Clarke is aware of two things as she zips through the powder: There's a ski school full of three-year-olds to her left, and she can't feel her fingers or toes. Everything else is second nature, from the way she crouches, poles in hand, to the slight turns she makes to control her speed, and she couldn't be more at ease.
She'd been separated from her friends hours ago, but she's not too upset about it. Clarke knows that she can meet them back at the condo they've rented for the long weekend. Besides, she also enjoys the luxury of planning her own routes without the group's dissent, but she won't tell them that. For now, she's got Mount Weather to herself, in all of its powdery glory.
After she quickly meanders her way through a few moguls, Clarke's racing toward the base of the mountain with the lift in sight. The cold mountain air stings her cheeks and she can tell that her face is bright red, but she disregards this, along with the lack of feeling in her extremities. She doesn't get much time like this to herself, so there's no way she'll be retreating to the condo anytime soon.
When she finally reaches the base, Clarke stops, all parallel skis and white powder, before heading for the nearest lift. Because she's by herself now, she doesn't have to hold a conversation with Finn-or Monty or Jasper or Raven or Harper-as they ride up the mountain. The resort isn't too crowded, so she's probably got the lift to herself.
Disentangling her poles from her wrists, she glides quickly through the empty queue and prepares to load the lift. The family in front of her boards the chair with some difficulty and she follows directly after them, sliding to meet the red line marked clearly in the snow.
Clarke's contemplating just how relaxing the ensuing lift ride will be when she turns to catch the lift turning the corner-and sees a snowboarder making his way to her side. Dammit, she thinks, huffing out a sigh. Awkward ski lift small talk has never been one of Clarke's favorite things, but she'll have to manage.
In a matter of seconds, the snowboarder's beside her-he's so tall-and the chair sweeps them both off their feet. They reach for the lap bar simultaneously, lowering it so that they can both rest their feet for a bit. Clarke's been out on Mount Weather for hours without stopping, so when she finally tugs her goggles from her eyes, she lets out a tiny sigh of fatigue. The mountain is quiet, save for the low hum of the lift as it chugs upward, and Clarke's at ease.
"A little tired there?"
Clarke's eyes shift to her right. He has yet to remove his goggles, but she can still see part of his face-olive skin, freckled cheeks, the slight curve of his grin-and unlike most of her usual middle-aged ski lift companions, this snowboarder can't be much older than she is.
She can't muster enough air to chuckle, so she breathes a laugh. "Tired's an understatement," she responds, and her entire body aches in languid agreement. "I've been skiing for three days straight and I'm ready to collapse."
He laughs, too, and it's a low, lovely sound, reverberating deep in his chest. Much like Clarke's, though, his laughter seems to drain him. "Why're you skiing another run, then? Did you think that one through at all?"
Slumping against the chairlift, Clarke turns to him, one eyebrow quirked. "I don't get to ski often, thank you very much," she says dryly, eliciting another low laugh from the snowboarder. "Plus, I'm avoiding my friends for right now. They're kind of a burden, and I just wanna ski."
It's quiet for a bit as they proceed up the mountain, the winter air nipping at Clarke's nose and permeating the fabric of her gloves. Her fingers and toes are still numb, but that's customary, and when she begins planning her route to the mountain's base, she's thrilled that she doesn't have to take her friends' requests into consideration. The alpine silence soothes her-until the snowboarder breaks it.
Sliding the goggles from his eyes onto his helmet, he keeps his eyes fixed on the landscape below. "Well, you must be an absolute delight on the slopes," he replies, smirking.
"Oh, shut up." Clarke rolls her eyes as her lips quirk ever so slightly. "I'm the fuckin princess of skiing," she tells him matter-of-factly.
Laughing again-shit she loves his laugh-he turns to face her and meets her unwavering gaze. "Okay, okay. If you're the 'fuckin princess' you claim to be, have you taken a run down Catskinner yet? The double black diamond at the top of this lift?"
Her head tilts slightly sideways as she eyes him carefully. Narrowing her gaze, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips, she says, "Is that a challenge, random stranger I just met? Clarke Griffin never backs down from a challenge."
"If that's what you want, Clarke, then you're on," he says, pulling his goggles back over his eyes, adjusting his board in anticipation of disembarking from the lift. Usually, lift rides with strangers seem like eons of painfully awkward silence, but this one's been different, and before Clarke knows it, she's also readying her skis and she and the unidentified snowboarder raise the lap bar in tandem.
Her perfectly parallel skis hit the packed-down powder-she's been skiing since she was three, so her mechanics are flawless-and she glides down the small hill on which the lift is situated, coming to a quick stop beside Catskinner. As she pulls her goggles back over her eyes, she scans the immediate area. For some reason, Clarke doesn't expect him to follow through on his challenge because he's a stranger and so is she and they've only met a few minutes ago, but sure enough, there he is grinning at her, seated a few feet away strapping himself into his board.
The snowboarder hops to his feet and shimmies over to Clarke's side, analyzing the trail in front of them. It's full of moguls and it's rather steep, but Clarke's been skiing for over fifteen years, so its nothing she can't handle. On the other hand, her competitor seems familiar with the run, and she's afraid he's been hiding the true extent of his snowboarding expertise. She knows its a mere competition for fun and there's no prize to be won in the end, but for some reason, Clarke wants to win badly.
"Ready, Princess?" he jokes, turning to face her. Now that they're standing, she's acutely aware of the height difference-he's got at least eight inches on her, and even under his gear, she can tell its all lean muscle-but she doesn't waver.
"Of course," she tells him confidently, shifting her gaze to the precipice.
He chuckles lightly before saying, "Alright, so I'll count us down from three. Go after one, not on one, Clarke. No cheating allowed, you've got to beat me fair and square."
She nods in tacit agreement, mind on the competition and the slope ahead of her. She knows she's got this, and when she wins, she'll brag to whatshisname about how she really is the "fuckin princess" of skiing. However, as she's preparing to dig her poles into the snow and propel herself onto the steep hill below them, she realizes she's indirectly told him her name, but she doesn't know his.
"Wait, hold up," she says. "You never told me your name!"
He turns to her, one corner of his lip turning up in a smirk, and counts down from three without any warning. After one, not on one-at least he's not cheating-he speeds off, heading for the moguls with Clarke hot on his heels. He's fast on his board, but poles in hand, so is she, so this race could end either way.
"Hey! Not fair!" she yells over the howling winter wind, but she can't quell the laugh that follows.
His muffled reply comes from about fifteen feet ahead. "See you at the bottom!" he yells back.
Prompted by the snowboarder's taunt, Clarke crouches lower in her stance so she can pick up more speed on the moguls. Racing down the hill, she's having so much fun that she's completely forgotten about the intense languor plaguing her body, her friends, who've likely retreated to the condo already, and her numb extremities. In fact, she's laughing softly to herself. The mountain air must be getting to her head.
The trail is long and grueling and their race had been at full speed, so when they finally reach the base of the mountain, Clarke feels like her legs might fall off. Now that she's off the mountain, she doesn't feel the same skiing-induced euphoria she had a few moments ago and the lassitude she'd forgotten about has returned with a vengeance. However, when she realizes that she's beaten the snowboarder by a few seconds, she grins in triumph and sticks her fist in the air.
He seems similarly exhausted, but musters enough energy to laugh at her excitement, the low, lovely sound Clarke's been craving since she heard it last. "Well, Clarke, I guess you really are the princess of skiing. I'm impressed."
"Damn right I am!" she proclaims, and he laughs even harder. "Now, what's my prize? Bragging rights? Is that all? Because, actually, I would be okay with that."
"Alright, alright, your prize. I've got a two-part proposal for you."
"And what might that be, loser?" she jokes.
"I'll tell you my name," he says, taking off his helmet. Clarke's struck by the look in his eyes-it's earnest, unlike the playful grin on his freckled face. "It's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake."
Clarke raises her eyebrows, the amusement in her eyes softening. "Well, Bellamy Blake, glad to formally meet you."
Bellamy's smile is different this time. Instead of the playful smirk he'd worn earlier, he's sporting a wide, warm grin free of jokery, and it's got the same effect on Clarke as his laugh-she's absolutely fucked. "Now, about part two. Wanna grab a drink with me? After that race we just had, I don't think another run is the best idea."
Clarke's limbs all ache in agreement. She bets her friends are fine with each others' company back at the condo, and she's really enjoying herself, not just because she'd won the race. Of course, her victory has contributed to her happiness, but she knows it's definitely not the main factor.
"Yeah, I think I'd like that," she says, smiling slightly and nodding.
Later, after they've talked for hours over a couple-which turned into a lot-of beers, they're both tipsy and in his bed and Clarke's really, really glad her friends had gotten lost that day.