The lecture hall is massive. There are rows swarming up the walls, with steps cascading in between. Sun filters in through the windows and long columns of light stretch across the scuffed floor.
She's early, so it's still empty, save for a hunched over Bellamy sitting at the lecturer's desk in the center of the room. Crisp, white papers flood the surface of his desk. He shuffles through them thoughtfully, twirling his glasses by their hinges in a way she knows is habitual.
She stands there, watching the way he flicks his wrist to readjust his sleeve as it rides up his forearm, and the way he sometimes mouths the words he's reading.
She doesn't remember everything she said to him while she was drunk, but what she does remember is enough to make her hesitate at the top of the stairs.
Drawing in a breath, she makes her way down the steps. He wouldn't have asked her to come unless he really meant it, and that's enough for her.
"Hey," she says with a tight smile, fingers gripping the small black binder she brought with her.
It's filled with scattered notes and scrawled facts that she can't quite bring herself to focus on right now. Not with the way Bellamy looks up at her and smiles, soft, like just the mere sight of her is a relief. Not with the way he stands up to greet her, asking her if she found the building okay and thanking her, again, for agreeing to do this for his class.
She would tell him that she's not just doing it for them, but she's afraid she's confessed too much to him already. And this delicate reconnection of theirs—it's being built on risk-draped conversations and tentative encounters. All it takes is one misstep, one misspoken word to shatter something that's already half-broken because of their past.
"You didn't tell me it would be this…big," she says, eyeing a few students shuffling in early and dotting the seats.
"Don't worry," he assures. "Half the kids don't show up anyway."
"If you say so."
She draws in a breath, trying and failing to match his easy expression. With anyone else, she might try harder to mask the vulnerability she's feeling, but—
Bellamy would see through it anyway.
He reaches up and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. The gesture—sudden and familiar—surprises the both of them. She looks up at him, breath hitching in her throat.
They keep doing this—accidentally slipping into an intimacy that should've been forgotten by now.
Bellamy furrows his brows, opening his mouth like he's ready to apologize for crossing a non-existent line they both keep pretending is between them.
She reaches up and covers his hand before he can say anything. Her thumb brushes against his warm skin, and the gesture says thank you and I'll be fine and even quietly, tentatively, I missed this. I missed you.
The sound of backpacks unzipping and folders slapping against the surfaces of desks reminds them where they are.
They break apart, Bellamy clearing his throat and Clarke running a hand through her hair.
He rubs his hand behind his neck. "I'll, uh, I'll just introduce you about halfway through and then you can—" he nods at her binder, "—do your thing. If that's okay."
She smiles up at him, and this time it's genuine. He gestures to a seat on the front row, where she can settle in and wait for the class to start.
The lecture begins, and Clarke is entranced.
The deep thrum of Bellamy's voice rumbles through the space of the lecture hall easily. Everyone—even the languid kids in the back row—leans forward to follow his movements.
The words spill from his lips easily, beautifully. Clarke finds herself opening her binder to a blank sheet of paper, entirely intending to jot down any interesting tidbits that she can bring back to the gallery.
She ends up sketching him instead.
Her penciled letters turn into swirls of hair before she can stop them. The graphite, thin-edged drawn line grazes down the paper in effortless lines of movement that match the way his hands gesture smoothly through the air in a way that begs to be followed. The sharp angle of his jaw contrasts against the fluidity of his hair, matching the intensity of his eyes, and she ends up filling the page with him.
She can't help it. He's beautiful.
Just before he introduces her to the now near-filled lecture hall, he looks over and catches her sketching him.
She looks up, dangles the pencil between her teeth, and shrugs. He smirks at her, and she's instantly transported back to six years ago, when he was the TA for her Political Science class and their friendship was blooming in a way they never expected it to.
They'd spend every lecture sharing stupid little glances and smirks, having a million nonverbal conversations through quirked brows and good-natured eye rolls. Afterwards, she'd cling to his arm and they'd walk up to the cute little café on the roof of the University Library, where they'd spend hours doing homework and talking and pretending they weren't falling in love with each other.
Their eyes meet, and she knows he's remembering the same thing.
Voice smothered in fondness and shaped by quiet gratitude, Bellamy introduces her to the class.
She stands. As she's making her way over to the lecturer's desk, he passes her, placing a hand on the small of her back for the briefest of seconds.
The feeling of his hand on her back brings back memories of rough kisses between bookshelves and teeth scraping against skin beneath the muted lights of a bar and the sound of his gravelly voice gasping her name on hot summer nights.
She stumbles through her self-introduction, trying to blink away the memories filling her mind.
Luckily, Bellamy's students are curious, and there are a few whose hands seem to be continually and tirelessly raised. Once she's collected herself, she regains her presentational footing and answers their questions with a natural confidence and ease.
A few students ask about Greco-Roman sculpture, but the majority of their questions are centered around the gallery itself. They ask her all about it—curious about a particular exhibit the gallery is currently displaying, interested in the various pieces of artwork the gallery's curated over the years from artists both globally and locally. Clarke ends up pulling up the gallery's website and projecting it to the class, showing them where they can find ticket prices and event details and workshop notices.
Clarke glances over at Bellamy.
This is why he invited her to guest lecture for his class. Not just to teach the students about Portraiture in Greco-Roman sculpture, but to introduce the gallery to students who had no idea it even existed and who would be more than interested in visiting and collaborating with it.
Monty or Raven must've told Bellamy that the gallery's attendance had been low now that the summer was over, and that they had all been wracking their brains trying to find new ways to encourage people, and schools particularly, to attend. The Anniversary Gala had been one of those ideas, but its attendees had been people who were already familiar with the gallery, not new visitors.
She trails off while speaking. Bellamy is penning notes down in his weathered, worn leather notebook. The room goes quiet, and the silence makes him look up at her.
His expression is one filled with a confident assurance, his warm eyes encouraging her to continue.
She doesn't know whether she should curse his name or kiss him until he forgets it.
Before she can decide, a student raises her hand. Clarke clears her throat and calls on her.
The rest of the lecture goes by smoothly, and she dismisses the class gracefully at Bellamy's nod. Most of the students leave, but a few stay, forming a line and eager to ask Clarke more about the gallery.
Bellamy sits patiently in the front row, twirling a red pen between his fingers. His glasses slip down his nose, and he catches her eye every now and then while he grades papers.
A half hour passes and the last student leaves, finally.
Clarke lets out a monumental sigh, sinking onto the desk in front of her, burying her face in her arms.
She hears a rustle of papers and the popping of knees as Bellamy stands. The sound makes her smile into her arms, and she resists the urge to make a joke about him being an old man as he comes to stand beside her.
"Clarke?"
She looks up at him through strands of curtained blond hair.
"Thank you," she says, sincere.
"I think I'm the one who should be thanking you," he replies. "I haven't seen my students participate that much since syllabus day."
"No, Bellamy." She shakes her head and straightens. She looks into his brown, home-colored eyes and finds herself filled yet again with an insatiable, endless longing for him. "Thank you."
He blinks at her, shifting his weight and nodding. He helps her grab her things, his eyes downcast and contemplative.
"The café's still there, you know," he mentions, an unspoken question tucked between the syllables.
She grabs his arm. It's impulsive and probably inappropriate, all things considered, but it feels so right. It feels so safe.
"What are we waiting for, then?"
He doesn't even try to hide his smile.
"I can't believe this place is still here," she says, unwrapping her sandwich.
It's just warm enough to sit outside. They sit on a bench settled between two quivering trees, a cool breeze snaking beneath their legs. The sun hangs lazily in the sky.
They sit there, the bag of food between them, and try not to notice how easy it is to be here, together.
"I haven't been here in forever," Bellamy muses.
His fingers brush against hers as they both reach for their straws, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
"You haven't?" she asks, frowning. "But you've been teaching here for years now."
"I don't know." He shrugs, setting his drink beside him and twirling the straw mindlessly. "It just never felt right."
She doesn't have to ask why. This was always their place. A place drenched in memories they had made together over the course of years and years. They'd spent seasons here—making memories through soft spring rains and hazy summer suns, through nipping fall breezes and grey winter skies.
The thought makes her heart ache. She fights back the urge move the bag that's separating them and settle in against him, resting her head against his shoulder like she used to, to entwine their fingers and feel warmth bloom in her chest.
She won't lose him again, though. Not when they're just building something so fragile and so delicate that it doesn't even have a name yet.
"They changed the logo on the napkins," she blurts, holding one over to him. It's the first thing that comes to her mind, and she half-expects Bellamy to look at her, confused, and ask her what the hell is wrong with her.
He doesn't, of course.
Instead, he snorts a laugh. He takes the napkin and studies it like it's an important piece of art, tilting his head.
"I liked the old ones better," he admits, handing it back over to her.
She smiles into her sandwich. "Me too."
A/N- this one's a little shorter and took longer to upload because it wasn't working with me and i was really struggling with it for some reason.
now that this is out of the way, though, future chapters will be more fully fleshed out and angsty and heart-wrenching as we journey to the happy ending.
thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/faved! hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.
(also if you caught the zutara reference seriously come find me on tumblr: funfanfin : and we can commiserate over shipping non-canon ships)