"Lexa," it's a soft whisper that pulls you from the clutches of sleep, "are you still awake?"

And maybe if it was Raven, maybe if it was Anya, you'd ignore the question, you'd ignore the late of the hour that she decides to disrupt. But you think she is Clarke. You think the heat of her body stirs your thoughts and brings moments of depravity to your sleeping mind. And so you roll over quietly, tuck your hands under your head and smile softly to her in the dark of your room.

"Yeah," you smile gently to her, "I'm awake."

She rolls over to face you, her own hands tucking beneath her head, and as her eyes look to you, as her breaths even and slow she smiles once more, lets the soft of the moonlight bring a shining brilliance to life within her eyes.

"Thank you," she pauses for a moment, lets her eyes dart down from your own, "for letting me sleep here," and you smile for a short while, and you think you chuckle quietly at the memory of Raven, too drunk, having sullied Clarke's bed.

"You're welcome, Clarke," she leans closer, lets her hand wander into the space between you both. And maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the way the light dances across her face. Or maybe it's the frantic beating of your heart, but you reach out tentatively and unsure, and you let your fingers entwine with hers, and you lean closer. Just a bit, but just enough so that you feel the warmth of her body, feel the gentle caress of her breath as it brushes against your cheek. And as her eyes close, as sleep takes hold and as she smiles softly once more you whisper out to her.

"Goodnight, Clarke."

And maybe you can ignore the way your eyes trace the curve of her lip, the dip of her neck and the way her leg brushes against yours under the covers.


I missed you too, Lexa

The words ring out between the both of you and you find yourself unable to think, unable to voice the thoughts that dance and spin through your mind. And maybe you don't notice you must be holding her hand tightly, must be crushing it in an attempt to hold her to you, to keep her from slipping away. You don't notice until she winces for just a slight moment.

"Sorry," you whisper, your fingers loosening, your hand retreating back to the safety of your side of the table.

She smiles at you then, careful and measured, "it's ok."

And you aren't sure what to say. Aren't sure how to say what you wish to. And you feel the moisture that builds slowly, you think you feel the quiet creep as it grows in the corner of your eye so you bring your finger up, brush away the tears and you let out one shaky breath.

And when you think you have your breathing controlled, when you think you have the beating of your heart tamed you look fully at her, you let your eyes wander and you let your eyes linger. And you think she looks alive. You think she looks well, just a moment older, just a moment more lived and you think that you see a thought, see an idea that lives in the eyes, that stares back steadily.

You open your mouth then, to voice a thought, but you think it hangs for a moment before you close it lamely, but you think she must sense the questions that linger so she smiles once, a careful encouragement for you to continue.

And as you look at her, as you take in the gold of her hair as it falls gently past her shoulders, as you let your gaze contemplate the life that glows warmly in her eyes and as you watch the breaths that come steady and calm you think it unfair. You think the thoughts that linger unkind.

"Where'd you go, Clarke?" you think your voice breaks again, so you turn your face from her, if only so she won't see the ruin that you think you have become, "where'd you go?" you feel the years of loss, of anger and the ages of lonely thoughts, "I waited," you close your eyes, you hold them as tight as you can and you know you feel the tears that escape, that fall and that stain the shirt you wear, "I waited for you."

And it hurts. You feel the crumbling of your mind and the stinging loss her absence left in its wake.

"I'm sorry," she whispers out to you then, and you think she means it, if only by the tremble in her voice. "I was afraid," and you turn back to her, your eyes downcast, but she leans forward for a moment, moves into the line of your sight and looks at you with a fierceness and a loss that rings just a moment too close. "I was afraid. And I needed to find myself," and as the words leave her mouth she pauses for a time, lets her mind wander and you watch as her eyes think back, as her thoughts turn to the past. "I stayed with Raven for a while," she smiles softly at the memories. "She helped with the therapy. She helped with the pain," she looks to you for a measured beat. "I stayed with Bellamy too. For a few years, he helped me. Helped me to not feel so lost anymore," she finishes quietly.

And it hurts. You feel a pain and a resentment and an anger that dulls your mind and burns your thoughts wickedly.

"I would have been there for you, Clarke," you see her flinch at the bite of your words. "I was there for you. For months. While you slept," you shake your head, hold back the tears that you feel welling once more, "I was there."

"I know," she pauses, "I'm sorry."

"Why'd you leave me, Clarke?" you choke out the question, feel it burn at your throat and your mind.

"I didn't remember, Lexa," you see her close her eyes for a moment, "I didn't remember you. I didn't remember us," and at her words you think you must choke out a quiet sob, a broken, cruel sound that wounds her as much as it does you. "I was afraid," she whispers it again, her hand reaching out to you once more. But as her fingers brush your hand, as her fingers bring forth memories and times and moments of the past you think you feel a guilt and a truth and a cruel echo of what once was rear up in your mind.

And so you pull your hand away, try and ignore the way your heart clenches painfully in your chest and if you think hard enough, if you let yourself accept what it is that simmers gently within your thoughts you think yourself lost in the past and trapped in the present, "I met someone," you see an understanding that lives in her eyes, "her name's Costia," you whisper it to her, your lip trembling, your fingers wanting to reach out, to embrace a truth and a longing. "We're happy," and as the words leave your lips, as they reach Clarke's ears you think you see an acceptance that shines gently in her eyes, "we're happy," you say it once more, but maybe you aren't so sure who you try to convince. "We're happy," and as you think of Costia, as you think of her smile, of the freckles that sit carefully across her face, of her hair, unruly in the morning and the gentle hazel of her eyes, you think you can't help but to see the blonde that shines brilliantly in the morning sun, or the blue that lives fiercely for you to see or the gentle curve of her cheek and the line of her nose.

And so you say once more, "I'm happy."

Are you?

Clarke lets a tender smile play across her lips for a moment as she looks at you, and in the time you think she takes to think of what to say, of how to bridge the gap that must live between you both, you think you feel a bitter acceptance that bleeds into your mind.

"I saw you both," you look up at her, hold her gaze for a while as you remember the desperation that had filled your mind that night, "At Gustus' restaurant," you look away, and you remember the broken cry you had let escape when you had seen her. "You both looked happy," she finishes softly.

"Why didn't you stay? Why didn't you say something?"

"I was afraid," she says once more, and maybe, if you look hard enough, if you search for long enough and if you let your eyes linger for just a while longer, you can see the tears that she tries to hide, the pain she tries to keep hidden from you, and perhaps, if you let yourself be selfish for just one more moment, you can wish that the words you next hear are different, are a hand reaching out for you to take. But you think and you know that life isn't so fair.

"I'm happy for you, Lexa."


It's a warm glow that brings your mind to wakefulness. And as you roll closer towards the unfamiliar heat by your side you think you smile for a moment. And as your fingers touch the softness that lies next to your body you think you smile just a bit wider, just a bit happier.

"Good morning," she whispers quietly, and you are sure she must be smiling.

"Hi," you answer, your voice rough and tired from sleep, your eyes bleary and your muscles a comfortable ache. You open your eyes fully then, let the gentle rising of the sun bring your vision into focus and you smile just a bit fiercer and just a bit happier when the sun dances in her hair, a careful shade of gold that holds your gaze. "Hi," you repeat it once more.

"Hi," she smiles a laugh, leans closer, letting you lose yourself in the blue of her eyes.


Your feet carry you up the stairs quietly, the careful thud of your shoes brushing against each step as they ring out into the empty space that surrounds you, and, if just for now, you feel a quiet, deadened beat that keeps your heart in rhythm, that keeps your legs moving and your mind focused on the past. And maybe, as you reach the third floor, as you walk down the hallway you think a gentle sadness must linger around you, must squeeze you tightly and must taunt you in your sleep. And you know life isn't fair, you know it to be cruel and unkind. But perhaps you just need to roll with it, absorb the blows you feel and move forward. Even if you don't want to.

You reach your door then, and as the key scrapes against the lock you pause for a moment, you let the sound of the quiet music bleed through the door and reach your ears. You rest your head against the cool wood, let the cold bite of it steady your thoughts and ground your body and you wait. You wait until you think your heart settles, you wait until your thoughts turn from Clarke and you wait until you think you have stayed out in the hallway for too long, have let your thoughts wander too far.

Walking into your apartment is a strange, uncomfortable thing, and as you walk further, as you see the sun that shines lowly through the windows, you trace the shadows that fall, and you follow them until your gaze reaches Costia, herself standing quietly before you. And she smiles for a moment, lets it linger for a while.

"Hi," she says quietly, and you think her eyes steady and uncertain as they trace the lines that must etch themselves across your face.

"Hi," you whisper it back to her.

"How was it?" she moves closer, her arms hanging lonely by her side.

And maybe as she moves closer, maybe when her fingers reach out, maybe when her arms wrap themselves around your waist and maybe, just for a small moment you let yourself forget what it is that burns dully in your mind. But when you lean into her touch, lean into the beating of her heart and lean into the whispered words that brush against your ear, you think life unfair and cruel. And so, as she squeezes just a bit tighter, you think you feel your chest clench painfully and your vision blur with a hated wetness, and as the tears fall, as they muddy the shirt that clings to her shoulders you think you choke out a pained, quiet, wretched noise.

"it's ok, Lexa," she soothes, her hand finding yours, "it's ok."


Costia moves you to the bedroom quietly, the faint hum of the music she had playing a gentle cradle for your tired mind, and as she undresses you, as she strips away the too tight clothes that you wear she brushes her lips against your face, lets her whispered words wend their way through your mind.

And as she dresses you in softer clothes, warmer clothes, gentler clothes, she pulls you into bed, tucking the covers over you, all the while whispering out to you.

And it's sad. It's cruel and broken but you roll over, you turn into the warmth of her body and you think you break against the beating of her heart and the gentle embrace of her arms. And as the tears continue their own path you fall into a fitful, unrested slumber.


"Lexa," you think you press closer into her, hang on to the sleep you think you must have been experiencing. "Lexa," you hear it again, and you feel the gentle tugging on your hair, "Lexa," you whimper quietly, "wakeup," you think you hear the smile that lingers faintly in her words.

And as you stir, as you grumble softly and protest weakly you hear her whisper out again, "do you want dinner?"

"No," it's rough and forced out gently, "I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure?" and you are certain that from her tone her eyes must worry for a moment, and you feel her fingers brush against you arm.

And so you nod, and you open your eyes, let them find Costia's and you smile weakly at her. "Just stay here. With me," and your words reach out to her, reach out to bridge the gap you refuse to think must be forming between you both.

"Ok," she smiles, but maybe it comes just a bit more mournful as she moves closer, letting her body press against yours. "Are you ok?" she asks, her fingers carding gently through your hair.

And maybe you aren't so sure anymore, maybe you aren't so convinced that you are ok. That you can continue on this pained and broken path you find yourself travelling. And maybe you know it is unfair. And so you press your lips to her neck, let them linger and heat the skin you find.

"I'm ok," you press closer, more firmly.

"Lexa," she breathes it out and maybe you can imagine the way the name falls, the way it brings forth flashes blonde and blue.

You don't realise that you must be crying softly again, your face cradled against her neck, until she pulls your head away, until her thumb brushes gently across your cheek.

"Lexa," she whispers out to you, her eyes kind in the fading light. "It's ok," she takes hold of your hand, squeezes it firmly, "I'm here. I'm here now," and she holds your gaze, her eyes pleading, hoping and longing.

"I'm sorry," and as the words leave your lips you think you know what you apologise for, and you think that maybe Costia does too.

"It's ok, Lexa."

But you think it isn't, and so you look into her eyes and hold her gaze, "I love you," and you are sure you feel it, you are sure you feel the pull in your heart and the truth in your words. And so you press into her, let your hand grip her waist, "I love you," you repeat it, just a bit more forcefully. "You mean so much to me," you press your lips to hers, and your hand wanders under her shirt, and your legs tangle with hers.

And you gasp quietly as she presses forward, as she grips your shoulders and as she rolls you over. And as she sits up, as she looks down at you she smiles softly.

But as she lifts her shirt, as she lets it fall and as she lets the soft light of a lonely moon skip against her skin and dance across the swell of her bosom and the heaving of her chest, as she leans forward, capturing your lips in hers, you think you feel a wet trail that winds and twists down her cheeks. And as her hand wanders lower, as you gasp into her mouth and as she bears down upon your body, you aren't so sure that the tears that cling to your cheeks come only from you.


You aren't sure how long you lie in bed, you aren't sure how long it is until you fall asleep, and you aren't so sure how long it is that you sleep. But you wake to the quiet of a dark night and an empty bed. And as you awaken, as your eyes open slowly, you let out a shallow breath and you try and steady the beating of your heart. You lean into Costia then, only to find her place by your side cold and lonely.

You lie for a short moment, just enough that you are sure you steady yourself and then you sit, you rise and you search for the clothes you had discarded. And as you leave the bed you try and ignore the sting of the night as it chills your flesh. And so you tread quietly, guided by the careful glow of the outside world and you think you hear the faint whisper of music that swells down the hall. You follow the sound until you near the kitchen, and as you slow your feet, as you pause at the entrance you see her, a lonely silhouette to the glow of the world that lives outside.

Costia sits at the table, the green mug held gently in her hands, her eyes focused somewhere out the window. You watch for a moment as she brings the mug to her lips, as she holds it for a short minute and you watch as she inhales the careful scent of the tea, and as she brings it to her lips you hear her hum out a whispered breath and a quiet sigh.

She must see you in the reflection though, must see you standing behind her, leaning against the wall so she smiles, her reflection carrying the lonely expression and so you step forward, let your feet take you to her side and you sit in the chair next to her.

You sit in silence for a while, the warmth of her body brushing against your shoulder occasionally, the lifting of the mug to her lips the only motion to disturb the quiet you find yourselves in. But you think the silence must hang for too long, must hang too heavy and too lonely around you both so you take a breath, hold it for just a moment before releasing.

"Are you ok?" you whisper out to her. But you think she mustn't be. You think she must be hurting, must hold a sadness within her own mind. If only because she doesn't quite meet your gaze when she turns to you, and when she smiles it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I'm happy for you," and you think you feel your heart clench painfully in your chest. You think it must beat terribly and brokenly. "I am," she pauses, leans against you, if only to steady herself. "I really, really am."

And maybe you don't quite like where this conversation must be going.

"Costia," you whisper it out, reaching out to her quietly. But her head shakes gently, her hair brushing against your cheek.

"I love you, Lexa," she raises her head, looks into your eyes firmly, her own shining radiant in the moon light. "I love you terribly," her hand reaches out, brushes against your cheek.

And you aren't quite sure what to say, what to do and what to feel. But you know you couldn't say enough. Couldn't do enough. But you do feel. But maybe it isn't enough anymore.

And you think your lip must tremble slightly, that your eyes must water gently, "I love you, Costia." you whisper it out, hold her gaze and hope and wish for her to see the truth of your words.

And you watch as her hand reaches down, as it snakes into her pocket. And you watch as she pulls her hand away, her fist closed carefully around what she grasps and you watch as she raises her hand between you both. And you watch as her fingers open, as the light catches the metal rings as they sit quietly in her palm.

"I found them. I didn't mean to. I—" she pauses for a moment, looks away from you for just a second. "I was cleaning. And I found them—"

"Cos—" You go to interrupt.

To tell her that everything is ok. That you still love her.

But you think that maybe only one of those confessions remains a truth.

She shakes her head gently, quietly ending the words you try to say, "I didn't know you still had them," and you are sure you hear her voice tremble and hear the aching of her heart.

And so she meets your eyes once more.

"Do you still love her?"