"Did you shut the door?"
Lexa meets her eyes for the third time since their escape to the art room. As if her attention hasn't desperately been on her anyway.
"Yes." Pause. "You can still hear them."
"Yeah."
The Sun has pushed forward since their paint fight. A world ago. Clarke concentrates on that fact, so she can drown out the sound of Finn's scorned protestations still coming from the living room.
She heard Lincoln's voice first the just "What the fuck, Finn?" – words the gentle giant prefers not to use.
She heard Octavia's insistence on seeing Clarke afterward, and Raven assuring her that Clarke and Lexa had it under control.
She heard Finn's accusations – complacent, still, despite everything. Charm accompanies him on his fall to the bottom.
The door closed then. But she can still hear them. It's Octavia's turn now.
"What would help you?"
Clarke's spent hours – hours – trying to get the right shade of that green. She's used bottle after bottle to get the hue it becomes shining gloriously in the sunlight – or under strobes, the brunette flitting through the party as a mysterious enchantress. Memory is never as good as the real thing; maybe that's why the art's never been perfect enough for her.
Their new art form would get it right, though.
How, how, does she tell Lexa that, when she she's locked herself in this unsafe banality?
"Ican't do it right now."
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FanfictionShe thinks of her readings at school; the words and stories she grew up with. Finn is no virtuous Othello: jealousy makes a fool of the noblest man, but Finn was just a fool for thinking Clarke's heart could still have room for him. Maybe Clarke was...
