Clarke
She didn't want to see her again. She didn't want to hear her side, see her logic, understand her. She wanted to hate her. She did hate her. And she didn't trust her. Not again. Never again. But that didn't stop something in her chest from squeezing when she heard, "I didn't mean to turn you into this." She wanted to call it anger. As if she had the power to make Clarke anything. Maybe it could have been disgust, at the emotion (the weakness) that underlies the words. But she knew. It wasn't either of those. It wasn't anything other than grief. Not for herself, but for the thing they could have been if Lexa had stayed. And really, what did that say about her?
Even still, she agreed to the terms Lexa set. Even still, she put on the dress, the makeup. Even still she looked her in the eye as she went down on one knee. False supplication; she nearly choked on the bile it left in her throat. And even still, when the radio came in, she stayed. Even still, when she looked into his eyes, she stayed. When he walked away, confused, angry, hurt, she stayed. And once he was gone, and she was on her knees again, trying to breathe without him, she could almost have wanted the touch Lexa gave.
Bellamy
He never told her. He wished he could have told her. She deserved better. Better than him. Better than someone who couldn't give her all of himself. She deserved to be first. Now she was gone. Because of him, she was dead. And he never told her, but he loved her. She was there when he couldn't see past his own mind, the memories choking him, blinding him, burning him from the inside. Her voice was the one he heard whispering, "I'm here. I won't leave you." Her touch reminded him that he could be better than what he had become. But he never told her. He let someone else have the place she deserved. And even now that she was gone, he still couldn't give her everything. And really, what did that say about him?
Even still, he should have known Pike was using him. Even still, he should have seen that she would never want this. Even still, he took the guns, the extra clips. Even still, pulled the trigger; mind cracking more with each shot. And when he walked back through the gate, disgusted, broken, angry, he knew that he had gone too far. And once the crowd was gone, and his sister couldn't look at him, and he was shaking from holding too much in while not feeling enough, he could almost convince himself that he did it for love.