it's a familiar picture, being curled around each other in the haze of a warm room; near naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat, mouthes tasting of each other, and breathing barely settled. the first time they'd been like this, the last time they'd been like this, had been softer. warmer. clarke had trailed her fingers down lexa's spine, along the curves of her tattoos, and remarked that they were beautiful. the markings of the conclave are still there — she can see them when she slides down, settles her forehead between lexa's shoulder blades, and huffs against the other woman's skin. they're still there, still as beautiful. but where falling into bed with each other in polis had been the cumulation of months of building intensity, and they'd allowed themselves an hour to relish in it...
here, everything was still tainted with sorrow.
to her credit, clarke tries. she tries to bite back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her again, offers herself the reassurance that lexa is here; real and alive and here. tightens her arms around lexa's frame when the mental consolation isn't quite enough, but the tears still leak out. she's no idea how long they stay like that, crying into long brown hair and trying not to shake too violently through the sobs, but it's a long and quiet stretch of time. the light in the room shifts, and the weight of her entire life compounds until exhaustion mingles with grief, and clarke thinks she drifts off between dry heaves. her eyes hurt, her teeth ache from grinding them so ferociously in an attempt not to moan with each fresh reminder that this could never have happened at home. it's difficulty to justify — was the joy she felt at seeing lexa again enough to make leaving her people in alie's hands worth it?
it feels like several hours, but is probably no more than one. a level of acceptance — the same for every curveball life had thrown at them thus far — edges the more jagged parts of her thoughts by the end of it, and eventually clarke is untangling her arms from around lexa's waist. props herself up a little on her elbows, and curls fingers around lexa's bare shoulder. )
Hey.
( she doesn't want to talk. not really. everything is so fresh in her mind, yet so difficult to put into words. clarke only speaks to prompt lexa to roll onto her back, to look at her. she wants to see her face again. no matter how vividly she'd remembered it, memory could not paint the way the light flitted in her eyes, or the soft edges of her mouth as accurately as the present. )
10 years later
almost.
it's a familiar picture, being curled around each other in the haze of a warm room; near naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat, mouthes tasting of each other, and breathing barely settled. the first time they'd been like this, the last time they'd been like this, had been softer. warmer. clarke had trailed her fingers down lexa's spine, along the curves of her tattoos, and remarked that they were beautiful. the markings of the conclave are still there — she can see them when she slides down, settles her forehead between lexa's shoulder blades, and huffs against the other woman's skin. they're still there, still as beautiful. but where falling into bed with each other in polis had been the cumulation of months of building intensity, and they'd allowed themselves an hour to relish in it...
here, everything was still tainted with sorrow.
to her credit, clarke tries. she tries to bite back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her again, offers herself the reassurance that lexa is here; real and alive and here. tightens her arms around lexa's frame when the mental consolation isn't quite enough, but the tears still leak out. she's no idea how long they stay like that, crying into long brown hair and trying not to shake too violently through the sobs, but it's a long and quiet stretch of time. the light in the room shifts, and the weight of her entire life compounds until exhaustion mingles with grief, and clarke thinks she drifts off between dry heaves. her eyes hurt, her teeth ache from grinding them so ferociously in an attempt not to moan with each fresh reminder that this could never have happened at home. it's difficulty to justify — was the joy she felt at seeing lexa again enough to make leaving her people in alie's hands worth it?
it feels like several hours, but is probably no more than one. a level of acceptance — the same for every curveball life had thrown at them thus far — edges the more jagged parts of her thoughts by the end of it, and eventually clarke is untangling her arms from around lexa's waist. props herself up a little on her elbows, and curls fingers around lexa's bare shoulder. )
Hey.
( she doesn't want to talk. not really. everything is so fresh in her mind, yet so difficult to put into words. clarke only speaks to prompt lexa to roll onto her back, to look at her. she wants to see her face again. no matter how vividly she'd remembered it, memory could not paint the way the light flitted in her eyes, or the soft edges of her mouth as accurately as the present. )