"What do you think?"
"It's nice. Simple," and you see her eyes roll.
"It's ours," she says, "it's better than nice. It's better than simple."
"Yeah," you think you smile then, let your lips curve and you think your eyes must shine when she turns to you and leans in closer.
But you don't think the apartment compares. Not when Clarke stands by your side.
"You're lucky I like you, because this reaction is not what I wanted," she presses her lips to yours, wraps her arms around your waist tightly and pulls you to her.
"It's beautiful," you say then, your eyes lingering on her and you think you smile brightly, you think your heart steady and sure in its rhythm, "You're beautiful," you like the way her hair glows, a radiance and brilliance that lingers. You like the way her eyes shine and dance in the sunlight.
And so you add softly, "I'd be happy as long as you're with me," and you like the way she blushes, you like the way she bites her lip softly and the way her lips quirk up carefully.
She leans into you further, lets her heart beat against your chest and you think yourself complete.
"It's nice not having to share with Raven anymore, I don't think I could do another three years of her antics," and you chuckle softly as Clarke sighs against your chest, her hair tickling your chin.
"We've got our whole lives ahead of us, Clarke. There's no rush," and she looks up, her head tucked under your chin and you see the flash of blue and you press your lips to her forehead quietly.
"I'm glad we finally did this," she smiles then, placing a lingering kiss against the rise of your bosom.
And so you lift her chin up and kiss her again, a chaste, quick, calm press of lips that lingers for a moment.
"Me too."
And as you hold her gently against your body you let your hand thumb carefully over the small box in your pocket, you feel the soft warmth of the velvet and you think it soothing and calming.
And you think not yet.
But soon.
It's nearing nightfall when the door opens for you, and a smile finds itself on your lips when Costia brushes a hand over your shoulder softly and leads you inside. You let your eyes wander briefly as she walks back to your bedroom, the soft light of the world outside casting her in a quiet shadow that blends kindly around her body. And as you follow her to the room you share she turns briefly, a simple quirk of her mouth before she calls out.
"Gustus insisted we come for the opening," and you smile for a moment as your eyes follow the sway of her hips, "I was just about to start getting ready."
"I know," you reply, already loosening the buttons of your shirt, "I got a text," and you let your shirt fall smoothly onto the backrest of a chair as you pass.
You follow her into the bathroom, and you let your eyes follow the curve of her body as she undresses before you, her clothes falling into a lazy pile at her feet and she smiles at you in the mirror, her eyebrow rising in question and you think you feel your lips curve for a moment and so you let your clothes meet hers on the tile beneath your feet.
"How long do we have?" you ask as you let the heat of the shower warm the room, your hand resting comfortably under the stream, and you think your heart already beating quickly and when you turn Costia meets your question with a smirk.
"Long enough."
"I thought you could wear this," and you turn to her and see a questioning look in her eyes as she holds up a dress in her hands. It's a simple one — black, that hangs just above your knees. You've worn it before and you know it flatters your body and you know Costia likes it. And so you smile, let your hand linger against hers as you take it from her and you move to stand besides her, the mirror resting quietly before you both.
You let your towel fall then and you step out from it, a small ache lingering in your thigh and when your eyes trace the jagged wound you think a grimace falls across your face for a moment, and you think the scar unsightly, a blemish and a reminder. Costia must follow your eyes, must sense your discomfort though because she moves to stand behind you, lets her hands rest comfortably on your hips and she presses herself against your back in comfort. And so you look at her through the mirror, gratitude living in your eyes.
"Does it hurt?" and it's a quiet whisper, it's caring and understanding.
But you shake your head softly and you lie, "No," you let your eyes linger a moment longer before you turn to face her, "Not really, I've just been running too much. It'll fade soon."
"We don't have to go."
"No, I want to," you kiss her briefly, "I want to," and so she nods, a quiet ok falling from her lips.
You step into the dress, let the sting of your thigh live a familiar moment and when you bend down, when your fingers grasp at the dress Costia places a hand on your shoulder, lets her fingers squeeze for a moment.
"Let me," she whisper, her eyes caring and you smile. You think your heart a steady, careful presence in your chest and you rest your hand on her shoulder as she kneels before you and places a soft kiss to your thigh. And she stands then, pulling the dress up carefully, the soft fabric a feather against your skin and you turn to the mirror once more, letting her fasten the dress behind your back.
And so you both stand, a soft red hanging from her shoulders, your own elegant and simple and she presses her lips a quick moment against your exposed shoulder, lets her eyes hold yours in the reflection before she whispers out.
"You look beautiful."
The drive isn't far. Just a short moment and so you let your eyes focus on the cars that chase by and you let the soothing reds and yellows and greens you pass comfort you and ground you. The sky sits lowly in the sky, the dark of the night a careful blanket that quiets the streets and stills the night and you think it peaceful and calm. You pass the bar then, now more restaurant, the deep orange of the front a welcoming colour and you already see the people seated inside, you already see it busy and living and thriving and you think you smile for a moment, you think you remember years past and you think you remember the blonde of her hair and the smile that would sit comfortably in her eyes.
You remember her.
The street swims in the soft light of the pale moon and you step closer to Clarke as the breeze chills you both briefly and you let your eyes linger on her for a long second as she wraps an arm around your waist. And when she turns to you in search of warmth, when her eyes settle comfortably on yours and when she lets her mouth quirk up at the corners you think yourself lucky. You think yourself thankful and awed.
You think you enjoy the light that plays in her eyes and the glow of her hair as it dances in the moon light and you know you feel the erratic, frantic beat that lives a constant companion in your chest.
And so you smile and you think it must be lopsided, must be foolish.
"What?" she says then, her head tilting for a moment in contemplation and you are sure your eyes must betray your thoughts. Must betray the beating of your heart and the way your mind races. And so you lean closer, pull her to the side of the street and press yourself to her and you smile when she gasps, you smile when her hand grips your waist to steady herself and you smile when your lips meet hers. It's short, a startling motion and you think you smile when the realisation dawns upon you.
"What was that for?" she whimpers then as you break the kiss, letting your forehead rest against hers, a small distance between you both but you merely shrug, merely let your smile live free and happy.
"I just wanted to," you whisper to her, and you enjoy the way her eyes close and the way she leans forward once again, and you enjoy the way her fingers grip just a moment tighter.
You think you like this realisation.
And so you break the embrace you have, a smirk playing across your lips and you take her hand in yours again, guiding her back down the street until you come to your destination.
"It looks nice," she smiles, her eyes turning up to look at the sign, and she squeezes your hand softly.
"Anya said it was good," perhaps you will have to thank her for the recommendation tomorrow.
You can see people sitting in warm booths, you can see people sharing a quiet drink and enjoying the company of friends, and you think it simple, charming and happy and so you squeeze her hand again and walk to the door, and as you reach it you stretch out with your hand and push it open quickly and you step aside letting Clarke in first and she smiles again, "always so polite," she laughs as you follow her inside.
And as you let the door close behind you, as you let the warmth of the bar envelop you and as you let your eyes meet hers you think you know what you feel.
You think you love Clarke.
You let your eyes linger on Costia's over the glass you bring to your lips and you smile at her and let it live comfortably on your lips as she continues telling you of her students, and you enjoy the movements of her hands as she paints with her words a vividness and a liveliness that you can imagine. And when she tells you of the antics one young student went through, all in the name of giving her a flower, you laugh and you let it sit comfortably between you both. You don't blame him though. You think Costia beautiful and charming and caring and you are sure she holds the affections of many teenaged students.
"Anya says you lost three million," she says then, breaking your quiet revelry and you grimace for a moment, let the memory creep back to the forefront of your mind and you let a heavy sigh leave your lips, but despite that you smile and let your eyes linger on hers as she returns your smile with one of her own, her hand reaching out to hold yours.
"A client did," you roll your eyes then, "It wasn't good," and you laugh and shake your head as she pretends to gasp, as she holds her hand to her chest in mock horror.
"Oh, no!" Her eyes widen in shock and you see the laughter that sits happy and content in her eyes and you think you could lose yourself in the depths of them and you know you enjoy the easy flow that lives between you both, "what happened next?" she whispers, leaning closer, her voice a quiet exhale and she looks around conspiratorially.
And perhaps for a moment, with Costia before you, with her eyes meeting your gaze and her hand held comfortably in your own you can forget the pain. And it's with this thought that you squeeze her hand gently, and you bring her fingers to your lips and kiss them for a quiet moment.
"You look beautiful," you whisper then and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks redden, you think the colour sits happy and content. You think you enjoy the way her foot nudges yours softly under the table and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks dimple as the smile spreads fully across her face. And when you let yourself look into her eyes, when you count the soft freckles that sit across her shoulders and her nose and the way her hair curls around her face, when you feel the strumming in your heart, you know what you feel.
"I love you, Costia."
It's easy and quiet, the rest of the night passing in laughter. Gustus gives you a friendly wave from across his restaurant, and you smile at him, and you see Costia blush as he gives you both a wink and a thumbs up and you see her glare playfully at you quickly as you smirk, and you are sure she reads the thoughts that quickly visit your mind when you feel her foot nudge your leg.
Dinner's simple, beautiful and warm and Costia excuses herself as the plates are taken away, and so you let yourself think for a moment, let your eyes wander over the changes that have been made and it's just a brief pull in your stomach, just a quiet tension you feel build as you take in the soft lights and the tables that now sit around you, new and different, no longer matching memories of years past. And perhaps it's bittersweet and saddening, longing and wistful as you realise that time has left you in the past, that time has left her in the past. But you think that you should remember. Perhaps you can keep the memory alive for a little while longer. If only because you don't wish to let got just yet.
And when you think you feel yourself begin to spiral, when you think your thoughts begin to turn to darker thoughts you think you recognise the feeling.
Maybe you won't ever stop loving her.
But you think Costia helps.
You know she does.
Your eyes continue their lazy path, you take in the paintings that hang comfortably against the wall and your eyes take in the reflections of the lights from the windows and your eyes take in the people who walk past outside the restaurant, their heads ducked to avoid the chill of the night air. You let your eyes linger for a moment on a couple, a man and a woman, or maybe more boy and girl and you think you smile at the awkward dance that they play as they move about each other and you think it happy, full of life. You let your eyes take them in for a moment longer before you see the soft glow of blonde hair that walks past and you think you smile for a moment, if only a bittersweet thing at a long gone memory, you see a dog that walks its owner and you think you laugh for a moment and you—
Blonde.
Your eyes snap back to the retreating figure and you look. You feel the beat of your heart and the breaths that freeze and linger painfully in your lungs and you stare. You stare and your eyes sting and your eyes water. You take in her retreating figure, you take in the way her hair falls, you take in the way her shoulders hunch and you recognise it. You recognise the motion of her walk and you recognise the way her hands clutch painfully at the jacket that shields her from the cold.
You stare and you think it must be horrified, wretched, full of anguish and cursed.
Clarke.
You rush from your seat, you ignore the clanging as it falls and you push past a waiter.
Clarke.
You curse your heels as you trip briefly, your hand rushing out and grasping a stranger by the shoulder and you hiss an apology before you run to the door, and you feel your heart protest, you feel the tears that spill and you feel the burn in your lungs and the pain in your thigh and— and — and you scream her name.
Clarke.
You push through the door and you ignore the biting of the cold and you ignore the shocked looks and you scream her name and it must be broken and helpless and ugly.
Clarke.
You see her stop.
You see her freeze.
Clarke.
Your feet push you forward and you feel the bite of the pavement as you kick off your heels and you chase her.
Clarke.
She rounds a corner, she vanishes from your sight and you scream her name again, a plea and a prayer and it must sound desperate. It must be desperate. And you round the corner.
And she's gone.
And you scream her name out into the night, but when all you receive in answer is the chilling silence of a memory you think you fall to your knees, you think they must be bloodied and bruised. You think you must stay outside for an eternity, your thoughts unfocused, your eyes wet with tears and your body shivering in the cold that winds itself around you.
And it hurts. It burns and you want to rage and scream out into the night. And you don't realise that your shoulders shake and your chest heaves and your voice hoarse until you feel rough hands grip your shoulders, until you feel a warm embrace that lifts you to your feet.
And you know you cry and sob and break down when Gustus whispers words in your ear. When he rubs soothingly over your back and when he sits you down on a bench. And you know yourself broken and heartless and cruel when you hear Costia calling your name. You know yourself devastated and selfish when you hear the frantic beat of her feet and you know yourself lost when Costia leans down in front of you and clutches your face in her hands and whispers words to you.
But you don't hear her.
You don't see her.
You don't feel her.
All you hear, all you see and all you feel is the glow of blonde hair and the kindness that shines as the light dances within blue eyes.
All you know in this cruel, cold instant is Clarke.
And so you shatter.
You don't remember walking up the stairs. You don't remember Gustus supporting your weight or Costia whispering words of comfort, words of love and hurt. You don't remember the worried words that Gustus leaves with, nor do you remember the water of the bath or the soft hands that undress you and force you into the searing water.
You know you saw her.
You know you saw Clarke.
You know she is here, somewhere.
Out in the world.
And when you find yourself in bed. When you feel Costia wrap her arms around you and whisper words that should sooth and calm and comfort, you don't remember.
You don't even remember when sleep takes hold.
All you feel is the hollow ache and the heaviness that sits within.
"Fight Clarke," and it comes out a splutter, and you taste the tang of the blood that drips from your lip, "Please — Please, don't give up. I'm here. Fight for us," and you cough and you choke past the blood. "Please. Stay with me." And you feel the warm drip that claws down your face, leaving a wet, haphazard trail across your cheeks and you want to reach out, but your arm is pinned, braced against the door and your body. But when you struggle and rage you can reach out with your fingers, can close your hand around hers and you can feel the blood pool and slip through your grasp and you think your heart breaks and you think yourself lost.
"I'm sorry," she chokes out, her own tears glistening sideways across her cheek, her hair hanging damp and bloodied across her forehead.
You see the pain in her eyes. You see the acceptance. "I don't think I can anymore," and you see her lips quiver painfully and you see her eyes close softly, and you want to rage and shake and scream out.
But all you do. All you can manage. All you can comprehend is the pain and the heart break and the cold feeling that traps you and seals the beating of your heart in your chest.
But you refuse to accept it and so you thrash in your seat, you feel the burn of metal that slices through your leg and you scream out for her to hold on, that they'll be here soon.
And when her eyes flutter open for just a moment, for just enough to look to you once more she smiles, if only with her eyes, and she whispers out to you.
"It's ok, Lexa. You'll be ok… I love you."
Her hand squeezes once more, her fingers a tight, tight embrace around yours.
But when her eyes close, when her fingers slacken in your grasp?
You break and you shatter.
Please don't leave me.
You wake with a shuddering of breath and an anguish that burns beneath your skin.
And you hate it.
You despise what still lingers. What still threatens your waking moments.
And so you lie for a still minute. You let your breathing even out, at least as much as it ever will and then you sit carefully in your bed, a guilt always lingering within you as you leave Costia's side. And when you think you can steady yourself enough, you let your feet push you to the door, the cold of the night air biting into your naked flesh and you wince as your thigh protests the jerky movements.
Passing the window you can still see the lingering moon that sits high and quiet in the dark of the sky and so you take yourself to the kitchen, you let the water boil and you hold the cup as it burns your fingers. If only to burn away the feeling of blood. If only to replace the feeling of life slipping through your fingers.
You find yourself before the window, a blanket draped across your shoulders and you stare out at the traffic lights. You stare out at the changing of the colours and you stare and seethe at the red. You burn at the colour in all its intensity. In all its warning and anger. You stare at the yellow. You feel it sink into your skin and burrow and twist within you. And you think you hate it. You think you hate the time it lingers before turning to green. And you stare at the green. And you think it not fair. You think it cruel and evil and broken and false.
You think you stare out the window for an age. For a long, cruel passing of time. And as your eyes shift from car to car as they pass you want to rage at them. You want to shout and scream and ask why.
You think your eyes catch a reflection in the window then. And when you let your eyes linger, focusing on the image you think it unrecognisable. You think the green that looks back haunted and broken. You think the shadows that live under the eyes hollow, bruised and ugly.
You just want to forget. You don't think you want to remember anymore.
And so you stay sitting, letting the heat of the cup burn away your anger and the cold of the floor chill away your thoughts and when you sit for too long, when you think you isolate yourself for long enough you hear her. You hear the careful steps behind you and you hear the quiet breaths she takes.
And you hear the whispered memories. You feel the beat of your heart and the nearing of her presence.
And you remember.
You wake to a quiet unfamiliarity. You wake to the quiet beep that rings out too loud in your ears and you wake to the white of walls that blind you and burn your eyes in the dark that you find yourself in. You look around then, and you feel the burn in your thigh, you feel the stiffness in your arm and you feel the pain that still clings cruelly within your body.
But you ignore it. You ignore the burning and the piercing and you search. You search for her smile and you search for her laugh and you search for the blonde of her hair and the blue of her eyes.
You search for Clarke.
You call out her name and it comes out hoarse, broken and rough.
Clarke?
You wait for a response and you wait, and wait.
Clarke?
You choke on the sound and you splutter and curse and claw our with your mind.
Clarke?
Your door opens, and your heart clenches and your mind freezes when you see a woman, the blue of her clothes brutal in their familiarity. And you see the woman who enters behind her. You see the love and the loss and the pain and the hurt that lives within her eyes.
"Where's Clarke?" You ask Abby then, and you see her eyes break and you see the devastation that tears you apart.
You feel Costia kneel behind you, and you flinch from her touch. You want to flee and run and escape but she wraps her arms around you, holding you steady and firm. And when you feel the press of lips against your shoulder, when you feel her legs embrace you, when you hear the words she whispers, you think you can't take it anymore. You think you don't deserve her understanding.
You don't think you deserve her.
And so when you feel the tears fall, when you feel the pain that still lives within your heart you embrace it. And you know you must be shaking, must be breaking in front of her but she holds you through it.
"I'm here, Lexa," she whispers then, her arms tight around you.
"I'm here," she repeats again as she moves to sit before you and as she takes your face in her hands you think your lips must be trembling, you think your tears must be falling freely.
"I'm sorry," and you know it comes out broken. And so you lean into her touch, bury your face into her neck.
"I'm so, so sorry," You clutch at her then.
"I'm sorry I'm so broken," you choke on the words and you cling to her, "I don't deserve you," and it comes out ragged, your chest heaving and your ribs screaming with each breath, "You deserve better," and you hold her tight and you think your fingers must dig into her painfully, must be leaving bruises. But she reaches up, lets her hands caress your face softly and she pulls you away for a moment, just long enough that you can look into her eyes and when she is sure you hold her gaze. When she is sure you look at her she smiles softly, and you see understanding. You see acceptance and you see love.
"I love you, Lexa," she kisses you softly, her thumb brushing away the tears, "I'm here for you," she presses her forehead against yours, "I only want you to be happy," and she pauses, lets the words sink in, lets you regain control of your raging mind.
And after quiet moments she whispers out to you, "Come back to bed," she lets her hand linger against your neck for a moment and then she reaches for your hand, guides you to your feet and holds you steady as she leads you to the room you share.
But as you near the door, as you near the bed you share with Costia you pause. Your hand firm in hers and you close your eyes. You take in a deep breath and you try and steady the frantic, pained beating in your chest.
I only want you to be happy.
Her words ring out in your mind and burrow their way into the beating of your heart so you open your eyes.
And you think yourself cruel when you see the blonde of her hair that glows carefully in the moonlight.
You pull her to you and kiss her deeply.
You think yourself broken when you see the blue of her eyes that widen in surprise.
You push her to the wall, press yourself against her and bite into her neck softly, let your lips linger and bruise the tender skin you find and you hear her whimper and gasp.
You think yourself selfish when you hear the rasp of her voice that buries itself into your mind.
You turn her around, push her firmly to the wall and close your eyes.
You know yourself destroyed when you let your hands wander, let your fingers burn against her skin.
And when she moans? When she gasps and when she pushes back into you? When you feel her clench around you, and shudder beneath your grasp?
You think of Clarke.
You run your fingers carefully over hers, and you know you must be crying when you feel the drop that lands on your hand, but you don't wipe away the tears, you don't want to. You can't. Not when she lies before you. Not when all that keeps her breathing is the steady whirring of the machine. Not when at any moment she might fade.
And so you squeeze her hand softly, you bring yourself as close as you can in the wheelchair.
"Please wakeup."
You hate the sound of your voice.
"Please wakeup."
You hate how desperate you sound.
"Please wakeup."
You hate the soft beep that echoes through the room.
"Please wakeup."
You just want to see her eyes once more.
"Please wakeup."
You just want to hear her voice once more.
Please wakeup.
I love you, Clarke.
