an: title taken from slow dancing in the dark by joji

When Lexa was much younger—young enough to believe in magic and fairy dust and life on other planets—she believed that Clarke Griffin was a star incarnate. If not a literal star, then the closest thing within a couple of light years. All of her footfalls twinkled. Every smile glowed. Every loose strand of golden hair shone. Her bright blue eyes sparkled like the constellations themselves.

Looking up at Clarke now, hand-in-hand with Bellamy Blake beneath the glaring stage lights, Lexa thinks that maybe her younger self was onto something.

She should not have come here.

Lexa thought as much when the first prom flyers were hung in the halls of Arcadia High. She was sure she would not be coming the day Bellamy asked Clarke to be his date: him with a hired barbershop quartet and a bouquet of flowers, and her with a flushed face and a perfect smile. But the surety wavered when Clarke invited her shopping. Lexa knew she was in trouble when Clarke asked to coordinate the colors of their suit and dress.

"Wouldn't you rather be matching with Bellamy?" Lexa asked, tight-lipped, trying and failing not to let her eyes wander over Clarke's lithe form dressed in the sparkling garb.

Clarke did a little spin in front of the mirror, laughing. "Bell's just my date. You're…you know."

She never did finish the sentence. Lexa never ended up knowing. But she bought a suit to match Clarke's dress, and here they are.

She shifts on the bleachers again. It's frustrating, being completely unable to find a comfortable way to sit. Somehow, despite their sole purpose as seating, bleachers seemed to have been created without taking comfort into consideration. The only advantage she's been able to find up here is the bird's eye view of the student body. Football players pass around a flask under the cover of shadows a few rows below her. A chaperone pushes through the crowd on the gym floor with purpose toward a couple who have no compunctions about privacy. Bellamy and Clarke stand on stage, basking in the glow of the attention, the spotlights, each other.

That's the worst of it, Lexa thinks. That Bellamy glows just as much as Clarke does. That he's not just some dumb jock out of a teen movie. That his reputation for genuine kindness and cordiality and care is more than a reputation. If Clarke is a star, then so is Bellamy. Lexa hates him just as much as she knows she cannot hate him.

She's beginning to feel like a black hole. She exists in the background, in the distance, turning in infinite spirals with nothing to show for it. On and on she goes, consuming all the good things and rending them to atoms. She's a husk. An empty, hulking void. She's terrified that soon she'll snuff out the light Clarke gives her. What happens when Clarke realizes how selfish she is? How needy? How much she longs and lusts after her? How much she is deeply, hopelessly, agonizingly in love?

One day, Clarke will see her clearly. And then it will be over.

Maybe it's not even love. Maybe it never was. Lexa knows she has a jealous streak, because she's always been jealous of Clarke. Of how easily Clarke makes friends. Of how easily she keeps them. Of how effortlessly Clarke excels in her classes. Of how beautiful she is, inside and out, and how effortless it is for her to be so. Clarke steps into a room and becomes the life of the party, where Lexa can't even keep up a pleasant conversation on the sidelines. Clarke starts and finishes a final project the night before it's due and passes with percentage points to spare, and Lexa struggles to maintain a passing grade even after a month of dedicated work. Clarke stands atop the stage at prom with her perfect date, the two of them near-unanimously elected king and queen, and all Lexa can do is watch from the shadows.

Lexa tries to let the bitterness in, tries to let it sit on her tongue for a few moments before she swallows. She tries to hold her anger close to her heart in the darkness. She never loved Clarke. It has all been jealousy. And she will tell Clarke as much the moment this stupid fucking dance ends. The bitter anger will stick this time. Lexa will push and push and keep pushing until her shining star turns its face away for good, and it will be for the best.

Because if Clarke doesn't turn away, the black hole will consume her. She has ambition, drive, potential, spirit. All Lexa will ever be able to do is hold her back.

She looks at Clarke again, and she almost laughs. All the anger and bitterness have drained, the way they always do the moment Lexa lays eyes upon her. The only thing left in their place is longing.

The crowd is cheering again. Their slow dance is drawing to a close, and Bellamy is spinning a grinning Clarke deftly beneath the spotlight.

Lexa swallows, heat breaking out behind her eyes. She loves Clarke. No matter how violently she tries to deny it, she does. She loves Clarke with a fervor and a fire like nothing else in the world. She loves Clarke like a supernova. But it doesn't matter. Because no matter how much she loves Clarke, she can never be smart enough, driven enough, good enough.

Lexa can never be enough.

The king and queen look out on their adoring subjects as the song ends and raucous applause erupts among them. Then Clarke and Bellamy turn to each other, something like longing shared in their gaze. His lips move—asking permission, Lexa is sure—and Clarke nods, and then they are kissing.

Lexa's face warms with embarrassment, with shame, with the wet heat of escaped tears. A fist closes around her heart so tightly that she's sure she will pop. She purses her lips, positive that she will scream and scream and scream until her throat is bleeding if she opens her mouth again, because it is all too much, it is all too loud, and they are so happy.

Clarke is so happy.

Lexa stares at her, grinning against Bellamy's lips, and she manages the slightest of smiles beneath bleeding mascara.

Her star shines. So bright.