She gazes at the picture of Jake. Peace is etched into every brushstroke. A melancholy kind of peace. She craves that; craves a decisive answer from him. She wants that conviction.
Lexa speaks.
"Draw. Draw what you want. Don't stick to your assignment – or what you knew."
Clarke spins around to face her.
There's a fire in those eyes.
(Can she feed that warmth? Or is she just like Finn – so affected it burns everything, to leave only smoke?
Is she just as bad as him, for staying?
But common sense reacts with revulsion: God, no. Of course not. Clarke knows it's exactly the sort of thing Lexa would insist on given half the chance – but it does not arrive in the brunette's voice. No is it justified through her.
No. It is Clarke's.)
The artist swallows. Lexa's halfway across the room – space is safe, in the mess this has become – but the words impact her just as hard as if they were exchanged through whispers.
"Thinkabout it, Clarke. Your choice is your own."
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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...
