CHAPTER 12 : MEMORIES

17/02/2019

Clarke couldn't sleep.

She rolled and rolled in her bed, thinking about everything and nothing at all. Images of the Bellamy she knew three years ago were mixing with her memories of him from only the day before. She heard not only his voice in her head, but also Gina's, Raven's, Octavia's, her own.

Sometimes, she felt panic slowly growing inside of her, her heart beating faster. She would close her eyes and whisper, "He mustn't know. He mustn't know." But an hour later she'd feel calm, ready to face the consequences. Then she would panic again.

It was 6am and Clarke was going through a "calm" phase, which was great but wouldn't last if she thought too much about the situation.

She was imagining herself talking to Bellamy, trying to find the words to tell him everything. Each time she would come up with something, more memories would arise and she would lose track of her inner monologue.

She was getting more and more frustrated. She didn't know where to start nor what to say and when.

She sighed, straightening in the bed, and took her head in her hands. She was so tired, but she knew that as long as she hadn't figured all of this out, she wouldn't be at peace. She just wished someone would show her the way, someone to guide her and tell her It's gonna be fine, here's what you gotta do. But of course, nobody would come to her rescue. If only she could just… show Bellamy. Transfer all the images she had in her head, like a movie.

Her head shot up, suddenly wide awake. What if she could show him?

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She wasn't one to express herself through words.

So, she would draw.

She got up off the bed, put a sweater on, and headed to the living room. She searched around for a pencil and paper, which she quickly found in a drawer. She regretted not bringing her own equipment, as it would've been much better, but these would do.

She settled on the couch, the pencil in her hand, the paper on the small table in front of her. For a moment she just stared at them, her mind racing. Then she leaned in, and drew the first line.

~oOo~

Bellamy was barely waking up when, to his surprise, he saw Clarke had sent him a text. She'd never done that before, except for the time when she told him she was coming back into town. Otherwise, he was always the one asking to meet with her.

He sat on his bed, curious. Maybe it was stupid, but he couldn't wait to read her message.

I have something to show you. Please come to Monty and Harper's. I'll be waiting for you there.

He was fully dressed and ready to go five minutes later.

~oOo~

His heart was already beating fast when he rang the doorbell. It remined him of the last time he'd come here, when he didn't even know she'd be all alone. He remembered the shock on her face when she saw him, even if she was trying to hide it, and the overwhelming emotions he felt when he noticed the painting on the table and the letters at the bottom—C.G. It felt like it'd happened so long ago. He couldn't believe so many things had changed since then.

This time, when she opened the door, a warm smile welcomed him. And he was the one who didn't know what to do with himself.

"Hi," she said.

He couldn't help but stare at her. He noticed her short blond hair pulled into a messy bun, the old sweater she was wearing, her white pajama pants. But, even if he wasn't used to see her so… casually dressed, none of this actually struck him. Because her big, blue eyes had never seemed more alive. She was looking at him in a way she never had before. It just hit him to see how beautiful she was in this moment.

"Hi," he said automatically, not able to take his eyes off her.

"Come in," she said, as she stepped aside.

His heart started beating even faster, but he wasn't sure why exactly. Was he just impatient to discover what she wanted to show him? Or was it something else entirely?

Her smile was still there, but shy. He went in, but didn't move farther, waiting for her to show him the way. She closed the door behind him and walked past him.

"I did all of this this morning. It took me hours," she explained.

He followed her to the living room, more intrigued than ever. He was very aware of how close to her he was, his eyes focusing on the strands of blond hair on her neck. He shook his head. He felt weird this morning, probably the lack of sleep.

They reached the couch and she stopped. At first, he didn't know what he was supposed to do or see, until he noticed tons of white papers spread on the coffee table. He frowned, unsure of what it meant. He was about to get closer when Claire stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. He was a bit disappointed to see she wasn't smiling anymore. She took a breath before she spoke.

"I found a way to tell you everything," she said.

His eyes widened.

"I mean…" she continued, "I'm not gonna tell you, really."

She looked down, fidgeting with her hands. Was this real? Was it happening? Was he really about to get the answers he wanted?

The hope grew inside of him, like a flame in his chest. At the same time, he was so afraid. He didn't even know what she meant by everything. It only made him more curious, hungry to find out. He tried not to show her how exciting and terrifying this was for him. She seemed to be as nervous as he was.

She went to the couch, inviting him to sit with her. He immediately followed, his eyes on the table. Their arms were touching. He felt her body tense before she leaned and took one the papers, which she flipped over.

It was him.

She'd drawn him, and he immediately noticed the similarities between this drawing and the one he'd kept with him for two years. It was so much alike that he stared at Claire, fully realizing she was the one he'd been looking for all this time. She'd confirmed it before, but he realized he hadn't let himself fully believe it. She looked back at him. She wasn't just an enigma for him anymore, she was so much more than that. She was… fascinating.

She looked away.

He focused back on the drawing, observing his old self. He was frowning, his curls falling on his face. He wore glasses, which seemed to be the same ones as those on his old drawing. He looked pissed.

"This is the first time I ever saw you," she explained, whispering.

Her face was so close to his, but he didn't look up. All of the sudden, this image of his past self-had another meaning—it was the way she saw him in her memories. It meant that somewhere in her head, maybe in her heart, there was a spot for him. It was more than enough.

"I look… angry," he said, intrigued.

The shadow of a smile appeared on her lips.

"It's because we argued."

"Why?" he asked, fully staring at her this time.

She avoided his gaze, once again.

"Because… well," she sighed. "I was a bit drunk and you interrupted me and… you were in a bad mood, I was in a bad mood. It escalated quickly."

She shrugged, as if it didn't matter. But it did. It meant so much to him.

He grinned, trying to imagine her drunk and pissed. He'd never seen her like that before, at least not that he remembered, obviously.

The more she talked, the more the drawing seemed to change. Bellamy felt like he was discovering it again and again. It was addicting.

At some point he put the drawing down and leaned in to pick up another. He waited for her to nod before he took one in his hand. He turned it around, impatient. His curiosity was so strong his hands were shaking.

It took him a few seconds to realize why the image seemed so familiar.

"The café," he said.

"Yes."

It was him again. His head was down, his curls hiding his eyes. He was writing something on one of the many pieces of paper scattered on the small table, a cup of coffee to his left.

She didn't add anything—but she didn't need to. For one, because he already knew about their little tradition to eat there together. But most importantly because the drawing told him more than any of her explanations.

She'd drawn his face, his hands, his clothes so perfectly. She remembered the little scratch on the table, the weird picture in the background, the watch he was wearing. There were so many details, even if he could see she'd done this in a rush. He wondered what she was capable of when she had the right tools and enough time.

She never intervened, watching him in silence, but she would always answer his questions.

The third drawing wasn't of him or anyone else. It was a place. Somewhere he didn't recognize, but it seemed beautiful.

"That's my workshop," she said before he could ask her.

"You had a workshop?"

She shrugged.

"Kinda. It was just a room above my apartment. It was well-hidden. If Jasper hadn't shown me…"

She interrupted herself, her lips pursed as if she'd said too much. Bellamy had a hard time understanding her reaction, but he didn't pry.

"And why…?" he started

"We spent a lot of time there," she explained, probably glad he'd changed the subject.

That surprised him. "Even more than at the café?"

She smiled shyly—a tiny movement at the corner of her lips. But her eyes were shining. "Yeah. Even more."

She sighed, melancholic. Bellamy wished he could share the feeling.

He focused back on the drawing, but it was so full of details he didn't know where to look. He noticed the most obvious—an easel in the background.

"So, this is where you painted," he guessed.

"Yes," she confirmed, even if he wasn't asking. "I could spend hours in that room."

"And… what did we do?"

He watched her eyebrows rose and her mouth open, as if she didn't really know what to say.

"Oh. You would write, mostly."

She looked down, hesitating. She was playing with her hands, as she often did.

"You liked watching me paint," she whispered, her voice so low he almost didn't hear her.

He swore her cheeks weren't that red a minute earlier. But it was no surprise to him—of course he would spend his time watching her paint. He couldn't stop looking at her each time they met. Everything about her seemed so fascinating.

"What do you like to paint?" he asked.

He wanted to know more of her, he realized. She'd never talked about herself.

She looked up, thinking.

"Hmm… I usually prefer portraits. Actually, the first painting of mine you ever saw was a portrait of my dad," she told him.

"Really? Did I know him?" he immediately asked.

Maybe Bellamy had forgotten about him, too.

But she didn't have the reaction he expected—her blue eyes were now full of sadness. His heart sank. He knew that look all too well.

"No. He died when I was sixteen," she said.

He felt like crap. That was the most personal question he'd asked her up to then, and it probably was the last thing she'd want to talk about. His frustration grew. He wouldn't make such stupid mistakes if only he could remember. He'd know what to say, how to act. He'd understand her, and their bond. Whatever it was.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She shook her head.

"It's fine. Don't worry."

But he did worry. He didn't say anything more, just in case he'd mess it up again. Clarke remained silent too. He stared at the drawing for so long he could picture it perfectly in his head, but he didn't dare asking her more questions. He felt bad, stupid, and uncomfortable. He just wished they could go back to a few minutes ago.

"You were drunk when I first brought you here," she told him, out of nowhere.

"What?" he said, his eyes widening.

His reaction made her smile. He felt better.

"Yeah. I had to carry you upstairs…" she started.

And just like that, she talked. She told him about that night, and that morning. She even laughed at some point. He didn't have to ask for more details—she was giving him everything he wanted. He could picture the scene in his head, but it didn't trigger anything inside of him. It didn't feel familiar. He felt a bit disappointed, even though he knew his memories wouldn't just… come back.

When she started telling him about the first time they'd met—"This time, I was drunk," she said—he put the drawing aside, leaned back on the couch and listened attentively to her. She would move her hands and close her eyes and sometimes smile, and he just stared at her.

"Wait… who were you talking to? Before I interrupted you?" he asked, realizing she'd never specified.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Umm, Monty," she said, her voice weirdly tight.

He nodded. That made sense.

"How long have you known them? Monty and Jasper I mean."

She grinned, thinking about them.

"I went to high school with them," she said.

"Here? In Arkadia?"

"Yes."

"Oh," he said, even more curious. "So, you didn't meet them thanks to Harper?"

She looked down, but not fast enough to hide her shock. She took a long breath, as if preparing herself to answer. But why was that?

"No. Yeah. I mean, Harper met them later," she said.

He could hear the lie in her voice. But he wouldn't ask about it, at least not for now.

"Okay. So, you used to live here?" he asked instead.

Her body seemed to relax a bit.

"Yeah. I lived here with my parents. My mom and I moved after my dad died," she explained.

Geez, he kept coming back to the dad subject.

"Then I came back here," she continued, before he had the time to apologize once again. "After Wells… Lexa and Finn… I just had to leave."

She sighed. Wells. Lexa. Finn. Names he didn't know, but were so important to her. He couldn't help but ask about them.

And she answered.

She told him about her best friend. He was the mayor's son, and absolutely brilliant. He'd moved to Canada a few years ago, so Clarke only saw him once or twice a year. He was always so busy. She loved him so much, but Bellamy could see the situation made her sad.

She told him about Finn and only two minutes was enough for Bellamy to hate him right away. He wanted to punch him in the face. The good news was Clarke had done exactly that, after she found out he had a girlfriend. That same girlfriend who was now one of her best friends, and Bellamy found out she'd been the one he'd talked to on the phone.

She also told him about Lexa. How in love she was, how heartbroken she had been to let her go. Lexa had changed. Clarke had changed. They tried to make it work, but it wasn't enough.

Bellamy never took his eyes off her. She didn't seem to notice so much. She seemed to feel so much more comfortable than the other days. He hoped it would remain that way.

At some point in the day, both of their bellies started making weird sounds. They ordered pizza.

Hours had passed when she finally stopped taking, and he stopped asking.

She yawned.

"I'm just going to leave. You seem tired," he said, straightening.

"Oh, no. It's fine."

"I took enough of your time," he insisted, politely smiling.

She didn't insist—he could see she needed sleep. He got up, his eyes landing on all the drawings he had yet to discover. She followed his gaze.

"You can take them," she told him.

She got off the couch too, picking up all the papers.

"If you have any questions, just ask," she said, handling them to him.

He nodded before taking them. For just a second, their hands touched. He could swear she flinched at the contact.

She avoided his gaze while walking to the door, but she smiled at him as he stepped outside. It felt so weird, as if he had changed. The Bellamy leaving didn't feel the same as the Bellamy who'd knocked on the door a few hours ago. Claire seemed different too. Her eyes were so warm. She'd opened up to him, and something had shifted between them.

He just couldn't say what exactly.

"See you, then," he said.

"Sure."

He stared at her one second too long before he turned around and he heard the door close behind him. He waited until he was in his car to let out a long sigh. What a day. He couldn't fully process everything. He couldn't wait to see her again.

He was still holding the pile of drawings. One of them was sticking out, close to falling. With his left hand, Bellamy took it and couldn't resist taking a look. It was confusing—he couldn't quite understand what it was supposed to represent. After a few seconds, he could make out an arm, probably his. It seemed to be around something—a waist. There seemed to be waves on the side, he couldn't quite guess what it was. He finally realized he was looking at it the wrong way. He turned the drawing on the side. The waves were supposed to be white sheets, in a bed.

With who?

He frowned, feeling lost. Maybe it would make sense once he'd asked Claire. He put the drawing aside and focused on the one that interested him.

The workshop.

He didn't know where it was, but he knew who might give him the information he wanted. He had a feeling this place still held secrets from the past. It was out there, somewhere. And he would find it.

He had to talk to Jasper.