"I just don't like him," Bellamy says before taking a drink.

"You don't like anyone," Raven counters, eyebrow raised.

"I especially don't like him though."

She leans against the counter of the bar with her arms crossed. "Gee, I wonder why?"

"Cute."

"Come on, Bellamy," she sighs, eyeing Roan from across the bar with a wicked glint in her eyes. "Just admit you're jealous. I would be too. Roan is unfairly attractive. Guy looks like a damn model."

"You're not helping," he pushes his drink forward, putting his head in his hands. He can hear Clarke's laughter from here, and he doesn't have to look to know she's probably bumping her shoulder into Roan's. "At all," he mumbles into his sleeve.

"What do you want me to say? You don't even know if they're into each other."

He raises his head. "He's staying at her place, Raven. For a week."

"So?" She shrugs a shoulder. "Doesn't mean anything."

"Really."

"Do you want me to go talk to Clarke?"

"Yes."

"Too bad," she smirks, stealing his drink and heading towards their group of friends. "Go talk to her yourself, idiot."

Bellamy thinks about it, and then orders another drink.


Roan finds him by the bar a half an hour later. He slides into the seat next to Bellamy's like he owns the place, and the bartender immediately comes over to him and asks him what he'd like to drink. It's unnatural, the presence this guy has.

"So," Roan says, casual. "You and Clarke, huh."

Bellamy bristles. "Yeah, we're friends. What," he turns to face him, "did you come over here to tell me to stop talking to her or something? Because—"

"What?" Roan shakes his head, amused. "No. I came over here to thank you."

"…for what?"

"Clarke's like my little sister. She's been through a lot, you and I both know that. It's been a tough couple of years for her, but ever since she met you, she's smiling again, like she used to. She's doing her art again. She's singing about life and love and hope again."

Bellamy is quiet, stunned as he stares into his drink.

"Anyways," Roan continues, "I just came over here to thank you for that."

"So, uh, you and her…" Bellamy trails off weakly. "You aren't…"

Roan shakes his head. "No way. I mean, it's never been like that between us, but you try dating someone who's been there for your whole 'I-hate-my-mom-so-I'm-going-to-run-away' phase."

Bellamy huffs a relieved laugh.

"Besides, she's stupid in love with you." Sighing, he looks at the crowd, ignoring the way Bellamy is currently sputtering into his drink. "I was going to ask you about Raven, though"

"Raven?" Bellamy chokes out. Clearing his throat, he says, "Raven is better than all of us, and she's been through more than any of us. She's funny as hell and smart, too. So you better—"

"I have good intentions," Roan promises, completely serious.

"Good, because she couldn't stop talking about you earlier."

Roan smiles. He grabs the drinks he ordered and leans over to Bellamy conspiratorially.

"We're even, now."


"Come here often?"

Bellamy looks over. Clarke slides onto the seat beside his, a tentative smile on her face.

He smiles, despite himself. "Only when I have to."

"So…" she curls her fingers around the neck of his drink, bringing it to her lips, "only when I make you."

"Something like that," he says, soft. "Yeah."

"Roan and I aren't dating, you know."

He hesitates. He takes his drink back from her, his fingers wrapping over hers. Clarke doesn't let go right away, their fingers burning against each other until she does.

He remembers what Roan said, seven casual words that tipped his world on its side.

Besides, she's stupid in love with you.

"It's none of my business," he lies.

"What do you mean, Bellamy? You're my best friend, of course it is."

Her words, spoken as sacredly as a confession, make him look up at her. He's surprised to find that her eyes are red rimmed. The flashy, sultry lights of the bar dance off her face, revealing paths of tears streaked down her cheeks.

"Clarke," he automatically moves closer to her, putting his trembling hand on her own shaking fingers. He feels like he should apologize, for how weird these past few weeks have been, the two of them barely speaking, barely seeing each other. "I'm sorry."

She laughs, watery. "You're sorry? I'm sorry. I just—I haven't been answering your calls because I've been thinking and overthinking and worrying about the stupidest stuff. I've been running away from my problems instead of facing them because that's what I do," she says, and he knows she's giving herself a hard time over it. "But I—I miss you. And I don't want to run anymore. I just—I feel like we haven't talked in forever with everything going on and I don't even know if you still want to talk to me but—"

He puts his arm around her shoulders, and she buries her face in his chest, fingers gripping his shirt. She smells like vanilla and soft autumn evenings and home. He kisses her forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere, remember?" he says, lips brushing against her temple. "I missed you, too."

"Let's go home," she offers, her voice tired. "And watch something and order more greasy takeout than we can eat."

Bellamy swallows. "What about Roan and everyone?"

Clarke lifts her head, finding him easily, his towering presence easily identifiable in the crowd. He's giving Raven a piggy back ride through the dancing crowd, the smile on his face almost as big and bright as the one on Raven's. The drink in her hands is sloshing over the sides, but she can't seem to care, and neither can he.

"I'm sure he'll find somewhere to stay for the night," she says, coy. "I've been trying to set those two up forever, you know."

Bellamy looks at them, at the way Roan gently lets her down, mindful of her bad leg. His fingers grip her waist, and Raven keeps her hands on his shoulders. It's a funny sight, the two of them moving into a slow dance in the middle of raving, jumping bar-goers, but it fits, somehow. Their noses are nearly touching, and Bellamy's definitely going to tease Raven about the cheesiness of it all when she's sober in the morning.

"Come on," Clarke says, gripping the lapels of his jacket. "Let's go before they come looking for us."

They make their way through the doors. Clarke lets go of his jacket and slips her fingers into his own to keep from losing him in the crowd. That's what he tells himself, at least, until they step out of the bar and she's still holding his hand.

The chilly night air washes over them like the first cool waves of a lake over barefoot toes, coaxing them back to soberness.

Their apartment building is three blocks from the bar, and their fingers are entwined the whole way home. They walk, hands linked, talking about nothing and everything.

He tells her about a student in his class that just got cancer, how the Classics Department is having a bake sale fundraiser to raise money for his treatment.

She tells him about an art piece that was ruined when it rained last week and she forgot to bring her umbrella, causing a waterfall of paint to streak down her new white pants, leaving a stream of color on the sidewalk.

He tells her about how he hasn't been sleeping well. The anniversary of his mother's death is coming up soon, and he doesn't even know where Octavia is living, who she's with or what she's doing, if she's even okay, but he knows this time of year is hard for her and he's worried.

She tells him about how her mother has finally started dating Kane, how bittersweet it feels to see her mom happy with someone that isn't her father. It's what her father would have wanted, but it still aches all the same.

They finally stumble into Bellamy's apartment around two in the morning, climbing into his bed together without a second thought and pulling up a Hayao Miyazaki film on his ancient laptop.

They fall asleep, laptop still whirring mechanically in the darkness, curled into each other.

Chinese takeout cartons litter his nightstand, noodles still wrapped around oily chopsticks.

His hand is around her waist. Her nose is nuzzled against his collarbone.

It isn't the first time they've fallen asleep like this, but there's something different about this time. They both feel it. It's more…intimate than before. The way her lips graze his throat, the way his fingers slide just beneath the fabric of her shirt to rest lightly on her skin.

It's vulnerable, and open, and intoxicating.

It's the first taste of something more, of a closeness they are starting to crave with each passing day.

They drift into a sleep so deep that dreams don't dare touch them.


A/N-i lied. instead of torturing you with four more chapters there will be one more super long chapter and a short epilogue. hope you all are enjoying your weekend :D thanks again to those who have taken the time to leave such sweet comments.