Dwa serduszka, cztery oczy
Ojojoj
Co płakały we dnie, w nocy
Ojojoj
Czarne oczka, co płaczecie
Że się spotkać nie możecie
Że się spotkać nie możecie
Oj oj joj
Two hearts and two pairs of dark eyes
Oh my my
Which has cried all day and night
Oh my my
Dark eyes, why are you still crying
That you cannot meet another
That you cannot meet another
Oh my my
PART ONE: poland
1948
The rumors spread through villages faster than newspapers, or radio, or horses. People gossip on the fields, on the markets, during weddings and funerals and in-between picking apples and potatoes. They speak, in various versions and forms of the same story, about people from Warsaw traveling through the region, stopping here and there – asking people to sing and dance, recording everything on some strange machine with spinning wheels on top of it-
(later Bellamy learns that this machine is called a recorder, that there are two tapes wrapped around each of the wheels and that one's voice sounds so very different if it's captured like that – but for now he's ankles' deep in cold mud, his hands digging in soil in fruitless attempt to find just one more carrot. And for now, he doesn't care about any of this, not at all.)
- And that they are looking for pretty country girls with clean altos and young country boys with strong legs who can jump higher than the others and hoist a girl up above their heads during dancing. The kids that want out of the village, the mud and the potatoes, lured by the promises of big cities and clean beds.
But these are all rumors and they travel fast, faster than the strange visitors from Warsaw. Their car eventually comes, almost forgotten and definitely unexpected, and Bellamy is away, helping with harvest in the neighboring village.
When he comes home, he finds Octavia sitting on the threshold; her hair is in two neat braids tied with her best ribbons, her cheeks are pink from excitement and her eyes are shining when she grabs his hand;
"Bell." She gasps, voice trembling, feverish. "Bell, you won't believe what has just happened."
Bellamy doesn't even remember not singing.
His mother used to sing all the time, even when she was sick and dying; even when her voice became quieter and quieter, barely above whisper and cough fits frequently interrupting her song. She was singing while sewing and while cooking and while trying to calm a fussing Octavia. And Bellamy singed along her, with his boyish, high-pitch alto. He would go to the field with others and sing with them harvest songs that helped them keep the rhythm, against cold rain and scorching sun, that urged you to push on when your back was killing you and your hands were giving up. Songs tied their little rural community better than anything else, linked them together into one sweating, working, singing organism. Every season of the year and every occasion passed with a fitting melody, with words that everybody knew and movements which have been imprinted in their minds since the birth.
Bellamy could tell the whole history of his family like this. As his voice was getting deeper and deeper, dropping in octaves seeming every month, as his mother's voice was becoming weaker and weaker, the third voice was joining their symphony more and more often. Octavia was loud since the very beginning; loud and bold, crisp clean as the ringing of a church's bell. And although she was a good enough singer – not that Bellamy was even an expert in the field of music – she loved dancing way more, tapping her little feet on the ground, spinning on the blooming fields and happiest, when she could dance in circles along with other girls during weddings and festivals.
The older she would get, the more evident it became; her body never loosing its childlike flexibility, but becoming graceful, agile. Dark hair waving and flowing around her face, dress swooshing around her calves, never tired, never satisfied. Bellamy could see it, the way boys at the village were looking at her, and every time he caught somebody red-handed at staring at his baby sister, this violent anger would overcome his body; because the older she got the more evident it became that she did not belong here. She was too good, too bright. She deserved something better than those hungry boys. She deserved to be dancing on the stages, to receive standing ovation and bouquets of red roses.
Bellamy desperately didn't want her to just stay in the same place where she was so unfairly born, in mud and poverty, with her hands stained with dirt and eyes aching from sewing in the dimed light of a candle. Dying in childbirth or from pox or flu or hunger or war. Raped in the forest or behind a barn and left with a growing belly and disgust in their neighbors' eyes.
His little sister was too good for it. Too bright.
But what could he do? How could he get her out of this? How could he buy her a golden future without any money or any connections and or perspectives?
The opportunity fell from the sky like the rain; arrived to a village while he was away, in a car and with a recorder that captured O's voice for forever.
And so, when Octavia grabs his hands in hers and asks him, so hopeful and so desperate, to come with her to the audition, he can do nothing but quietly say yes, not daring to believe somebody could've been listening to his silent prayers all along and finally answered them.
The first thing he notices is that the girl sitting behind a table cannot be older than him, which is really strange. There is an older woman be her side and a man standing in the corner of the room with recorder placed on the chair by his side, but the girl whose gaze meet his eyes when they enter can't be more than eighteen years old, or even less.
With her baby blue eyes and straw blonde hair braided tightly, she would look just like any other pretty country girl he has ever seen, if it wasn't for her hands. They rest atop a pile of papers and they are so white and smooth and unspoiled by any work that it's almost shocking. Long, almond-shaped nails with no dirt underneath them. White skin, no blemishes, or callouses.
Lady's hands.
Beside him, Octavia tries to curtsy, clumsy for the first time ever; she sways a little and he has to steady her by grabbing her elbow. Lady's eyebrows shoot up but she doesn't comment; instead, she nods as for hello and asks them about their names.
The song that they prepared – they, because O begged him, begged him desperately while tugging on his sleeves and making puppy eyes, not to leave her alone, she didn't want to come in alone – is a love ballad, a sad one (of course. All their love ballads are sad; there are no happy endings here). Usually, probably two women would sing it, not a mixed-sex duet, but who cares about it anyway.
Bellamy takes a deep breath, grips O's sweaty hand tighter and clears his head. It's not the first time he sings his song and he's not nervous about his voice, but he doesn't want to drown Octavia's. He wants his baritone to be a setting, a deep, dark background for O's silver bells.
Jo za wodom, ty za wodom
Jakoz jo ci gembe podom
[Me overseas, you overseas
How will I kiss you?]
After they stop singing, nobody speaks for a moment. The silence rings in his ears before the older women notes something on the paper in front of her, nods to the men in the corner and tells them "Thank you", dismissing them with a wave of her hand. But as they're turning away, a voice echoes:
"Wait!"
The blond girl stands up, papers scattering on the table with her sudden movement. She looks straight into his eyes, more bashfully than any other woman before, her blue eyes piercing through his as the narrow ray of light.
"You have the same surname. Are you her husband or a brother?" she asks, surprisingly lowly for a girl her age.
Bellamy bristles at the question automatically, but supposes it is understandable; they are not as similar to one another that she could know it for sure without asking.
"I'm her older brother, miss." He says. Octavia eyes him warily as if she was asking him to not say anything inappropriate.
The blonde nods.
"I understand. Comrade Blake, do you know how to dance? We only had a chance to see your sister."
The older woman is still sitting down. She looks up at the girl with such a pointed amazement, that Bellamy can almost see question marks popping above her head.
"He can." Octavia jumps in, before he can even open his mouth. " And he's strong, he can lift a girl up and everything. And he knows all of the steps, just as I told you-"
"Do you?" the blonde interrupts Octavia's babble; she's still staring at Bellamy as he can feel this stare as a physical touch. Shivers run up and down his spine.
"I do know how to dance, miss."
She nods slowly and sits down; collects papers together in a neat pile with one smooth gesture and leans to the left to scribble something on the same page that the older woman previously marked.
"Thank you, you two. And please, call me Clarke."
"Clarke, we have enough boys. I think he's too old-"
"Mom, you allowed me to take part in the audition, you asked me to be here, so why don't you respect my decisions?"
"I'm just saying this girl is enough, we don't need both of them. And his voice's not even that clean, you heard how he butchered this high E."
"He just sang it a little differently, mom! He had more emotion in his voice than any other man we auditioned and you know it, I just-"
"Girls!"
Her father's voice is low, calm. He never has to raise it to silence them down; Clarke thinks it's his gift, one of the many he possesses. The recorder makes a squeaking sound when he turns it off and takes a few steps to stand beside the table.
Her mother huffs, clearly annoyed.
"He's going to be trouble, Jake."
"Maybe." Her father nods, scratching the back of his head and staring at the list that Abby made so far. Gina Martinez. Finn Collins. Monty Green. Harper McIntyre. Kyle Wick.
Octavia Blake. Bellamy Blake.
"But-" Clarke is about to start to argue again, but Jake rises his hand up and playfully bobs her on the nose, silencing her.
"I get what you mean, Clarke. There's something in him, definitely. The way he moves… I think we can work with that. And he seems strong, strong enough to hop around stage for hours. Plus-" he taps on the table, small smile dancing on his lips. "His voice would complement yours nicely, darling. I have a good feeling about this."
And so, Bellamy Blake stays on the list and moves in for better and worse.
Into her life, into her house, and into her heart.
The world in which they live is unforgiving, black-and-white, right-and-wrong, and whatever is this thing between them, it has no chances to last whatsoever.
Clarke's not teaching dancing, but she comes to the rehearsals still; stands in the corner of the room, tucked in between two white-colored walls and blending in. It's easy to overlook her, or at least, it was easy at the beginning, but then he caught the way she was watching him, eyeing him from her secluded spot.
She has the prettiest eyes he has ever seen – a lace of dark, tangled lashes, piercing blue remind him of a winter sky when it's clear. Those kinds of winter eyes should be cold, but aren't. They are so meltingly hot that he boils alive in his calf-length boots and a long-sleeved shirt.
And again, it is difficult, at the beginning, to get used to singing lessons. Clarke is eighteen; she is just a kid for fuck's sake. Some of her pupils are older than her; some cannot bear the thought of listening to a girl. But Clarke commands respect in every movement, ever word.
Bellamy watches her as she's positioned behind a piano and pressing different keys, giving them instruction with clear, assured voice. She hears even a tiniest false note, can tear one down if this certain one is not working hard enough and she does it all by herself, without bringing her parents in. She's fair in what she does and she knows how to do it well. And she carries herself with such a pride, such certainty, that Bellamy is constantly torn between hating her for that (entitled suka, grown round and pretty on milk and honey when they were starving and now acting like a goddamn princess an insistent voice in his head keeps on repeating) and respecting her for her expertise. Entitled or not, she works twice as hard as the rest of them and definitely not everyone could do her job as well as she does.
So that's how it begins; this feeling blooms in him slowly, like a seed turning into a bud of sympathy and respect and then sprouting leaves of interest and fascination and finally, brilliant red petals appear.
Desire.
She sits behind the piano, instead of standing like usually. Her hair is braided in one long plait, but saying it's sloppy would be kind of generous. The strands keep on falling into her eyes all the time and she swats them away, irritation lines forming on her forehead.
"One more time, louder! Murphy, stay in tune or I'll kick you out, you're messing up the whole chorus. "
"Yes, ma'am." Murmurs Murphy besides Bellamy. He's always all defiance; hands deep in his pockets, smug grin on his face as if he didn't care for anyone or anything besides his own interest.
But Bellamy knows Murphy's story, how this uptown-born guy got kicked in the dirt and smeared with it so thoroughly that he himself has forgotten he used to be clean once upon a time. Although Clarke is probably not familiar with this story – why would she – she has good-enough instincts not to chew the guy off too much. Well, until today.
Some random fly is buzzing loudly around Bellamy's head, bumping into the walls while trying to find an escape route from the hot, humid classroom. Everyone is tired and sweating and distracted. And Clarke keeps on pressing the keys of the piano harder and harder, as if she wanted to break it. Her left hand travels up to her face every few seconds to brush hair from her face. Lips pursed and face sun-kissed, her eyes squinted because of all the sunlight getting from the outside – she is so darn pretty.
He wonders about the mole above her lips. He wonders how would it feel like to touch her hair.
"Bellamy!"
The piano falls silent. People stop singing. Clarke is staring right into his eyes, despite the sun.
"Do you maybe have anything better to do?"
The words get out of his mouth quicker than he can think them over.
"Hmmm… maybe you, Princess?"
His voice always drops down a few octaves in this song and it rings in his words. He sounds sultry, almost. Clarke's eyebrows shot up as her eyes widen a bit in shock. Somewhere at the back of his mind he registers as the group takes a collective breath.
It's so quiet. The only sound that echoes in the classroom (hot and humid and hot, so hot) is the buzzing of the fly.
Slowly, Clarke stands up and makes her way towards him. Her steps are soft, catlike; she looks so graceful in this moment that he could mistake her for Octavia.
She raises her hand up and his eyes involuntary squint as he lowers his head in a defensive manner, but she doesn't strike his face. Her hand collides with his biceps with the loud slap, that is followed by the Harper's gasp. As he raises his sight, he meets Clarke's; he wishes he could decipher her stone-like expression. The only tips are in her eyes; without sunrays spilling in between them, they seem shockingly tired and a little bit wild. As if she was a brink of self-control.
Her mouth curves into a sweet smile as she raises her hand once again, palms-up. There is something black and goo-y covering her skin.
"You had a fly on your arm, comrade." She singsongs. The tension drops so dramatically that it should punch a hole through the floor. Somebody giggles. Jasper and Monty get a little blue from suppressing laughter for too long.
Clare lets out a breath with loud whizz and taps her leg on the floor two times.
"Go, all of you. You're free for today, see you tomorrow."
Before Bellamy can move though to join the rest of the group, she lightly catches his wrist and tugs on it, to keep him in place.
"You stay." She says, avoiding his gaze and staring at the door instead, following the kids with her eyes until they are all gone. Then, she gently pushes the doors and waits for the soft click of the lock.
She turns to face him.
He continues to stare right into her stormy eyes, watching as they catch light and sparkle. A second, a heartbeat; the corners of her lips rise up slowly.
She lets out a deep sigh.
"What am I supposed to do with you, comrade Blake?"
A silence; a heartbeat. And again, his lips move on their own will, the words fall from them like stones; heavy on the no-man land between them. He crosses the borderline boldly, in a surge of strange bravery that stuns even him.
"Whatever the hell you want"
A chuckle escapes from her lips. He watches her, eyebrows up and eyes wide, as she doubles in half and laughs out loud. Soon enough, he is grinning – a strange scene if anyone was to see it. Clarke, standing in full sunlight, a braid undone, tears streaming down her cheeks and bubbling with the most earnest laugher. Him, half-cast in shadow; watching her with shining eyes and heart beating fast, as if he was dancing.
Music is a luxury that Clarke always had an abundance of; even her earliest memories always come with a soundtrack. Her mother's Tchaikovsky, as she was spinning pas the deux in the exercise room. Her father's Chopin, his fingers dancing in the air above his piano's keys.
Those were her good mornings and lullabies; those sounds of her parents' passions echoing on the corridors of her childhood come.
And of course, as a child, she wanted to belong there too, either in the world full of swishing tutu-s and aching feet or in the one full of beautiful ballrooms and evening gowns. A concert pianist, a primaballerina – endless possibilities ahead of her. She was born bright and rich and pretty, straight at the top of the new elite in the brand-new, independent Poland. She couldn't start better -
- Until she could.
The war came and stripped everything from gold and glory, turning her world of everyday into a world of dreams only. There was no more dignity in her mother's dancing or in her father's playing – it was an act in front of Nazis, their art enslaved, no longer allowed to flow freely as they wished. And as the terror around them reigned, as the tension rose to unbearable scale, one summer day Abby Griffin didn't appear in the theater and Jake Griffin canceled all of the concerts.
And paying in their family heirloom, they fled from Warsaw under the disguise of night, a day before Uprising started and turned their city into ruins bathed in blood and guts of those who had guts to fight.
But by then, Clarke had long ago abandoned all of the dreams of ballerinas and concert pianists. This simply wasn't in store for her and it was becoming the more evident the older she was growing. With her hourglass figure and full breasts she felt like an ugly alien among swan-like wisps of girls in her mother's classes. And her fingers would not listen to them, would not move as quickly and skillfully across keys like her father's, no matter how long she practiced and how hard she tried. It was the same with everything – with a flute and with a violin and with a trumpet. She had an absolute hearing that enabled her to catch even a smallest mistake and an absolute inability to eliminate them.
She was decent enough at everything – at ballet, at ballroom dancing, at piano. Not terrible, but just decent and nothing hurt her more than that.
But with years passing and a big douse of determination, she has found her own lane – in a place where neither of her parents felt strong enough to cast their shadows.
Her father used to say that her voice feels like a thunder; it's low and unexpected and electrifying to the listener. That it's so strange to hear it coming from a little blonde girl. But she grew into it, grew into a woman with chest large enough to take deeper and deeper breaths, reach higher and lower notes, easily guiding it through melodies.
She felt more confident singing than doing anything else and she was good at it, so good and so sure, that when her parents told her about their idea and allowed her a spot on the teachers' board, she agreed without any hesitation.
Some of those boys and girls were just a little younger than her and some were even older. But she was growing up with music echoing in her bones and she was not letting them intimidate her into the submission.
In most cases, she turns out to be right. Singing lessons are long and exhausting and after an hour or so of repeating the same note over and over again, even the most steel-willed bend out of the sheer physical limitations. All - all but Bellamy.
Or, comrade Blake, she supposes she should call him that. But how, why, if his name is so beautiful, so elegant, so out-of-his world and yet fitting him perfectly?
Because Bellamy Blake is beautiful and out of her world – both the gone and the imaginary ones – and when he is standing firmly with his calloused hands laced behind his back, head held high and singing… Oh, she could listen to him for hours. Her mother was right; he isn't the finest technician. But he can somehow play on the strings of listener's heart; make them feel exactly what he wanted. He can make you weep and laugh and clap along, all subconsciously and effortless. He understands the emotions in the melodies far better than any other singer she has ever listened to. And she never manages to tire him out, not even when group lessons blend into individual lessons and those transform into nightly meetings in the empty ballet room…
Bellamy hoisting her up with his strong arms and keeping her up seemingly forever, her back against mirrors and bare leaving bruises on her lower back when he is fucking her with the same passion with which he dances and sings and does everything else. Fucking her until they are both covered in sweat from head to toe, until she is more aching and exhausted than any ballet lessons in her youth left her.
And even then, in the dead of the night, when she is trembling in his arms like a leaf on the wind, he has enough energy to kiss her brow, to sing Ukrainian lullabies in her ear if she asks him to.
It's exhilarating, it's addictive and undefined, this thing between them, and she often wonders if he does it only to ensure his sister's place in the Academy and in the team. If so, it's unnecessary and baseless. Octavia Blake is a diamond in the rough. Clarke knows all of the moves by heart and their names in English and French and Polish, the technique and history, and it doesn't mean a thing, all her knowledge and expertise. Octavia knows none of it and still she does it better than Clarke could in her wildest dreams. Her body is all perfect angles and graceful poses, going through the hardest choreography like a hurricane and making it look so, so easy.
It's hard not to be envious, while looking at Octavia dancing. She's a nice singer, an unusual one with her voice a bit lower on the scale than other girls, but she is an unmatched dancer and Clarke knows that Abby has to sometimes try very hard not to praise the girl during every class.
So Bellamy doesn't have to worry about Octavia. Nor does he have to worry about himself, not with his voice and with how he hops across the ballroom, kicking his legs high and clapping his hand so loudly that the sound echoes through the whole building.
Yes, both Blakes are simply something.
So why is he doing what he's doing? Runs through Clarkes mind on repeat, as Bellamy presses kisses along her jawline, as he cradles her head in his hands and tenderly raises her chin up so he could reach her neck better. Why is he with me now? Why?
But she doesn't rush to find the answer to this question. Days are a blurry of hard work, of the noise made out of feet stomping on the floor and different melodies tangling together, clashing in her ears.
Nights that she spends with Bellamy in the practice room, when they have sex or talk or just sit beside each other smoking in silence and watching the stars through the skylight window – nights are the rewards. They are what pushes her forward.
1949
Their first gig – the one, for which they were preparing for almost a year, polishing choreography and repeating every note until it ringed with perfect clarity – was in old Wola district of Warsaw, in a cinema-theatre called Syrena.
It's a strange, hollow feeling to drive through the streets she once walked and don't recognize a thing. To enter into a building so similar to the ones where she used to watch movies with Pola Negri with her friends and other ballerinas. The sensation is straight out of the dream and it must show somehow on her face, because Clarke catches Bellamy eyeing her less than discretely, worry lines appearing on his forehead. And so she shakes her head (I'm fine, I'm fine) and loses herself in the flurry of activity on the backstage.
Boys are stomping heavily on the wooden floors, trying out their new shoes and girls are tying ribbons on each other's braids, and Jake is running around with score pages in his hands, and Abby is giving the last advice to the dancers, and Clarke is so torn between trying to help the others out and focusing on her own performance, that she somehow ends up alone in the quiet spot just next to the entrance to the stage. Which is empty, bare except for the white banner with red, simple letter: "Dancing and singing group "Mazurek". The audience, on the other hand, is full; Clarke can see it in the corner of her eye, all of the PZPR1 high officials with wives and a couple of parts of former artistic circle of Warsaw.
She plays with the fringed edges of her shawl; just like her skirt, it's made out of a heavy, floral patterned material which makes her feel warm and sweaty. The red ribbon around her braid irritates her. She's afraid Roma will slip again and that the audience will hear. She just really, really wants to get it over with and go home to her little room with her piano and her students.
"Jittering much, Princess?" Bellamy appears seeming out of nowhere; he is already wearing his costume and his boots make squeaking sound on the polished floor as he moves closer to rest against the wall next to her. Their arms are almost touching, maybe a centimeter all two between them.
"Remind me again, why are you performing instead of, you now, giving advice and watching your students perform, like a good teacher?"
Clarke has to snore at that. Well, he's right. This is a folk group, very, very strict folk group and very authentic. Folk music. Folk outfits. Village boys and girls who already knew the source material and felt it in the way she could never duplicate. But –
"The audience would take to us better if there's a familiar face on the stage" she shrugs. "Some of them probably know me, or at the very least probably heard about my parents. It's good publicity, you know?"
He nods, but his face is obscured in the dimed light. And it's all truth, what she just said, but… it's not really why she agreed to perform.
So she takes a deep breath, fixes her eyes on the floor and lets it out:
"And I wanted to sing with you."
Because she did – she does want that. Ever since she first heard him during the audition and even before her father pointed it out, she has been yearning to sing with him. Lessons are not enough. Rehearsals are not enough. It's not real, until she is standing on the stage with him beside her and hearing their voices entwine into one.
He is quiet for a moment, contemplative. Then, he slowly reaches for her hand and takes it in his gently, his fingers curling around hers and making her all warm and melting inside.
"Good. I want to sing with you too, Clarke." He says and when she looks up at him, he has the most brilliant smile painted across his face.
Two hearts and two pairs of eyes
Oh my my
Which has cried all day and night
Oh my my
Dark eyes why are you still crying
That you cannot meet another
That you cannot meet another
Oh my my
My mom has it me forbidden
Oh my my
To love that sweet boy I'm seeing
Oh my my
Elders have love and they keep it
Don't let youngers ever see it
Don't let youngers ever see it
Oh my my
When the boy is so nice and lean
Oh my my
And who would resist against him
Oh my my
Out of stone my heart would be
For me not to love oh so him
For me not to love oh so him
Oh my my
My mother has me forbidden
Oh my my
To love that sweet boy I'm seeing
Oh my my
And I caught the boy, all weeping
I will love him till I'm breathing
I will love him, till I'm breathing
Oh my my
Dwa serduszka cztery oczy łojojoj
Co płakały we dnie w nocy łojojoj
Czarne oczka co płaczecie, że się spotkać nie możecie
Że się spotkać nie możecie, łojojoj
Mnie matula zakazała łojojoj
Żebym chłopca nie kochała łojojoj
Starzy o miłości mają, młodym kochać zabraniają
Młodym kochać zabraniają łojojoj
Kiedy chłopiec Boże miły łojojoj
I któż by miał tyle siły łojojoj
Kamienne by serce było, żeby chłopca nie lubiło
Żeby chłopca nie lubiło łojojoj
Mnie matula zakazała łojojoj
Żebym chłopca nie kochała łojojoj
A ja chłopca hac! Za szyję, będę kochać póki żyję
Będę kochać póki żyję łojojoj
They sing a ballad of the forbidden love, holding hands and frozen still in a pose, with the choir behind their backs and the lights blinding them so that the only thing they see are blooming pools of color, pulsating underneath their lids when they blink.
They sing with hearts on their sleeves, out for everyone to see – the song so sorrowful, their voices so desperate, the sentiment so true.
After the curtains drop down and the sound of clapping and whistling bursts in the room like fireworks, Bellamy's big, warm hand finds Clarke's. As his fingers curl around hers, the realization hits her with a force strong enough to be felt like a physical sensation; a slap across her face, her stomach dropping, and her hand sweating in his.
The lights illuminate his profile as they re-enter the stage to bow; she watches as he silently fights with himself so as not to smile, the corners of his lips are twitching and there are stars shining in his brown eyes.
She cares for him so, so much.
The night is dark and thick as soup, obscuring the world behind the train's windows and so, everyone quickly falls asleep, the whole group drunk on alcohol and success and exhausted by the day's excitement. Clarke watches them in silence, trying to imprint their faces in her memory. How did they become so dear to her? When did it happen?
A year of existing in close proximity – sleeping and eating and working together – has linked them so tightly, so much tighter than she deemed possible before her parents started the group. Those kids went through all her defense lines, even the most stubborn and irritating ones and now it's hard for her to look at them and not feel tenderness blooming in her heart. For their talent and dedication and honesty. And for watching them sweaty and covered in blisters and marching on, against all odds.
Knowing where they came from and watching them tonight, all glorious and victorious, with glasses of champagne in their hands and laughing, she couldn't help but feel so proud of them. And this feeling followed her to the train, to this silent compartment, to watching their faces and think about who they are and who they're going to become.
Their sleeping positions could as well be the illustration of their feelings; those deeply hidden and those clear as a day. Murphy, always a lone wolf, fell asleep with his face tilted towards Emori, as if he was watching her. Monty and Jasper snore in unison, leaning on each other's backs and holding hands with Harper and Maya respectively. Raven is curled on the couch like a cat, her head on Gina's lap, Kyle and Shaw on both her sides, Finn as far away from her as possible. Monroe and Fox, tangled with one another, hands and legs entwined.
And Octavia, regal and beautiful, sleeping soundly in her brother's arms.
Bellamy is awake though; he is also watching the others, looking at their faces, as if he was checking if they're okay, if they're all here. Dad of the group, always, less because of his age and more because of his character. Clarke's always wondering, would he be the same if he didn't raise Octavia? Because the fact that he raised her is apparent without any explanation. She thinks about their history way too often and never dares to ask.
Maybe there'll be some time for it too. Maybe they'll have time for everything they want.
Their eyes meet and she nods slowly two times, watching as his mouth curves into a smile at her familiar gesture.
When she leaves the compartment, he follows her.
Two clicks of her heels on the wooden floor; click, click.
Two taps of his hand on her shoulder as he's passing her by on the corridor; tap, tap.
Two claps of her hands as she's counting the rhythm; clap, clap.
Two hearts and two pairs of dark eyes, oh my my,
"C'mon, baby, come for me." He whispers against her skin, biting in the junction between her neck and shoulder and leaving wet, red marks all over her clavicle. His words match the rhythm of his thrusts. "C'mon Clarke, come, come for me."
He seated her on this tiny metal sink so that he wouldn't have to keep her up all the time and could have both hands free; it is not the most comfortable position she's ever been in and the tap is digging in her lower back painfully, but who fucking cares honestly.
His fingers skim skillfully between her folds and massage her clit oh so softly that she wishes, hopes, prays she could just stay in this moment forever – Bellamy fucking her in the tiny bathroom on the train back from Warsaw, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands everywhere on her, the air hot and damp from all their heavy panting.
It's heavenly, it's holy; he's kissing up and down her chest, his hand still buried between her legs and she wonders, briefly, how is it possible for him to fuck her so hard that she'll be sore all over tomorrow and still speak to her so gently, coaxing this orgasm out of her with both passion and patience.
And she envies him, she wishes she could have his control, because at this point she can do nothing but sag in his arms, head thrown back against the wall and biting on her lip until it starts to bleed. She wants to open her eyes but she can't, she's just so tense that every muscle in her body seems to turn into concrete and every nerve in her brain is ablaze. It's so good that almost unbearable.
Bellamy kisses her cheek, his mouth warm and soft against her skin. He knows her so well, has learned all of the steps of their dance by heart without her noticing.
"C'mon, my love."
The release attacks her almost aggressively; it's like a wave, droving her under and washing her brain in the sea of whiteness. She's sure she must've blacked out for a moment, because when she comes down from her high, he's finished too.
"I loved singing with you." She says quietly after a few minutes, when she regains some control over her voice. He's leaning his full body weight on her, resting his head on her bare breasts as she's caressing his hair. She still has her trembling legs locked around him; he still has his arms loosely wrapped around her. And to be honest, they are too warm, too weary and too sticky with everything to stay like this for much longer, but she's not going to be the first one to break contact. "I really did."
The lone light bulb hanging on the cable from the celling flickers once, twice and dies, leaving them in darkness. She cannot see him anymore, but she still feels him, every twitch of his muscles, every sweep of his lashes against her skin, the steady beating of his heart and his quiet, deep breaths.
He doesn't answer, but her over-stimulated body shivers, when he starts to trace circles on the bruised area above her ass. The silence falls and stays between them, unbroken; and it tells her everything she wanted to know.
1952
Everything perfect.
Their feet aligned, their voices in harmony, chins up and smiles on. Every gesture of her father clean and crisp, the conductors' baton swishing in the air. The audience enchanted. Not a step or a note missed.
Everything perfect, except for the song, which isn't telling a story of love lost or hardships of life, but of camaraderie and friendship between nations, unified under one sign.
Except for the portrait of the Stalin with this good-uncle-smile on his face but huge and intimidating. Casting long shadow over the whole group as if he was God on the altar.
Except for the party officials nodding their heads in apprehension, satisfied like cats fattened on goldfish and canaries.
She wants to puke, whenever she hears it. Whenever she bows, she feels her spine straining, about to break.
Is that how it feels, to be a songbird locked in a cage, allowed to sing only to the melody of running water and radio?
It's late August and even though he hasn't seen his family farm in close to four years now, something in him is still weirded out by the perspective of napping by the riverbank instead of working.
He can't even remember the last time he had new blisters forming on his hands; this new life traded his aching arms and back for the throat scraped-raw and feet so tender after practice that it's hard to walk on them. Not that his complaining, of course. He wouldn't even dare to; he would willingly sing night and day just to see Octavia as happy as she is now. He would, with the greatest pleasure, peel the skin off the soles of his feet for just one afternoon like today – laying on the blanket in the sun, grass smelling sweet and Clarke's head pillowed on his tight.
And he got more than just one, way, way more.
She let her hair loose today and they spill around her face like liquid light. The breeze plays with the blonde strands and gauze material of her dress, making her shiver in her slumber. She makes a lovely picture like this, straight out of impressionists' paintings. Clarke asleep is so much easier to read than awake, every emotion written across her face in lines and grimaces. Right now, she seems fairly content and Bellamy briefly wonders what she's dreaming about.
Just two days ago, they were in Prague. They were in Prague, going through the notes and movements almost automatically because – this is the best part – traveling through the communist block countries to perform is almost an everyday occurrence for them now. And he finds it both shocking and exhilarating how easily they all got used to it, even him. How fast this became new normalcy – nights spent in trains and days spend in theaters, or days spend on rehearsing and nights spend with Clarke.
Clarke, Clarke, Clarke, Clarke.
She has somehow become new normalcy for him too.
The taste of her and the smell of her and her voice joining his in this impossible harmony. Putting his hands on her waist and spinning her around, kissing the smiles and tears off her face, braiding her hair in a coronet.
He loves her in a way that's both grounded in firm reality – she's here, she wants him, she's there for him – and straight out of the dreams and old wives' tales. Because she's not like him.
Her small hands are still smooth and perfect, unspoiled. And Bellamy wonders all the time – does it still matter?
He gently caresses the bridge of her nose and so her lips curve in a smile. She opens her eyes slowly, lazily, eyelids fluttering delicately before they expose this striking sea of blue.
"Hello." He whispers, even though they are alone.
His mom used to say that ripe grain sings and dances on the wind. And he gets it now; it's like the entire field was an ocean around them, waves golden and brown instead of green. Stalks swaying on the breeze, up and down, up and down.
Clarke takes his hand and presses it to her cheek. Her face is so small that he could fit it in his palm; his fingers reach almost to the crown of her head, his wrist is pressed to her pulse point.
"Run away with me, Bellamy." She says sweetly, oh, so sweetly that her words seem to be dripping with honey. "Please, run away with me."
"This was my parents' dream, not mine." Clarke's thinking to herself as she's standing on the border between two worlds, still in East Berlin and burning through a second pack of cigarettes. "They will do just as fine without me."
And there's an undeniable truth in that; a Mazurek is her parents' second beloved child that surpassed all of their wildest hopes and prayers. She can see it as clear as a day. Her mother, softening with time as the kids worm their way into her heart just as they wormed into Clarke's. Her father, eyes shining with pride as he turns to the audience to take a bow after a performance. Their hushed voices after dark, talking about future and grand plans of international turnees and making themselves a name abroad.
But this doesn't mean Octavia or Raven or Miller can replace Clarke in their hearts.
It doesn't make her leaving any way less cowardly.
She's pacing, her boots already soaked through by the wet snow. January in Berlin is nasty, with biting cold and streets painted strikingly white. The cigarettes don't bring her any warmth and, as she tries to wrap the scarf tighter around her face, she wishes with all that's inside her, for it to be summer again.
Summer, with the buzzing of honey bees and the chirping of birds and Octavia's loud, clear voice calling her from the river:
"Clarke! Clarke, come swim with us!"
Summer with pale faces of the group she is now abandoning turning brown, like an expensive sugar.
Summer with violent storms, passing quick as a flash and leaving only clear sky and the smell of kerosene in the air.
Summer with Bellamy's kisses and her group, her friend's laughter echoing in her ears even now.
She throws the cigarette bud on the pavement and stomps on it with the heel of her shoe; thin ice sheet gives in under the force and spider-web of tiny cracks appears when clean, untouched surface once was.
The shorter and longer arms of her watch meet on twelve.
Somewhere in this city there is a ballroom next to the opera house, where her mother and father make polite small talk and click champagne glasses with German politicians. Where the girls from the group twirl on the dance floor with the swish of the skirts and the boys try to guess what kind of expensive alcohol is in their glasses.
And Bellamy is there too, of course he is. She was beyond stupid to ever believe he will come with her.
The summer's long gone and the winter's here. Bellamy is in the ballroom, his hawk's eye set on watching Octavia as she dances around the room from one partner to another, eyes shiny, step light and sure.
And Clarke wipes her face with a glove, lifts her suitcase from the pavement and crosses the border.
In the end, his hands are still calloused and hers are still smooth.
In the end, his mother took his hand and with her dying breath uttered "your sister, your responsibility".
In the end, the world is big and bright, but all that he wants can be contained on one field of swishing grass.
These are all just the lame excuses; he knows that.
But, as he takes another sip from his champagne glass, there is sureness in him, heavy and cold like a river stone – he would only hold her back.