They don't talk anymore. They wake up, take turns showering and getting dressed, and then head out the door, side by side, but in complete silence. They sit on complete opposites at the breakfast and lunch and dinner tables. They go scuba diving and surfing and hiking, but always at
different times. No one else seems to notice this sudden change - this extreme avoidance. But the silence is so deafening to both Clarke and Lexa that they find themselves getting drunk almost every night as an excuse to kiss. Just lips on lips and hands in hair and skin on skin. And the next morning they pretend not to remember it.
Clarke got Lexa's number out of Octavia's phone when she wasn't looking and texted it to Anya. Now she seems to have joined their little group of friends, accompanying Lexa in almost every activity. Clarke tells herself she doesn't care.
It's the night before their last and the moon shines brightly over Lexa, who's resting against a large rock and looking out into the sea, watching carefully as the waves crash into the shore. Someone steps up next to her and she immediately assumes it's Anya.
"I love the ocean," she says softly.
"I love you," Clarke replies flirtatiously, but equally as soft. Lexa turns, surprised, to find the blonde sitting next to her. The three words hang in the air for a while, and though it's not the first time they've been spoken, they still hit Lexa as hard as they did the first time – as hard as they do every time.
The first time, they were in their bathroom (ironically enough) inside their hotel room, in a sweaty frenzy, tugging and pulling each other in - back and forth, hungrily, drunkenly, recklessly; Lexa on top of the sink countertop, Clarke in between her legs. It was maybe the third or fourth time they'd made out drunk, but it was the first time their minds grew so foggy and so dark that they couldn't bring themselves to stop.
"Lexa," Clarke growled into the brunette's mouth, making her head spin and her throat let out a soft moan. "Lexa," she said the name with such erotic delicacy. They thrusted their bodies into each other, though their clothes remained on, feeling the waves of pleasures build up inside them. Lexa threw her head back and Clarke took the opportunity to kiss her neck.
"Clarke," Lexa moaned her name too, wrapping her legs around her and pulling her closer. "Fuck, Clarke."
This went on for a few minutes until, they both began to reach that edge of ecstasy. Clarke, pulled Lexa and kissed her, wanting to feel her moans vibrate inside her as they came undone.
"I love you," the words were whispered right as they both tipped over the edge, feeling themselves implode in pleasure. They moaned loudly, as if that would bring silence to the three words that had been spoken. They didn't talk about it afterwards, because it didn't mean anything - You love everyone when they're making you cum.
That was the only time they had let themselves finish, though, then they only climbed up to that edge, said their truthful lies of love and then stopped, panting into each other, trying to find calm in the stormy seas of each other's eyes. Clarke had been the first one to say it, though Lexa did the next time. Always at that edge, as if it were a safety net; as if it could take away the weight of the words if it had to.
Now, on the beach, without even touching, Clarke said it out loud.
"Clarke," is all Lexa can really say, as she tries to register what's going on. It's strange to hear her voice like that again. She heard her joke and laugh and talk with Octavia and their other friends and she heard her moan and whisper lustfully in her ear, but she missed hearing it like this. So close and soft and gentle and vulnerable.
"Lexa," Clarke replies and there is so much sadness in her blue eyes and in her shaky voice that the brunette doesn't know what to do.
"You're drunk," she comments more to reassure herself than anything else. She has to be drunk if she's throwing out "I love you's." Clarke just nods, understanding, though she isn't drunk at all. - just tired and lost and confused and maybe even a little heartbroken. "Go to bed, Clarke." The blonde nods again, before getting up and leaving Lexa alone with the ocean again, feeling unwanted.
The brunette sighs, a turmoil of emotions in her. All she wants to do is follow Clarke into their room, but she knows it wouldn't do any good. She's drunk and she doesn't mean it and Anya's nice and doesn't give her any childish, high school drama.
"Why so pensive?" Anya asks as she sits down next to Lexa, who shakes her head.
"I love the ocean," she says again.
"Me too. It's amazing," Anya agrees and it's the perfect answer, but Lexa doesn't even hear it because Clarke's words still ring in her ears.
"Tomorrow's my last night," Lexa reminds Anya.
"I know," there's sadness in her voice, but it's not Clarke's type of sad. It's not the meaningful type of sad. Anya comes in and rests her head on Lexa's shoulder. They haven't slept together yet, but they both have this silent understanding that they have to before they each go back home. "We should make the best of our time together." She runs her hand carefully down Lexa's back and the brunette flinches. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, uh, no," Lexa stumbles up. "I don't feel well. I think I need to lie down." It isn't a lie; she feels dizzy and anxious - all she wants to do is be in bed and sleep and not think and not feel.
"Do you want me to take you to your room?" There's that same kind of sadness in her voice and it makes Lexa angry. She doesn't care, she just wants to fuck you, her thoughts ache. But Clarke. The name rings incessantly. What does Clarke want?
"No, I can get there on my own," Lexa says, but Anya wasn't asking a question. She grabs Lexa's arm and guides her back into the hotel. They take the elevator and Anya says things that Lexa doesn't pay attention to because she's too busy looking at her reflection on the elevator door and thinking about Clarke. They reach the room and Lexa opens the door.
It's dark inside and Lexa's heart fills with inexplicable sadness and disappointment because Clarke isn't here. Anya pushes her through the door and sits her on the bed.
"Would you like me to stay a while?" Anya asks, but it isn't a question either and before Lexa can say no, Anya's hand is already running up her leg. She leans into her neck and traces kisses up to her lips.
"Anya," Lexa sighs. "I'm so drunk." It isn't true, but she just wants her to stop.
"Me too," is all she says, she keeps kissing her and Lexa can't remember how to move because her brain is too busy, too loud, too messy with the memory of Clarke's kisses and how different they are and how better they feel.
"Stop," she says, but Anya doesn't seem to hear so Lexa isn't sure if she even said it out loud.
Clarke rests her head on the bathroom door and she can hear Anya kissing Lexa and it makes her feel sicker than the liquor did. She groans. She's sitting on the cold floor, but she's burning - in rage and jealousy.
"Anya, stop," Lexa says again and pushes her back, but it doesn't matter because soon she's being pinned to the bed. "Get off," she says now angrily, and Clarke can hear it and suddenly all that rage comes boiling to the surface, evaporating all the alcohol in her blood. It doesn't matter that she's a terrible person who can't love anyone but herself because in this moment she loves Lexa and in this moment Anya doesn't. She stumbles out of the bathroom, but instantly wishes that she hadn't.
She shouldn't have underestimated Lexa, who's strong and independent and almost dangerous. The brunette pushes Anya back again, and commands her to leave with so much dominance in her voice that it makes the other two women back up like two scared puppies.
"Leave," she says again and Anya simply nods, exciting the room. Once she's gone, Lexa relaxes and lets herself fall back down onto the bed, through her feet stay dangling off, still unaware that Clarke is in the room with her. The blonde steps forward and sits next to her. "Oh hey," Lexa says simply, suddenly incredibly exhausted.
"Hey there, Commander Lexa," Clarke jokes and Lexa chuckles emptily. The blonde lets herself fall back onto the bed, next to Lexa, so that they're side by side with their legs dangling off. "I'm not drunk anymore," Clarke says and it's a simple statement but it carries so much weight, it crushes them both,
"No?" Lexa asks, but she's asking another question - she's asking "do you still love me when you're sober?"
"I don't know," Clarke groans. "Where does Anya live?"
"Canada."
"You two gonna visit?" There's an obvious jealousy in Clarke's tone and Lexa can't help but smile.
"I doubt it," Lexa replies, turning her head to face Clarke and adding, "She's not my type."
"What's your type, Lexa?" Clarke asks and the way she says her name overwhelms them both.
"The unattainable, apparently," Lexa says, half-smiling.
"Are you drunk, Lexa?" Clarke asks. "I might be if you are too." And that's how they always end up kissing, set on fire by each other's touch and lips and tongue - never brave enough to jump over the edge again, always left feeling more desperate and unsatisfied than before.
"No," Lexa says and Clarke frowns involuntarily. "I'm not drunk. I'm just tired." The blonde nods. "Anya's good for me," Lexa keeps talking.
"I know," Clarke says, though she isn't so sure anymore. She doesn't want to be sure anymore. She doesn't want to be the good person who gives up what (or whom) she really wants to avoid hurting people. She wants to be selfish again. She wants to give Lexa dates and kisses and adventures – like Anya has been now. She wants it to be her, not Anya; not anyone else. But it's too late now. Too terribly, disappointingly, heartbreakingly late.