These violent delights, (have violent ends)

by theamazingfaust

So, maybe for one night, you just don't want to go to a fancy bar. You don't want to pick up yet another faceless girl. Another shallow body to fill your shallow heart.

1. Chapter 1

A/N: You guys, thank you for all the love! If you have any question drop by at ifwearestrangers on Tumblr! Love love love.

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These violent delights, (have violent ends).

Chapter One :

You don't completely know what you're doing here. It's not that this bar is beneath you. It's not. But you feel out of place, inadequate. You're not sure it has something to do with the bar, though. Maybe it's more that you don't know why you're here, in general. In life. What it is you're doing with yourself. So, maybe for one night, you just don't want to go to a fancy bar. You don't want to pick up yet another faceless girl. Another shallow body to fill your shallow heart.

It's not that late. In fact, any other night you'd have say it was early. That you weren't nearly drunk enough. You'd have waited, ordered another wishkey. Tonight you don't. You just stare at the one in your hand. Will you drink it ? Will you not ? Who knows.

You're so lost in your thoughts, nothing can distract you. The noise of the semi-crowded bar sounds far. Muffled. The sight of the ice melting in the amber liquid is the only thing keeping you focused on the scenery. The rest of you is elsewhere. You're in a hundred places at once.

You're back in high school corridors, young and alive, in love. You're back to summer nights shared in secret under starry skies and camping tents. You're back in crowds cheering, warm hugs, congratulations and new beginnings. You're back to a life that you're missing. You're back into innocence and promises.

It's bittersweet, painful and soothing. You've accepted it. Maybe.

The faint sound of a chair rattling next to you is not enough to pull you from your musing. The husky voice that asks for tequila is smooth, and sounds defeated. You're slowly coming to. Pulled from another world of your own, pulled from perfection and past mistakes.

Your eyes stay on your drink, though. The only thing changing is your stance. You carry yourself better. You straighten your back. It's an impulse that you don't understand right away.

"Rough night, huh?"

You don't look up still. The voice alone is enough to send shivers down your spine, because you hear clearly, now. You consider not answering, but rudeness was never a quality of yours.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Welcome to the party."

And there's no malice. No judgement. No sarcasm. Only pain. You look up at her, a shot of tequila in her hand, and your chest tightens. Your throat closes. Sadness looks breathtaking on her. You wonder what happiness would look like etched on her features. Would she look even more beautiful? Would she be devastatingly stunning, would she shine as bright as those suns that once lit up your heart?

Her beauty is painful though, and you spend several minutes looking into her tired eyes, hurting beyond belief at this stranger, this lost stranger, asking for a million things with her eyes, things that you want to give her. Things that you crave to offer. The connection is immediate.

You raise your glass, and wait for her to cling hers against it. It's not celebratory. The sound isn't joyful. You wish it was. You wish you could absorb the ache in her voice. She downs her tequila and gestures for another.

"What brings you here? I've never seen you before."

"Do you come here often?"

"I suppose you could say that."

There's the bitterness. There's the admission that hurts.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault." After a beat, she adds. "Although, I wish it was."

"What do you mean?" You're confused, and somewhat offended. You don't know why.

"Well, if you were the reason I come to this bar so often, I assure you that it wouldn't be because I'm sad and bitter."

Her lips curl up, and the agony in your chest only intensifies. So that's how she looks when she smiles. You see the beginning of perfection, created in soft dimples and flirtatious look.

"I would hope so." You return the smile. You can't not. It's infectious.

"You didn't answer my question though." You pause. Another shot disappear inside of her, and the third one is being served. You still haven't touched your whiskey. What are you really doing here?

"Honestly, I'm still wondering myself."

"Maybe I can provide you with an answer before this night is over."

"I'm sure you will." And when you smile, it's not overly flirtatious. It's not just lustful. It's sincere, and hopeful. Genuine. It feels foreign against your lips. Exotic. It tastes better than the sip of the whiskey you swallow. "What brings you here so often?"

It's careful, and maybe untactful. But, pleasantries where never a part of the picture here, and the comfort in your words is evident. There's a solidarity that comes with shared wounds that never heal.

"Hope, I guess."

"In a shot of tequila? What kind of hope is there in that?"

"The hope to forget."

Her sigh resonnates in your own.

"I guess it matches the one that's drowning in my whiskey."

"I don't see you drinking it though."

"Maybe I don't know what to hope for anymore."

And she doesn't say anything. She just raises her fourth drink, and bring it towards you. When they touch again, the noise of the glass covers the one of your heart breaking. Your heart breaks, for two broken people, two broken strangers, finding themselves so lost, that the sound of their misery brought them together.

The silence that follows is comfortable. You finish your glass and wonder if you should just go home. Call it a night. Maybe start living your life a different way. It's time, you tell yourself. Like everynight, it sounds unconvinced and uneffective. There is never a time to put an end to grief, mourning, and goodbyes. Sometimes you fear they'll last forever.

"You're not contemplating leaving me here alone, are you?"

"From what you've told me, it wouldn't be the first time you're here without me."

"It doesn't mean I don't want it to be the last." She doesn't look at you, somewhat ashamed, the everlasting truth of the hurt forever carved behind her eyes. "It's a nice change to the dull routine."

And it hits you. When were the last time you shared a conversation with a woman that didn't involved I-want-you's and Let's-go-back-to-mine's? At what point, the routine took over? When did you decide that it was okay to live in a cycle, repeating itself mindlessly? And when will you decide that it has to stop?

Now, you think. Now would be as good a time as any other.

"I guess I could keep you company a bit more."

Relieved eyes, bashful smile, gratitude. Hope. It is there. Real, and tangible. Probably not at the bottom of a shot of tequila.

"I'm Clarke." She extends her hand, and it's delicate and soft when you take it, shaking it for far too long than necessary. It conveys comfort and courage. It makes you tingle, and it hurts. It hurts in a good way, in a way you that thought gone forever.

"Lexa."

Your hand never leaves yours, and longing looks are exchanged. There is something utterly mystical, and endearing to this woman. This woman that is barely known, but feels familiar, and intimate. There are impulses beneath your skin that errupts in goosebumps all over you. Impulses you haven't felt in a long time. They tell you to be spontaneous. They tell you to break loose. You don't know how to do that anymore. How it feels.

You want to attempt it anyway. You want to be bold and brave.

"Come on, let's go."

She's looking at you weirdly.

"Did you.. Are you.. trying to pick me up?"

"No, God, no!"

"Hum. Should I be offended?"

"You're beautiful, any other night, I might as well have tried to take you back to mine. Tonight, I want to do something else. Do you trust me?"

"I barely know you."

"Well, you don't want me to leave you alone. Who's to say the answer is to stay here? Why can't you go with me?"

"Where?"

"Just trust me?"

She's hesitating, she's torn. She's tempted. And cautious. You want to believe that she's going to come. You tell her with your eyes. Trust me, you try to say, I haven't felt this way in a long time. You did that. Don't ask me how. Don't wonder why. Just go with it.

When she grabs her wallet from her back pocket, but you beat her to it. You throw a 50 on the counter. You have too many of that now. It's so insignificant to you, you despise it. Want to get rid of it. And cling to it at the same time. It's like a burden and a blessing mixed up.

When she gets up from the stool, you realize with a sting that your hands never let go of each other, crossed between your bodies, like a promise. Eventually, you let go, grab her jacket, help her put it on, in true gentlewoman fashion. You grab yours and take off, with her in tow.

To be completely honest, you don't know what you're doing. You need this night to be unlike the others. You need a wake up call. The blue in her eyes might as well be it. Maybe there is absolution for people like you. Maybe healing is an option. Maybe this feeling in your chest that is sparking will lit up an entire wildfire. It seems familiar yet foreign. It feels like an ancient memory you have dug up from the grave. The irony of this analogy is not lost on you.

"So, what do you want to do now?" You ask her once you're on the street, walking backward, looking at her.

"I thought I had to trust you? That you were taking me somewhere?"

"Now, I never said I was taking you somewhere." You smile, you want to pretend that the pain is not there anymore. "As for the trust part, well, I guess it involved getting you to follow me."

"So you have no idea where you want to go?"

"I really don't."

"Talk about some plans." She chuckles, it's light, and she shakes her head, unbelieving.

"The night is ours, you said it yourself. It's a nice change to the dull routine. Don't let it be a dull change, don't make us go through the motion of yet another tedious night, where we try to drown our sorrows in alcohol."

She just looks at you and laugh, oh, you surely sound too hopeful. Naive, senseless.

"This is an opportunity. Let's not pass it up. Let's take it. To hell with it." You continue.

She laughs again, and there's something you can't describe behind her eyes. Reluctance. Turmoil.

"When was the last time you took a chance?" She asks.

"Five minutes ago, when I decided not to leave you." You stop and look at her, all serious face returning. "Will you take one too?"

She seems to ponder, she looks away, unfocused, and a hundred answers are written across her eyes. You can read them all, but ultimately, you can never understand them. You don't know her, and deep down, you wish you did. You want to unveil the secrets, dig for the treasures of her soul. There is just something about her, unfathomable, untangible, mysterious and attractive. It pulls you in. You want to know why, and you remember a time many years ago when you felt the same. You also remember that you never got the answer.

It happens sometimes, it just does. There are some people that, by a strike of luck, cross your path and you can just watch and follow, a slave to this absolute and unavoidable devotion. It's unnerving really. To be helpless to the way you feel. But the only fact that you are in fact, feeling, is something entirely too freeing and relieving to ignore.

After a while, your heart beats a little bit faster, and fear has a gentle grip on your enthusiasm. You wait, patiently for her to make up her mind, and you know that something is troubling her, is making her doubt the next words that leave her mouth.

"I know just where to go." She finally says, and you hint the tiniest of smile, offer your arm, and say "Lead the way."

When you start walking, and there's just silence, you start to wonder if this was a mistake, if maybe you've been reading into things.

"Is it awkward? I feel like it is." She says, and you feel like it should be, but it's not.

"Only if we let it be." The night is not too cold, in fact, the warm days are coming, and today particularly, you feel grateful for the weather. "I guess it's safe to assume you're not going to tell me where we're going."

"Indeed, you're right to assume that."

"Well, then, entertain me in the meantime."

"Oh no, I'm not going to do all the work so, you entertain me. I picked the destination."

"I guess that's only fair." You think for a moment, walking slowly by her side, arms tangled. "Okay, let's play twenty questions."

"Are you serious?" She looks at you, as you wait to cross the street.

"Why not? Do you have a better idea?"

She shooks her head and sighs, and when it's safe for you to start walking again, she says "Fine, but you better start."

"Alright. What's on your mind?"

"Getting right into it, I see."

"I'm sorry, it's just, you intrigue me."

She blushes. It's a light shade of pink on her cheeks, and it's endearing. It soothes the ache inside your chest.

"Let's keep this question for later, okay?"

"Okay, something lighter then. What about.. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an artist. I dropped out of med school to pursue my dream."

"That sounds fantastic."

"I don't know about that." You know better than to press the issue, than to give in to the urge to know the reason behind the sharpness of her words. "What do you do?"

"That's easy if you just return all the questions, I'm doing all the hard work." You're playful though.

"I won't, I promise."

"Good." You continue walking, and your pace is slow, calm, lasting. Wherever you're going, you don't want to be there yet. You want to learn about her more. You turn at the corner, and just enjoy each step that you take together.

"I'm a lawyer."

"Fancy."

You just shrug. You couldn't care less about the money. "I love the challenge." and she doesn't answer. You search for the next question, forgetting slowly what it's like to be alone. Lonely. "Any siblings?"

"Nope." She goes to ask but catches herself. You laugh, and indulge her. "Alright, Anya, big sister, Aden, little brother. But you have to find a question of your own."

"Are you the only the only one of your siblings whose name doesn't begin with an A?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer, Lexa." She caught you, she knows it.

"No, my name does actually begins with an A, too."

"Pardon me, but I just said it, and if I recall, it began with an L." She's grinning madly, and you want to kiss it off her face. You don't.

"Yes, well, I answered your question, I don't have to tell you anything else on this subject."

"Aren't you going to tell me your real name?"

"I believe it's my turn to ask a question." And with a pointed look, you end the argument, melting at the pout that graces her lips. "What's you favorite memory? And I don't mean the happiest one, just, the one you cherish the most."

She goes awfully quiet, you go awfully worried. There's a few steps, a few seconds and maybe, probably minutes, where she doesn't talk. You appreciate them the best you can. The occasionnal sound of cars passing by, the air that is slowly getting colder, making you want to press her closer. You gratefully take the time to glance at her, admiring the perplex and contemplating look on her face. You watch her think, you watch her breathe, you watch her be. Examine every little detail, the way her hair fall loosely around her shoulder, not curly but not quite straightened, the bright blonde shinning with the light of the city. The crease between her brows.

You look at how she walks, the grace that dignify each steps she takes. The simple and extraordinary way her clothes live on her body. Nothing fancy, jeans, loose shirt, brown leather jacket, a pair of Vans. Simplicy draws patterns of beauty on her body, and you can just absorb the way the fabric moves around her, with pliance and ease.

You feel like a lightning has striken inside your soul. Storms awoke in your body, tempests of feelings raging inside of you. Golden hair are like a halo of light that will be your salvation. You'll follow it until it , let it never disappear. Let it glow in the darkest hours of your life. Let it shine on the shadows that took residence inside your heart. Let the soft glimmer, the intense raditation inhabit you for the remaining of your days. Let the strikening never end, ignite your body in flames of passion and redemption.

When she speaks again, her voice is soothing, and strong. You swallow the words, you drink them in, take them in like they're an oasis in the desert that is your life. They're beautiful, they're magnificent. You don't quite understand the emotions you're overwhelmed with but you embrace them, welcome them. You don't remotely have the strength to fight them anyway.

"Two years ago, I got into a fight with my dad. Probably the most violent fight we ever got in. And it wasn't that harsh, but me and my father, we never argued that much. He was a calm man, he was wise and brave. The bravest. And whenever we got into a fight, whoever were in the wrong, he would come the next morning, with breakfast, and walked the trip from my parent's house to my shitty appartement to see me. It's an hour long walk."

You just hum, and keep walking, watching ahead, focusing on the story and not on her.

"Anyway, it was a stupid argument, he didn't approve of Finn." You don't question the name. You don't want to. You ignore the intense feeling of jalousy that bubbles from deep inside your chest. "So we fought for hours on the phone, eventually he came over and we fought some more. Now, it calmed down fairly quick because he could never be mad at me for too long. He wasn't mad when he went home, but he came anyway the following morning. Because it was our thing."

You reach another crossroad. You wait for the light to turn red so you can join the sidewalk on the other side.

"He came over, and we ate breakfast, and we talked and laughed, and I don't know why we talked about my future. About med school. He knew I wasn't happy so he told me "Clarke, you have to allow yourself to make your own choices. I'd be proud of you, no matter how you choose to live your life." And it was the first time he told me that. I still feel his arms around me when he hugged me goodbye."

When the signal is finally okay, you resume your advancing, and turn to her when you hear her voice tremble, feel her breath hitch. You slow down. "I've never told anyone before. This is both the happiest and saddest moment of my entire life."

You stop fully in the middle of the road, and watch fearfully the tears gather up in her eyes. You croak a faint "Why?", the emotions submerging your ability to compartmentalize. A sob wrenches out of her throat, and the tears fall.

"That was the last time I saw my father. He never made it back home." Her chin is fully trembling and she resists the urge to break down completely.

"Clarke.." And, would it be any other moment, any other context, you would have reveled at the sound of her name on your tongue, at the sweet taste of it, how it seemed to be a prayer of love. But it's not any other moment. It's this one, and you can't compartmentalize. You can't help but relate, you can't help but feel her pain. It matches your own. It matches so perfectly.

You engulf her in your arms, because you can't let her see your tears. You can't let her see your pain. You can't be selfish right now. So you hold her, and she lets go. You're barely aware of the horns of cars that passes you by, barely aware that you're still on the middle of the crosswalk. Nothing exists but her words. She breaks, and you feel like it was long overdue. You're here to catch her, and you wish she would catch you too. You can only repeat "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry", broken and sincere. You're grateful for the slow traffic, because no more cars are passing you by.

Still, you feel like pushing your luck, and you're entirely too uncomfortable being here, so, without ever letting go of her, you angle your body sideways, and lead her on the sidewalk. You lead her to safety, even though you know that not to be true.

When you're here though, you resume your previous actions, and continue to hold her with all that you are. You're not ready to let go yet, and she isn't either.

Really, you should think your situation to be extremely weird. Crying in a stranger's arms, over old wounds that feel more fresh than the tears that are escaping you. You hold her for a long time, and in the assurance of your body, she doesn't feel like a strangers anymore. Undoubtedly, confessing to unyielding grief in the middle of the night, walking around the city, is bound to create special connections. Special memories. You know you'll keep this one forever.

After what feels like hours, maybe days, maybe years, the crying subsides. You don't move right away, the acquaintance of a warm body pressed against yours much too welcomed. Specifically, a body that feels right. One against which you think you belong. One that feels natural.

When she whispers words apologies, you tell her that it's alright. It's okay. You understand. You get it. Eventually, you pull back, and wipe the last of her tears out of her reddened and still perfect face. You pull a tissues out of your pocket, one for her and one for you, and you both laugh as you clean yourselves and begin to walk again. There are sniffles and awkward laughing for a few minutes. You pass random walkers, couples, people that look at you weirdly. They won't take this moment away from you though. It's yours. As painful as it is.

"I'm sorry for asking." You eventually say, because guilt is part of the package.

"Don't be. I could have told you another story. I could have chosen differently."

After only a second of hesitation you ask, "Why didn't you?"

"Maybe I needed it. Maybe I needed someone to know."

"Thank you for deeming me worthy of this knowledge."

"Don't thank me. It's a burden I had to share, it doesn't mean I want anyone to bear it."

"I'll gladly help you carry it."

"Don't you already have some of your own?"

You swallow and look away. It feels like a stab in the chest.

"Yeah, I do."

Nothing more is said. She grabs your hands, for comfort. It's overly efficient. You're glad.

You walk, and you walk. Silently, calmly. Suddenly, it hits you, that you've been walking for too long.

"Do we have a destination?" You ask only half joking.

"Yes.."

"Is it actually a real place?"

"No."

"So.. where are we going then?"

"Does it matter? The destination should be the journey."

"Oh, you're one of those." You say smiling, and you're not mocking her. Really, you're just enamoured.

"And what would we be?"

"The ones who are romantic and sappy."

She laughs, and it suits her so much more than tears.

"Says the girl who litterally begged a stranger to follow her on an adventure, on a whim."

"Says the girl who asked me to stay in the first place."

You both look at each others again, bashful smiles and tender eyes.

"I mean it, you know. I just wanted to wander the city and talk. We don't need to go somewhere. I just wanted to stay with you."

"I didn't leave you, did I?"

"No, no you didn't."

You squeeze her hand. The atmosphere shift, something changes and there's a tension that was there all along but rather forgotten. You feel the sudden need to be closer, impossibly closer. And the deep hours of the night provides you with a reason. The cold of the darkness falls upon you and she shivers.

"I should probably get you home before you catch something. You're freezing."

But she's suddenly pleading with her eyes.

"I don't want to go home. Anywhere but there. Please."

You think about for a second, thinking about all that this statement and your following decisions could entail. What will it be? What could it means? Will this mean something? Will this change the course of your life? You decide that if it does, than it's really not a bad thing.

You hail a cab, squeeze her hand once more. When it stops before her and you hold the door of the car open for her to enter, you say "I'm really taking you somewhere this time". You give the adress to the driver, and when you take off, you enjoy the view of the city. Passing lights that light up a little bit more than the streets.

She doesn't speak, doesn't question the destination. When you arrive at the hotel, you question yourself. Don't show it. Just go with it. Tongiht, you start living again. You walk in silence and she follows, when you ask for a room. There is a certain tension, when in the elevator, she looks at the floor and says nothing. When you arrive in front of the suit, you finally hear the sound of her her voice once more.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Can't do what?"

"Let you pay for all this. Let you pay for a hotel room, for the night.."

"Look, I have more than enough money. As for the night? Let's just say that I want to enjoy their room service menu and we can lounge in peace in the living room of the suite. I don't want to take you to mine's."

"That's twice you say that to me, now. I'm really feeling offended."

"Jesus, I'm sorry. I mean I don't want to make you uncomfortable bringing you back to my place and thinking I'm expecting anything."

"But a suite in a fancy hotel with a living room and room service is saying something else..?" She smiles at you, one of those dangerous smile that are far too attractive to be ignored.

"It was that or a motel and a vending machine. Which one do you prefer?"

"I guess the fancy hotel is fine."

You open the door and let her in. The suite is big. The window has a nice view of the skyline. You find rapidly the menu of room service, and throw yourself on the big couch against the far wall of the room, propping your feet on the small table before you. She soon take a sit next to you, while you scan the choices.

"Do you want something to drink? Wine maybe?"

"Now you're just pushing your luck."

You smile without taking your eyes off the menu.

"Is it a yes?"

"I don't think alcohol is such a good idea."

"Tell that to the four tequilas that died in your throat."

"Okay, that was kind of rude." She says laughing, because really, when she sees that you're still smiling, she can't be mad at you. "I guess wine could be fine. Red."

"Red wine, it is. Are you hungry?"

"Lexa.."

You don't want to argue, you don't want this to be a reoccuring subject. You shoot her a pointed look. Do your best to show her that you're in no state to start a discussion about this.

"Fine.. I suppose maybe, I wouldn't say no to food. But nothing too fancy."

"I'm kind of in the mood for pancakes."

"Now, we're talking. Can we have pancakes at this hour?"

"Darling, we can have whatever we want."

The term of endearment doesn't go unnoticed by either of you because you see the shy smile, gaze averting, and when you turn to make the call, you pretend like you don't hear the murmured "I wish we could."

You order enough pancakes to nourrish the whole hotel, and every topping you can think of, a bottle of the finest red wine, and chuckle at the confused response at the other end of the line, imaginning the Red wine with pancakes? thoughts that are running through the chef's mind.

While you wait for the food, you talk easily with her, about everything and nothing. You talk about the best places in New York, favorites books and songs that marked your life. You talk about growing up, you talk about having siblings. While you eat, she talks about her mother, bright surgeon Abby Griffin, recently remarried. You learn about the bitterness of her mother marrying Marcus Kane, how she loves the man, the kind hearted passionnate man that is Marcus but who will never be her father. And you know that beneath it all, it's the guilt talking. The tragic guilt of feeling responsible for the death of a beloved.

You learn about Octavia, the best friend. Her brother, Bellamy, the other best friend. You discover about growing up as a trio, summer camps spent together and teenage dramas. You want to learn more.

"This wine is exquisite."

"Isn't it? I'm glad you like it."

"Thank you for all this, Lexa." When you just smile, she goes on. "So am I going to finally learn about your name?"

"You won't let it go, will you?"

"I see you're starting to know me."

You sigh, and angle your body toward hers, and she mirrors you, propping her head in hand, arm resting on the back of the couch.

"If I tell you, You have to promise not to tell a single living soul about it."

She nods eagerly, and you wonder one last time if you feel like saying it. There is only one other person in this world who is-was allowed to call you that, and you haven't heard it fully since then. But since tonight is a night of change, of taking chances, of risks, you tell yourself that you might as well go with it.

"My name's Alexandria."

You don't say it lightly, it's not casual. The words are heavy in your mouth and they fall upon the both of you with a certain tension. She doesn't speak, it's unnerving. She sit up straighter, and lean in. Your heart beats fast because, for a split second, you let yourself think that she's going to kiss you. Instead, she throw her hands around your neck, like she understands, like she knows what it means that you told her this.

The hug is returned fairly quickly, you need it. Tears are gathering at the corner of your eyes, and you want to force them away but you know you won't be able to. They've been waiting. They've been hovering for six months now.

"Beautiful.." She whispers in your hair, and it's all you can do not to scream it agony. Reliving all the times you heard this name, when it was thrown your way in high school corridors, a simple greeting. When you heard in flirting, in pain, in tears, in laughter, in anger, in reprimands, in pleasure, in delight, in pain, in apologies. Whispered, shouted, licked on your skin, painted on you with such gentleness, uttered in infinite love.

"Her name was Costia."

"You don't have to-"

"I do. I share your burden. Share mine?" And she nods against your shoulder, she lets you. She never let go of you, only comes closer.

"Only her called me that. We met in high school. I was fifteen and knew nothing about life, or love. I was raised by my aunt, never knew my parents. I didn't know what loved looked like. Indra loved us, but she was a hard working woman, that gave us a strict education. She was kind but firm. I didn't have that many friends, besides Anya and Aden, I was kind of on my own. She pushed her way into my life, came in with a bang. I fell in love with her almost instantly. We became the best of friends but that phase didn't last very long." You chuckle but it doesn't sound happy. You fight against the tears still. You won't let them fall. You refuse it.

"She would always get us in trouble. I hated it. She'd go and do something stupid, and I could never leave her alone. I would have followed her through anything. I took the fall for too many times. Indra was furious with me. But she had a soft spot for Costia. Everyone did. You couldn't not love her."

"I wish I could have met her."

That makes your heart aches ten times more than before. Your throat hurts too, it's almost completely closed off and you struggle to keep talking. You have to get it out, too. Tonight is the night, you remind yourself. You don't allow the "Me too." that wants out. It'll do more damage to your already broken soul.

"I loved her so much. She was beautiful, she was sophisticated and goofy, gentle and fierce. A force to be reckoned with. It was all natural that after high school, we both attended law school. We were brilliant students. We followed the same steps. Passing the bar. Being hired in a firm. Her family was influencial. Her parents always had a lot of money and they had connections."

You don't know how it happens, when, or why. But, somehow, you shift, and move, and make yourselves comfortable, without ever breaking the hug, and that seems to mean that she has to sit on your laps, her legs resting behind your back, and you're leaning into her, her arms and body shielding you from the real world, and for moments, you close your eyes and imagine, much like earlier, being back in time.

"Really, working living together was tiring. That meant endless fights, long nights of works, where one or the other would come home late. But it was good, you know. One day we had a big case, and we were both assigned on it. Rapist and murderer. It was complicated, and we were the best. We thought we would get it. We thought we had it, we would win. We had a strong case, but I guess it wasn't enough, theirs was stronger. Really, it's a shame thinking back."

There is nothing you can do for the tears that falls now and you're grateful they're silent, they don't come in sobs. They just fall, aimlessly, cutting your cheeks with agony. If Clarke feels it against her chest, she doesn't say.

"We lost the case. And the bastard was released. It didn't do us good. We fought harder than before, we didn't understand how we could have let this monster go. We blamed ourselves and each other. We were distant. We thought about the lives we couldn't save because he was a free man, free to pick his next victim. Free to take another life."

You pause. It's hard. It's the first time you let yourself say those words out loud. It makes them real, you acknowledge them. You relieve yourself of their weight against your chest.

"He did, he did take another life. And it was the last one he ever will." She looks at you, pulls back, search your face. Leans back, lets you lean on the back of you couch, tense but ruined. Her hands take yours. Encouragement, comfort, bravery, they give you all the things you need to go on.

"I was working late. We were supposed to go out with Anya this night. I didn't go. They went to grab a drink, and I didn't go. I couldn't, I needed to work harder, to be better, to fix our mistake. So I stayed at work. And Costia went home alone, it was a short ride. She never let Anya get her home. She was too proud and self-sufficient. He was waiting for her in our building. Don't ask me how he got in, to this day it's still a mystery. He tortured her. Made her suffer for ever trying to put him in jail. For "defying him"."

The tears have stopped, you don't have the strength to cry. The words are sharp, sharp enough that you feel like there is blood pouring out of your mouth.

"I guess I have to thank my sister, somehow, that when she didn't a text that assured that Costia was safe, she went and check on her. She found her. They caught him the next day. This time, his case wasn't strong enough. I haven't been to work since."

There's something wet that crashes on your linked hands, and you know that the tears don't belong to you.

"I am still having a hard time grasping the fact that this man is still allowed to breathe, to walk the same ground as me, when she can't anymore. It should be me. I should have been the one he found. What if I had gone with her? Would I have been able to save her? Maybe we wouldn't have gone home at all. Maybe we would have had too much too drink, and Anya would have taken us all to hers, like she did many times. What if-"

She cuts you with fingers on your mouth.

"Stop. Don't. Don't do this."

"How can I deserve to live in world where she doesn't?"

And she looks at you hard, strong, desperate. When she leans in this time, you know that you don't have to hope for it. You feel undeserving of it but you can't deny it, you crave it, you crave the feeling that you're worthy again. Her lips against yours are hard, forgiving of mistakes that aren't yours or hers to fix. They're firm, ordering guilt to evaporate. It's indulgent, soothing and reassuring.

You kiss her back, grateful, thank the gods for being merciful on your condamned soul. Her hands are grabbing at your sweater, pulling you against her. You surrender. You don't want to hate yourself anymore. It's okay to live. When your lips move against hers, your learn again that you can indulge yourself, that you can forgive yourself, maybe the tears that are returning will erase forever the shame, the disgrace, the regrets. You can only pray.

The kiss is slow now, soft mouths brushing together, nose touching as head tilts, and when you go to kiss her again, your hands sliding up her back she pulls away. Gasps, but doesn't let go of your sweater, doesn't get off of you.

"I can't.. I'm sorry."

When you look at her, forehead touching, you plead her to give you a reason why.

"I'm getting married in two days."

The words slice their way through your heart. You don't move. Cry harder. You're frozen, in this state of confusion.

"Why?" Is the only thing that leaves your mouth, and really, you're asking a thousand questions. Why didn't you tell me? Why are you here? Why did you kiss me? Why did you pull away? Why don't you love me? Why did you say yes? Why did you follow me? Why am feeling like this? Why, why, why?

She doesn't have any answer. There really is nothing to say. You can never call her "mine". She's not yours to touch anymore, not yours to kiss, to hold, to love.

You don't question the truth behind this night. She feels it as much as you do, the water that is staining both your clothes are a proof of it, and the ugly tragedy of it all is layed in front of you. She can't love you, she wants to, and maybe she does. But she can't.

You want to tell her that this is stupid, just call it off. Run away with me. To hell with it, you want to repeat. Take a chance on this, you want to say. Don't give up on this before you even started. But you have no right. You have no right to beg for her to quit her life. You can't ask her to throw it all away for a night of freedom.

Forehead still touching, tears still spilling, you crave for her to say that it'll be okay. You crave for warm nights, where heated lips meet heated skin, warmed by the soft light of the descending sun, lulled by the laughter in your surrounding, the neverending spiring and summer nights where everything feels more alive. You crave for things you cannot have.

She wraps her arms around you once more, burries her head in your neck, pressing I'm-sorry's to your skin, pleading you to understand, but you already do. You do. You wish you didn't.

In one fluid motion with a strength you didn't know you have, you lift her, walk to the bed, and lie both your body on it. The night doesn't have to end there. You let yourself enjoy it while you can.

You stay like this, fully clothed, lights on, that you turn off eventually with two claps of your hands, stuck behind her back. You lay there, looking at her, unsaid promises that can never be kept.

When her eyes close, you allow yourself to say, "Please, stay."

She doesn't answer, doesn't move, and you think that she's asleep. When you finally feel sleep take over, you feel lips almost pressed against yours, but not quite. They ghosts over yours, and finally, when they touch in the kindest of kisses, you surrender to the darkness.

In the soft light of the morning, you feel the bed shift, you hear words of apologies. Not said, but heard anyway. Cold replace warmth.

"Where are you going? Come back to me." You say, half aware of what is happening. You barely register the sound of sniffles, and the click of the door. In your sleep clouded mind, you feel safe to to say "Don't ever leave me." and even if she's already gone, you know that she heard it as clear as the light of the newcoming day.

When you wake up, your heart is just like the bed in which you're laying: cold and empty.