Quiet moments, just the two of them in her dorm room, are as rare as they are precious – they both have crazy schedules, what with seminars and lectures and a hundred other things. So an entire afternoon where they're both free? It's nothing but a miracle. And Clarke loves those moments, just him and her and her little bed, often with a book and a cup of tea, always with cuddles. The casual intimacy of a couple, the kind of domesticity she never thought she'd share – not so young, not while still in college.
But it's Bellamy, so.
So she sighs, content, as she turns a page of her book and leans into his touch. He plays with her hair a lot, fingers always buried in her mane, and she purrs like a kitten every time. Today isn't any different, and she doesn't need to look up to know there is the ghost of a smirk on his lips – proud as a peacock, always.
She feels herself drifting off under his caresses, and is almost startled when they stop, when he stills against her.
"Clarke?" he asks, soft enough as not to wake her up if she is indeed asleep. Which she isn't, and she hums under her breath to tell him as much. "We need to talk."
She's startled again, for an entire different reason this time, and sits up to look at him in the eyes, hers growing wider all of a sudden. He frowns before a flash of horror crosses his face.
"Fuck. No. Not that kind of talk, geez."
Bellamy punctuates his word with a peck on the lips, and she softens against him as relief runs through her veins – it is stupid, she knows, because they've been together for what feels like centuries and they're doing good. They're doing great. Still.
"What kind of talk?"
He smiles at her, the smile where his dimples flashes and her heart skips a bit, and Clarke rolls her eyes out of habit – she knows he's grinning on purpose, just to soften the blow of whatever is coming next. "You're graduating soon."
Yeah, no shit Sherlock.
It's the only thing that's been on her mind for months, her gown is in her wardrobe now and she freaks out every morning when she has to dress and – and she's a mess about it, okay? Rightfully so, she thinks, because then she enters the scary world of adulthood and… Well, let's say it's not easy out there for a little artist like her.
"What's your point?"
He looks – damn, is Bellamy Blake blushing? It can't be right yet there it is, the red high on his cheeks, freckles standing out even more than usual. This is endearing, but worrying too because – well, because her boyfriend is textbook confidence and smugness, and she can't remember the last time he looked remotely bashful.
"Are you – will you go back to living with your mother?"
She wants to snort – hell, no – but it dawns on her why exactly he's asking that before the ungraceful sound has time to escape her mouth.
It's not a new, foreign conversation, not really, but she's always managed to dodge it so far – change the subject, distract him with kisses and sex until he forgot he even talked about it. Hell, just straight ignore him, too. But he has corned her this time, the asshole, and it's a conversation she can no longer ignore.
So, of course, her heartbeat increases exponentially and all colours drain from her face. Typically Clarke.
"Are you having a panic attack?"
She – yeah, she guesses she kinda does, actually.
Bellamy runs his hand up and down her back, a worried look in his eyes as she heaves laboured breathes. She's a mess, and he's not really helping and –
"Have you ever noticed how you've got one freckle bigger than the other freckles on your nose?" She puts her finger on said freckle, ignores how her hand is trembling. "It's more, like, two freckles that merged to give a mega freckle but…"
"Clarke."
"I mean, it's weird, right? DNA and melanin and…"
"Clarke."
She stops and stares at him, and he stares back, and this isn't awkward at all. Gosh, they've been dating for three years now, this shouldn't be awkward, what the hell is wrong with her?
"Breathe," he tells her, and Clarke does just that, takes a large gulp of air and let it out slowly by her nose. She feels better, only slightly. "Now tell me why you're freaking out like the day I met your mom."
Yeah, not her more glorious moment either – he'd spent weeks, months, trying to convince her it couldn't be that bad an idea, that he could deal with it. And of course she had panicked during the entire week before their Sunday lunch. And of course Abby had been awful from begin to end, asking about student loans and Octavia and his career and even Aurora – a nightmare. Bellamy had taken it in stride, but Clarke had only wanted to hide in a tiny hole and never come out every again. It was more than embarrassing, it was mortifying.
"It's…" she starts, but is at loss for words, so she runs a hand through her hair, hoping it could help. It doesn't. "I don't know."
"Too fast? Too real?" His lips curl into a kind smile. "Well princess, I hate to break it to you, but you're a little late to the party."
She's perfectly aware of that (which make this situation all the more ridiculous) because she has Octavia's number on speed dial on her phone, and Bellamy's shitty coffee in her cupboard, and even his toothbrush in her bathroom. He pretty much lives with her in that dorm room, despite it being forbidden, and moving to another place, one with several rooms and maybe even a washing machine if they go crazy, wouldn't change much from what they have now.
But it is different, somehow, too.
It is different because she doesn't have the best track record when it comes to relationships, and her parents didn't set the best example either and – and when she looks at Bellamy, she thinks this is it. He's it for her, and it scares her half to death, this absolute certainty.
He noses to that spot beneath her ear, to stop her train of thoughts. "Move in with me, babe."
"Is that a question or an order?"
He chuckles, his breath hot and tickling against the sensitive skin of her neck. "It's whatever you want it to be as long as you say yes."
"Your place is too small," she says, even as she closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side, offering her neck to him. "I need my own studio."
"Then we'll find a bigger place. Two rooms."
His hand snakes under her shirt, and she hates herself for being so weak, for letting him coax her into anything with heated kisses and gentle touches. But she does the same all the time, too, so it's only fair.
"Somewhere quiet. Good neighbourhood." This is the weirdest kind of foreplay they've ever engaged in, yet she finds herself breathless beyond repair. "We could even get a cat."
The moan escapes her lips without her meaning to, and Bellamy barks a laugh. She hits his shoulder in retribution, but he only laughs harder, the asshole. "Come on, Clarke."
"Yeah, okay."
"Little more convincing?"
It's her time to laugh, a huffed little sound as she rolls her eyes. "Yes, Bellamy. I'll move in with you."
He lashes onto her lips then, fingers pressing to her waist with a purpose, and it takes her a matter of seconds before she forgets her fears. Forgets everything, really.
(The apartment is in a neighbourhood close to campus because, for all intents and purposes, it's more practical for Bellamy's classes as a TA. They take the smaller room, and the biggest one soon finds itself full of canvas and cans of paint, of pencils and charcoal and brushes and a hundred other objects. She makes it hers, her own little artistic territory. She makes it hers and she calls it home, and nothing has every felt more right that this.)
(He finds a stray cat, because of course he does. Calls him Caesar, the nerd.)