As Clarke showered, Bellamy sat in a circular chair in her room and inspected the contents, just as she was allowed to do with his room last week.
There were numerous sketches scattering the chipped, white desk in the corner. Bellamy assumed Clarke was the artist and took his time with each image, trying to trace the origin to understand what inspired them. Some were more abstract, bright colors swirling together, while others were obviously subjects or places: Wells looking studious, and older woman looking beautiful and serious, a prison complex, a chess piece; these were segments of Clarke.
She emerged from the bathroom dressed in her traditional jeans and gray t-shirt. Her wet curly hair laid limply on her shoulders like cooked Ramen noodles. He could tell she had a little makeup on to draw attention to her eyes, and her cheeks were still flushed from the warm water.
"Find anything you like?" She asked, staring at his hand which still gripped the sketched chess piece.
Bellamy looked down and put the paper back on her desk. "Sorry."
"No, I don't care. I poked around your room." Clarke dropped her used towel in a hamper and turned to her dresser with assorted jewelry scattered along its top.
"You know you're really good, right?" Bellamy said, picking up another sketch of Wells. He was smiling and a television screen reflected in his glasses.
Clarke's flush deepened. "Thanks. I like it because I don't have to think. I can just look at lines and colors and it goes right from my brain to my hand… if that makes sense."
Bellamy thought about himself skateboarding and how he could empty himself as he did various tricks in the skate park. "It does."
"I sketched one of you." Clarke said after a beat, putting on a small pair earrings with a propped up mirror.
"You did?"
"It's not great… it was just from memory-"
"Can I see it?"
"How about when it's done? Or if you actually sat for one?"
"How about I see this one and sit for one?"
Clarke turned and glared at him. She walked over to the desk where Bellamy was currently spinning in her chair and opened a drawer. Inside were various notebooks, sketchbooks, Bellamy corrected in his head. While she leaned over him he could smell the light vanilla scent of some shampoo or wash she must have used in the shower. He had the sudden urge to pull her into his lap and envelop himself in the scent.
Clarke pulled out a black, tattered book and flipped through various pages. Wordlessly, she shoved it into Bellamy's hands.
He was on stage. Dark charcoal covered the whole background except for a spotlight on him. He recognized the pose as one of the moves from his "Grease Lightnin'" number in the musical. The details of the stage were incredible, each wood panel grained and patterned. He could almost feel the velvet texture of the curtains pulled off to the sides. But what really caught his eye was his expression. The sketch of Bellamy looked like he was mid-song, mouth opened and eyes shut. He looked happy and powerful-not in the strong way he was used to, punching people and threatening them-but powerful in his confidence. Was this how Clarke saw him? God, he hoped so.
When he looked back up, Clarke was studying him. "I told you it wasn't done," she said, taking the book and closing it back into her drawer.
"It's… I…" Words didn't fail Bellamy often, but he couldn't quite describe how it felt to be seen. Seen as something other than a problem. "It's incredible," he finally managed to get out.
Clarke was sitting on her bed, tying on her converse sneakers. "It's not, but thank you." Clarke finished with her shoes and stood up. "Ready."
Bellamy managed to push his emotions back down and nodded.
The pair was silent in the car. Bellamy's grip on the steering wheel was tight and Clarke imagined he was lost in his own thoughts. So, she flipped on the radio and found the alternative station she listened to. She recognized the Chvrches song playing and started humming along.
"You like Chvrches?" Bellamy said, finally saying something.
"Mmmhm."
Bellamy looked at her briefly. "Interesting. Didn't peg you for it."
"What did you think? I listen to show tunes all day?"
"Well, not really. You strike me as a country girl."
Clarke made a choking noise. "Ew."
Bellamy laughed. "No country, got it." Another pause. "I'm not looking forward to this."
"I've noticed. Lincoln really isn't a bad guy, you know. He's in our art class-"
"It's not Lincoln. I wish Octavia could wait until she was in college or out of the house before she was with a guy because it's gross, but I know he's decent."
Clarke's eyebrows furrowed. "Is it your mom?"
"Probably," Bellamy shrugged. "She's been gone for almost a week and now we pretend to be a normal, happy family? Like she usually sits down to dinner with us? It's bullshit," he said, shaking his head.
"I know. I get it. Me and Abby's one meal a week is weird. It's for Octavia, though. Maybe you could think of it that way?"
They pulled up to the apartment parking lot. "I'll try," Bellamy said as he cut the engine. Clarke smiled and briefly grabbed his hand before jumping out of the large truck.
By now, Clarke was familiar with the dilapidated exterior of the Blake's apartment complex. She navigated the twisting hallways easily and paused outside the door waiting for Bellamy to catch up. He seemed to be walking slower than usual and dragging his feet, quite literally. Clarke empathized with him and vowed to be as much as a buffer as possible between Bellamy and his mom. Clarke couldn't help to wonder, what would she look like? How would she act?
Bellamy reached Clarke and leaned against the opposite wall in the narrow hallway. Clarke was silent and waited for Bellamy to be ready to enter. He had on a faded pair of black jeans, a dark red shirt and gray hoodie, where his traditional beanie was tucked into the pocket. His hands were buried in his jeans and his sleeves were rolled up to show his tanned forearms.
He wasn't Clarke's type; she found herself attracted to traditionally good looking or jock-type men. What good had that done her? A voice in her head chided. And with women, she often found herself drawn to strong personalities that challenged her, an equally lethal combination. Maybe part of her problem with relationships was that she sought them out in the wrong places.
"Okay," Bellamy decided. Clarke snapped out of her admiration and nodded. Bellamy lead the way into his apartment.
The normally pristine kitchen was littered with used dishes and various ingredients. Clarke watched Bellamy notice the mess and his neck flush red, a vein starting to throb. Clarke linked her arm through his and steered them toward the table.
Octavia, Lincoln and the woman Clark assumed was Bellamy's mother, were already seated and chatting. "Bell!" Octavia said brightly when she caught his eye. She bounced up from her chair and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm glad you're here," Clarke heard her mumble into his shirt. The tension Bellamy carried in his shoulders melted as he hugged Octavia back.
Lincoln stood up and offered his hand to Bellamy once Octavia released him. With a quick once-over, Bellamy met Nathan's eyes and locked him in a firm grip. "Good to see you," Lincoln said. Bellamy nodded gruffly.
"Hey, Clarke!" Lincoln said lightly, giving her a wave.
"Hey, Lincoln."
"Ah, you're Clarke!" The woman on the end of the table said. "So good to meet you. Bellamy never brings his girls home." She had straight brown hair that was slightly stringy and dull. Clarke guessed at one time the woman was beautiful, but her skin was worn and abused. The eye make-up she attempted to wear was cracked and too dark for her sallow face.
"I wonder why," Bellamy mused out loud. Clarke made to sit down next to his mother (Mrs. Blake?) but Bellamy intercepted and pulled out the chair one over, opposite of Lincoln.
"Well isn't this nice," Mrs. Blake said, rubbing her hands together.
"I agree," Octavia said brightly. Lincoln looked over and according to his gaze, the sun rose and set with Octavia's grin. Clarke could tell how deeply he cared for her.
"What are you doing next year, Lincoln?" Bellamy asked; his arms were crossed and the vein in his neck was still visible.
"You didn't want to wait until everyone had a roll before beginning the Inquisition, Bell?" Octavia said.
"Not at all," Lincoln said quickly. His arm moved slightly and Clarke guessed he moved it to Octavia's leg under the table to quell her anger. The Blake siblings both had a streak of hot-headedness to them. "I've been offered a soccer scholarship at State and will be looking to study biology and eventually go on to medical school."
Clarke was impressed. Bellamy was not; but at least he had no negative response.
"That's amazing! A sturdy job, that's for sure," Mrs. Blake said happily. She handed around the bowl of rolls and Clarke took one to have something to do with her hands. The tension in the room was thick and she felt severely out of place.
"What about you, Clarke?" Lincoln said smoothly, attempting to create conversation.
"I have auditions coming up in a few weeks for different performing programs," Clarke said. She felt Bellamy's head snap to her.
"Which ones?" he asked, his arms uncrossing for the first time.
"Well, there's Northwest, North Carolina and NYU… that's where I'd like to go. Bit sick of Arcadia," she grinned.
"Amen," Octavia added.
"What do you plan to do with that?" Mrs. Blake asked.
Bellamy narrowed his eyes at his mother. "You don't need to answer that, Clarke."
Clarke felt the natural diplomat in her coming out, trying to soothe the tension from the pair. "Oh, well the idea would be to become an actress."
"That's a tough business," Mrs. Blake said. A nerve pinched in Clarke; she was used to this reaction from adults. Art? Performing art? Where was the money, the success? The economic security?
"How would you know?" Bellamy asked in a tone of utter impatience.
"I made a salad," Octavia offered weakly, passing the bowl to Lincoln first.
"Thanks, O," he said off-handedly.
"Well, you just hear things, Bellamy. I had friends growing up that were all trying to do acting; none of them ever made it." Mrs. Blake said matter-of-factly.
Lincoln offered Clarke the bowl across the table. She started spooning a heap of greens on to her plate. "It is hard," Clarke said stoically. "But it's what I want to do."
"Well, you're certainly cute enough." Mrs. Blake said.
"What does that mean?" Bellamy sputtered.
"You don't see ugly actresses in the movies do you?"
"I'm interested in stage acting," Clarke cut in before Bellamy could lash out. His anger was coming off him in sharp bursts; she could feel him itching to defend her, or perhaps more accurately, itching to fight with his mother. Clarke gripped his arm and pulled his ear to her lips. "Ten," she whispered.
Bellamy let out a breath and took the bowl from her hands. "Nine," he said back, taking the salad out of its container.
"What?" Octavia asked.
"Nothing," he chimed back.
The group started eating and proceeded through the main course with minimal damage.
"I got a cake for dessert," Octavia said. "Want to help me cut it?" She asked to Lincoln. He nodded and followed her over to the counter, hand on the small of her back.
"I'll get my dessert," Mrs. Blake said smiling. She got up and Clarke heard the refrigerator door open, and the sound of clinking glass. "Anyone else for a glass of wine?" she asked the room, which suddenly felt very small and hot.
Bellamy sat up straighter, "We're seventeen, Aurora." That must be Mrs. Blake's first name; it reminded Clarke of how she couldn't bear to call Abby mother.
"Oh god, Bellamy, lighten up! The drinking age is 18 everywhere else in the world. You act so maturely." Clarke heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, it felt like Aurora was pouring away her relationships with it.
Bellamy got out of his seat quickly. Clarke followed him after a beat, not knowing what else to do. Bellamy easily took the glass from Aurora's hands. "You're not drinking in the house."
"Bellamy, it's one drink." Aurora smiled and subtly moved her body closer to Bellamy's side gripping her wine glass.
"It's never 'one drink' and you're not getting drunk here. We've talked about this." The smile slipped off her face and the tone in the room pitched to deadly serious. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke noticed Octavia stopped cutting and was staring at the pair. Lincoln was diligently plating the dessert, trying to pretend he didn't exist.
"It's my house," she said coolly.
"You don't want to start this, Aurora," Bellamy said. Clarke stood behind him, feeling useless. She knew the pair was entering into dangerous territory, where counting and breathing exercises wouldn't calm Bellamy down.
Aurora turned back and went to the cabinet, producing another wine glass. She picked up the bottle of wine left on the counter and poured another one. Bellamy moved in a flash. He grabbed the bottle from her hand and dumped it down the kitchen sink.
"No!" Aurora yelled.
Bellamy dumped the glass in his hand down the sink as well, putting the empty flank roughly in the sink. Before he could reach her, Aurora took her remaining glass in her hand, and like an animal caught in headlights, swallowed the entire glass in one gulp.
"Do you know how much that bottle cost?" she said harshly, once she finished swallowing.
"Leave," Bellamy said. Clarke couldn't recognize him; his face and neck were red, his eyes were narrowed into slits and his hands were balled into fists at his side.
"How dare you tell me what to do," Aurora spat, crossing her arms. All pretenses of politeness were shattered; the illusion was broken.
"Leave," Bellamy repeated, crossing his arms. Clarke noticed his fingernails were digging into his biceps.
"You ungrateful, piece of-" Aurora hissed.
"Mom!" Octavia shouted, moving to the other side of Bellamy. "Mom, don't do this," she pleaded. Clarke wasn't quite sure what Octavia was asking for. Don't yell? Don't drink? Don't leave? Don't treat Bellamy that way? Don't do any of it?
"I thought having a girlfriend would lighten you up," Aurora said with a biting tone, still gripping her empty wine glass. She put it to her lips as if she expected it to magically refill. When she came up empty she put the glass on the counter behind her. "Guess she hasn't put out yet."
The insult rolled off Clarke; this was the first time in memory someone accused her of being a prude. She also knew it wasn't personal; Aurora was trying to get under Bellamy's skin. He was standing between her and a drink. Clarke felt a surge of warm affection for Abby. Even though Abby was selfish and busy, she never intentionally tried to break Clarke down. If anything, she tried too hard to make things right.
It worked.
Bellamy was furious.
"Get out of the house before I call the police." He took a step forward, as a result Aurora took a step backwards and closer to the door.
Aurora could feel herself losing ground and started to panic. "They won't believe you. I'm the adult."
Bellamy laughed, a harsh biting thing. "I'll call CPS."
Aurora froze. Octavia took a step forward, "Bell-"
Bellamy stuck his hand out to halt Octavia's movement. Lincoln appeared at her side in a flash.
"I have years of pictures, journals and memories to make some Social Worker really concerned." Bellamy hissed. "Abuse is illegal. So is neglect. And if you don't get the fuck out of this apartment right now-"
"My name is on the lease!" she said; a final attempt. She was smaller than she was a minute ago...a deflated balloon.
"And I pay the rent." Bellamy said savagely. The room was silent. Clarke heard Octavia's sharp intake of breath and chanced a look at her face; Octavia didn't know her brother was financially supporting them, that much was clear from her shocked expression.
Bellamy's arm fell from Octavia's path and crossed back over his chest. Aurora looked at Octavia with pleading eyes, but said nothing. Clarke could sense something breaking, ending. With a final glance, Aurora grabbed her purse off the hook next to her and slammed the door behind her.
For a minute, no one moved. Clarke realized she wasn't incredibly surprised; from Bellamy's attitude toward his mother, she knew Aurora must have been a nasty piece of work. And although the fight she just witnessed was horrible, she had been in her fair share of awful conversations when her parents were arrested… then divorced… She still remembers when Abby asked her which parent she would rather see in jail, as if a 14-year-old kid should have to decide her parents' fate...
Octavia cleared her throat. "Do you think she'll come back?" Clarke caught her meaning-not back tonight, not back next week, back at all.
Bellamy turned to his younger sister and his gaze softened. "I don't know, O."
Lincoln moved his arm around Octavia's shoulders and she turned to bury her face in his neck. Bellamy looked at them for a moment, then rounded on Clarke. "Are you okay?"
It took Clarke a moment to realize why he was asking her this. Oh right. Your mom insinuated we were dating and I withholding sex from you. And that I was a pretty face doomed to fail in my chosen career path. Clarke nodded, "totally fine."
Bellamy looked like he didn't believe her. "What she said… I'm sorry. I didn't realize she would go after you like that… I mean, I should have... I would have never brought you here-"
"Not the worst thing said about me," Clarke said. She meant for it to be a joke, but her voice was too tight and Bellamy started to get that pitying look she hated.
Octavia pulled out of Lincoln's arms. "Bell, I didn't know you were covering the bills." Bellamy shrugged. "I'll get a job too. I'm sixteen now, I'll carry some weight."
Bellamy shook his head. "Focus on school, O. It's fine."
"Bellamy," she said sternly.
He sighed. "We'll talk about it."
Octavia nodded and looked around the haphazard kitchen and abandoned cake, her eyes lingered on the empty wine bottle and glasses; she shook her head as if to say, what a mess.
"I can't really stand the sight of this right now," Octavia choked out, eyes welling.
"I'll clean the kitchen," Bellamy said quickly. "You cooked. Why don't you and Lincoln go… do… something," he finished flatly.
Octavia cracked a grin, "So you're telling me to do Lincoln?" Lincoln choked on some air and his tanned skin darkened around his ears. Octavia laughed, clearing away the oncoming tears.
Bellamy tried to glare at her, but honestly was happy to see Octavia happy. "Do something wholesome."
Lincoln nodded enthusiastically, "Yes. We will." Clarke stifled a laugh, it was hilarious to see Lincoln, strong soccer captain, afraid of Bellamy-the-outsider-Blake.
"Take care of her." He said, shaking Lincoln's hand. It was a tenuous offer of acceptance, and Lincoln took it with great dignity.
"Of course." The couple left after Octavia gathered a few things. Only Bellamy and Clarke remained.
Bellamy made to turn toward the kitchen, all tension leaving his body. He looked like a rag doll, the life draining out of him once his sister left, once there was no one to perform for. Clarke grabbed his wrist, "hey," she said softly. "Do you want to sit down for a minute first? Then we can clean the kitchen."
He looked like he was going to disagree, but then moved back toward her and they walked to the couch, still linked hand to wrist. Clarke sat next to Bellamy, about three inches were left between their bodies and she could feel his heat.
Bellamy buried his face in his hands, trying to keep it together. He usually had time to break down after an incident like this, but now there was Clarke. He was so used to being brave for Octavia, he felt unequipped to be around someone he saw as an equal who didn't need protecting, someone who could actually comfort him. He felt Clarke's small hand rubbing tentative circles on his back and he leaned into her touch.
Without much thought or care, he buried his head in her shoulder, nearly suffocating in her curls. His arms wrapped around her delicate frame and he squeezed like she was a lifeline. Clarke responded in kind, leaning into Bellamy, clasping one hand on the back of his neck and the other still tracing shapelessness onto his back.
Clarke was surprised at how well they fit together and how right it felt. She was whispering unimportant phrases to soothe Bellamy and felt like she wasn't out of her emotional depth, even though it had been a long time since someone had been vulnerable around her. Connection came back to Clarke as easily as breathing, and felt a little piece of her damaged heart click back into place.
After a minute or two, Bellamy pulled back slightly and stared at Clarke's face. She looked strong and concentrated. He wondered if she was still looking at him with artist's eyes, picking out the lines and wrinkles, the slopes of confusion in his brow or frustration set in his chin.
"Sorry," he said. He pulled himself out of her neck and settled in the couch next to her, legs pressed against one another. Her arm came to link around his and she leaned on his shoulder.
"Don't be."
And there they sat. A few minutes? A few hours? Bellamy couldn't be sure. But he did know in that time he was completely comfortable and didn't feel like he was performing for anyone. Clarke was just an extension of himself.
At some point, he must have dozed off, finally collapsing from the emotional and physical toll of the day. When he woke up, the light outside his window was gone and he was fully recumbent on the couch, covered with one of their few spare, patchy blankets. He looked around for Clarke, but the apartment was empty and for a moment he felt as if he dreamt the whole evening. Until he walked into the spotless kitchen and found a note resting on the table.
Wanted to let you sleep- caught an Uber home. Leftovers are in the fridge.
Worst double date of my life, think about how you'll make it up to me.
Clarke
Bellamy grinned as he read the last line, recognizing her easy sarcasm through the writing. His heart also fluttered when he read the word "date." Did she see it that way? Or was she just teasing him because of Octavia's invitation?
He flipped the paper over and there was a light sketch of himself sleeping on the back. He recognized the think quality of the paper now, it must have been torn from a small sketchbook. On the paper, his eyes were blissful and he looked completely at peace. Bellamy immediately took the scrap and brought it into his room, using a tack to push it into the wall above his dresser.
He wished he could see himself as Clarke did.