#but im using them rn to practice joining squares together

[itisi-asimplegay]

first crochet project in almost 3 years! we'll see how it turns out but it's fun so either way I'm pleased

[kokkoro]

you and me (were meant to be) 2/3

Her name is Clarke and she likes coffee and it takes you half a second to decide you like her.

or part 2 of the ‘i just met you but there’s this couples contest on campus rn and all my friends are busy and you’re just sitting there reading on the quad, pls the prize is a Technivorm Moccamaster KBT 741 and my coffee machine broke last week and im dying pls i need my coffee’ au

(aka the couples competition au) (on ao3)

Clarke’s off campus apartment is cleaner than you expect. It’s bright and open, with a table littered with a multitude of books and a pile of shoes on the rug near the entryway. A mix of heels, sneakers, and flip flops that Clarke had to kick aside when you showed up at her front door. It feels like a home. Warm and welcoming and whole.

You tuck yourself into the corner of the counter with a hot cup of coffee, by the fridge and out of way as Clarke goes about fiddling with her new machine. The smell is permeating, rich and strong, but you at least you find it more tolerable than the taste.

She had invited you over to celebrate, though you’re beginning to see that ‘celebrate’ is simply another word for coffee.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks after her own cup is poured and steaming. She holds it out like it's some tankard filled with beer and not a normal cup of joe, some cream, and two tablespoons of sugar. “To us.”

“To us,” you repeat, clinking your mugs together gently. You bring it to your lips for show, taking a small sip, but your eyes don’t leave her. She holds it close with both hands, inhaling the steam with a happy sigh that she let’s linger a little too long to be normal. It’s far more endearing that it has any right to be.

She hums low at the first taste, eyes closing briefly, savoring it. It’s a few moments before she lowers the cup again. “Have I thanked you yet today?”

“Yes.” You smile, unable to help the satisfying ache that settles in your cheeks. “Twice.”

“Well, thank you. Again,” she says, looking you in the eye, and it takes all of you not to glance at her lips. “I really mean it.”

“You’re more than welcome, Clarke.”

-

You’re sweaty and breathing hard when you finally decide to take a break, peeling off the mesh fencing mask and setting it beside you on the bench. The first few unrestricted breaths you take fills your lungs and it’s a lovely feeling.

“How’s your girlfriend?”

Anya watches you with barely contained amusement, taking a seat next to you as you dig through your equipment bag under the bench for a towel in lieu humoring her with a response. Sifting through an extra pair of gloves and tape for your hands, you end up finding it in the corner side pocket instead, and you give it a quick shake before running it over your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say finally, moving to rub the back of your neck with the towel before tossing it back in the bag at your feet.

You hear rustling, and you turn to watch Anya produce the weekly paper from where she had it hidden rolled up under her opposite arm. There, on the front page, is a picture of you and Clarke. It’s a little off center, but you’re stomach to stomach, your hands on Clarke’s cheeks, hair a little wild and there’s no question what it is you’re doing. The caption reads: ‘art major Clarke Griffin and poli sci graduate Lexa Woods locked lips this Thursday to win Polis U’s official unofficial King and Queen Competition. They are the first LGBT couple to win since it’s installment.’

“You’re famous,” Anya says, monotone, but her eyes sparkle in the way you’ve come to learn as amusement. “And I can’t believe I’m the last person to know.”

You take the paper from her, scanning the article briefly. It’s mostly a recap of the past week’s homecoming festivities. “There’s nothing to know,” you say, glancing at her, but by the look on her face, Anya doesn’t believe you. “She’s not… We’re not together.”

“Tell that to everyone else," Anya says, poking the paper you hold in your hands, and the thin line of her lips quirks up into a grin.

-

It’s quiet in Clarke’s apartment on Tuesdays. Midday, just after one, and it’s warm and cozy and you have nothing else to do. You had to reschedule practice for tomorrow thanks to the basketball team’s unannounced gym takeover and there really wasn’t much else you could do. It did leave you with some free time, though. The sun slips in over the coffee table through the small terrace doors, and you enjoy watching the shadows that stretch as a result. It’s one small reprieve from the hecticness this week has seemed to accumulate.

Clarke joins you after a few minutes, cradling a mug, and she forgoes the sofa in favor of taking a seat on the floor with you. It’s warmer in the sun, you assume, and you prop your head in your hand, studying the way her hair glints golden in the light.

“What’s on the agenda?” she asks once she’s settled, resting both her elbows on the table-top. She has on this loose sweater, the sleeves long, and she uses them to safely hold the scalding cup with two hands.

You give a halfhearted shrug. You always end up feeling a little lost on the days you can’t practice, missing the weight in your hands and the familiarity of the strip, and Clarke’s place seemed like the best alternative. If only to avoid Anya’s needling. “I’m not sure.”

Clarke takes a sip of her coffee, savoring the taste for a second before placing her mug down on an old, already stained napkin. She ruffles through a bit of the mess gathered in piles on the coffee table, plucking an impressively sized workbook out from under the clutter.

She opens to a page bookmarked by a blank piece of lined paper. “How good are you at physics?”

You squint curiously at her. You took calculus last year just as a prerequisite, but you’re not sure if it will help you now. “Why?”

She nudges the workbook closer to you. “Help me?”

You place a hand over the page, dragging the book closer to you. Flipping through a couple of pages bring things back into focus, though most of it remains stubbornly in that fuzzy area at the back of your brain. “I mentioned I’m a graduate student, right? Political science.”

“Yeah.” She’s looking at you with this barely there smile, the corner of her mouth upturned in a little curl. It’s like she already knows you’re going to say yes.

“What questions?”

Clarke’s smile spreads, and she scoots closer to the corner of the table you share. “Page 32, one through seven.”

“I probably won’t be much help.”

She shrugs. “I’d rather suffer with a buddy.”

-

Clarke’s left-handed, you notice. The two of you silently squabble over arm space, nudging each other’s elbows out of the way while trying to focus on the work spread out in front of you. She tries her hardest not to let you see her smile.

(You can hear it in her voice though)

“What’d you get for number 7?”

“47.4 meters per seconds,” you say. You have your head in your hand again, the pencil Clarke found you tapping a light beat against the table.

She bumps your arm playfully and the pencil tumbles from your hand. You reach for it as Clarke goes about vigorously erasing her work. “I thought you said you weren’t good at this.”

“It might be wrong.”

She dusts the eraser shavings from the paper and onto the table, glancing at you with an exasperated quirk of her brow. “You weren’t wrong the other six times, I doubt you’ll be wrong now.”

Once her workspace is clear, Clarke peeks over your arm at your paper and you roll your eyes, pushing it closer to her. “You have to equate the potential energy of the bow to the kinetic energy of the arrow.”

You gently brush her hand out of the way, finding a blank spot on her paper. “The potential energy of the bow is equal to one half K times X squared. K is the stiffness of the bow and X is the amount the string is stretched. Therefore--” You fill in as you go, the scratch of your pencil loud in the moments between. “-- the potential energy is 56.25 joules.”

You shift a line down. “Kinetic energy is one half mass times velocity squared. You know the mass of the arrow and you know the potential energy of the bow, so since kinetic energy is equal to potential energy, you simply solve for velocity.” Your pencil finally stills, and you turn to study the gentle furrow to clarke’s brow, the way her hair stumbles over her shoulder--the dim glow it has in the waning light. “Does that make sense?”

She nods slowly, but you wonder if she’s just trying to convince herself. “Clarke.”

Clarke’s eyes find yours for a moment, but she’s quick to look away. “No, yeah, I uh -- I get it.”

“Are you trying to convince me, Clarke?”

Clarke snorts, pushing the hair away from her eyes. She sets the tip of her pencil back on the paper, picking up where you left off, and the quiet click of her calculator keys fills the resulting silence. She shoots you a look not a moment later, mouth pursed, eyes judging. “47.4,” she mutters, scribbling the answer. “Never, ever, let me take a math based science class ever again.”

“The real question is why you thought you should to begin with.”

Clarke shrinks a little bit. “It fit my schedule better than biology.”

“Rookie mistake.”

She turns away, a smile forming as she cleans up the multitude of papers spread out over the coffee table. “Same time next week?”

“Sure.”

-

The gym is loud, a cacophony of triumphant shouts and buzzes that sound off on the speakers. You sink into en guard, sabre poised, and everything else besides your opponent fades away--their breathing, the angle of their shoulders, the stretch of their stance. It’s quick from the moment you settle, when the sound of the starting buzzer rings and you lunge, aiming for the opening you see in the guard.

With a yell, your hit lands at their neck and they stagger backwards from the suddenness of your advance, feet fumbling. You reign in the slack, pulling yourself back and returning to the en garde line, allowing yourself a small bounce on your heels before settling into poise.

The second bout begins quicker than the first, your opponent taking the initiative to attack. He seems unsure what to do with the right of way now that he has it, flicking the blade of the sabre to knock against yours, testing. It makes his lunge easy to read, that long reach of his arm as he aims for your chest. You parry inward, knocking the blade aside and immediately stretch forward. The tip of your sword hits his shoulder, sinks and bends, and you can pinpoint the exact moment he caves in defeat.

“Watch your hands, Aden,” you say, and the tension eases from your muscles as you watch him remove his mask with a huff.

He runs a hand through his hair, the sweat causing it to stick up and fall in amusing ways, and glares at you half-heartedly. “Yeah, yeah.”

You sigh as you take off your mask and you tuck it under your arm, the gym air cool against the sweat collecting near your hairline and the underside of your neck. “You can’t let defeat keep you from trying.”

He undoes his glove, pulling the velcro apart. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“I didn’t get this position because I was good--” his eye roll is pronounced and yeah you probably deserved that, “I worked hard for it. I trained. Skill is a testament to time.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a natural.”

“You’re a freshman, Aden. You put in the time and the results will follow.” You see the little curl of his lips, that reluctant optimism at your unintentional praise.

“Captain!”

Your head turns at the sound, but not without a glance back at Aden to make sure he doesn’t run away. He seems amused that you feel the need to, but obediently stays put as Ryder makes his way through the throng to you.

He’s nearly half a foot taller than you, and built like a bear in breeches and a tank-top, nearly too stocky for fencing, but his swiftness belies his stature. He comes to a stop by your left hand side, waiting for you to finish whatever it was you were doing, but you urge him to continue.

“There’s, uh, someone looking for you,” Ryder says, and his apprehension at broaching the subject only lasts a second. “I think it might be your girlfriend?”

Your brow furrows, heat prickling in your cheeks. “Put that mask back on,” you say, pointing at a smirking Aden and then you go about unhooking yourself from the equipment. Once you’re free, you hand over your practice sabre to the new arrival, adjusting the helmet under your arm for a better hold. “Ryder, with Aden please. Keep an eye on his hands. I’ll be right back.”

Ryder nods once, grinning. Out of the corner of your eye you see Aden shaking his head.

You weave carefully through the thick of things, pausing to help a few of the new recruits with questions as you pass. It’s not until you catch sight of the double doors to the foyer that you notice Clarke standing awkwardly off to the side, watching a couple of veterans trade blows on the strip.

She does a double take when she finally spots you making your way over, adjusting the strap of her worn canvas bag over her shoulder. Her hair’s a little windswept without her hat, piled atop her head in a bun, but of course it works for her.

“Clarke,” you say as a way of greeting and it’s a little breathless. You wipe a bit of the sweat inching its way down your temple, suddenly self conscious.

“Hey,” Clarke replies slowly, and her eyes seem to get lost on you, lingering here and there before returning up to your face with a subtle shake of her head. It’s a moment before she says, “You fence?”

“I do.” You shift your weight to one foot, taking a quick mental note of the few people who have stopped practicing in an attempt inconspicuously watch your conversation unfold. “I captain the university team.”

“Wow,” Clarke says, and it seems sincere enough. She looks around you and you step a bit to the side so she can see better.  “Is it... is it fun?”

A small smile finally takes hold of your lips. “I would say it is fun, Clarke. But my opinion isn’t exactly unbiased.”

“How long?”

“How long what, Clarke?” you say, humoring her while trying to block out the muffled giggles you hear coming from somewhere behind you.

“How long have you been fencing.”

“Since I was fourteen.”

“So you’re a pro.”

“Not exactly.”

“But you don’t deny it.” she says, leaning closer and you take a small unconscious step back to compensate. You wouldn’t call her intimidating, not in that soft worn tee and frizzy hair and a bit of blue paint speckled under her chin. Overwhelming on the other hand…. that’s a possibility.

“Is there a reason you're here, Clarke?”

She seems to remember herself, blinking. “Oh, I uh….. you said you’d be at the gym, and since I was passing by I thought, you know--” she shrugs, “--that I’d see if you were still free tomorrow.”

“I am. As far as I know.”

“Do you want to meet me for some coffee? I’ve got a take home quiz that could use an extra pair of eyes.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“No,” she says, and you’ve never seen anyone so sure of themselves.

-

“What were you doing that day?”

You don’t look up until you finish jotting down the last few numbers. You find her studying you softly, and in the buzz of the small coffee shop down on fourth it feels more intimate than it has any right to be. “Reading?”

Clarke sighs loudly, folding her arms on the table and slouching. Apparently that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “No, but really.”

“Reading,” you repeat more firmly, and she smiles faintly, realizing the quiet tease for what it is. She bumps her foot against your shin under the table and you go back to your work. “I was doing some research.”

“For?”

“A graduate studies class.”

“Ah,” Clarke hums, and you pause your writing to glance up at her. Her face is serious, but at least she’s no longer watching you, her eyes focused blankly on her own paper even though she holds the pencil limply in her hand. She catches you staring a second later and you’re quick to look away. “Sorry for dragging you away from work.”

You give a one-sided shrug, scribbling away. “You weren’t bothering me. It was a welcome change of pace.”

“I can help you out,” she offers, and you throw away pretenses to finally look her in the eye. “I may not be good with the specifics, but my mother used to say my bullheadedness would get me somewhere in life.”

“I don’t think that was a compliment, Clarke.”

“No, but I decided to take it as one.”

This little pang shoots through your heart. “You don’t need to help me.”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” She scoots a bit closer to the table and her chair screeches quietly in protest, leaning more on her folded arms. It’s as close as she can get to you, and then very softly she says, “You help me. Let me help you.”

Your mouth opens slightly but nothing comes out, so you close it and reconsider. She searches your eyes and it’s hard, you find, not to get lost in them.

-

The both of you struggle with electricity and magnetism. The coffee shop staff shoot you looks of pity as they go about their closing rituals, you and Clarke tucked in the corner booth with your heads in your hands, staring blankly at the pages of Clarke’s physics textbook. You save them the trip over by suggesting relocating to your apartment just a block away. It only takes one mention of your keurig machine for Clarke to begrudgingly accept, sweeping her books and utensils into her bag with little care.

The briskness of the november night takes the both of you by surprise when you step out the doors and onto the sidewalk. The wind hits you square in the chest, pulls at your clothes and bites at your cheeks. It takes your breath away, and you attempt to bury your nose into the flimsy short collar of your jacket with little success.

“Fuck,” Clarke says beside you, pulling the drawstrings of her hoodie tight and huddling further into her sweatshirt. Her pace unconsciously quickens to match your long quick strides.

She sticks close, keeping in time. At this time of night, other storefronts are closing, sweeping the trash and pulling in outdoor signs, and you try not to think about her shoulder brushing yours.

(neither of you take the initiative to widen the distance, the warmth both of you gravitate towards)

It takes you ten minutes to make it back to your complex and then up to your apartment. You open the door, keys jingling as you pull it from the lock and then make your way inside. Clarke follows just behind you, tentatively taking stock of the surroundings as you sling your jacket up on a hook by the door.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Clarke by the shelf of knick-knacks and photos near the entrance and you make your way over to the kitchen. “What would you like?”

Clarke jumps, turning towards you and inching her way over to the kitchen table, fingers curled around the strap of her messenger bag. “What do you have?”

You rummage through the cupboard above the coffee pot. “We have original or italian roast.” Both are Anya’s, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Clarke hums as she takes a seat, pulling things out of her backpack and arranging them on the table. “Italian roast, please.”

You pull the keurig cup from the cupboard and a mug, filling the latter with water from the sink and then pouring it into the reservoir. You’re not particularly experienced with the process, but you’ve seen Anya go through the motions on more than one occasion to make an educated guess at it. When you press the power button and everything seems to work as it should, you figure it was enough.

You linger by the counter as it fills, keeping an eye on Clarke as she resumes where the two of you left off. She looks tired, hair gone messy after being bundled up in her hood, and if you didn’t know her you’d say she was two minutes away from calling it quits and passing out at your kitchen table. But she’s Clarke, and every few minutes or so she’ll shake her head and open her eyes wide as if trying to force herself awake.

And it works. To an extent. Though the look on her face when you finally set down the coffee mug next to her hand, her eyes doing this endearing back and forth between it and you, is another story altogether.

“Thank you,” she says.

You slip into the seat on her left, folding yourself a little ungracefully, but it’s nearing 11:30 and you want this done just as much as her. “What do we have left?”

She takes a quick, grateful sip of her coffee before setting it aside and sliding the book between the both of you. “Well, I’d say we basically finished chapter twenty--”  she winces subtly at the memories and you’d rather not have to relive those moments.  “--so that leaves chapter twenty-one: electromagnetic waves and alternating-current circuits.”

You glance over the first page of the chapter and like everything else, it’s a mess of physics vocabulary and equations with too many variables. Flipping through the next few pages makes you grimace, and you nudge the book back over to Clarke. Being a little more than halfway through the semester, you’ve become more of a soundboard than anything else, a suffer buddy as Clarke put it a few months ago, information from years past but mere child’s play compared to what is being thrown at you now. You help as much as you can though and you hope it’s enough.

Thirty minutes later, though, and it feels like you haven’t budged an inch.

“So if the voltage through the resistor is equal to the supply voltage then that would mean this is true--” Clarke jots a few equations down, waiting until you nod to continue. “--and if we….set this….”

You pick your head up from your hand as Clarke’s voice tapers off, eyeing the almost blank look that has fallen across her face. Possibly a side-effect from all the coffee, and you attempt to temper the impulse to reach out and draw her back. Luckily, it doesn’t last long.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, and you startle at the sudden increase in volume, sitting up straighter in your chair. Clarke looks at you, a wide giddy smile, and nearly upends herself from her seat to hug you, leaning awkwardly over the side of her chair, more one arm than the other. You return it awkwardly, your nose in her hair, and you miss the scent of it the moment she pulls away. “It’s the--thing! You know, the thing!” she says, a loss for words, intent on chasing her chain of thought before it gets away.

In a way so are you. She gathers her bottom lip between her teeth as she concentrates and you can’t help but remember the softness of them pressed against your own, that little ghost of a smile you hope you hadn’t imagined. You blame it on the exhaustion as the time ticks past a quarter after midnight, on that little inkling of weakness you call imagination. It couldn’t hurt you more than you already allowed it to, after all.

She passes out just before one, and to be honest you’re not far behind. You had turned around after cleaning up the mess spread out around the kitchen to find her hunched over the table, head pillowed in her arms and snoring slightly. For a moment you watch her, over by the counter some ten feet away, and you feel safe. But you shake your head and sigh, picking yourself up to tidy the table and set her second (half finished) mug of coffee in the sink.

You manage to rouse her enough to shuffle on over to the couch, slipping off her boots once she’s toppled over onto the cushions. She lets out this little sigh that gets lost into the throw pillows, and she wiggles closer for comfort.

You wake up the next morning around eight to an empty couch and the blanket folded neatly on its arm. Besides Anya sitting at the table with this wide smirk, the only thing left is this little thank you note and an IOU scribbled on last night’s coffee napkin that you may or may not save for posterity.

(It has a smiley face on it, of course you save it)

-

Thanksgiving approaches faster than you can comprehend. Between the multiple papers for your graduate studies classes and an upcoming fencing tournament in January, it’s quite like being pulled in multiple separate directions at once, so you savor the peace while you can. With Anya in colorado visiting family for the long weekend and practices canceled until after the holidays, you settle in the wednesday night before with no plans but your butt and that couch and a couple of mixed drinks.

There’s a slew of indie films and documentaries that have been sitting in your queue for the better part of a few months and you plan on making the most of your self-enforced relaxation. That is, until you get the phone call.

You recognize the number as Clarke’s and you pick up before it has the chance to ring again.

“Clarke?”

“Lexa, hi,” she sighs. In the background you can hear muffled noises and something suspiciously close to Christmas music playing. “How are you?”

You stare blankly at the television, your paused program stuck on a close up of the african savannah. “I’m fine.”

The music continues, and it’s long drawn out seconds of santa baby before Clarke decides to talk again. “Can I come over?” she says it quickly, rushed and almost like there’s a high probability you’ll say no. Which is absurd to you. That she could think you would and her resulting silence seems to reinforce the thought because she’s quick to stutter, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t--”

“Do you need me to pick you up?” You set your feet down from where they were propped up on the coffee table, setting aside the blanket you had draped over your legs. She doesn’t answer right away and if it weren’t for the noise you would assume she’d hung up. “Clarke.”

“No!” she insists, a little forcefully, and she clears her throat. “No, I can -- I’m good. I can make it. Thank you. I’ll just...” she pauses, and you press your hand to your lips to stop yourself from smiling. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“I’m sure.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“Only if you want.”

“Okay. I’ll catch you in a little bit, then?”

“Sure,” you say. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Bye,” she mutters, almost shyly, and then she hangs up.

You haul yourself up from the couch, busying yourself with a menial task as the wait begins. There’s a few dishes in the sink that you clean and put away, but by the time that’s done you stand awkwardly by the kitchen table with little else to do. Everything is where it should be, the apartment is fairly clean, and you picked up an extra pack of italian roast keurig cups at the off chance that maybe something would happen, but here you are now, with something, and you’re not sure why you’re this nervous.

Or maybe you are and you just don’t want to admit it.

The intercom to your apartment sounds fifteen minutes or so later and you buzz Clarke up from the bottom floor. Clarke comes in bundled up in a large sweater and a thick wool scarf, cheeks rosy from the cold, and bearing a six pack of pumpkin ale.

She shivers visibly, standing just beyond the door as she takes in the heat of your apartment, before holding out the beer. “I bought us some drinks.”

You stand aside to let her in. “That’s not coffee.”

Clarke elbows you as she walks past, right in the gut but gently and this small smile forms while you watch her set down the case on your counter. “I drink more than just coffee, thank you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

She snorts, looking back at you challengingly as she fishes out a bottle from its containment and twists the cap off. “Oh, you better believe it.”

You join her by the counter when things settle. She takes a small sip and you stand close enough to see the way her ears peak through the blonde of her hair, red tipped and her flushed cheeks blotched from the sudden change in temperature. You gently touch her elbow, holding the contact for a second so she turns towards you. The blue of her eyes glows in the dim light of your apartment and you wonder if they find what they need when they look at you.

“Can I ask?” you begin tentatively. She doesn’t look away for a long moment, and you hope that means that line you're hesitant of still hasn’t been crossed.

“I wanted to get away for a moment,” Clarke says, shrugging. You have half a mind to realize that that’s not even the half of it, but you don’t push. She does the rest on her own. “My friends have this thanksgiving get-together on the Wednesday before. We eat, get a bit drunk, have fun. You know, it's for friends. They’ve always been more like family to me, anyway.”

She tilts her head back, looking up at your ceiling before glancing back down at her beer. The bottle twists in her hands, fingernails picking at the corner of the label.

“And then he shows up and I kinda just wanna….” she sighs heavily, the words lost, and her grip tightens on her drink until she forces herself to relax. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to --” she shakes her head, “you were the first person I thought of. Wells was more than happy to help me out.”

“That’s okay.” You gesture to the living room, the television still paused. “I was watching a documentary. Did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” she breathes, and the relief on her face is clear. “That sounds great.”

“Popcorn?”

Clarke moves away from the counter, patting her stomach with her free hand. “I’m good for now. Thank you though.”

You nod, plucking a beer from its cardboard holder and twisting off the cap. Clarke makes her way over to the couch, stopping halfway to look over her shoulder to make sure you’re following, and you do once both the caps are tossed into the recycling. She huddles into the far right corner of your couch, pulling her feet up after she slips off her shoes, her nose buried in her scarf, and you hear her sigh.

“Is it too cold?” you ask as you take a seat next to her, reaching for the remote that you left on the coffee table.

“No, it’s perfect,” she says, muffled. Not too long later she comes back up for air, taking a quick sip of beer. She sinks back into that warmth within seconds though. “What did I miss?”

You look back to the television. “The baby ostriches made it to the watering hole,” you say.

“Africa?”

“Yes.”

She snuggles further into your couch. “Oh good. That means I missed the scary part.”

You don’t bother tempering your smile, pressing play on the remote and settling in yourself. The both of your fall into a comfortable silence, quietly sipping your pumpkin beer as life on the african plains unfolds itself in your living room. You take a break to microwave a bag of popcorn halfway through the second episode, and when you return you sit shoulder to shoulder with the bowl in our lap.

(The warmth you feel when neither of you make a move to widen that distance after the popcorn is finished and the empty bowl moves from your lap to the table is… comforting. Content. And a whole bunch of other things your fuzz filled brain can’t manage to comprehend)

“The Dead Poet’s Society,” she says hopefully as you scroll through the main menu some indiscernible time later (you learn watching episodes of Africa back to back tend to have that kind of effect). You turn to look at her and the world outside is dark, but you feel light. It's no wonder as to why. “What about that?”

“It’s sad, Clarke.”

“I know.” She shrugs and you feel it. “It’s good though.”

It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

-

Clarke leaves late in the night. She wakes you up, her hand gentle on your shoulder and you feel not all quite there, half draped across the arm of the couch as you are. Her eyes are blue, this soft calm blue, and you find at that moment that you’d be okay with never looking at anything else.

“Is it okay if I leave the beer here?” she asks in a whisper, leant in close, and her voice fills your head.

You manage a nod, blinking, your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth. Everything about you feels sluggish, mind fuzzy and one step behind, and you don’t like it. The way way her touch disappears, her hand slipping as she pulls away, tucking an errant strand of hair that had fallen across her eyes.

You don’t like feeling like you’ve already been left behind.

“Clarke.” You hope you don’t sound as desperate as you feel.

She smiles this small gentle thing, and oh the way your heart clenches. “Have I thanked you today?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation, without thinking, sitting up as if to follow. Because why would you need to. Your voice is hoarse and she smiles a bit wider at the sound and a tiny part of you hopes it convinces her to stay.

“Thank you,” she says anyway, half of a shrug. She buries her face into the scarf wrapped around her neck, hands deep in her pockets and this lazy slouch to her shoulders. “Get some sleep okay?”

It’s a few seconds before she makes a move for the door. There’s little you remember after that.

-

“Here,” Clarke says, holding out a cup of coffee and you glance at it, looking up from your notebook at that mug with the silly reindeer--Clarke’s soft hands and her chipped nail polish. You can’t believe she walked all the way from her apartment to the campus library with that thing and you find it’s hard to ignore that feeling that burns softly in the pit of your gut and you look away. That doesn’t deter her though. “Come on, you look like you need it.”

Your gaze rises and then falls, but ultimately you set your pencil down and accept the drink from her hands. “Thank you.”

She slides into the chair beside you, glancing over the books you have stacked in misshapen piles. To say she looks a little worried is an understatement. “How long have you been here?”

You tap her arm and she angles her wrist towards you, the face of her watch reading 4:37pm. “Six and a half hours.”

“Shit, Lexa,” she whispers, almost scolding. “Have you eaten at all?”

You think for a moment, but come up short. “No.”

Her lips purse into an almost frown, a displeased crease between her brows. Your face softens at the sight, this small, nearly nonexistent smile to your lips as you watch her expression sour minutely.

“Don’t give me that face,” she says.

You’re quick to avert your attention back to your notes. “I wasn’t aware I was making a face.”

Out of the corner of your eye she looks at you incredulously, a silent dare, but you don’t take the bait. You figure if there was ever a moment too close for comfort, this would be it. The harsh thud of your heart against your ribs is telltale enough.

“You need food,” she says a few moments later when you don’t acknowledge her further, her fingers touching yours.  It’s distracting, but you don’t want her to stop. “Anya said you had practice this morning--”

That gets you to look up, and you blink owlishly. “You talked to Anya?”

“Yeah… I -- I kinda stopped by your apartment hoping to catch you.” she backtracks, shaking her head as if to remember. “She’s the one who told me where I could find you…. Is there something wrong?”

“No, I was just-- it’s fine.”

“She’s intense,” Clarke says.

You snort. “That’s putting it lightly, but yes, she is.”

“She would want you to eat.”

Your jaw drops slightly, watching Clarke fiddle with the sleeve of your sweater, as if pretending she didn’t just offhandedly threaten to use your roommate as leverage to twist your arm into getting you away from your work. When she glances up and your eyes meet the underhanded smirk is hard to miss.

You narrow your eyes at her. “Don’t bring her into this.”

She lifts her shoulders into a shrug. “Oops?”

“Did she put you up to this?”

“No, I’m more than happy to do that on my own.” She gives another tug, your sleeve now captive between her thumb and index finger. “Food?”

It takes a second, but you give in. “Sushi?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

-

Clarke handles finals week almost as well as you do, which is to say she doesn’t. If it’s possible, she’s worse. You learned quickly that the people around her come first, and that doesn’t change even when she needs it the most. She’d run herself into the ground given the time, so when you get a call deep into finals week, you figure this is it.

It’s her number, from her phone, but the voice is too deep to actually be hers. You remember her mentioning Wells, her childhood friend and longtime (though sometimes reluctant) partner in crime, and when you show up to her apartment it’s him who opens the doors. It’s nice to finally put a name to a face.

You find there’s a gentleness to him that’s oddly relaxing.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he says, ushering you in quickly. You don’t get to offer much in return, feeling out of place by the door as he hurries to pack things from the kitchen table into his backpack.

You’ve been in Clarke’s apartment numerous times but it feels different now. Fuller, you think. To see a place with the people rather than simply their things. You watch as he goes through this mental list, checking to make sure he has everything, the pockets full and zipped, and then slings the pack over his shoulders.

“I’ve gotta run, but I really appreciate it. She was knocked out last I checked, but,” he shrugs, rolls his eyes, “who knows. She likes tomato soup and grilled cheese. Cheddar, not american. There’s kraft singles in the drawer, soup’s in the cupboard. She’ll tell you she likes it crispy but don’t, she’ll complain later that it hurts to swallow.”

He stills abruptly in the middle of the room as his mind wanders again. A shake of his head a second later brings him back. “Yeah, I think that’s it. Make yourself at home. If you need help just give me a call.”

And then he leaves with an awkward salute. The door closes shut behind him, the silence trickling in from it's hiding places and then familiarity along with it. The fridge hums, cars creep past on the narrow street below, this low murmur and general static, and you lower yourself into a seat and listen, the bag you brought with some busy work and books hanging limp from your shoulder.

You hear her before you see her. Some hours later after you’ve gotten comfortable in one of the kitchen chairs, a book propped open in your hand. It’s this tired shuffle of feet, of thick socks dragging sluggishly along the hardwoods. You chance a glance towards the hall and she appears around the bend in baggy sweats and a loose long sleeve shirt that’s rumpled and half twisted. Her blonde hair sticks out at random angles, a little gnarled and in desperate need of some attention. You watch her attempt to tug her hand through, a fight that she ends up forfeiting, and you look away before you’re caught.

It takes a lot of self-discipline to keep your eyes on your book. “What are you doing out of bed, Clarke?”

Out of the corner of your eye, she startles comically, hand moving to clutch at her heart.  She stays like that for a few long seconds, relaxing when intrusion among her apparent solitude has been deemed unthreatening. That doesn’t stop her from vigorously rubbing her eyes, blinking in quick succession once she’s done only to find her surroundings the same and the dreams very much over.

“I was--” Clarke starts, voice more than raw, and you finally allow yourself to actually look. You notice the bags under her eyes, that extra color to her cheeks and neck. She takes quick stock of the rest of the apartment, perhaps wondering what other surprises it may have in store, but her sights keep settling on you. “What are you doing here?”

Careful to keep your page, you close your book. She seems unsure of herself, legs a little wobbly as she stands still in the middle of the hall, hesitant to move past the threshold that separates the bedrooms from the living space.

“I’m here for you, actually,” you reply.

“For me?” she croaks, pointing to herself.

“Are you hungry?”

She’s a bit taken back by the question, or maybe just surprised, and her hand drops to her side. Her mouth opens as if to answer, but nothing makes it out. She clears her throat instead, the pain evident in the dip to her brow, and bumps her closed hand against her thigh.

She nods.

(You wonder if she’s ever put herself first)

You gesture to the couch, and she wordlessly stumbles her way towards it, collapsing onto the cushions the second she’s close enough. For a moment she’s oddly still, face down on the couch and you briefly entertain the thought of checking her pulse, but not too long later her body quakes with the coughs she tries to hide into the pillows.

It’s pitiful, and yet in some way also endearing. You check on her while you go about finding the pots and pans and a skillet for the grilled cheese, glancing over your shoulder to find her still stubbornly face first in the pillows. She’s alive. If the small, occasional tremors are anything to go by, and her stubbornness makes you smile to yourself. You stir the tomato soup as you wait for the cheese to melt and you realize you’re right where you want to be.

She’s going to be okay. She won’t let herself be anything else.

You nudge her leg with your knee about fifteen minutes later with a plate of grilled cheese in one hand and a cup of tomato soup in the other. Her response is to peek from the confines of the throw pillows, eyes narrowed and slightly glossy with tears from coughing, and you shift slightly to place the plate and cup down on the coffee table behind you before turning back to her.

“Clarke,” you say, and her pout only gets bigger. “Can you sit up or do you want some help?”

Clarke shakes her head and you wait. She gets up slowly, pushing herself with the remaining strength in her arms and bringing her legs around until her feet are planted firmly on the floor. You hand her the plate with the little cup, and then reach for the remote that sits beside a messy pile of nail polish and old magazines. The first station you find is a late afternoon talk show and it’s mindless drone and audience laughter is a welcome addition among the static.

You backtrack towards the kitchen table after clarke takes her first bite of grilled cheese. She takes her time to chew, and you’re back with your book before she’s gotten through her second bite. You settle into the other corner, prop open your book against your leg, and pick up where you left off.

Whether or not you manage to comprehend what you’re reading, well. That’s a whole other monster. You get bits and pieces. Snippets of old government policies and other academic jargon that comes in second to the tiny bit of tomato soup collected at the corner of Clarke’s mouth that she wipes away with the side of her thumb.

Bits of the crust remain once she’s done, scattered over the plate and the empty bowl of soup. You flip through the next few pages, skimming the words and finding the next chapter too far away for your liking, so you lean forward to set it aside on the table and then reach for the plate in Clarke’s lap.

“Thank you,” she says, watching you as you stand.

You lift your shoulders in a small shrug. “What else are girlfriends for?”

She gives you this small lopsided smile in response and the swoop your stomach makes alights the butterflies resting there. You return it somewhat cheekily, embarrassed and unsure what to do in the wake of it, but you manage. Somehow, you manage.

You wander off to wash the plate and cup in the sink, taking your time so your insides have a chance to settle. The dishes--including the skillet and the pan of tomato soup--are spotless in two minutes flat and left to dry on the polka-dotted dish towel by the sink, and with nothing left to keep you, you make your way back to the couch.

Clarke has stretched out, head lolled back against the arm of the couch watching the television out of the corner of her eye. She spots you and attempts to adjust, but you wave her off.

You point at her legs. “Lift for a second?”

And she does, drawing her knees back towards her chest so you can take a seat. You guide them back over your lap once you’re good and Clarke sinks further into her slouch, chin nearly touching her chest.

“You are far too good to me, Lexa Woods,” she mutters practically into her shirt, but at least it seems as though her breathing comes easier. Her eyes droop closed, hands folded loosely together over her stomach, and you watch the rise and fall of her chest, your thumb absently rubbing back and forth across her shin.

-

Clarke (4:21pm): I passed!!!

Lexa (4:27pm): Congrats :)

Clarke (4:29pm): Celebrate? At the station around 7?

Lexa (4:30pm): I’ll meet you there

-

“So there’s this christmas party my friends are hosting,” Clarke starts one cold december afternoon, and you look up from your book. She doesn’t look back, seemingly enraptured by the television, but she does wiggle her toes that are tucked under your thigh for warmth.

You return your attention to your book when she offers nothing else beyond that, toying with the corner of the page. She wiggles her toes again though, and this time when you look up she’s waiting for you.

“Do you want to go?”

You tilt your head. “With you?”

“Uh...” Her mouth drops, a confused dip to her brows.  “Yes...? With me. I thought--”

“I’m joking, Clarke,” you say and she purses her lips to stop herself from smiling, nudging you harder with her foot and you have let go of your book to steady yourself so you don’t topple over.

You push her back and Clarke laughs, holding on tight. You end up in a pile on the floor, between clarke’s legs and her hands at your back, the both of you in a bit of hysterics, and you don’t remember the last time you laughed like that.

-

The night of the party it is blistering cold and snowing faintly. Quiet uneven drifts that prickle your skin on contact and seem to burn. You and Clarke take an uber downtown to an off campus apartment housing, and the twenty or so feet that separate you from the front door when you pile out from the backseat are covered in five seconds flat, the both of you crowding into the foyer, Clarke pushing you in from behind.

“Christ,” Clarke breathes into your shoulder. Her hands lightly grip your waist, keeping you close for heat as you try to shake some warmth back into your limbs.

“It’ll be warmer upstairs,” you say, brushing the dusting of snow from your coat, waiting for Clarke to release you. She does eventually with one final groan, pressing her forehead into our back before stepping away and stuffing her mittened hands into her jacket pockets.

Music plays, muffled by the walls, and it grows steadily louder as you climb the stairs. The third and final floor has its doors open and people mill about outside and on the staircase to talk and enjoy a bit of quiet away from the main noise. More than a few say hi to Clarke, and she offers a small wave to the lot of them.

“Raven inside?” she asks, pointing.

A man reclined on the top step taps the lip of his beer bottle against his chin. “Last I saw she was mixing up shit in the kitchen.”

“Anyone throw up yet?”

He grins. “No, but you’re early.”

“Great. That’s just great, Murphy,” Clarke says, tugging you closer by the hand. “You’re helping me out if anyone does.”

His eyes roll and he shrugs, but you have a feeling that it's not a ‘no.’ “Isn’t that a girlfriend job?”

You catch gazes with him, and there’s a look of mischief in his eyes as he brings the bottle to his mouth for a sip. Clarke, however, doesn’t respond, and you don’t get much time to dwell on it before she pulls you into the apartment.

The actual apartment itself is a hallway and interconnected rooms, people collected in clumps and couples in corners. A stereo plays a collection of rock christmas music in the living room, the couch full and standing space slowly getting there as well, but you don’t get much time to observe. Clarke leads you to the end of the hall, opening a door that turns out to be a closet.

Clarke strips herself of her mittens, stuffing them in her coat pocket and then off comes the scarf and finally her jacket. She hangs them up on an available coat hanger before turning to you. “Jacket,” Clarke says, holding out her hand. “And anything I can start you off with? I’m going to see if I can quickly find Raven in the kitchen and say hi.”

You shrug out of your coat. ‘What are my choices?”

“Well.” She tilts her head. It’s a beat or two before she continues with: “You know, I’m not quite sure.”

“Surprise me,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a small smirk..

Clarke nods her head. “Whisky it is.”

You eye her curiously, but her face is impassive and gives nothing away. “Sure,” you say, apprehensive, handing her your coat, and when she turns to hang it next to her own there’s the slightest of smiles on her face.

“Mingle,” she says once she turns around, her hand on your lower back and pushing. “I’ll come find you.”

You stumble forward, glancing back at Clarke who simply shoos you in the general direction of the living room, and you go somewhat reluctantly, looking back after a couple steps to find Clarke lost to the mess of people mulling about in the small kitchen. So you decide to wander.

There’s a couple faces you can pick apart from the crowd as vaguely familiar, though most likely they’re people you’ve run across cramming for finals week in the library. Not that the off chance of running into somebody you knew swayed your decision to come. Your social circle basically consists of Anya and the fencing club and that’s more than enough for you. So when a girl from across the room spots you, eyes widening, and immediately begins her trek through the throng, you wonder if there was something you missed.

You don’t recognize her, but she seems to recognize you. “Lexa?” she asks hesitantly, almost trying to hide behind a red singles cup she holds in her left hand.

“Yes?”

Her face changes immediately. “Oh my god, hi! It’s so nice to finally get to meet the girlfriend.” She holds out her hand and is quick to add, “I’m Niylah by the way, a friend of Clarke’s.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, unconsciously reaching for her hand, lost somewhere between the word girlfriend and it's relation to Clarke. Your brain short-circuits and it’s a second or two before it can reboot. Luckily she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah. We suffer through art history together. She talks about you all the time.” She lets go of your hand. “This is a little late, but congrats on the big win. I’ve been trying to get my girlfriend to run with me. So far it’s a no go, but maybe one day.” and she shrugs, a smile stealing its way to her mouth.

It’s an expression you’ve become rather familiar with. “It was certainly an experience.”

“With someone like Clarke I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She nudges you with her elbow, impish, but her face is quick to soften. She looks at you then, and there’s something in her eyes you can’t seem to place. Admiration? A bit of relief? She taps her fingers against her cup and her eyes dart away. “She could use someone like you though. To keep her grounded.”

“Niylah?”

Both of you turn at the sound and you spot Clarke just a few feet away, a drink in each hand. She steps in close to you, handing off your drink which looks suspiciously close to whisky, and then pulls Niylah into a one armed hug.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Clarke mutters into her hair, giving a tiny squeeze for emphasis.

Niylah is quick to reciprocate. “The feelings mutual.” She pulls away slightly, face serious. “Quick--question six, Mrs. Edie’s exam. Renoir or Degas?”

“Degas,” Clarke says without hesitation and Niylah tips her head back and groans. Clarke pats her shoulder.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom and cry now.”

“Text me sometime?” Clarke says before she has a chance to escape off to the bathroom to mope, catching Niylah by the wrist. “We can catch up.”

Niylah smiles softly at her, and for a moment you think there’s more in common between the two of you than you realize. “You can count on it.”

You both watch her go, Clarke by your side, and you raise your cup to your mouth for the first cautious sip. It most certainly is whisky. You clear your throat and Clarke chances a quick glance, hiding her smile as best she can behind the rim of her cup. The second sip is easier than the first and you both wander into the living room to find a place to relax.

The second you’re through the threshold, Clarke gets waved over and you follow. The people on the couch scooch to make room until there’s space for both of you to sit, but the fit is still a tight squeeze. You end up half tucked behind her, Clarke’s arm overlapping yours, and she pats the back of your hand.

The old movie How The Grinch Stole Christmas plays muted on the television, and you find yourself watching it as Clarke carries on a conversation with her other neighbor.  You’ve seen it before when you were young, and the nostalgia makes it easy to lose yourself in it. You quietly nurse your whisky, watching the poor dog tumble his way down the slippery mountain slope.

“You don’t have to drink it,” comes Clarke’s voice, soft, and you know better than to look, but you do anyway. Squished this close, you’re nearly nose to nose with her, and your eyes do this embarrassing back and forth between her eyes and then, for a fraction of a second, dip down to her lips.

You pull your gaze away quickly, focusing instead on her hand over yours and that subtle and subconscious graze of her thumb across your knuckles.

You give your cup a little swirl and the ice cubes shift against the plastic. “I like it,” you say, settling the cup back on the arm of the couch, held upright by your loose grip, and your attention returns to the movie.

“Still.” She pauses to watch you. “It’s not a problem. I can get you something else.”

But you don’t get to say anything else. The room is suddenly awash with wolf whistles and raucous laughter. It takes a moment to realize the entire room has its eyes on you--well, technically behind you, and you shift to look over your shoulder. What you find is a woman in a santa hat sporting the largest grin. It takes a second more to see the mistletoe hanging over your head.

“Raven,” you hear Clarke grit between her teeth.

The threat has zero effect, the mistletoe dangling on its string above your heads. “Come on, Clarke, don’t ruin christmas.”

“Raven,” Clarke repeats.

“Clarke,” Raven pouts. “Just one kiss? Your girlfriend is practically dying of loneliness.”

You don’t want to get pulled into this, but Clarke looks at you and it’s as if she doesn’t know what to say. The apology is written so clearly on her face it may as well be stamped across her forehead and you don’t know why it wedges this thorn into your side. She looks unsure and the longer she stares, the more the peanut gallery gathered around you eggs her on.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, eyes resolute but her cheeks positively red. The person on her other side pokes her in the ribs and she swats it away, the blush stretching to her ears. She wrings the sleeve of her shirt in her fingers, avoiding your eyes as the chants of ‘kiss, kiss, kiss’ grow in volume in the wake of her question and the deja vu isn’t lost on you.

And you give her this smile. “Of course.” Because it’s nothing you haven’t done before.

(somewhere among the mess a voice shouts ‘gay!’ and yes. Yes you most certainly are)

She goes to cup your cheek but she hesitates and it’s just the tips of her fingers along your jaw. Your heart stops anyway, though. It trips over its own feet and stumbles and your breath hitches the moment you press together with her.

(her lips are as soft as you remember)

Your foreheads meet with a gentle thud and you exhale through your nose, content on letting the feeling last as long as she’ll let it. There’s a hesitancy in the absence of adrenaline and the second you feel her retreat you make no move to follow.

The show, no matter how brief, is more than enough to placate your audience, and once Raven moves onto the next couple by the stereo, the attention shifts and you’re left to your own devices.

That doesn’t mean you open your eyes. At least not right away, lingering as long as you can in the moment and the feelings left on the tip of your tongue.

“Sorry,” she mutters and you can feel it, her breath warm and smelling vaguely of peppermint schnapps.

“What for?”

You feel her shrug and you pry your eyes open, blinking a few times, and it's like being woken up from a good dream too early. But what greets you when you do, Clarke’s warm eyes and red cheeks still close, is a dream all itself.

“Things, I guess.”

You lean in without thinking, dipping to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. There’s the slightest movement as she accepts it without protest, quiet, blinking, shifting to study you softly afterward and you’d say the whisky made you brave. But it’s just one drink and there’s no one to blame besides yourself.

Clarke’s sighs, audible, and she leans into your side, resting her chin on your shoulder. The conversation drops and you watch the rest of the movie in relative silence, the noise from the party drifting as Raven and her band of followers roams room to room. It’s sometime after the credits when it finally dies down to an extent.

The kitchen remains a hubbub of noise, however. Glasses clatter, ice spills, people laugh. After a minute or two Clarke hauls herself up from the couch and you miss the weight immediately, so you pick yourself up and follow.

You get another set of drinks, watching as Clarke whips something up after shooing Raven away from the alcohol and you forget about the kiss halfway through your second mixed drink. You get caught up in a discussion about the education system with a group of student teachers, but Clarke remains a point of reference in the corner of your eye. She spends her time mothering a pair of incredibly drunk boys who can’t seem to stop giggling when they ask her for increasingly absurd drink names. They don’t notice when all she hands them is watered down juice.

“This is the good stuff,” one of them mutters, a pair of sunglasses askew on his head. The other laughs into his juice and Clarke rolls her eyes.

She finds you when they’ve finally passed out, hunched over on the island, their sleepy snores this quiet undertone among the kitchen noise. She steps close, presses her face to the back of your shoulder and you acknowledge her presence by turning your head, nudging her gently with your chin.

You have a few more drinks and then call it quits. The exhaustion settles in to stay sometime around midnight, and you want to leave before someone actually does puke and you and Clarke are left to clean up the mess. You go out into the hall where it's quiet to call an uber and then shuffle back into the apartment to find Clarke.

She’s back on the couch, smushed in the middle between Raven and the two drunk boys from earlier, watching the commotion with mild interest. She spots you over by the entryway in a matter of seconds and smiles, turning to say something to Raven. The other woman grins, drawing Clarke into a hug that is impossible to escape from and she succumbs to the inevitability. It lasts a minute at least, but Clarke manages to slip away after one last squeeze, pulling away just barely and then scampering over to your side.

Her hand finds yours and the world melts away and all you’re left with is just the two of you in that hall, the muffled music and laughter. The hallway is dark and your head is fuzzy and she’s already close enough to you that there’s no reason to reach out for her.

“Are we dating?” you whisper, almost a tease as you watch her shuffle through the closet for your coats.

“No,” she says, blunt despite the softness she manages to coat that word with. You find yourself  staring at the redness in her cheeks--on the small upturn of her mouth and that tick of a smile, and you find yourself wanting to kiss her all over again. “No, we’re not.”

Your ride home drops her off first and you watch her amble up the sidewalk to her apartment through the frosted backseat window.