Work Text:
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Clarke was never supposed to end up here. Fingers clutching the ratty sleeves of her sweatshirt that used to belong to someone else. Her tears staining soft cotton. She shoves away the memory of who it belongs to. She shoves away the thoughts and feelings and memories that threaten crash down on her.
Her hands won’t stop shaking, but it’s not from the cold. She chokes back tears and picks up her pace, nearly breaking into a run. She trips on the pavement but catches herself before she goes down. Tears blur her vision and she knows that this isn’t a dream. She knows that she’s not going to wake up and that means she probably just ruined her friendship with the person she loves the most.
(It wasn’t supposed to be like this.)
...
Clarke ends up at Wells’ dorm, curling up in his gray comforter and tucking her face into the stuffed bear he’s been sleeping with since he was four.
She’d texted him on the way over and he’d told her that his door was unlocked and that his lecture got out at 3. She spends an hour with herself and her feelings. Wells’ single never felt so empty.
She does her best not to go over her conversation with Bellamy again and again, but it’s no use.
She keeps seeing his face. The surprise and the guilt when she—when she told him she loved him.
“I—I can’t do this right now, Clarke. Miller—”
No. She can’t think about this right now. She needs to distract herself somehow.
She watches Netflix on her phone until Wells comes back to the dorm. And cries. All silent tears and stifled sobs.
When Wells walks in, he doesn’t say a word. He just drops onto his bed beside Clarke and pulls her into his arms. It feels like when they were kids. When they used to fall asleep curled around each other. It feels like home.
Wells’ sweatshirt gets wet with tears and Clarke doesn’t say anything, but, somehow, Wells gets it. He understands that Clarke just needs time and someone to lean on right now. They lie tangled in quiet only broken up by Clarke’s sniffles until she finds her way back.
Eventually, once she manages to pull herself together, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, Clarke breaks the silence.
“I told Bellamy how I feel about him,” she whispers even though her feelings for Bellamy were never a secret to Wells.
He was the first one who knew Clarke was in love with Bellamy. He knew before Clarke said anything. She and Wells have been friends for so long that they couldn’t keep secrets from each other even if they tried.
The next words hurt as they come out of Clarke’s mouth. “He didn’t—doesn’t—feel the same way.”
Wells’ eyes are too soft so Clarke stares down at her hands instead. They’re still trembling, hours later. She shook her world and now she’s dealing with the aftershocks.
She feels ridiculous and stupid — for letting movies trick her into thinking there was a happy ending waiting for her — for somehow believing that she and Bellamy were going to end up together. (And for being completely and utterly wrong.)
Wells starts to say something, but he gets cut off by the buzz of Clarke’s phone. She pulls it out of her back pocket and Bellamy’s face flashes across the screen. She sends the call to voicemail without thinking and turns off her phone.
Wells frowns, “Clarke, maybe you should—”
“He’s dating Miller, Wells. It was—It was stupid of me to think my feelings would change anything. I don’t even know what I expected. I’ve been stupidly in love with him so long that I convinced myself that he might—” she cuts herself off, her throat thick with tears.
Wells pulls her into another hug and neither one of them says anything for a while. Sometimes, there isn’t anything to say.
A couple of minutes later, Wells’ phone goes off. The ringtone breaking up the quiet.
Wells gets up and pulls his phone out of the front pocket of the backpack he’d dropped when he came in.
He stares at the screen for a beat too long and Clarke knows who it must be. But before she can say anything Wells answers the call.
“Hi, Bellamy...Yeah, I’ve talked to her...I, um, I don’t think she wants to see you right now...Okay, if I see her, I’ll tell her...Yeah, okay.”
Wells hangs up. The quiet this time is heavier.
Wells glances up, “Bellamy says you two need to talk. He sounded...I don’t know, he sounded different, but he didn’t seem...upset. Are you sure—”
Clarke cuts him off with a sigh. “Wells, don’t.”
“But, Clarke, are you sure? Are you sure you know how he feels?”
Clarke remembers the guilt in Bellamy’s eyes. The near panic.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she whispers, voice nearly breaking, “He doesn’t—he doesn’t feel the same way. And I can’t be around him right now. It hurts too much.”
All Bellamy has to say is what Clarke already knows. That he only sees her as a friend. That he loves her, but not the same way. And Clarke needs some more time before she lets Bellamy break her heart again.
...
She and Wells are an hour into Star Wars: Episode IV that afternoon when there’s a knock at the door.
Dread drops like a dead weight in Clarke’s stomach. Wells’ phone has been buzzing on and off for the past hour and Clarke already knows who the person behind the door is going to be.
Her hands start to shake again when Wells gets up to open the door.
She can’t see the door from her spot on Wells’ bed, but Bellamy’s voice is unmistakable.
“Wells, is Clarke here?”
“Bellamy, she doesn’t want to—”
“I need to talk to her. Clarke, I need to talk to you!” Bellamy calls over Wells’ shoulder. Clarke takes a deep breath. She’s not ready for this, but she gets up anyway.
She walks up behind Wells and looks at him so she doesn’t have to look at Bellamy.
“It’s okay Wells. I’ll talk to him. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”
Wells nods and Bellamy moves back to give Clarke room when she steps into the hallway. He’s wearing a soft gray t-shirt and his hands are shoved into his pockets. It takes all of Clarke’s courage to look up and meet his eyes.
Clarke’s always prided herself on the fact that she could read Bellamy better anyone, but now she can’t place the emotion she sees.
Neither one of them says anything so Clarke turns down the hallway and leads Bellamy outside to the tables out back. It’s crisp, but not cold and Clarke sits down on the table, wrapping her arms around herself.
Bellamy stays standing and clears his throat. Clarke stares at the tops of her chucks, trying to prepare herself for the coming hurt.
“I, um, I’m sorry, Clarke,” he starts, “I didn’t know what to say this morning when you showed up. I wasn’t expecting—,” Bellamy clears his throat again, “When you said you were in love with me, I didn’t—I couldn’t believe it...” he pauses and Clarke digs her fingers into her ribs. “I couldn’t believe I was that lucky.”
Clarke’s head snaps up. Her grip on her sides loosens.
“And all I could think about was Miller and how I had to end things with him before—before anything happened. I was already fourteen steps ahead before I realized I hadn’t told you that—” he falters “—that I love you too”
Clarke stares at Bellamy. His face is open and soft and hopeful. “I love you, Clarke. I’ve been in love with you since I met you and this morning when I realized what I said—how my reaction must have come across—I was so fucking mad at myself. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt you, Clarke.”
Bellamy takes a deep breath, “I broke up with Miller this morning. After you left. I told him I was in love with you.”
Bellamy smiles, small and self-conscious, and in that moment, Clarke’s heart breaks, not because it hurts, but because it’s too full to fit all the feeling inside her.
Clarke stands up and Bellamy takes a step forward. There’s barely six inches of space between them.
“Miller told me I was an idiot if I didn’t go after you,” Bellamy murmurs, bringing his hand up and tucking a curl behind Clarke’s ear.
Clarke smiles.
“You’re an idiot anyway,” she says before she pulls him down.
And then, they’re kissing.
Kissing and kissing until Clarke can’t catch her breath. Until Clarke can’t think beyond this moment. Beyond Bellamy’s lips on hers and Bellamy’s hands in her hair and how she doesn’t know how she got so fucking lucky.
No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, but, somehow, reality is better than Clarke imagined.