Here is part four of my high school AU - we're back to Clarke's POV this time around.
If you're new to this AU, you probably want to read these in order:
1. I can't help the fuss, I'd trade it for quiet
2. there are answers here, they're just harder to figure out
3. I am quiet now, and silence gives you space
And now you're on number four! A big thank you if you've read the others! :)
A million thanks to my sister, this whole ridiculous series wouldn't exist without her.
Title is from "The Cruel One" by Gold Motel.
"I don't know, Clarke." Jasper leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his interlaced fingers, and watches the field intently. It's another fifteen minutes until kickoff, and the teams are practicing at either end, running last minute drills, sending the ball sailing back and forth across the grass. "Our boys might actually have a shot today."
You have several major objections to his assessment. For example, you would not go so far as to call the Ark Central High Rocketeers "your boys," as that would imply that you felt some sort of fondness towards the team. You don't.
You have a hard time even calling them a team, actually. When you sit through these games with Jasper all you see is eleven teenage boys suffering from the exact same delusion - that they are the one great player on the team, and everyone else is getting in their way. It's the reason they keep losing, and the reason you've been suffering from chronic secondhand embarrassment.
"You think they might actually win?" you ask skeptically, tracking the ball as the opposing team plays a round of keep-away to warm up. On the other end of the field, Bellamy is waving his arms and shouting, while Finn juggles the soccer ball, bouncing from it from knee, to knee, to foot, to knee. The rest of the team is just sort of standing around, either watching or looking bored.
"Oh, no way," Jasper says, sitting back up and laughing. "I meant they might actually get a shot on goal today." He jerks a thumb towards the opposing team. "Their defense is actually kind of weak."
"Worse than ours?" You're hesitant to even glance over at Wells - with your luck he'll catch you looking and get it in his head that you actually want to talk to him, which is the opposite of the truth. These first two weeks back at school have been an exercise in avoidance - no easy task since he's in three of your classes, and feels the need to walk past your locker a half dozen times a day. You don't even want to think about the student government meetings coming up next week. You haven't quite figured out how to get through those without talking to him, but you'll find a way.
"Not that bad," Jasper replies, and starts to grin, but that's when a gust of wind whips across the field, fluttering the flags posted at each corner of the field. The stands sway ominously in the breeze, the aluminum creaking, and Jasper goes two shades paler.
You couldn't understand why he wanted to sit all the way up here, perched at the very tip-top of what have to be the most ramshackle bleachers in the history of underfunded high school sports teams, but here you are.
He says he doesn't remember the night he got hurt, but some part of his brain must remember falling, because he never used to be afraid of heights. His eyes are wide, and when you rest your hand on his knee he startles. "I'm fine," he says before you can even open your mouth, almost an automatic response, like a reflex. He leans forward, peering between the slats at the grass below you. "Maybe let's sit closer to the ground."
"If you think we can find a seat," you answer dryly, gesturing to the empty bleachers around you. The home team side is maybe a third of the way full, but you and Jasper are the only ones who came here for the visitors. It would be sadder, you think, if anyone on the Ark Central team ever bothered to act like they actually wanted to play soccer.
"You're hilarious," Jasper informs you, and lets out a stuttering breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers latching on to your wrist. You think that's a reflex, too.
You let him lead you down the bleachers, clambering over metal benches until you resettle yourselves on the very bottom row. Jasper seems happy to have his feet on solid ground. You pull your phone from your jacket pocket, and pretend like you're playing one of the inane games he downloaded for you, giving Jasper a minute to get himself together.
It doesn't take him long to calm back down - by the time the players are moving into their positions he's rambling something about offensive strategies. You aren't really listening, but after living with Jasper for six years you're pretty good at nodding in all the right places.
"Oh, wait," he says, his tone suddenly serious, so you decide to tune back in. "I almost forgot-"
He trails off, and you turn towards him. You have about half a second to realize that the grin on his face is downright mischievous, and then he strikes. He presses his knuckles to either side of your face, then swipes his thumbs across your cheekbones. "Yeah, perfect." he says as he pulls his hands away, and you see oily, navy blue smudges on either thumbprint.
"Seriously, Jasper? Face paint?" you ask, but he's too busy putting on his own to listen to you complain. A streak across either cheekbone, and one down the bridge of his nose. You go to wipe yours off, but apparently he bought the professional grade stuff, because of course he would. "The team's not even any good, don't you think this is a little excessive?"
"Nope," Jasper says, and you realize too late that he's already got his phone out, leaning in close and snapping a selfie before you can duck out of it.
"Jasper!" you say, and "You better not post that," but now he's ignoring you, swiping through instagram filters and smirking. You open your mouth, about to threaten to go home and leave him stranded here, but you're distracted as your morning hits rock bottom.
You hadn't thought about it before, but moving down the bleachers has put you right behind the fence that separates the crowd from the field. That, by itself, is bad enough. You don't even want to live on the same planet as some of these guys, let alone risk eye contact.
What's even worse is Finn Collins is jogging across the field, straight towards you.
"Hey, Clarke," he says as he slows to a stop. The fence comes up to his chest - he folds his arms, resting them on the top bar and leaning forward. He must notice the face-paint, because he glances between you and Jasper, and he grins. "Team spirit. I like it."
Jasper flashes him a thumbs up. You scowl. "What do you want, Finn?"
You have to give him some credit, because he hears your tone and doesn't push it, he just asks, "Are we still on for tomorrow?" One of his teammates calls his name. He doesn't seem to notice.
"I told you I'd be there," you remind him for probably the third time. You're annoyed, because he keeps checking in with you, like you're the one who might flake. You were less than thrilled when you got paired up with Finn for a project in AP Lit, all because you had the misfortune of sitting by him on the first day - but that doesn't mean you won't put your best effort into the assignment. If he's worried about your work ethic, then clearly he doesn't know a thing about you.
A tiny part of you is also annoyed that no one's making him wear face paint, and because he's been running around a soccer field for the past half hour and his hair is still perfect, but that's irrelevant.
"Hold up," Jasper says, glancing from you to Finn, and back to you. "What?" You and Finn both ignore him.
Out on the field, you can see the referee counting the players. Bellamy shouts, "Collins, get out here!"
Finn salutes you as he steps away from the fence. "Three o'clock."
"Three o'clock," you echo, but Finn's already jogging out to midfield. You roll your eyes at his retreating back.
"What?" Jasper repeats, but the referee blows the whistle, and the game starts before you have to answer.
When Jasper first got out of the hospital, the two of you camped out in his room and tried to marathon every season of Downton Abbey on Netflix. The problem was he couldn't stay awake - you kept having to restart, going back to whatever he remembered last. You didn't mind, you were happy enough sitting up against his headboard while he slept sprawled out beside you, you were happy to have him home.
You finally finished the show the night before school started. That same week, though, you also started a 50-round game of Mario Party 8 with Monty, and you're pretty sure that it will never end.
Monty hasn't been over as much, recently - Bellamy has the team practicing nearly every night of the week, not that it's doing any good. You think they might be getting worse, honestly. Jasper refuses to just restart the game, or play Monty's turns for him, because apparently that "lacks integrity." Whatever. If he wants to leave his Wii on pause indefinitely, then that's his issue.
"Your turn," Jasper says, and he drops the controller onto the open economics book balanced in your lap. You're sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, maybe fifteen percent invested in the game, but mostly studying. Monty and Jasper are both on the bed - Monty's sitting up, more focused on his 3DS than the television, but Jasper's lying on his stomach, staring at the screen like he's actually cares about the game, which, he probably does. All in all, it's a pretty typical Saturday night at your house.
You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat, as your character gets paired up with the computer player for the mini game - as if Jasper and Monty needed any more motivation to team up on you. Thirty-four rounds in, and you have collected one measly star.
It is nice, though, to see things finally return to normal. A month ago Jasper was in the hospital. Tonight, your biggest concern is figuring out how Monty wins every single mini game, playing with only one hand and not even looking at the screen. It's unnatural.
You're distracted from your crushing defeat when your phone rings. You set down your controller to dig it out of your pocket - it's Jasper's turn, anyway, you won't be needed until it's time to lose another mini game - and read the name on the screen. Your good mood evaporates in a split second.
Jasper must notice the way you're clenching your teeth and glaring at your phone, because he glances over his shoulder and asks, "Who is it?"
"Wells," you say, and you press decline, a little forcefully. "I told him to stop calling." You've told him probably a dozen times, actually. This is getting ridiculous.
"I'm gonna say something," Jasper tells you, and you already know whatever it is, you don't want to hear it. "You won't like it."
"Then maybe you shouldn't say it," you suggest. Monty hums in agreement. Jasper ignores you both.
"You should talk to him," he says, earnest and maybe even a little bit desperate. "I mean it, Clarke, just hear him out."
You do not want to have this conversation today, or ever, actually. You do not want to have this conversation with Jasper, and you especially don't want to have it while you're playing Mario Party. You get it, you know that it bothers Jasper that you ended it with Wells because of what happened to him at the party, but you are done trying to explain yourself. Wells promised he would look out for Jasper, and he didn't. There are things you can forgive. This is not one of them.
You take a deep breath, and bite back the caustic retort that was right there on the tip of your tongue, and you say, "We are not talking about this," in a firm, even tone.
"Clarke," Jasper tries again, but Monty kicks him a little bit and he thinks better of it, going quiet and refocusing on the game.
When your phone rings again, you silence it.
You get to the library at 2:27 on Sunday, because you are not about to give Finn the satisfaction of beating you there. You still don't know how he got it in his head that you might bail on him - you have something of a reputation for being very serious about your grades. A lot of people around the school even seem to think that you're too serious - they never say it to your face, but you still hear things.
You don't really let it bother you. The way you see it, if you'd rather stay home and study than go to homecoming, or junior prom, or some huge party because such-and-such's parents are out of town, well, then, that's your business, isn't it? You just have different priorities than apparently everyone else your school.
Right now, your number one priority is to get through this project as painlessly as possible. Working with Finn isn't even your biggest challenge - you've done all the work for every group assignment in the history of your education, you can't imagine that working with actual cool kid Finn Collins will be any different. No, the problem is the project lasts the entire semester. You and Finn will be meeting up at the library every Sunday from now until December, and you won't even pretend to be excited about it.
"Hey." The sudden voice startles you - you tug out your earbuds and glance up from your laptop to find Finn standing by the table. He's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and an actual spiral bound notebook tucked under his arm. "You're here."
"I am," you agree, and you mean to leave it at that, you honestly do, you mean to be professional and just get this over with - but then you find yourself asking, "Why did you think I wouldn't come?"
Finn doesn't answer you at first. He takes off his bag and hangs it on the back of his chair, then drops into the seat across from you, and you aren't sure if you like the way's looking at you - sort of puzzled, like there's something he knows, and he's surprised that you haven't figured it out yet. You have absolutely no idea what he's going to say, but you are prepared to be offended, you are ready for full-on righteous indignation.
"You've got a lot going on, with Jasper," he finally says, and that is - that is not at all what you expected. He asks, "How's he doing?" and his voice is quiet, and sympathetic, and oh. Oh. All week long you've thought he was just giving you a hard time, or trying to rile you up, when he was actually trying to be thoughtful. You have no idea how to feel about that.
It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, but only because he's sort of thrown you for a loop here. You almost answer with the same platitudes that everyone else wants to hear - he's fine, or, he's happy to be home - just on instinct. Except Finn's eyes are dark and he's watching you, gauging your reaction, and you're too startled by his sincerity to be anything but honest.
"He's different," you say, and you're almost surprised to hear yourself admit it. "Anxious. He acts like he's not, but..." You trail off. You aren't quite sure how to explain all the changes you've seen in Jasper these past few weeks. He hides it, as best he can, but there's not much he can get past you.
Finn's still watching you, his expression unreadable. "He's been through a lot," he says, almost like he understands, or at least wants to understand. For just a moment you wonder what would have happened that night, if Finn had been at the party. You have a hard time believing he would have gone along with the hazing. Maybe things would have turned out differently.
The moment ends, and all of a sudden you're mortified, because what are you doing having feelings in the same room as Finn Collins?
"We need to get working," you say, becoming very interested in your laptop screen and most definitely not making eye contact with Finn. Sure, maybe he doesn't go around throwing underclassmen off of balconies, but that won't get your project done, now will it? "If we can just get through some preliminary research-"
"Oh, right," Finn says, and he flips open his notebook. You catch a glimpse of cramped and crowded handwriting, and then he pulls a stack of printed papers from somewhere in the middle. He's got maybe fifteen pages, complete with highlights and markings. "Will this work?" he asks, and he passes it over to you.
"You did all this?" you ask, thumbing through the pages. He's made notes in the margins - actual notes, not just zigzags and doodles and whatever else you sort of assumed he did in class. "For real?"
"What?" he asks, and you glance up to see he almost looks amused. "You're not the only one who wants a good grade."
"Apparently not," you murmur, sliding the papers back across the table, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, this won't be as bad as you thought.
I really, really wanted Bellamy to show up in this one, but I couldn't make it work. He and Clarke should finally! interact in the next Clarke POV. But first, keep an eye out for Monty and Octavia POVs coming up in the next few weeks.
Thank you so much, please let me know what you think! :)