Lexa stared at Clarke's unmoving form on the bed. Clarke'd gone partying again last night, and Lexa was running out of excuses for why she couldn't accompany. Nonetheless, like a good girlfriend, she'd helped her get changed and brush her teeth, and when Clarke had wanted to fall asleep in her arms, Lexa couldn't pretend there was anything she wanted more. Lying down on the bed, face pressed between Clarke's shoulderblades, breathing in her scent, Lexa wanted. She couldn't pretend she wasn't so deep in love it wouldn't destroy her if Clarke left anymore. But as well as she knew Clarke, Clarke didn't know her.
Never mind panic attacks or social anxiety. There were so many times she wanted to explain to Clarke, make her understand what was going on inside Lexa's head. But she couldn't get the words out, because Clarke was everything. She had everything. She could talk to people without stammering, she could do work without procrastinating, and she thought it was so easy. Life, she said, conquering life, that's hard. You need to drain every ounce of pleasure out of it, baby.
But for Lexa, it wasn't that easy. She didn't think she'd ever be there. She didn't think she could. Lexa was a poet, and that meant feeling everything, feeling the earth beneath her feet, feeling every sensation until she dissociated, and feeling transfixed by the world around her. It was what agonized her. It was the reason she was alive. She knew, at this point, masochism was probably the only way she knew how to live. She could do anything- drop out of school, travel the world, buy the new laptop she wanted, but it would lead her back here. Hedonistic adaptation- you're only ever as content as your baseline. And she'd need to change that to change herself, but she was so tired all the time.
But Clarke changed that. Lexa wasn't stupid enough to become dependent on Clarke, but she feared that's exactly what she was. It was a matter of the heart. Her head couldn't have thought her out of this if she wanted to be, which she didn't.
As much as it hurt to think about every word that came out of her mouth with Clarke, Lexa did that with everyone. The difference was, Clarke was patient, and Clarke was kind. Even when the last thing Lexa wanted was attention, and it was all Clarke would give her, she got a rush out of every time Clarke massaged her shoulders, you're too tense, baby, and then kissed Lexa on the cheek before telling her that everything was going to work out.
It was Clarke who pulled all-nighters she didn't have to to keep Lexa company, so Lexa wasn't working alone in the common room that was too large at night, too empty. It was Clarke that curled around Lexa at night when Lexa couldn't sleep, whose rhythmic push and pull of breath calmed her when she awoke. It was Clarke who was so in love with Lexa that she had insisted Lexa live in a suite of just Clarke's friends, just so Clarke could be around her, Clarke who had taken the time to introduce Lexa to all of her own friends one by one, setting them up with activities both, say Lexa and Raven or Lexa and Monty loved.
It was Clarke who Lexa couldn't look at without feeling her heart grow three sizes.
And yet, she was so afraid Clarke, who was the most compassionate person she knew, had lived too big of a life for Lexa to ever keep up.
Clarke's mother was one of the most prominent and well established neurosurgeons in the world. Every time Lexa bought something that Clarke liked, Clarke would buy something similar that cost three times the price, with three times the function- only sometimes that function was so unnecessary. Clarke who had weekly hair appointments to keep her dyed blonde hair in perfect condition. Clarke, who didn't buy anything that wasn't "quality." Clarke who didn't go to movies that weren't IMAX 3D. Clarke who had casually had thousand dollar dinners, who grew up in a private school with the most influential, richest children of the most successful Americans.
Lexa, try as she might, couldn't reconcile who Clarke was with what Clarke was.
Lexa had been upgraded to first class, once, when she and Anya accepted $200 each to get on a later flight. And she remembered how her chest naturally puffed out, what that dominance felt like. What it felt like to know she was in charge.
That was how Clarke always felt. But Lexa was always, on the inside and outside, full of shame and regret, always a five year old whose sister had split her allowance to buy them both push pops, only Lexa had dropped hers and she didn't want Anya's because she could feel the shame.
Clarke's soul was in sync with Lexa, that much Lexa knew. But on this physical plane, Lexa yearned for a Clarke who was her opposite in every way, and she didn't know how not to feel like she had the lower ground in every way, how not to feel powerless in one of the only things that gave her strength.
Raven could feel the light seep through the cracks in the blinds, warming her face and searing her eyes a warm orange color. She heard the creak of the sofa and her eyes opened, bleary, but refreshed. She saw Anya make to quietly slip away.
"Anya?" Raven's voice was hoarse with lack of use.
"Yeah." Anya's voice was soft. "Go back to sleep. Sssssh."
But Raven sat up, already awake. "How did you sleep?"
A small smile pursed at Anya's lips. "Well. Thank you."
Raven suddenly became cognizant of the state of her hair. "Sorry I'm..." she yawned "not in the best state right now."
"It's no problem at all. Ssshhh."
"I'll see you later?" Raven didn't really know why she was asking Anya this. They weren't exactly friends. Even Anya looked surprised. "We have to finish season one."
Anya's voice was warm. "Of course."
The next time Raven woke up, there was a bag of donuts neatly placed on her desk, next to a thermos of peppermint tea.