhausting, obviously. And some moron at Starbucks tried to short-change me for a cup of coffee.”
“That sounds-”
“Oh, I ran into Bellamy on the way over here. He's back from UCLA, said he'd talk to Octavia about arranging some group get-together. You're not busy Saturday night, are you?”
Clarke is busy Saturday night. She and Lexa had arranged to go into the city, check out the new art exhibit. Her anger flares at the memory of the discussion, lying on Clarke's bed, fighting over who could name the most impressionist painters. Lexa won, but only because Clarke let her.
She isn't sure who she's most pissed at: Finn for showing up without giving her time to figure this whole thing out, or herself for leading Lexa into a house of cards trap.
She thinks that we are summer flowers and shared sweaters, I think that we are bitten hands and stolen hours// in her version we are infinite, in my version, I just hold on tighter.
“I'm free.”
Finn kisses her cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Clarke thinks about pulling out her phone to text Lexa, let her know that she won't be able to make it. It's not like she can blow off her long term boyfriend, who just travelled cross-country to see her. (Right?)
She glances at Finn, now rambling about the price of gas (up four cents a gallon!), and abandons the idea.
Clarke can always do it later, when he's not around to watch over her shoulder.
“Later” turns out to be a lot later, as Clarke's mom insists on cooking dinner for Finn, after he's already invited himself over for three hours to “watch Netflix for a bit.”
It's an... okay way to spend the evening. Finn intertwines their fingers under the table, enthralling them with stories of college classes and college bars, college dorms and college everything else.
Her mom burns the chicken pesto, and forgets to take their cheescake out of the freezer. Everyone pretends not to notice.
Clarke is too busy thinking about Lexa, about the last time they ate this meal together. Everything was new and exciting and the good kind of terrifying, like being four years old and staring up at the lightening. She is the calm before the rain, and I am waiting, waiting...
“Clarke?”
“Huh?”
Finn rolls his eyes. “I said, do you want to watch The 100?”
Clarke hates The 100. “Yeah, sure. As long as it's not the episode with the shoot-out.”
“But that's my favourite.”
He plays it anyway. She doesn't complain.
She also doesn't text Lexa. Doesn't call her, either. She just watches shitty TV with Finn, wonders when his hands on her skin started making her cringe. (Avoids noting that Lexa's never did).
Her mom notices a drop in Clarke's spirits, always seems to pick up on it whenever Finn comes to visit. She hasn't yet connected the two occurrences. However, it's only a matter of time, unless there's a new “bacterial breakthrough” that leaves her glued to the science channel.
As soon as Finn goes back to his parents' house, she corners Clarke in the kitchen, all “what's up, honey?” and “did anything happen at school?”
Yeah. I almost cheated on the boyfriend who treats me like a kid, wants me top-shelf like one of his soccer trophies.
“I, er, I just came down to get some juice.”
“Clarke.”
Why does everyone keep adding so much emphasis to her name all of a sudden? It's only bearable when Lexa does it, the way her lips curl around every syllable- akin to daylight-friendly porn, really.
“Fine.”
Her mind races, searching for something semi relevant, something that promises ten minutes of mother-daughter “bonding,” before she can return (unscathed) to her bedroom.
“I have to tell you something.” Oh, okay, apparently her brain landed on this topic of conversation. Not that her mom won't be cool with it, more like she might be too liberal and reassuring, desperate to fulfil some sort of quota.
“I'm bi.” Clarke pauses, wondering if she's even up to date with modern sexuality labels. After all, the science channel can only provide ~so much~ information.
“As in, I like, am attracted to, girls...also.” Is that even proper English? Regardless, her mom seems to understand, raising from one of their Ikea chairs to (awkwardly) wrap Clarke in her arms.
“Clarke, I'm so happy you felt you could share-”
Holy shit.
“Mom, this isn't a lifetime movie. It's not a big deal, seriously.”
It's really not. Clarke has had herself figured out for as long as she can remember, even got mock-married to a girl in kindergarten. There were daisies and a cardboard priest. It was sort of sweet.
“Wait, did you break up with Finn? Is that why he left? Are you dating someone else? Is it Lexa? Because, she's such a nice girl, and I wouldn't mind-”
They could see us in photo frames; blown up, coloured in, destined for art galleries.
(Perhaps her mom does occasionally look up from her beakers).
“No, Finn and I are still dating. How did you... I mean, why would you think that?”
If Clarke isn't mistaken, she spots something akin to disappointment and concern, awash as watercolours upon her mother's face. With the flick of a brush, Clarke could wipe the hopeful yellow away. She almost doesn't want to.
“It's nothing. You seemed... lighter around her, that's all. I like Finn, of course. What do I know?” She smiles (faux wide) and shuffles off, no doubt to tune into another documentary following “marine organisms.”
Clarke remains in the kitchen long after her mom leaves, staring at the ingredients list on her juice carton, limbs a heavy weight.
They don't see each other outside of the theatre. Clarke is certain that Lexa is avoiding her, can't say she should be blamed for wanting out of this messy scenario. It's been two days so far, the longest they've ever gone without speaking. I discredit B.H (before her), prefer to measure my history, through a rosier lens.
She makes the most out of their characters' romantic entanglement, delivers her lines with ten degrees of extra fervour.
“I have said too much unto a heart of gold, and lain too little honour as befits your role.” Unscripted, Clarke accompanies the words with a touch to Lexa's chest, feels the drum skip several beats below her fingers.
“With the same 'havior that our passion bears, goes on my master's grief. I fear he will never leave us be.” She's a good actress, sure, but Clarke detects real venom in Lexa's voice, a coldness in the way (Viola) extracts herself from (Olivia's) attentions.
It's nothing more than Clarke deserves.
“Here, wear this jewel for me.”
“I would have you, not your treasures.” Lexa's gaze lingers on hers, and Clarke attempts to apologise via subliminal messaging. She's 99.9% positive it doesn't work. Entwined in the mind: noose in disguise as a vine.
“'Tis my picture,” she says softly, wonders what Lexa would really do with a picture of her. Tear it up, in all probability.
They mime the exchange of the object, Lexa getting no closer than she has to. Clarke could laugh at her stubbornness, under very different circumstances.
“I must leave you.”
“Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well. A friend like thee may bear my soul to hell.”
Her mom applauds the scene, then makes her excuses to return to biology. This “play thing” is taking a chunk out of the time she'd reserved for looking at frogspawn under a microscope. Or whatever it is that she does in her classroom-lab.
Lexa begins packing up in haste, back-pack zipper caught in her copy of the play.
“Lexa?”
She looks up, and Clarke supposes this is as good a chance as she's going to get. Her palms are sweating, stomach churning, every other textbook cliché that she can think of. There must be some mistake. Clarke Griffin doesn't get “nervous,” not ever, not even around girls as cute as Lexa.
I thought I had done it all, broken every rule, but she showed me that “firsts” are not limited to empty hands and missing school.
“I was, um, I was wondering if you still wanted to hang out on Saturday night. As a kind of group thing?”
Finn can't be mad, surely, considering it won't just be the two of them? She recalls “the Niylah incident,” and shudders, though he'd promised that if Clarke gave him a second, third, fourth chance “this time” would be different.
“...we're all going out to a restaurant. Octavia is going to be there, I think she's in your math class. She'll probably ask Raven, and Anya, and-”
“Will your boyfriend be joining us?”
Clarke decides to be honest. “Listen, Lexa, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Finn sooner. I should have. I meant to. But we were having so much fun together, what with the play and everything... I didn't want to loose you.” She pauses. “I really like you.”
This is what those songs mean: the sky bloated purple under the weight of her grin// and every street ran red with her name.
“I don't believe you.”
Lexa looks sad and small, devastatingly beautiful. Clarke isn't supposed to view people like art, not any more. It always leads to disappointment.
“What?”
“I don't believe you,” she says again. “If that were true, you would have broken up with him. Or at least talked to me about...” Lexa gestures between them. “... this.”
“It's complicated.” Clarke isn't throwing around one of those meaningless phrases- it really is complicated. She doesn't even know how to explain it to herself, let alone anyone else. Finn is Finn, and she's (stuck?) with him.
“Actually, Clarke, I think it's very simple.”
“And what do you know about relationships?” It comes out a lot harsher than she intended, and Clarke almost instantly regrets it.
“I'm sorry, Lexa. That was uncalled for.”
“No, you're right. I don't know anything about relationships. Or trying to kiss someone else when you're already in one.”
She goes back to packing, wrestling with an avalanche of textbooks.
“I'm sorry,” Clarke tries again, a broken record. “Sorry” no longer sounds like part of the English language, just two syllables failing to explain the ache Lexa housed between her ribs; now re-mortgaged.
She imagines pinning Lexa against the wall, kissing her till they're both breathless and wordless, no longer able to argue over the existence of a boy. Somehow, she doesn't think that would go down all too well.
“Goodbye, Clarke.” This time, Lexa doesn't restrain herself from slamming the theatre door.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
….........
“You should go.”
Lexa crinkles her nose, peers at Anya over the top of her sandwich. “What do you mean 'I should go?'”
“You should come out with us on Friday night.”
They're all sitting in the cafeteria again, Lexa no longer spending her free periods (and some of her none free periods) with Clarke. She's probably pre-occupied with Finn, anyway. I needed her like a hole in the head// that is to say, I missed her with no good cause, wanted her far more than I ought.
“Why would I do that?” The mere thought of watching FinnClarke (Flarke? Clinn?) in their domestic bubble makes her head spin, mind racing with what might, and could, and would never have been.
Raven takes the opportunity to interject, sighing as if Lexa is some kind of moron. Maybe there's some truth to that.
“To make her jealous, you idiot. Play her at her own game.” She talks through a mouthful of fries, and Lexa doesn't have the heart to tell her that it's dangerous to ingest ~that much~ ketchup.
“I'm not that petty.”
Anya opens her mouth to protest, and Lexa cuts her off.
“Besides, I don't have anyone to make her jealous with.”
“I can fix that.” Anya swats her girlfriend with a napkin.
“I didn't mean me.” Raven turns to Lexa. When was the last time you spoke to Costia?”
Lexa visibly pales at the memory of last summer, when Raven rather literally locked Lexa and her once-crush in Anya's closet during the “haha how weird wow we're just friends lets pretend to be kissing” version of seven minutes in heaven. It was a l-o-n-g three hours.
Suffice to say, other than a strained “see you later,” they haven't spoken since.
Raven pulls out her phone- grinning like she's solved the answer to: life, the universe, and everything.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you a date for Saturday night. You're welcome.”
“Raven, no,” Lexa protests, but (secretly) she wonders if this might not be such a bad idea, after all. Not to use Costia as some sort of “points game,” no- she'd liked her once, couldn't she like her again, convince herself to move on? It's not as though she and Clarke ever dated, not even close, so surely it shouldn't be so hard to let go?
Something tells me that she will always be the one// forty years old and still checking my rear-view mirror, all for a glimpse of blue-blonde.
“Raven, yes. I'll let her know you're picking her up beforehand, minimise some of that awkwardness you're so prone to.”
“I highly doubt that Costia is going to agree to any of this.”
“Tell that to the phone.” Raven brandishes her cell, illuminated with an affirmation message from the girl in question.
This time last year, Lexa would have worn her crush on her sleeve, let the crumpled butterfly in her chest fly free. That was: “I like your face” innocence// this is “I think I love your mind” dangerous.
She forces a smile.
Lexa expects her to be late. Perhaps that's because she's spent the past month making plans with none other than Clarke Griffin, the same Clarke Griffin who has never been on time to anything in her entire existence, would arrive late to her own funeral if it clashed with her schedule.
When it mattered we were strangers on opposite sides of the same room, drawn, kissed; ended before midnight had a chance to bloom.
Instead, Costia is five minutes early, abruptly ceasing Lexa's stressed out steering wheel drumming, dashboard percussion. She gets into the car, a flurry of skirt and citrus perfume, and Lexa wonders how long she should wait before starting it up and driving off, if indeed she should wait at all.
“Hi, Lexa.”
“Hi. You look... really, um.... you look really nice.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Is it possible to drop dead from sheer discomfort? Lexa figures she should “clear the air” before it chokes them both, weighted under the tension of Raven's ridiculous (yet, in retrospect, mildly humorous) antics.
“About what happened last summer, at Anya's party...” she starts, with no clear direction, not entirely sure that it's a good place to begin the conversation.
Costia's eyes widen, bracelets jingling when she raises her hands to stop Lexa from talking.
“Don't even mention it,” she protests. “I'm just sorry I didn't call you afterwards.” She frowns down at leather interior, either musing or stalling. “I guess I was kind of embarrassed.”
“Oh. No, that's okay. I was too. Embarrassed, I mean.”
Costia smiles a real smile, teeth and all. Lexa does her best, manages a hint of gum. Nether of them say anything else, though it's not quite so awkward any more.
She tries to forget about the last time she was in this car, with Clarke, on the way back from watching some superhero blockbuster at the movies. Lexa was happy, and rightly so, sky crayoned gold as Clarke sang along to the radio.
I had hoped for sun soaked patio, bright lights that do not blind// little did I know, we belonged to harsher climes.
Lexa almost wished she'd leaned across and kissed her, tasted coconut popcorn and strawberry lip balm. Clarke would have kissed her back, she's sure; a memory to store in her glove compartment over winter. Would it have been worth it, she wonders?
“Uh, Lexa? Are you okay?”
Lexa clears her throat. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.”
She judges that now would be a good time to drive off into the sunset (or off a cliff) of their dinner date, meet with Clarke and contemplate the fact that this is probably a huge, horrible mistake.
Costia is painfully oblivious.
….........
Lexa brought a girl. Lexa decided to come tonight, after all, and she brought a girl along. Not just any girl- a pretty girl, a really pretty girl, and they're sitting as close as... well, as close as Lexa and Clarke, before Clarke went and screwed everything up.
In the candlelight, they could be mistaken for lovers. Hell, they're probably on the way there, at a pit stop called: “I could stare into your eyes for hours.” Clarke almost collapses on her way into the self-described “value dollar pizzeria!”- the actions of a girl whose boyfriend is not standing right beside her.
I hope I am the thorn in her side, the juice carton that separates their star crossed knuckles at breakfast time// call it selfish, this jealousy of mine, but I am the glass that holds her bitter wine.
“You invited her?” Finn half-hisses, casting pointed looks at the pair. Clarke is more than relieved when Octavia decides to put in an appearance, alongside her (non scowling) boyfriend, Lincoln.
Her own boyfriend's mood is faux brightened in an instant, no doubt safe-keeping his tantrum to hurl at Clarke later.
“Hey, guys. Have you seen Raven and Anya yet?” Octavia asks, and it's at this point that Clarke notices them- watching Lexa and Costia from behind their menus. Subtle.
“We should all move to one of those eight-seater booths!” Before anyone can disband this ill-informed plan (who the hell decided that tonight was a good idea, anyway? Oh, that's right, it was Clarke, her subconscious likely banking on making out with Lexa in the bathroom, returning to suffer through Finn's hand on her thigh under the table), Octavia is already approaching one of the waiters.
He appears to consent to the re-arrangement, gesturing in the direction of Lexa and Costia. Lexa looks up from her conversation, makes eye contact with Clarke for all of 0.2 seconds, then pretends to read the specials board behind her. It's nice to see they're getting past their difficulties.
Clarke (mentally, of course) downs a shot of tequila, lets Finn pull her towards their group table. I don't wish we hadn't met, not even now, not even if we're destined to live in polarised houses on the scattered edges of a small town.
She's stuck sitting next to the happy new couple, wedged between Finn and Lexa. Great. Lexa is all forced pleasantries, “hello Clarke,” and “this is Costia,” restrained by social courtesy. Clarke considers the merits of running out of the restaurant, seeking safety in her roof-top sanctuary.
She hasn't been back there without Lexa, the weed-virgin who made an almost perfect place wholly superlative.
“We should order one of those huge garlic breads!” Raven suggests, enthusiasm levels matching Octavia's buzz. Anya echoes her sentiments, browsing through the “happy hour” leaflet. In fact, everyone in the group seems to agree- except for one person.
“Clarke and I are sharing the spaghetti carbonara and caesar salad platter,” Finn interjects, without consulting her, or even looking at his own menu. Not that Clarke particularly cares at this point. She just wishes this whole thing was over.
“But Clarke hates salad.” Lexa covers her mouth with her napkin, almost comically, as if she didn't mean to invite herself into the conversation. “I mean, um...”
Finn looks like he's about to explode, supernova to a black hole. “Clarke loves salad,” he bites back, a four year old in a playground fight. (He's wrong, of course).
“I don't mind,” Clarke says quickly, desperate to defuse the situation.
Lexa stares at them for a long time, Clarke and Finn; the forever couple. Their paint is peeling, cracks surfacing, and Finn (math-major genius) doesn't even have the grace to squirm beneath her searching gaze.
Clarke almost finds herself liking Costia, when she (knowingly? unknowingly?) eases the trio's tension.
“So, Clarke, which colleges are you applying to?”
Finn takes it upon himself to reply for her. “She's studying Biology in Miami.”
Lexa doesn't say anything this time. She could, though. Clarke's face is blank as she listens to Finn ramble about how they'll be “less than an hour away from each other!”- mind running through every conversation she and Lexa have had about the future, about Clarke potentially applying to drama school.
I could be on top of her, my body a cover (from him, from them, from everything), and close still wouldn't be close enough// till, in gems, she's bound eternally mine- like the way the sand belongs only to the tide.
“That's if I get the grades I need to get in. Obviously, I have to keep my options open.” Or, maybe she just isn't so hyped about the idea of Finn “checking up on her” very weekend, an extension from high school to adulthood.
“You know, The New School is supposed to be a really good college,” Costia says, all smiles, the helpful girlfriend that Lexa oh so clearly deserves. Clarke can't even bring herself to hate her.
“That's a liberal arts college,” Finn spits, taking a sizeable bite from one of the complimentary bread rolls.
“Isn't Clarke an actress? Lexa was telling me they're in a play together.”
“That doesn't mean she's going to study a non-academic major.”
The intra-group dialogue soon falls flat, too late to join their counterparts' heated debate over season four of “Orange is the New Black.” Not for the first time, Clarke is embarrassed by Finn, frustrated with him, herself, their stupid relationship.
“What do you mean season three was 'the worst?' How could you even-”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Clarke mumbles, trying her best to walk at a (semi normal) speed away from the scene. Luckily, Finn can't find any excuse to start an argument with her bladder. Instead, he turns his attentions to critiquing the condiments brought over by their waiter.
Jesus Christ.
Lexa follows her.
Clarke almost pokes herself in the eye with her mascara wand, a string of curse words echoing around the (almost) empty room.
“Clarke?”
“Lexa, if you're pissed at me for not correcting Finn about my college plans, I get it, okay. But I really can't deal with you yelling at me right-”
She hugs her. The gesture catches Clarke completely off-guard, back colliding with the handle of a silver tap. Lexa's arms are wound around her waist, both hearts beating erratically in open cages. It's dangerous somehow, like cheating and betrayal, infinitely more intimate than every almost kiss that broke the rules.
They hold on for what feels like forever (a few seconds?), until reaching the conclusion that the embrace is “getting weird.”
We weren't destined, weren't even a good fit, I just wanted a non textbook confluence with my fingers resting on her hip. (What a lie, a bad one at that, I loved her so much, got a sixth sense that she loved me back).
“Tell me.”
Lexa doesn't have to expand on her question, Clarke knows that she's asking about the elephant in the restroom.
“I can't. You don't get it, Finn isn't usually like this.” (A lie). “He's just....”
“He's the worst.”
Clarke should defend her boyfriend, act the part of the dutiful partner. She doesn't.
“Clarke, the way he treats you-”
“Is none of your business.”
Lexa isn't mad, not like she was in the theatre. She had banked on her storming out in a flurry of amateur dramatics, leaving Clarke to play the injured party. Now she's going to have to do the storming.
“You deserve better,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke could cry at how damned gentle and soft she sounds, nervously toying with the hem of her shirt. The term “fondness” comes to mind, but Clarke knows, fears, that this is so much more than mere camellia (you're adorable). “Like Olivia and Viola deserved better.”
“That's a play, Lexa.”
She deserved the solar system- Mars and Saturn turned to pocket-sized thimbles. The best I could do, a model of flesh and bone, was to teach her the names of constellations.
“I know, but-”
“What the hell is taking you so long?”
They spring apart upon Raven's arrival, retreating to opposite ends of the tiny bathroom. Clarke picks up her purse from the sink ledge, prepares to re-enter a dinner date cooked up by Satan himself.
“I can't talk about this right now,” she tells Lexa, in lieu of explanation, not willing to reveal any more in front of Raven, now listening in earnest.
“Clarke, can we...”
She leaves in perfect parallel.