depth

vii

Clarke wants to dust rose pink and red over the heavy lids of Lexa's eyes.

(It's a sudden thought. It pounds at the heart thudding under her cracked open rib cage, both just as fiery as the lava bursting through.)

It's so tempting to smooth her fingertips over the slopes of the brunette's face. Highlighting outlines, letting them blur with all they want for each other. Soft colours on Lexa's striking features: the Lexa that Clarke knows is the strongest combination of both.

(What the world demands of them is not always who they are. Why does Lexa have to watch as Finn claims Clarke for his own? No one is a prize; everyone's their own element. You can live alongside them if you understand how.

But also, they must also learn how to live alongside themselves. She's done well to remember it today.)

Clarke is already painting on her best friend – gloss on plump lips. A unique position. From here, she can see everything: from the cut of her high cheekbones, to the scar on the roll of her chin; freckles adorn the skin, subtle and often covered, but the water has washed any of Lexa's inhibitions away.

Clarke leans in again to continue applying the lip gloss to that full bottom lip.

She doesn't know where her friends are right now. Out of the pool, getting changed to enjoy the party indoors, perhaps. Finn is probably getting himself another drink.

In this moment, Clarke could honestly not care less.

There's another type of painting that Clarke wants to explore – a type of art that requires no paintbrushes or pencils, charcoal or sculpting tools. No – art entirely of their own volition: holy, carnal, pure.

Expressed in evocation and emotion; swollen lips and bitten bruises down the side of straining necks. Hands that soothe can be hands that clench. They're the cause, the motive, the product and the reaction.

The art is that they give, and give in, and become something new. In constant synthesis, constant unity.

Clarke wants to give, and keep giving. She wants to throw away this damn lip gloss and replace it with her own lips, make art that she experiences instead of appreciating it from afar. She wants to give – as a declaration, as a thank you, as an acknowledgement of what idiots they'd been – so they become the sculptures. No sculpting tools; just themselves.

Their sighs will be the commentary to the art they become: Synthesis. Clarke Griffin and Alexandria Woods (2017). Watch it get rave reviews.

She wants this so much that she can't help but still with the weight of it. Her gaze flits up from lips to eyes, soft and inviting – to lips – to eyes. Again – again. She wants with all of her. Lexa knows that.

Does she dive in?

The brunette seems just as conflicted. Breaths in sync have frozen in anticipation.

But Clarke can't. She can feel in her bones that they're in the eye of the storm – this hurricane must be faced, and she can't do that without knowing the consequences.

She averts her eyes guiltily, and breath stutters to life again; it doesn't take long for Lexa's to match hers.

The silence is filled with the words both are aching to say. It's louder, even, than the air con, and God knows that's struggling against the burning heat even now. Sweat is starting to pool on the small of her back again.

Soon enough, the thrumming of the air con is replaced by the beginning of more music. A few calls of appreciation sound out, reaching the two girls' ears at its own leisurely pace. The lethargy of these sensations – the sound, the heat – veil a warning: the world is sure they'll return to their assigned roles.

That is one world – a world of expectations. The other looks so fondly down on them.

Clarke caps her lip gloss, satisfied with the job she's completed. "All done. You look stunning." It comes out as a surprise for both of them, but she'd hardly take it back. It is the truth, after all.

"Thank you." The words are so quiet the blonde's not even sure they happened.

She can see the stoicism settle once again into Lexa's bones. The sudden patience and the stillness of her form – hands folded over her lap – tell Clarke all she needs to know. She knows it for what it is.

(Hard lines not smoothed by the gentleness Lexa holds inside.)

She packs away her lip gloss on her vanity desk, catches sight of her best friend in the mirror. The little moment returns to the forefront of her mind – and she's gripped with the feeling that Lexa fears this was her one and only chance. Lexa thinks they'll never have a chance like this again.

No, she can't let that happen. Clarke refuses to let them become another almost.

She spins around – the force of her hurricane has started to return. With triumphant determination, she assures her best friend, "Next time."

Forest green widens, but no words come out.

"Next time," Clarke repeats, for herself as much as it is for Lexa. If she repeats it, she ties herself to it. No wobbling uncertainty in her voice, her actions from now. "It will happen."

No words, still, but thesilent nod is all she needs. Relief washes over her, warm and persistent, andthe smile she greets the rest of the group with is, for once, totally genuine.