Chapter Text
Arkadia, 15 years ago
A gentle wind rustled the flaps of the mosquito net around the gazebo at the back of the Griffins’ garden and bathed Clarke’s face with warmth. She closed her eyes for a moment, one hand slapping down on the papers in front of her to stop them from flying away. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t in a mood to go chasing after her drawings—she’d just rather her best friend didn’t see them right now.
The sudden noise of her hand hitting the paper onto the wooden floor snapped Bellamy from his focus and he looked up from the guitar in his lap. He sent Clarke a quick look, one eyebrow raised in a surprised curiosity, before he turned his gaze away again, once he realised that nothing had happened.
Clarke swallowed thickly and dropped her head down, letting her long hair cover her face and hopefully hide the deep blush that she could feel was rising to her cheeks.
It’s been happening more and more lately and she just couldn’t figure out what was going on.
Well, alright, she could. She just struggled to believe it.
Clarke had had crushes before, bigger and smaller, so she recognised the signs just fine but she really just couldn’t believe it.
Having recently turned 18, Bellamy Blake was the object of affection of the majority of their schoolmates and objectively speaking, Clarke could absolutely understand what everyone saw in her best friend—what’s more, unlike with Wells, she didn’t shudder at the very thought of kissing Bellamy, whenever she allowed herself to think about it. For the longest time, Bellamy was nothing more than a friend – her best friend, even. She never even considered she might even slightly like him.
But then one day, he showed up at her door with thick-rimmed glasses on his nose and a stubble on his cheeks, and Clarke’s fifteen-year-old heart fluttered like it never had before.
She tried to ignore it, at first. Bellamy had a different girl on his arm every other weekend and the rumour Clarke had heard about him made her blush deep scarlet and stirred something deep in her belly, and she knew that for all that he loved her, he didn’t see her like that. Nor was she ready for anyone to do so, to be honest. Still, it was easier to pretend that the crush was just an inconvenient accident. Otherwise, she’d have to admit that her heart dropped a little into her stomach every time Bellamy smiled that charming smile of his at someone who wasn’t her or when he cancelled plans with her because he had a date.
Most importantly though, she pretended nothing was the matter because if she admitted it to herself, then she might somehow let it slip out and then, Bellamy might find out and that was, frankly, mortifying.
Still, there was only so long that Clarke could keep her inconvenient feelings in check and eventually, she accepted that this crush wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. So, Clarke did what she’d always done when she needed to deal with something—she wrote about it.
Her diary was filled with sighs and huffs but it was her story book that’s really been working overtime lately. She’d written story after story about Bellamy asking her out, or asking her to his senior prom, or about the two of them being the last two people left on Earth after an apocalypse. To accompany most of those stories, she drew small doodles here and there, but the last couple of weeks, she found herself engrossed in an adventure she’d come up with for the two of them—and she’d practically turned it into a comic books, with how many panels she’d done already.
For the most part, she didn’t mind showing her drawings to Bellamy, or letting him read her stories. She’d been coming up with them for as long as she could remember, always having had an active imagination, and as her best friend since elementary school, Bellamy had often appeared in those stories with her—and he was the only one who never once told her that they were silly, or incoherent, or a waste of time.
This time, though, the drawings were slightly less presentable and infinitely more embarrassing. With a newfound obsession to perfect Bellamy’s hair and smirk, Clarke found herself filling page after page with sketches of her best friend and though she couldn’t put her finger on why, she couldn’t shake the thought that showing those drawing to Bellamy would reveal a little more than she was prepared to do.
Clarke swiped the loose pages from the floor and hid the filled ones between the covers of her story book, then ran her hand through her hair, tangling the already tangled long tresses.
Bellamy looked up from the guitar one more time and with a small smile, gestured over his forehead with his fingers, a guitar pick between them. Clarke frowned at first before she got the message and rubbed the back of her hand over her own forehead, trying to get the graphite off, her blush running a little deeper.
“What’re you working on?” she asked, clearing her throat.
Bellamy shrugged noncommittally.
“It’s nothing much, just something that’s been stuck in my head for a while,” he answered, not looking at her.
Clarke looked down at her lap and smiled. He hardly ever said anything more about the songs he wrote but the way that he was avoiding Clarke’s gaze told her just how much this one meant. Bellamy was proud of this one, even if he’d never admit it.
“I wish I could play like you,” Clarke muttered under her breath, wistfully, not really intending for Bellamy to hear it. But they were sitting so close to each other and he had stopped for the moment, so of course he’d heard.
He looked at her now, a bit of a frown on his face, a little surprised at her tone.
His self-deprecating nature hardly ever allowed Bellamy to say it, or even agree with Clarke, but when it came to music, he had real talent, just like the rest of his family. Aurora had a beautiful voice and sang all of the solos in the church choir and Octavia had been taking out her frustrations on the second-hand drum kit since the moment she was tall enough to reach it but Bellamy—he was something else.
He felt the music in the way that Clarke didn’t even think was possible but then, he managed to learn the guitar practically just from watching her trying to practice. Clarke struggled and struggled, growing to hate the instrument a little more every time she picked it up but her mother insisted that she learnt how to play something and the guitar seemed the least objectionable at first.
Bellamy was the only one who never really grew tired of her butchering the classics and sat patiently in his favourite armchair in Clarke’s room, reading a book, only occasionally asking her questions about the technique. Eventually, he asked if he could give it a go and in no time at all, he’d surpassed Clarke with his skills.
Clarke tried very hard not to be jealous but she was only 12 at the time and it stung—especially when her mother discovered that instead of practicing herself, Clarke had been lending her guitar to Bellamy and that the only real use she had from her lessons was what she could pass along to her friend. Abby yelled at first but eventually, realised that her daughter simply didn’t have the music in her and finally, after nearly two years of Clarke nearly dying of anxiety every time her mother demanded she played something in public, the guitar had been given to Bellamy for his birthday and Clarke was free.
The relief was almost enough to make her forget how disappointed Abby was about it—and to this day, Clarke still looked at how much easier it was for Bellamy and couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy. And she knew that he knew it.
Bellamy smiled at her lightly.
“Why did Abby even insist that you had to play an instrument?” he asked. “Hasn’t she always insisted that you have a bright medical career in front of you and needed to focus on that?”
It’s not like he never asked that before, but usually, Clarke just shrugged. Now, she twisted her lips into a sour grimace because it was true—but only when it came to the extracurriculars that Clarke had mentioned she wanted to do. But instead of saying that, she just shook her head.
“She wanted me to have a skill that can be shown off because there’s only so many time that you can tell everyone your kid has good grades, and because it looks good on college applications,” she answered quietly, looking away from Bellamy and screwing her gaze at the back wall of the gazebo, where a string of fairy lights started to swing, moved by the wind.
Having an artistic talent was only good, in her mother’s eyes, if Clarke started winning contests and no amount of drawing lessons and art groups could ever ensure that. And since Clarke would sooner die that give her mother the stories that she’d written, given how very personal and private they often were, an instrument was what her mother ordained.
It’s never been her favourite subject, the way that Abby dismissed her daughter’s interest and talents and was only interested in what would make her look good. Especially when Bellamy’s mother cherished the painting of her kids that Clarke had made for her for Christmas last year.
“Sucks that I’m not talented though,” Clarke added, bitter against her better judgement.
“Yes, you are,” Bellamy countered quickly, decidedly, putting the guitar away and moving up from the fat cushion he’d been sitting on.
Clarke froze in surprise and followed his movement with a furrow between her eyebrows. His insistence was sweet but she wasn’t sure where was that passion coming from and why. It’s not like she hadn’t complained about her mother before.
Bellamy crouched in front of her, the curls of his fringe falling into his eyes. He swiped them away from his face hastily, eyes boring into Clarke intensely.
“Just because your mother doesn’t understand or appreciated your gifts, doesn’t mean you don’t have them. You are very talented, alright?” He spoke with a tone that bore no objection and Clarke felt that her eyes were tearing up. Still, she couldn’t look away or even blink.
“You’re a terrific artist but an even better writer,” he added, one hand coming up to squeeze Clarke’s forearm with reassurance.
Clarke inhaled sharply through her nose. “Did you have a talk with your sister recently?” she teased, hoping to hide how choked up his words made her feel.
It was a safe bet that he did because Bellamy’s sister, though an amazing company to spend one’s time with, did have quite a lot of trouble keeping her focus on the more serious stuff, so either Bellamy or their mother often had to make sure that she was actually staying focused. And it always put Bellamy in a certain kind of ‘supportive-big-brother’ mood.
It was sweet of him to say all that, too. People complemented her work, most of the time, whenever she dared to actually show it off, but the adults usually followed the praise with ‘for your age’ and it always felt like a bucket of cold water on her head. Clarke couldn’t stop thinking that it meant they either believed that she couldn’t compete with more mature creators, or that she would grow out of whatever talent she had and never actually took in anywhere. Either way, it wasn’t often that she simply heard that she was good. It was a nice thing to hear.
Bellamy made a face at her and shook his head, knowing exactly what she meant by the comment but let it go without another word. Instead, he moved again and this time, sat right next to Clarke, their arms brushing against each other. Clarke was wearing a thin cardigan but Bellamy only had a t-shirt on, and she could’ve sworn that she felt his skin against hers, even if it wasn’t actually possible. But with how attuned to him she’d recently found herself, Clarke couldn’t really fight that feeling.
He’d recently started wearing aftershave and the smell, though withered with time, still hit her once Bellamy settled, making her head swim. The scent, combines with something very much Bellamy, made her insides twist and contort. Not unpleasantly, though.
Braving the sudden onslaught of not exactly welcomed feelings, Clarke looked up and tilted her head, glancing at Bellamy, who had a thoughtful expression on his face, like he was weighing his words.
“Do you even want to be a doctor?” he finally asked, carefully.
Clarke still stiffened, her face twisting into a painful grimace.
The truth was, she didn’t actually know if she did want it or not. Her mother had been telling her and anyone who would listen that her daughter would follow in her footsteps, and Clarke had been taking all the correct classes and courses to keep her firmly on that path but did she want any of it? Who knew.
She thought being a doctor was pretty cool, back when she was six years old and her mother would sometimes take her to work with her, sit Clarke down on the examination table in her office and give her an old stethoscope and a box of tongue depressors to play with. But a lot had changed since then.
Clarke shrugged faintly and made a noise under her breath.
“It’s not like I could do anything else,” she finally settled on, looking at her hands in her lap. “My mother is not gonna pay for me to go to school and study anything but medicine.”
Bellamy exhaled and even without looking at him, she could sense the hint of exasperation.
“Okay, totally hypothetical then,” he proposed, his tone changing from the serious to a little lighter. “If you could be anyone in the world, do anything you wanted, what would you do?”
Clarke tucked her chin into her neck sharply and her mouth dropped open. She looked up at Bellamy and let out a puff of air but didn’t actually answer. She couldn’t. It’s not like anyone really asked her that before, so she hardly ever gave it a proper thought. Every time she tried, a voice at the back of her head told her not to bother.
But the way that Bellamy was looking at her now, she figured—why not.
“I think—” she started, voice wavering. “Would be fun to be an artist, huh? Or maybe,” Clarke swallowed. It felt like revealing some big secret. “How awesome it would be to be a writer?”
Bellamy smiled at her then, a big and bright smile that she couldn’t help but reciprocate. For a moment, it was the coolest, most amazing idea—she could be a writer!
Only, the excitement didn’t last for long.
“But like I said, my mother won’t pay for any writer school, and if I just choose not to go and become an artist, she would kill me,” Clarke added with a faux lightness in her voice—as if making it sound like a joke made it any less true. She didn’t even dare imagine, how her mother would react if Clarke even suggested she was thinking of that, instead of a respectable career.
Bellamy knew better than to disagree.
Clarke looked away and her eyes landed on the guitar on the other side of the gazebo. It was a little beaten up now and there were small doodles that she’d been adding here and there every once in a while. It was definitely loved.
She twisted her head to glance at Bellamy again, a teasing smirk stretching her lips.
“Maybe you could be a famous singer, Bell!” she offered, grinning. “You’re definitely talented enough, you’re not too bad to look at and who knows, if it was your concert, maybe Abby would actually let me go, even once.”
Bellamy snorted but he was a little too late of an reaction and Clarke realised that he didn’t hate the idea, no matter what he was about to say.
“Yeah, right,” he answered, blowing a raspberry. “And if I’m off playing around the world, who’s gonna stay behind and make sure that Octavia does her homework and sticks to her curfew?”
Clarke shrugged and pursed her lips, still smiling. “Maybe she can come with us.”
Again, Bellamy made a face but didn’t shoot the idea down immediately. Or at all. Instead, he stared at Clarke for a very long second, digesting the words.
Then, his expression softened and something crossed his features, an emotion Clarke couldn’t catch quick enough to identify. But the fact that he still hadn’t protested was enough—he was at least thinking about it. And now, Clarke couldn’t not to, either.
After what was probably just a minute, but felt more like half an eternity, Bellamy breathed out a long breath and looked at Clarke with a genuine smile.
“Yeah, maybe.”