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Enjoy!
CHAPTER 13 : THE WORKSHOP
14/11/2015
Clarke sighed, picking up the eraser for the hundredth time in an hour to start her sketch all over again. It was one of those days she truly wanted to draw something, but just couldn't quite pinpoint what. Each time she had an idea, she always ended up being disappointed by her work. The more she tried the more her frustration grew. She was close to giving up, but it meant she was going to be in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
"Damn it," she grumbled.
She tried to think about something new. Maybe she shouldn't draw a portrait, this time. She'd finished her father's not so long ago. A landscape, then? But that idea alone sounded boring to her. Maybe something completely different, like imaginary creatures or enchanted kingdoms? Yeah, she wasn't that imaginative, unfortunately. She bit her lip, her fingers playing with a pencil. Maybe she should watch a show on Netflix, she'd still be more productive than she was at the moment. She had two episodes left of Orange Is the New Black…
Bzzz.
She startled.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
She looked to her right to find her phone buzzing – Bellamy's name written on the screen.
He was calling her? Now?
She frowned. He'd never done that before. They usually texted - if Bellamy actually remembered he had a phone.
It was probably nothing anyway. It was just… interesting.
She picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, " Bellamy said. "Uh…"
She waited for him to continue – but he remained silent for so long she checked to see if he was still on the phone. He was.
"Yes?" she said.
"I, uh… It's stupid. I don't wanna bother you…" he mumbled.
"What? You're not bothering me. You're probably the most exciting thing that happened to me today," Clarke joked.
But he didn't laugh.
Okay, something was wrong.
"Bellamy, what is it?" she asked, worried.
She heard him sigh.
"I had a fight with Gina," he said.
Clarke straightened. 'Of course', she thought.
"And uh… I needed to get some air. So, I left the apartment and now I'm just walking in the streets with nowhere to go," he told her, his voice tight.
"Oh."
She realized he wasn't calling her to talk, or to think about something else. He was calling her for help.
He could've called Miller, or Murphy, or his sister. But he'd chosen her. He was asking her. Because she was his friend.
"You can come over," she immediately suggested.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Of course, Bell. No problem."
"Okay… Thank you." he said, and she could hear the relief in his voice.
She smiled. Maybe she shouldn't feel that way, but she was happy knowing he'd think of her in that moment. She felt almost proud. Bellamy trusted her, just like she trusted him.
"I'll be here soon," he said.
"I'm waiting," she told him, before hanging up.
~oOo~
Bellamy arrived about 20 minutes later. She heard his steps getting closer to the door.
Clarke had been cleaning up the mess in her workshop while waiting for him – mostly to do something with her hands. It was better than looking at a blank page for hours.
She went down the narrow stairs to find him standing in front of her apartment's door.
"Hi," she said.
He startled, clearly not expecting her to be there. Then he smiled at her.
"Hi,"
She noticed his heavy breathing and his chest moving fast. She understood immediately.
"You had to take the stairs, is that it?" she asked.
"Yeah," he sighed. "The elevator was out of function."
"It always is," she laughed. "Well, at least it gives me a bit of exercise to do every day."
She was standing just in front of him now, close enough to see the freckles on his face. He was still grinning at her, but there was still sadness in his eyes. His hair was a damn mess. It reminded her of the first time she'd ever seen him. Funny how much her opinion of him had changed since then – except maybe that she still found him attractive. In a very objective, platonic way obviously.
Clarke opened the door to her apartment.
"Come in," she said. "Make yourself comfortable."
He stepped into the living room as she closed the door behind him, his eyes scanning everything around him. She didn't understand why he seemed to be observing the place – she'd brought him here before - until she remembered that he'd never been in this room. He'd only seen the workshop until then.
"It's cool. Very… you," he commented.
"Very me ? What does that mean?" she asked him, unsure of if it was a good thing or not.
He took off his jacket as he answered, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
"I don't know. There are so many colors and… stuff. It's messy but in a good way. I like it."
He winked at her to make sure she knew he wasn't lying.
"Okay," Clarke said, satisfied by his response. "Here, give me this."
She took his jacket from his hands to put on a chair beside her.
"Do you want a beer or something?" she asked him.
"Sure,"
He sat down on the couch as she went to the fridge. By the time she came back to sit beside him, he was clenching his fists on his knees, his face grim. She frowned but didn't say anything. She handed him the beer, putting her other hand on his shoulder, hoping to give him some comfort. He took the beverage with a quick "thanks" and sighed.
"Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to talk about anything but this?" she asked him, calmly.
He shook his head, but she didn't know what exactly he was saying no to. She didn't have to wait for an answer, though. He started talking a second later.
"Do you ever feel like you're so fucking alone? Like, you've got ten people around you that care about you, but you still feel like they don't actually see you?" he asked her, his voice tight.
Clarke's heart ached because of his words. It saddened her to see him suffer this much. It was more than just a fight with his girlfriend, it was a sorrow growing inside of him. And he was trying to fight it.
"Yes," she whispered.
Of course, everybody was sorry for her when her dad died. They were all so kind, so generous, all of a sudden. She could literally ask anyone anything and they would do it, because the poor girl had lost her daddy. But at some point, people got tired and they expected her to get over it, and as fast as possible. They didn't want to deal with someone who felt like shit every day. So, once she started saying "I'm okay" when they asked her how she was doing, they felt better – even if they all knew it wasn't true. It gave them a reason not to think about her and the tragic event they didn't actually care about.
So, yeah. She knew how it was like. She didn't feel that way anymore, but she definitely used to.
"It's like they have this vision of me… I don't know if that's what I am. Maybe I'm not like this. Maybe I'm not a good brother or a good teacher or a good boyfriend." he said, closing his eyes.
He sighed again, his jaw clenching. He brought the beer to his lips. Clarke still had her hand on his shoulder.
"Well, I don't know about the good boyfriend or brother part." she told him. "But I know you're a good teacher and a good friend. And a wonderful guy, on top of that."
The shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. He opened his eyes again to stare at her. The intensity of his look made her heart miss a beat.
"I'm not sure of that," he said.
"I am."
For a few seconds they remained silent, only staring at each other. They could only hear the sound of their own breathing. Clarke was extremely aware of the intimacy of the moment and didn't know what to do with herself. She wasn't sure how she felt about all of this.
Bellamy was the first one to look away.
He cleared his throat before he talked again, one of his hands rummaging through his hair.
"Gina's leaving again," he said.
"Oh."
So that was what the argument was about.
"To Europe. For three months," he added.
"Three months?" Clarke repeated, taken aback.
"Yeah."
She leaned back into the couch.
"Damn," she couldn't help herself to say.
That was a pretty long time. From what Bellamy had told her – which wasn't much - Gina had never been gone for so long before. It wasn't going to be easy. They already had enough issues without this new plan. Clarke wouldn't tell Bellamy, but it felt like their breakup was now just a matter of time. He probably knew that already, though. He was hurt. And all Clarke could do was to be by his side when it'd all happen.
"When I want to clear my head, to think about something else… I write. But recently I… I can't stay at the apartment, you know? And the café is always so crowded. I just want to be in peace for an hour or two," he said, playing with his hands.
He'd changed the subject on purpose, of course. He never talked about Gina for too long. Part of Clarke wanted to insist and ask him about her, but she let it go.
"Well, I mean you could come and write here. At my workshop," she shrugged, because she wasn't sure he would accept.
"You sure?" he asked, looking at her.
"Yeah. I don't mind."
She didn't. Mostly because she wasn't expecting him to actually show up and write in her workshop, but also because it could be nice having someone with her while she painted.
"Okay. Thanks," he said, a real smile on his face this time.
They went upstairs, once they were done with their beers. They talked about something else, she even managed to make him laugh at some point.
Once in her workshop, she watched him observing the room again. He took his time, even if he was familiar with it. He pointed at the mat on the floor.
"I remember this one pretty well, he joked.
She laughed as she went to sat in one of the two chairs on the other side of the room. She'd left her sketchbook on the small table beside it. Bellamy sat in front of her.
"Do you have a pen? And paper?" he asked.
She looked around the room.
"Yeah… I'm not sure. Those really aren't the kind of things I work with every day," she teased.
He rolled his eyes, which made her laugh even more. She fetched a few sheets of paper and three different pens. She barely had the time hand them to him before he was already writing something.
"Thanks," he said.
It was only once she was seated in front of him again that she realized she wanted to draw. She knew exactly what.
She picked up her sketchbook and her pencil. She didn't do anything at first, only looking at Bellamy. But when she started, she couldn't stop until she was done.
She drew his serious face as he was deep in his thoughts. She drew his hands on the papers. She drew the way his curls were falling on his eyes. She drew his glasses falling on his nose. She drew his freckles, his lips, his jaw. She drew him.
The way she saw him.
At the very end, when she was satisfied of her work, she wrote three words and two letters; :
'I see you. C.G.'
19/02/2019
Bellamy was standing in front of the apartment's door, hesitant.
Jasper had kindly given him Clarke's old address, almost without resistance. "At this point, there's nothing I can do to stop you" he'd told Bellamy as he was writing it down.
Now here he was, unable to knock on that stupid door. He'd been staring at it for so long he felt like an idiot. The thing was, he didn't know what to do or say. He'd come all this way only to realize he didn't a have plan. He didn't even know who was living there. And what would he tell them? 'Hi, a girl who I think used to be my friend lived in this apartment before, but I don't remember anything and I was kinda hoping that seeing the place would trigger memories, so can I please come in?'
He sighed. He had no fucking clue on how to do this. But he was pretty sure that standing in front of this door forever wasn't a good plan either.
"Okay." he said, trying to gather all of his courage. "One. Two. Th-"
The door opened suddenly.
Bellamy literally jolted away from it, his heart beating so fast in chest he thought it would jump out of his chest. He just had the scare of his life.
"Who the fuck are you?" asked a deep voice.
The man, Bellamy was now facing, looked like he could be a pirate. He just had that kind of face. He had long brown hair, piercing green eyes, and way too much confidence. Bellamy felt his muscles tense.
"I'm Bellamy Blake," he said, firmly, as if the guy would know who he was.
The guy crossed his arms.
"If you're here to sell me some of your shit, I thought I'd made myself clear last time…" he said, a clear threat in his voice.
"I'm not here for that,"
The guy took a step closer, losing patience.
"Then why are you here for?"
Shit. He had to find an explanation - one that didn't sound crazy. The last thing he wanted was to look like a moron in front of this guy. He straightened his shoulder to make it look like he knew exactly what he wanted - and he was gonna get it.
"A friend of mine used to live here. I was wondering if she'd left some of her stuff."
What the hell. That wasn't even good. He didn't even have proof he knew Claire. He'd completely failed.
The guy frowned.
"The blond one?" he asked, to Bellamy's surprise.
"Uh, yeah,"
"What was her name again?"
"Claire Graham."
That made the guy pause, for some reason. He seemed to be thinking about something.
"Yeah, I guess that's her," he said, shrugging.
The guy took another step closer, which made Bellamy step back - but he just wanted to close the door behind him.
"Follow me," the guy said.
… What?
It was so easy. Bellamy had been expecting an argument, a threat, maybe even a fight. Instead, everything was going exactly the way he wished it would.
Bellamy followed him to a concealed door in a corner. For a second, he wondered if the guy was a serial killer and it was all a trap. Behind the door were narrow stairs, and it was so dark you couldn't see the end. The guy went first.
"She left a bunch of shit in this room," he explained, as he was climbing up. "She said I could throw them away. I figured maybe she'd want them back one day."
Bellamy waited as he heard him struggle with something at the stop of the stairs. He didn't understand what he was doing until light illuminated them.
A trap door.
The guy turned around to look a Bellamy, still downstairs.
"You coming or not?" he asked, irritated.
Bellamy immediately followed. Hopefully he wouldn't be killed.
It was only once he was standing in the room, that he realized where he was.
The workshop. It was so empty and dirty - the shadow of what it used to be. But the walls were still white, the light was still shining through. A bunch of boxes were scattered on the floor, along with old tools and items.
He wished he remembered something. Anything. But nothing came.
"These were all hers," the guy said, pointing at the boxes on the left. "These are mine,' he added, pointing at the rest.
Bellamy didn't know what to say. It was so much more than he expected. The guy's face was suddenly even more serious than it already was.
"Listen," he said. "I don't care what you do with it. Take it, leave it, burn it. I don't give a shit. But I gotta go now so you need to decide, and fast."
"I'm taking them," Bellamy told him, without even thinking.
He made a point to look at the guy straight in the eyes. The guy squinted, as if analyzing Bellamy, then nodded.
"Great. I'm Roan, by the way," he said, extending a hand.
Bellamy looked at it, taken by surprise. He didn't hesitate long enough for the guy to feel offended, fortunately.
"Nice to meet you," he said, even if he wasn't really thinking it.
Roan didn't seem to care much. He turned his back on Bellamy to pick up two of the boxes.
"Gonna help you with this. You're lucky the elevator's working," he grumbled, as he went down the stairs.
Roan left so fast it was clear he wanted to be done with the situation. No time to lose. Bellamy gave one last look at the room before he took the rest of the boxes and followed him.
~oOo~
Bellamy waited until he was home to look through the boxes.
Most of the things he discovered weren't that interesting - old brushes, a broken jar, a small lamp, a shirt covered with paint… It still felt weird. Claire didn't know he had these boxes with him. He felt a bit guilty for not telling her. After all, it all used to be a part of her life. But did it really matter, if she'd left everything behind? Maybe he wouldn't find anything. Maybe none of these things were important.
There were five boxes. Each time he opened one, he found himself disappointed. He didn't know why exactly. What did he expect to find? Of course it was just old stuff. He never intended to go home with all of this anyway, he just wanted to see the workshop with his own eyes. And nothing happened. Not even a feeling of familiarity.
Bellamy clenched his jaw as he picked up the last box. He didn't even want to look through it – he knew it wouldn't contain anything interesting. He opened it anyway, because otherwise he would regret not doing so. He wasn't surprised to find more old brushes. Claire must've had tons of them. Underneath them was a notebook – he went through the pages only to find it empty – and underneath the notebook were… pictures.
Bellamy froze.
There weren't a lot, maybe ten. He took them carefully, afraid to somehow damage them. His breathing accelerated. He tried not to hope for much, as he took one at random. Maybe it'd just be pictures of the apartment or the city or…
Miller.
And Jasper, Monty, Harper. And Claire. And Bellamy.
All on the same picture.
At a bar, apparently.
Bellamy couldn't believe it. His brain couldn't accept that possibility. Miller had told him he didn't know Harper's cousin. He'd told him he didn't know anyone good at drawing portraits, back when Bellamy was trying to get some answers on the drawing. Claire had never told him she'd met his best friend.
Miller knew. Claire knew. And they'd been hiding this from him for years.
