depth

viii

Stomachs are satisfied, full from Octavia's burgers. Hiding from the Sun, sheltering inside to escape the heat. Somewhat content. Mostly futile, this attempt seems to be – the air con rages against the living light, effected by the hot air it only serves to ferry around. But there is shade, and alcohol, and music, and they are somewhat content.

The singer from the speakers dresses doubts in a smooth mezzo-soprano, a catchy, poppy hook. Then the next song, the same singer. An ode to a girl, her lover; present, but no one in the room stops to comment on it. How apt, Clarke thinks to herself, pushing down a chuckle.

Her legs are underneath the coffee table, but she keeps moving. She shifts from that to another, bringing her knees closer to her chest and planting her feet squarely on the beige wooden floor. Braced. Then moves them.

Tiptoes. Ready to jump. Pale pink pushing against the light flooring, a launch pad of her childhood. She tenses, relaxes.

Lexa pauses in her recollection of her summer stories to take a sip from her red cup.

The temporary break makes the blonde start. The blonde's eyes jump up, collecting her wits, allowing herself to breathe and remind herself of the relative discretion of their evocation. Art halted, put on pause. Until next time; there will be a next time.

Eyes alight on tawny walls supporting artwork and decorations. If she turns her head, she can look around the room, watch her past play out.

Mementos of their lifetimes: souvenirs brought back from holidays, the times Abby and Jake could tear themselves away from their work and take their daughter around the world. They cluster here, trophies of what her parents worked hard to afford. (Clarke loves them, but can't feel the same pride in earning them – however much she wishes she could.)

She raises her head, lifts her gaze to beyond the sofa. Up behind Bellamy, where he leans his hand against a wall to talk to Raven, a picture has been hung of the family in Thailand – Clarke was only five. The next trip, when she was ten, to visit Jake's relatives in Australia: snakes, Aborigine-style, on display next to a gold record of Abby's favourite band. Clarke's high school diploma, framed, has the privilege of being shaded by the house plant embellishing the room.

Raven cuts into the conversation before Lexa can continue, offering her own little take on the brunette's anecdote. The room bursts into laughter – all except for Finn. He grunts. Lexa shuffles in her seat on the couch, moving closer to Lincoln.

Reaching for her own drink this time, Clarke leans forward and captures a bottle in her hands. A chance to breathe, to hold against the tide of lava that spills from her ribcage. For now. But it starts up – again: her eye catches the picture of Clarke and Lexa at twelve. The third of three pictures on top of the television, the blonde had demanded it stayed there, proud of their baby faces and toothy smiles reflecting the excitement they felt on their first camping trip together. The song playing through the speakers breaks into a ceremonious chorus.

What they are both looking for. There was always going to be a next time.

This is what Clarke knows. What she remembers. This place is the Sun; this place has life she cannot let go of. It may not be what she wants forever; it is not her be and end all – next to Lexa on the sofa, Lincoln fans his shirt, creating an air flow on his chest – but it is where she will go from. Where she already has. This place shaped her.

Tiptoes. Launch pad.

Clarke turns her head back to her best friend. Lexa finishes her drink, swallows.

Leaning into the coffee table, mirroring the blonde on the other side, Octavia turns her head from grinning at her boyfriend and implores for Lexa to continue relaying all the tales black-haired friend has missed. Lexa can only comply.