Okay, so a word of warning; Clarke's one big mess here. I suggest listening to One Night by Chrsitna Perri, Holes in The Sky by M83 and Juliet's Dream by Abel Korzeniowski, becasue these are the songs I've been writing this story. I hope you'll enjoy it; please drop me comment and let me know what you think about it. :)
If nothing can save of from death,
may love at least save us from life.
- Pablo Neruda
It is one of those nights, too bright, too vast, all contrasts; hot , heavy air filled with the sharp scent of dirt and lemons and too many people crammed in too little space, time going simultaneously on slow motion and in fast forward; weird and strange and wonderful.
Clarke goes down on Bellamy; her damp hair escape from the messy bun on the top of her head and sticks to the back of her neck. Her head feels dizzy; she cannot get her thoughts straight, it' just-
Too bright, too vast, too endless.
She's on her knees and it feels a bit like praying, but she has no idea where her God is anymore.
Alive – she thinks.-
Alive.
1.
- It's going to be a storm tomorrow. – says Raven.- They said so on the weather forecast.
- You understood Czech weather forecast? – chuckles Clarke, standing behind her.
Raven is sitting on the window sill, her long legs hanging out of the window, hair messed up by the wind. Prague beneath them feels like a living breathing creatures; couples are standing on the bridges, their shoulders brushing, there's a party nearby and they can hear loud music and swirling laser lights, lamp posts are flickering and calm half-moon seems to look at it all from its place up on the sky.
I'm really good at understanding body language. – Raven winks and Clarke laughs, leaning down to press her lips to her shoulder. There are stars tattooed here; Scorpio constellation, Raven's favorite and her zodiac sigh. Raven turns head around to kiss her on the lips and Clarke sighs, tangling her fingers in her long brown hair.
….
Raven falls asleep a little later because she's tired and jet lagged, but Clarke forces herself to take a shower and dress up nicely. It's Sunday and for Clarke, Sunday still means mass.
She has no idea why. She wouldn't call herself religious and certainty doesn't feel any connection with the institution of Roman Catholic Church whatsoever, not even mentioning being a part of it. But she grew up going to church every Sunday and sinking down on her knees every evening before sleep and she can still hear her dad's voice reciting prayers, like melodies imprinted in her mind and it's just kind of an inside obligation for her.
Her dad believed, she guesses. But he's not there anymore and that's all she has left; marble floors and bruised knees and old poems for God made out of gold and wood and pain.
The only church she found that has got a mass that late is a good half an hour walk from the hotel she's staying in and she manages to get lost twice before she gets there. It's mostly empty; she finds a place to sit easily, next to a dark-skinned man that seems to be asleep, his forehead pressed to one of columns, hands fisted, . Words of the preacher and the people around her are foreign but they somehow feel familiar; Clarke has attended thousands of thousands of masses in her life and she knows their rhythm by heart. She spots the moment they start to recite Our Father and joins in, mouthing English words quietly.
Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name-
Suddenly, she turns her head to look at the guy sitting next to her. His eyes are still closed, but he is praying; not in Czech though and not in English.
Ama namin, sumasalangit Ka Sambahin ang ngalan Mo Mapasaamin ang kaharian Mo Sundin ang loob Mo Dito sa lupa, para nang sa langit.
Words are slipping from his tongue like a river, lowing and raising up, something so strange in the way they seem to capture the meaning of this prayer perfectly, how they seem to get straight into her heart and make it stop beating for a moment.
….
Excuse me, do you speak English?- she asks him after the mass, her voice stopping him halfway through the doors.
He turns around and nods. She takes a few steps until she faces him; there's a whole snowstorm of freckles on his face and his eyes are bright, sleepy, with lids half-down.
Can you tell me what was the language you were praying in? It was- it was beautiful.- surprisingly, she finds herself blushing. He straightens his back a little bit and seems more awake; he studies her face before he says:
Tagalog. It's Philippine.
….
She buys him a coffee in a café on a railway station; he hold it in his hands for a moment, watching a stream slowly evaporate before he takes a first sip. Clarke is not sure why she asked him where he's going and why she told him she'll go with him.
But truth to be told, she hasn't been sure of what she's doing since she quit med school. And going to sit and wait for the train in a railway station in Prague in the middle of the night with a cute random stranger she met during the mass is not her best idea, but it's also certainly not her worst.
A waitress with thick, red hair brings her a scone and she bites off a piece of it, absentmindedly trying to deal with a loose streak of hair that kept on falling on her eyes.
There. – he says and tucks it behind her ear, securing it on place with a bobby pin he seems to conjure up from thin air.
They lock eyes. She must look surprised, because he leans on the chair again and sends her crooked smile.
Your struggle was painful to look at. Sorry.
She chuckles and shakes her head.
Nah, thank you. They seem to always disappear as soon as I buy them.- she says, pointing at the bobby pin. – Were are you heading, again?
Lourdes. – he crushes a bit of his two-days old muffin between two fingers and licks his bottom lip, which seems to be a nervous habit.- You? Staying here, or is it just a stop on a way somewhere else?
Just here. Me and my friend decided to spend a spring break somewhere far after it turned out we were dating the same guy… me for a semester and her for five years.
His eyebrows shot up.
Wow. Don't take it wrong but- douche. And you two just blow the guy and became friends?
Exactly. – she nods head and finishes the scone. – Girl power and all that jazz. But New York seemed too much, you know? We needed a change of air for some time.
''A change of air'' seems a bit like an understatement since she basically blew it all, quit med school, stopped talking with her mum , completely changed her social circle and stopped bothering worrying about what people think about her. Clarke's pretty sure Raven only agreed to come with her on this trip because she was afraid of what Clarke might do all alone in Europe.
He's looking at her in this way again, like in the church; like she was a riddle he'd like to solve. He catches her off guard and before she knows, she's telling him it all; how Finn was not something important, just a thing that finally made her lost her balance, how her dad and Wells and med school and everything and fuck, she didn't tell half of those things anyone, not even Raven and her mum but she tells them all to this stranger, words spilling from her mouth , endlessly.
And he listens, brows furrowed, a tiny little wrinkle between them, mug of cold coffee in his clenched hands. And when she finishes and feels like she has suddenly ran out of air, he slowly takes her hand and squeezes it until it hurts, until she's on the ground again.
She blinks a couple of times and clears her throat before she says:
Thank you.- not being sure of what she's thanking him for.
He just nods sharply, his eyes heavy on her in a new way; lingering on the curves of her shoulders in her thin pink dress, following the lines of the tattoo on the top of her breast and disappearing under the material, his brown eyes searching her blue ones.
And she can feel it deep in her bones; the steady build up, something twisting deep inside her belly, her heart beating twice as fast as it should.
And then she does it, before she can even stop herself.
Do you .. maybe by a chance… need a company?
At first, he looks like he's thinking she's joking. She doesn't blame him- she's not sure she's serious herself.
But then something inside him snaps and his whole face light up.
My name is Bellamy… Princess.- he chuckles, pointing with his chin on the golden watch on her wrist.
Clarke.
2.
From Prague to Warsaw from Warsaw to Paris from Paris to Lourdes.
She left Raven one message; Raven leaves thousands messages and phone calls and whattheHELLareyoudoing-s and at one point Clarke just texts her leave it, Rae and turns off her phone.
It's 3 A.M and they're sitting on a station – again- and she's still wearing her dress, but they're in Paris now and he gave her his exceptionally ugly knitted sweater because she was shivering. She used her black American Express emergency card to buy train tickets and endless rows of cups of coffee and she's still not sure anything around her happens for real, because this surely tops every crazy thing she has ever done in her entire life.
Sharp, piercing screams of trains keep on waking her up from naps, so she gave up sleeping all together, but Bellamy doesn't seem to have this problem, as he's apparently one of those assholes that can fall asleep in every circumstances, provided they have some kind of flat surface to lean on; he sleeps with a cheek pressed to the cool wall of the waiting room. His curls are messy, but he looks kinda cute with it. Clarke highly doubts she looks even half as cute with the rat's nests she's currently having on her head. She left with no toiletries and no clothes; only passport, phone and a wallet, so she doesn't even have a way to fix it. She tries to comb it with fingers, when Bellamy's warm hand catches her wrist.
Leave it, Princess. – he mumbles sleepily.- It's good.
She blushes.
Bellamy doesn't have a lot of luggage himself; just an old suitcase that clearly has seen better days. Clarke puts her feet on it and nests herself on the bench, closer to Bellamy, until she lays spread, leaning on his side. She closes her eyes and dozes off.
3.
Lourdes is big and small in the same time.
Tourists are everywhere. Very catholic tourists, mind you, very proper, old German tourists, very loud, old Polish tourists; in general, old tourists.
It's a late evening when they arrive, but they still make quite a show; Bellamy with an old suitcase, torn-up jeans and black t-shirt, side by side with Clarke with brown sweeter over light pink dress, her hair tied up with an elastic she found on the bottom of her brown leather bag and lines of smudged eye shadows and mascara on her cheek and under her eyes.
When they were in the train from Prague to Warsaw, Bellamy told her why exactly he's going to Lourdes.
My mum was born there. – he said, tapping fingers on his knee.- Her parents didn't want to have anything in common with her after she moved to America, but- she died two years ago and out of the blue, two months ago they called me and told me to come and take some of her stuff she left all those year ago. Don't even know why. Octavia – my sister, she wanted to go but she has school and nothing pressing kept me in New York anyway, so.- he shrugged, looking at her for the first time he has started talking about it.
She went through all the thing he told her and decided not to dive into any deep stuff. If he wanted to talk about it, he would've when she basically told him her whole backstory up to this point in Prague.
So, you're from New York too? Where exactly do you live?- she asked casually.
She saw gratefulness in his eyes.
They ask a few people for directions and it takes them some time until they found a person who can communicate in English well enough to actually help them. But it's late, and they've been sleeping in trains and on stations for two days straight and Clarke really needs to take a shower, so she tucks on Bellamy's sleeve and points on the nearest hotel.
They go straight to the room and Bellamy showers first while Clarke talks on the phone with Raven – who sounds suspiciously like her mother- and then Clarke showers and when she comes back wearing shorts she bought in the shop in hotel lobby, he's standing near the window and looking out and Clarke's hit by the sudden de ja vu, of how Raven did exactly the same in their room in Prague.
Why did you do this? – he asks, not looking at her.- Why did you just randomly decide to totally blow off your friend and go to France with a total stranger?
Clarke takes a few steps and stands next to him. It's quiet and dark outside and nobody walks on the streets and she takes a deep breath of cool, night air.
I don't know. – she says honestly.- I still ask myself the same question. Maybe because of the church.
Because of the church what?- he's still not looking at her; his eyes seem to be stuck on the half moon on the sky, the same as in Prague.
We were both strangers there. – Clarke shrugs.- And.. well, I haven't asked you about this, but I wasn't interested in that mass and you didn't seemed either. It looked more like a … calming ritual? For me. And for you too.
For a moment, they're both quiet and then he nods his head sharply.
You were right. I'm not religious. – he turns around, leans on the window sill and faces her.- When my grandparents called me, I wasn't sure what to do. But when I actually decided to go, I booked tickets to Prague, not Lourdes; even though it would be so much easier to go straight to France. My parents.. my parents met in Prague.- he takes her hand and absentmindedly starts to play with the ring on her finger. – I never knew my father, he died before I turned one. But he taught my mother Tagalog and she taught me. And he was Catholic, so. She used to sing Our Father in Tagalog to me as a lullaby. And then I sang it to my sister.- he smiles, but it seems more like a smile to himself, or his memories.
She studies him, his cheekbones and messy curls and his whole silhouette outlined by the moonlight and then she slowly raises her hand to touch his cheek.
When he looks down on her, she just lets it go and kisses him.
And there it is.
And there it is, all the glory, all the beauty and strange- ness and wonderfulness of not knowing anything at all, but feeling, feeling you know everything about this other person standing in front of you and enwinding fingers into your hair, cupping your cheeks, locking arms around your waist to pick you up.
And there it is.
Moaning your name into your skin, filling you up until there's not an inch of emptiness inside you, until you feel like the whole night and all the stars were dancing on the sky, like on Van Gogh's painting and in a really, really good dreams.
4.
Next evening, they eat crepes for a dinner and drink red wine ; a big, cardboard box filled with Aurora Blake's stuff sitting between them like a third person.
Bellamy's grandfather explained in broken English that's mostly old books and diaries, things they found while they had been cleaning the mess in the attic. His grandmother stayed quiet until the very end; when they were about to leave, she walked to the Bellamy and looked him into eyes for a moment.
You look like her.- she said. And then, very quietly.- I'm sorry.
Are you going to open it?- asks Clarke, pointing at the box.
Yes, but not here.- Bellamy takes a sip of wine and waves on the waiter to take their plates.- Octavia deserves to be there too.
Clarke leans on the chair. She wonders what next. Will Raven even let her inside the room, after she left her with basically no explanation? And for what? To hook up with a stranger in a very catholic village in France?
You know what happened here? Marian apparitions. To the Bernadette Soubirous when she was 14. At least that's what Wikipedia told me. – she says, looking around, watching with amusement as a Polish tourist in socks loses one sandal on the street and has to come back for it.
Clarke.
She is a saint now. The girl, I mean.
Clarke.
What? – she snaps at him.
What are you going to do now?
She shrugs.
I'll probably go back. It'll be almost the end of our trip anyway, by the time I get there. And then we'll fly back to New York and Raven will never speak to me again. You?
Can you give me your number?
5.
Raven isn't angry.
She is furious.
What the fuck where you thinking Clarke? Oh, wait. You weren't thinking at all! – she waves her hands in the air, going back and forth across their room. – We go to Prague and it's so great and then, after one day, you just fucking disappear and leave me for five fucking days to go across the Europe with some random guy with no explanation and no reason!
She sinks down on the armchair and takes a deep breath to calm herself down.
Look, I know it's hard for you. Really. But you can't just.. You can't just do this kind of things, Clarke. I was so worried. – her voice breaks down a bit
Clarke wraps her arms around Raven's neck and lets her sob.
I'm so sorry, Rae. I'm so sorry.
Can you at least tell me why?
Raven's voice is muffed, barely a whisper, her hair smells like Clarke's mint shampoo and Clarke pats her back gently and looks out of the window; sky so dark almost black, no stars, moon hidden behind clouds. It's still raining and the smell lingers in the air.
I- it was right, Raven. I can't remember when I last felt like I'm doing the right thing, but meeting him- it felt really, really right.
Raven kisses her shoulder and they just stand like that for a while, but deep in their thoughts, rain tapping a whole symphony on the roof, Clarke's phone screen lightning up when she gets a message.
Have a safe travel home, Princess
6.
New York couldn't be less appealing .
It's cold and unpleasant and in all the shades of grey and Clarke throws out pretty much all of her things and then spends most of her time stealing newspapers from her neighbor's , miss Evelyn's, doormat, and spreading them on the floor of her flat while she paints all the walls white.
She also flat out refuses to function properly and call Bellamy.
Three weeks after coming back, her mother calls and they get into fight and Clarke throws her phone out of the window, so she can't even do that now. But it brings her some kind of peace; nobody bothers her anymore, Raven worried but still a bit angry at her, showing up few times a week to poke her with spare brushes as she paints and dropping her some food that's not peanut butter.
Today, she left five red apples and Clarke eats them all, one by one, while sitting crossed-legged on newspaper covered floor and getting her black shirt and hair ruined by still wet white paint. She traces the outline of the anatomically correct heart just above her real one, wondering why they're both so silent, so cold, so unable to start working again.
She decided she wanted her first tattoo as a whim. She was seventeen and a bit drunk and wanted to let her hair down a bit, so she sketched it on a tissue with a lip liner and went to the nearest tattoo parlor and demanded to have it above her right kidney.
Two tiny koi fishes forming a circle, pale blue and pale pink one and her mother could never know, but she showed it to her father and he kissed her temple and told her it was beautiful.
Three weeks later, he was locked inside of the coffin and Clarke had an urge to scream whenever she saw it while dressing up.
When it stopped hurting so much, she made another one, just for her dad; bright star between her breasts in white ink, delicate and translucent, barely even there; but like a scar, like a constant reminder.
Then Wells happened and all she wanted to do, was to forget.
Heart is her third one. Finn's idea.
It's weird, she thinks. It's weird how she went through all this shit, held her head high on two funerals and buried two men that meant a world for her, but all it took was the betrayal of the one she didn't really care about for her to break down completely.
She was holding a scalpel in her hand and she started to choke and it was all so wrong, so, so wrong, so she dropped it on the floor and run away, her hands shaking violently as she was puking her guts out in the toilet still in green scrubs and crying so hard she couldn't even breath.
She couldn't breathe then and ever since then. For the exception of the time, when she was breathing the same air as Bellamy Blake.
She wonders where he is now. She wonders if he wonders why she didn't call.
She wishes she did.
It's two a.m. and it's lonely and she really, really wishes she did.
7.
Sometimes she dreams about it.
About how Wells' body was still warm when she touched and she how blood sticked to her fingers, scarlet crescents under her fingernails; how his eyes were still open and small knife still sticking out of his neck.
About her father's closed coffin and her mother wretched sobs after she came back from identifying it, about bullets and white silence.
Sometimes she dreams about murdering people; memories from different life, knife in her hand, gun in her hand, your fault, your fault, your fault.
8.
She spots the book by a total accident. She's was forced to leave apartment and to buy some more newspapers because apparently miss Evelyn wakes up at six now to get them before Clarke can steal them, so Clarke buttons up her coat and shockingly discovers it's almost winter. Air smells frosty, street lights are bright and it's only 7 p.m.
She pays for a thick pack of randomly picked newspapers, when she sees it.
The Rebel King by Bellamy Blake in black cover with the title in white letters and delicate, sketchy outline of a crown underneath it.
No fucking way, she thinks.
…..
She reads it whole and finishes at four a.m., her eyes red and puffy and tired and her whole body weary.
She does know Bellamy's story well enough to know that this book is, for most part, autobiographical, and that's the part that makes her ache most.
She remembers his low voice, whole galaxies of freckles, strong jawline, kind worlds, gentle hands, kisses, thrusts, touches, the sound of trains, bright artificial lights on train station, red wine staining his shirt's collar.
All this loss and heartbreak and it only made him kind.
She absent -mindedly braids and re-braids her hair feeling very, very lonely and not lonely and the same time.
She should've called.
9.
It's fucking tough. Getting up, wearing normal clothes, applying, getting her shit together.
It's a fucking torture.
But Raven smiles now, when she sees her, calluses are not so bad as she thought they would be, brushes feel good in her hands and she's tired of being dead and, at the end of the day, she can just curl up with Bellamy's book and read it and not feel alone for a moment, before the lights go down and the day is ending and it's a bit easier, then.
On the day of her first classes, she draws him, sitting by the kitchen table, trying desperately to capture every detail, trying desperately not to forget.
10.
- One vanilla latte, please.
- Clarke?
-..
- You didn't call.
- I threw my phone out of the widow.
- It certainly sounds like you.
- You're absolutely the only person who would say so.
…
Seriously, though. – he says, tapping delicately on the cover of the book on his laps.- They're like twenty million people living here and God knows how many Starbuck's but you show up here at midnight and I'm on the shift I'm not usually on? This is some deep shit. Planets aligned, we're destined.
She chuckles in her coffee, de ja vu from Prague hard and unexpected. It is some deep shit, truly.
You haven't told me that you're a writer.
Bellamy's neck reddens a bit; it's kind of endearing and really, distracting, honestly.
We didn't really get to these kind of questions. How do you know?
I read your book.- she reaches for her bag and puts the book out of it, showing him.- Couple of times, actually. It's really…- she bites on her lip, trying to find right comparison.- .. inspirational.
I'm sorry, I know you meant well, but this word is too connected to pinterest for me, to take it as a praise.
She hits him gently with a book, trying not to laugh. She smiles more during this one conversation than she did during whole three months since she came back from Prague.
Asshole.
Princess.
It was my dad's.
He looks at her, confused, so she points at her watch and explains.
It was my dad's. It was the first thing he bought after his company started to make money. Ha valued hard work, following your dreams. I locked myself up in my flat and did nothing for two month before your book reminded me he wanted me to be more than this.
Bellamy's quiet for a moment, looking down at his coffee and then up, his eyes meeting with hers, soft and understanding.
So, what did you do? With your life, I mean?
She grins and hands him her sketchbook.
This.
Rebel King looks like Bellamy, only a bit messier, wilder. Flames inside of him, hair messy and crooked smile.
And by this, I don't mean fanart. I'm in an art school. I want to be an illustrator. And if I'll end up starving on the streets like my mum predicts, then – she shrugs.- at least I can always blame it on you.
Bellamy's smile is so much brighter than the lights in the café. It's even brighter than the moon itself.
And she wants to ask him about so many things, she wants to learn about him so, so much more; but when they're leaning towards each other more and more in dimmed lights at midnight, even without thinking, lazily, gravitation pulling them together- Clarke breaths easily and thinks; we have time.
11.
It's 4 a.m. and Clarke can't fucking breath.
Her new cell lays by her mattress and she spends two solid minutes desperately looking for it in the darkness, until she clutches on it, like it's her lifeline.
I'm going to call Raven.
Clarke?
Bellamy, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I-
Princess. Hey, Princess, relax, okay? Listen to me.
She lets out a choked sob and collapses on the mattress, phone pressed to her ear, knuckles white.
Can you just talk to me, please? I know it's late I just- please. Please, tell ma story, Bell.
She hears him breathing and then.
Okay. But you have to fucking breathe, Princess. Promise me.
Okay.
Okay. Do you want to hear a story? About a spring goddess who had a darkness inside and about the man who was whole made of darkness, but craved her for everything she was?
Hades and Persephone is my favorite myth.- she whispers, closing her eyes, her heart more steady with every passing minute, his voice only thing in the darkness, until she falls sleep.
12.
They're laying on her bed- because she has a proper one, now- and she points to different parts of the room.
There's going to be a wardrobe in this corner. And a desk. And canvas.
You should buy an aquarium.- Bellamy smirks, propping himself up on elbows, watching her with silent amusement at her enthusiasm. She would feel embarrassed, but it feels damn good to be excited about something, so she lets it be.
Why would I need an aquarium?
He shrugs and turns, so that his head is pressed to her tight. She caresses his hair.
I heard that watching fish is very calming.
You are calming.- she says without even thing about it, and he literally freezes under her touch, but she continues anyway.- It's magic. Pure magic, the way you can calm me down. Raven think's you're a witch.
I'm actually pretty sure Raven's a witch.- she can hear he's smiling again.- And griffin taming is not that hard as it might look like.
Somehow, in span of these two months he's grown in her life in the way nobody has ever did. And even though she still feels this panic, the panic that stopped her from calling him right went she got back to New York – she just tells it to shut the fuck up. She still keeps some distance, but it's harder to do so every day and she also can see less and less reasons to keep trying.
He picks up her hand to look at the watch on her wrist.
It's late. I gotta go home. – he's about to sit up, when she puts hand on his chest to stop him.
No, Bellamy.
He's looking at her, confused, but also- something else boiling under the surface, when she has hair braided in a crown around her head and tiny sleep shirts and too big aerosmith shirt. He wants to stay. She wants him to stay.
So it's easy.
Please, stay.
13.
Emergency stairs are cold as hell.
She breaths out and turns her head to face him. He's so close their noses are touching and she can see every single of one of his freckles, the mists of their breaths forming one cloud on icy, winter air.
Their lips are inches apart.
Would it really kill you.- he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, eyes as dark as the night.- if we kissed?
Would it ? Yes. Yes, it would. Yes, it will, because she leans down without even meaning to do so, it's like a muscle memory of another life and they're in Lourdes again and he puts his arms around her waist pulling her closer and closer and she puts right hand on the back of her neck, combing his curls with her fingers and she puts left hand on his cheek, feeling cold, frost-kissed skin and they both shiver and-
And oh my god, it's fucking beautiful. He bites on her lower lip until she moans and his had slip under her coat and she stops kissing his lips to kiss his jawline and he signs, one long, shaking breath , their hearts beating loud as drums, pigeons searching for crumbs around them, miss Evelyn watching Keeping up with Kardashians in the flat below them and the sound of police sirens on the streets, but all these things doesn't matter at all, because Bellamy's fingers are caressing her spine and her whole skin feels like it was electrocuted and everything spins around them.
She bits his earlobe and he kisses her neck and she can feel everything and it feels-
Right.
….
- Lay down- she says, putting her hand on his chest and delicately pushing him on his back until he's sprayed on the bed in front of her, his eyes so dark that brown areolas are almost gone, his lips slightly parted. She straddles him and leans down to kiss his forehead.
- Now, this is my magic. – she whispers, dripping a finger in a dark-blue paint and spreads it on his chest. He shivers under her touch and closes eyes, throws his head back and lays still under her as she paints him with swirling lines of blue and black and golden and silver; star and moons and suns and constellations, Aurora Borealis shining brightly just above his heart, Leo ready to jump on his left hip bone, her Cancer on his kidney.
Sheets and her fingers and hair and everything covered in paint by the time she ends; she presses her lips to his cheek and takes his hands in her.
- Stand up.- she commands.- And keep your eyes closed.
She leads him in front of the mirror and stands behind him; half naked with the exception of a bra and paint spattered sleep shorts, she wraps her arms around him and stands on her tip toes to rest her chin on his shoulder and whispers – now you can open them.- into his ear.
It's all magic; his dark hair and her golden ones like day and night; their legs tangled, New York bright and loud behind the wide open window reflecting in the background and a whole universe on him, on his chest, his face, his hands and neck.
He inhales sharply by stands still, his heartbeat rising and rising and she feeling it with her hand pressed to his chest until she raises it and he sees Aurora Borealis, beautiful and there, right there and he turns around to hide his face in the crook of her neck.
The paint is still wet and its completely all over her now but-
Well, you can't exactly blame her for not giving a damn about it, right?
13. 'Vendi, Vidi, Amavi'
Text: Bellamy Blake
Illustrations: Clarke Griffin
What if Hades isn't the villain of this story? What if Persephone is as much the goddess of spring as she's the queen of underworld? What if nobody was captured, nobody was raped, nobody was tricked- what if there's not a tragedy, but a story with a happy ending?
And what happens, when two empty souls search for each other for centuries, before the can finally find peace in each other?
Sometimes it's not about conquering; sometimes it's about loving
….
It's very, very late and they should probably go to sleep now, but they just can't- Bellamy opens another bottle of champagne, soaking his white shirt with it and Clarke is giggling, sitting in the armchair with her bare legs propped on the table and pink, lace dress tucked up and rolling around her waist, cheeks blushed, fancy up do coming undone.
Cheers to the first place on fucking New York Time's bestseller list. - screams Bellamy, raising his ' Proud Nerd ' cup she bought him last year on Christmas, because they don't actually own proper champagne glasses.
Clarke claps, laughing with her head thrown away, because he looks fucking ridiculous and when she calms down, he's looking at her, all soft and loving, like after a very, very long day when he comes home pissed at everything and she waits for him smelling like charcoals and with ink stained fingers and drops small kisses on his face until he agrees to give her a piggy back ride to their bed.
We did it, didn't we?- she says quietly, as he kneels beside armchair and puts his head on her laps. – We really did it, Bellamy.
Yeah. – he signs, his warm breath caressing her skin and she shivers, combing through his hair with her finger.
Clarke looks up; their big window catches the light of the city and the stars and the moon and reflects the outline of the two of them, Clarke still sitting on the armchair, Bellamy's hands creeping up her tights, his faced buried in the material of her dress, his lips pressed to her skin.
They did it. And it's good the way it is, it's really, really good. Because she loves this boy and this boy loves her and outside the window, high on the sky, stars are dancing their infinite dance and they'll be dancing when they're both dead and gone and long forgotten but that's okay too
For Bellamy, who gave words to my stories when they were speechless.
For Clarke, who told my blind stories to open up their eyes and see the world she created for them.