[hospital!au, bc we all need non-tragic versions of those. octavia has very treatable cancer; lexa has sort of treatable heart problems. octavia meets lexa because they’re both stuck in pediatric waiting rooms for another year; octavia sets lexa up with clarke, her best friend.
or: octavia is honestly incredible & adorable & hilarious, clarke is the best kind of human, lincoln is the most wonderful boyfriend ever, & lexa is really, really cute. // a03.]
///
chapter 1: you looked up & that was enough (baby, don’t let go)
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some dreams never do come true / some love doesn’t hit the target / but darling i’ve been wishing my hardest / i know i need you
— BØRNS, ‘seeing stars’
//
This is all sort of scary and mostly just annoying—especially because all of the waiting rooms you’ve been in so far are full of tragic, loud small children—so you’re infinitely grateful to see an open seat by a girl who looks to be about your age. It’s crowded today, and the only other option is a tiny kid sniffling into his dad’s shoulder, so you shoulder your bag and make your way to the stiff leather seat. The girl you sit next to is pretty—really, really pretty; you’re with Lincoln and you’re in love and happy, but you still have eyes—and wearing a neatly pressed blouse and a blazer, face buried in an AP Latin review book.
She doesn’t even spare you a glance when you sit down, only scoots a little further away from you in her chair. You could do your class reading for AP Lit, but your teachers have all been having pity parties for you and Clarke will give you her notes anyway.
You clear your throat and smile a little when she doesn’t even look up; she has the Spencer Hastings vibe going on, which you’re sure Clarke would love, so that’s fun. Plus, overachieving girls are always entertaining.
“Is it always this tragic?” you ask, and when she lifts her head to look at you with a raised eyebrow, you notice that she has green eyes and a few freckles across her nose, framed by thick rimmed, brown slightly rounded glasses.
“Waiting,” you clarify. “All the sick kids.”
“Well,” she says, and her voice is softer and higher than you’d imagined, “we are in the pediatric waiting room in a hospital.”
You laugh a little and offer your hand. “I’m Octavia,” you say.
She takes it with a serious nod.
“And I have leukemia,” you say, “but don’t worry, I’m not tragic or terminal or anything.” She doesn’t really look sick, but, then again, neither do you—yet, at least—so you add, “No offense if you are.”
She fights a smile. “Hopefully not,” she says. “I just have a bad heart.”
She says it so seriously that it sounds dramatic and grand, and you nod. “Physically, not emotionally, I assume.”
She shrugs. “I care more about the AP Latin Exam than I do most people,” she says pointedly.
You think she’d have a field day with Clarke—who really needs to get over Finn—so you don’t let that deter you. “Do you come here often?”
“It’s not a bar,” she says with a scoff. You grin. “But I suppose so, fairly frequently for tests and things.”
“Nice,” you say, and sort of want to take it back, because you don’t really know how to interact in these kind of situations yet, but instead you just sit back and cross one leg. You’re in your heavy black boots and ripped black jeans, although you’ve forgone your leather jacket because it’s almost summer and it’s really humid outside—not quite as bad as DC, but Baltimore is still terrible.
She bites her lip and shrugs.
“How old are you?”
“I turn seventeen in a month. You?”
“I’m seventeen too.”
“So I guess we’re both stuck here,” she says, glancing around.
You laugh. “Yeah.” You gesture to the book in her hand. “How many other APs are you taking?” Exams are next week, and you’ve been sort of haphazardly studying for your Lit and American History exams with Clarke and Lincoln when you felt like. You know you’re smart, but school really isn’t your favorite thing.
“Eight,” she says, and you let out a whistle. She shrugs. “I like languages.”
“Apparently,” you say, and you’re about to ask her what she’s fluent in—because Clarke is going to eat this shit up—but then you hear your name being called by a nurse with dark skin and tough eyes—Indra, you remember from your last appointment. “That’s me,” you say.
She nods. “I’m Lexa, by the way.”
“Lexa,” you say. “I’ll see you around then, I guess?”
“Most likely,” she says.
Indra calls your name again—she sounds annoyed—and so you stand.
“Octavia,” Lexa calls softly, and she smiles sadly. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” you say, because, for once, it’s not panicked or patronizing. “You too.”
She nods and you follow Indra with a little wave, which Lexa returns.
//
“You did not,” Clarke says, popping up from where she had been lazily floating in her pool. It almost sends her toppling off and you laugh.
“She’s hot,” you say, “and is taking, like, nine APs.”
“I cannot believe you found a girl for me to date in the hospital.”
“Really?” you ask.
She squints at you from behind her sunglasses and then grins. “No, actually, that’s something you would absolutely do.”
You nod. “Damn right.”
You swim over to her and rest your cross your arms against the float, rest your chin in them. Clarke’s been your best friend since you were in first grade; you’ve been through tons of shit together—being taken away from your mom when you were eight; her dad dying in a car accident last year—so you’re not surprised that she’s been as good and normal as she has through this whole ‘diagnosed with cancer’ thing. Which, really, is going to suck, but they tell you that you have, like, a 95% chance of surviving, so you figure if your summer before senior year is going to be ruined, you may as well have as much fun as possible with it.
Clarke lies back again and stretches on her legs. “She’s not tragic or terminal, either,” you say, and Clarke smiles a little. “Like, she doesn’t even have cancer, which is nice for you, because she won’t puke on you and she has great hair.”
Clarke laughs and you splash her, which makes her jolt in the float and flop off the side, kind of crashing into you.
Once you both come up spluttering for air, you say, “I’m not sure if she’s queer or anything, but she did look at my ass for a significant amount of time, and I’m hot, so if blondes are her type too, I figure you’ll be good to go.”
She rolls her eyes and shoves you a little playfully, you a little bit, and it’s not nearly the first time you’re more than thankful that she’s your best friend.
You end up going inside and slipping into a pair of her sweatpants and a tshirt that she still has from middle school—Jogathon, which you give her shit for—before curling up with her on one of the huge beanbags in her movie theater room. Clarke has a huge house—she’s really, really wealthy, although she’s as far from an asshole as anyone gets—and you spend a lot of time there. Plus, you really like Abby, even if she is a little overbearing sometimes.
“Promise me you won’t get weird about all of this,” you say.
Clarke scoffs softly. “Promise, O,” she says.
“Fantastic,” you say, and she smiles and wraps an arm around you.
“In that case,” she says, “I’m picking what we watch today.”
You shove her a little but she only laughs and turns on—quite predictably—Bridesmaids. “You’re such a dork,” you say—and she kind of is, but whatever, other than Lincoln and your brother, she’s pretty much your favorite person in the world.
“So are you,” she says, and then starts reciting Annie’s monologue at Lilian’s engagement party, and you end up laughing for hours.
And, yeah, she really is the best kind of person.
//
You’re waiting for the car your mom called you at the coffee shop in the hospital when you see Octavia again. She’s talking animatedly with a girl who has blonde hair and a really nice smile, although you don’t really want to admit that to yourself. But it’s Saturday and you’d just finished all of your AP exams and you’re exhausted, so it’s really not the worst thing you could think.
But then Octavia snakes her arm around the blonde girl and slips her hand into the back pocket of her jeans, and you really don’t want to feel a little sad about that, so you sigh and turn back to your phone. Anya had been texting you during her break in court, and you really miss her. But you figure she had to go back in, because she hasn’t sent you a message in ten minutes. You’re about to put in your headphones when you hear Octavia say your name and then bump into your table, and her—friend, girlfriend, whatever—follows, and you think she might be blushing, but you’re also really hungry, so you don’t know if you’re just imagining that out of some place of weird hope.
“Hi,” Octavia says, glancing at the seat across from you. “Can we join you?”
“Hello,” you say, and then nod.
Octavia sits down across from you, and so the blonde girl ends up sitting next to you, knocking her knee into yours before she scoots back with a quick, small apology, which you wave off.
“I’m Clarke,” she says with a smile—which, yeah, she’s pretty.
“Lexa,” you say. You’d been trying your best to remember this, too—so you add, “My pronouns are she/her.”
Octavia looks very confused and Clarke’s brows knit together for a moment and you feel your skin flush—it’s awkward, whatever, but you’re adamant about it; if you live long enough to be politician who ever changes anything you’re going to start now in your everyday life—but then Clarke flashes you an appreciative and almost admiring grin.
“Same here,” she says, “and for Octavia too.”
Octavia shrugs and nods. “So,” she says, “how many times has someone asked how you’re feeling today, because Clarke alone has asked me seven times.”
Clarke rolls her eyes. “I swear I’m trying to stop, it’s just a nervous reflex.”
“Clarke,” Octavia says, and Clarke smiles a little, “your mom is a surgeon. How are you possibly thrown off by hospitals?”
Clarke’s about to say something, but then Octavia gives her a playful shove and Clarke laughs.
“She’s sweet,” Octavia says, “really. Annoying and WASPy as hell, but sweet.”
“Wow,” Clarke drawls, “whatever will I do after such a stunning compliment?”
You feel awkward and serious around them—you feel that way around most kids your age—but you figure it won’t hurt to try. “In answer to your question, Octavia, I counted twelve times this morning.”
Octavia bursts into laughter and Clarke grins. Octavia’s phone starts to ring and she swipes her thumb to answer, says a few quick things, and then hangs up and turns to Clarke. “Lincoln’s here,” she says, “but he’s lost, predictably, so I’m going to go find him.”
“Boys,” she says, and Octavia winks and stands. She’s in a very short black dress and thigh high socks, the same boots on as last time. Clarke is in a grey tanktop and a pale blue pair of ripped jeans, and you think she looks like summer in its entirety. It’s your first Saturday in ages without model UN, so you’re in a pair of denim cutoff shorts and your favorite loafers and a big white t-shirt which at some point was probably Anya’s, and you feel a little self-conscious when Clarke meets your gaze and glances over you once.
“Lincoln is Octavia’s boyfriend,” Clarke says, leaning back in her seat.
You feel a little excited immediately at the thought that Octavia and Clarke probably aren’t dating, then, but you just nod.
“She has a spinal tap and her first chemo thing today, so that’s a fun Saturday afternoon date, I guess.”
You laugh a little. “Thrilling, I’m sure.”
Clarke looks over you thoroughly before tilting her head. “How do you know Octavia?”
“We met in a waiting room.”
Clarke laughs a little and says, “Octavia can make friends just about anywhere.”
“So it seems.”
She sits forward. “Is it okay if I ask why you’re here?”
“Yeah,” you say.
She smiles gently. “Lexa, why are you here?”
To her credit, her eyes stay trained entirely on your face, despite the fact that you’re sure that the scar that runs from the top of your sternum down to above your bellybutton is partially visible where your shirt dips a little. “My heart hasn’t ever worked quite right.”
“Okay,” she says, and she doesn’t press for more information, doesn’t stare at your scar or start asking a million questions. Instead, she looks at your empty coffee cup and asks, “Do you want another one?”
You shake your head. “I have a very limited caffeine intake, unfortunately. Despite the fact that I’d love more.”
She laughs. “Did you just finish APs too?”
“Yeah,” you say, and it’s the first time in a while that conversation has felt this normal. “And model UN just ended for summer too. This is the first day I’ve had off in forever.”
Clarke nods. “I know the feeling. I had six exams, then this stuff with O—totally kicked my ass.”
“Well,” you say, “I can recommend coffee here, if you want. Since one of us should be able to take advantage of the boost.”
She grins and you feel a little jump in your chest—which, under any other circumstances, would terrify you, but right now, it’s kind of wonderful.
You would keep talking—for a long time, you’re pretty sure, but then your phone dings, your driver texting that he’s here. You can’t help but frown a little and Clarke asks, “Are you all right?”
You glance up and she laughs heartily.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, “reflex?”
You reach out and put your hand on hers for a second before realizing what you’re doing and pulling back quickly, but her breath catches too. “Everything’s fine,” you say. “My driver’s here, though.”
“Oh,” she says, “yeah, of course.”
You stand a little stiffly and stretch your arms above your head, and you’re pretty sure Clarke stares at your legs the whole time. You shoulder your tote and say, “Hey, I hope everything goes well with Octavia today.”
She nods. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s one of the sincerest things you’ve ever heard.
“Of course,” you say, and you’re about to turn to go when she grabs your wrist gently.
“Can I—I’m going to give you my number,” she says. “In case you want a rain check on that coffee or something.”
You fight back a grin because you do have a reputation to maintain, after all—your mom is Secretary of State and your dad works for the UN, and you haven’t survived this long to ruin your vibe over a ten minute conversation with one girl. But, still—“I’d like that,” you say, and Clarke smiles.
She takes your hand and fishes out a sharpie from her bag, quickly scribbles it on your palm. When she does, she caps the marker and looks at you. “See you soon, Lexa.”
“Clarke.” You nod. “May we meet again.”
She laughs delightedly—you hadn’t really meant for it to be funny, but her laugh is really nice, so you allow yourself a half-smile. She waves as you walk off toward the exit, and when you look at the palm of your hand, her number is written over your lifelines, and you allow yourself, for a moment, to think it’s awfully fitting.
//
You’re starting to realize that the part of all of this that might blow the hardest is that you wait a lot for shit. This was supposed to be a quick appointment, apparently, but then you needed a blood transfusion or something, so currently you’re hooked up to yet another IV. You don’t really feel that bad yet—you’ve had two treatments, but school ended and you got out of three of your finals, as well as having gotten six free Starbucks and two free pizzas, so there are some upsides; people are acting weird around you anyway so the least you can get is free stuff, you figure.
But right now Clarke has seemingly forgotten that she’s here to keep you company and is instead furiously drawing in her sketchbook, her feet propped across your lap.
“Clarke,” you say, and she hums. You’re pretty sure she’s not listening at all. “When’s the last time you thought about fucking girls?”
She just hums again, and a mom sitting in a chair next to you glares. You smile sweetly back.
“Clarke,” you say, and this time she actually looks up.
“Are you—” you’re about to roll your eyes but she shakes her head and stops herself, and you’re grateful beyond belief—“what?”
“Text Lexa, see if she’s here and can come hang out, because you’re honestly the worst company right now.”
She sighs. “Sorry,” she says, “I just have class tonight and I thought I’d have more time at home to finish these but—”
“Clarke,” you say, “it’s fine. Thanks for staying with me.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“That’s a blatant lie,” you say, and she laughs.
“Well, I like spending time with you, so it’s only a half lie.”
You squeeze her hand for a moment in thanks. “You are terrible company, though. Text Lexa, I want to see her try to flirt with you, it’ll be fun.”
“She doesn’t—you know what—”
“First of all,” you say, “Lexa stared at your boobs for a solid seven minutes the other day, so she’s probably into girls. Second of all, I know you’re into girls, and you really should get over fuckboy Finn.”
“Can we not call him that?” she grumbles. “He was just—broody?”
You laugh. “Lexa’s better looking anyway.”
Clarke doesn’t try to disagree, and she gets out her phone and bites her bottom lip before unlocking it and typing out a quick message.
“Atta girl,” you say, and she rolls her eyes. Clarke had come out to you as bisexual when you were, like, twelve, even though she didn’t need to come out, because you basically knew since she had a crush on Emma Watson since the first time you watched the fourth Harry Potter movie, but you’re always glad when she trusts you with information like that. She’s not technically out to her mom, mainly because Clarke hasn’t really dated girls, but she’s not exactly closeted, and, anyway, you know Abby won’t care—so there’s really nothing stopping Clarke from flirting with Lexa, who is very pretty and seemingly very kind, and who you like very much, actually.
Clarke’s phone lights up and she reads the text and then frowns. “She’s here,” she says, “but she says she can’t sneak out to come meet us.”
You roll your eyes. “She’s probably a stickler for rules. Go find her and sneak her out or something. I would but I think Indra might actually kill me if I tried.”
Clarke laughs, and you’re surprised when she doesn’t argue even a little bit, just slips her sketchbook into her purse and stands. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
You look around at the most boring room you’ve ever seen, and you raise your eyebrows. “I think I can manage. Bring me a cookie when you come back.”
“Deal,” she says.
You watch her go, and Lexa’s lucky, because not only is Clarke kind of a fabulous human, she really does have a fine ass.
//
It only takes you a few minutes to find out which room Lexa is in, and you don’t know really what you were expecting—Lexa sitting up in bed furiously working on university applications or something—but it wasn’t this: Lexa is curled into a little ball, actually wearing a hospital gown, and she’s hooked up to, like, a million monitors, a few different IVs running into her chest, like where Octavia’s port is. For some reason, she just hadn’t seemed sick when you’d met her before—but it hits you hard, the reality of the situation, and your stomach bottoms out a little bit.
You think she’s probably asleep, so you turn to walk out of the room, but then she fidgets a little in bed and blinks wearily up at you.
“Clarke?”
“Hey,” you say, “yeah, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says quietly, and her voice is rough.
“Do you want me to go?” you ask. “I can go.”
She shakes her head once. “You can stay if you want.”
You nod with a small smile and pull up a chair next to her bed. You want to take her hand, but you don’t actually know her, so that might be weird. She uncurls a little bit, but she doesn’t try to really sit up or anything, which makes you inexplicably really sad.
“How’s Octavia?” she asks. Her voice lilts with a little bit of an accent, and you wonder if she’s American.
“Bored,” you say, and Lexa laughs just slightly before clamping her mouth shut and clenching her jaw.
“Sorry,” she grits out.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She sighs. “I know this isn’t the best company,” she grits out through clenched teeth.
You shrug. “At least you’re pretty.”
It comes out of your mouth before you even process it, and you almost cringe, but Lexa smiles a little into her pillow. Her jaw and cheekbones are sharp and lovely, and her eyes, even now, are a green-grey you desperately want to paint—she is pretty, and you don’t want to take it back.
“You should have slightly higher standards than this,” she says, seemingly in slightly less pain. “Maybe when I can stand upright and am in something resembling actually clothes I might believe you.”
You roll her eyes; her hair is long and a little tangled and the best kind of wild, and you tuck a strand of it behind her ear. She leans into the touch and you run your hand through it for a moment before pulling back.
“Before you can ask,” she says, “this isn’t anything new, I just have bad days sometimes.”
Octavia hates when people say something along the lines of I’m sorry, so you say, “That sucks ass,” and she smiles, so that must’ve been a better response.
“At least I’m not missing school.”
“I’m laughing on behalf of Octavia right now, because she’s a little frustrated this is all happening during summer.”
She hums. “I’m trying to get into Harvard,” you say, “so it’s easier with teachers instead of, you know, trying to learn everything by myself.”
“Well,” you say, “that makes sense. I’m sure you’ll get in, miss nine APs.”
She smiles a little, and she’s kind of a huge nerd, you’re pretty sure, and for some reason it just makes you like her more than you already do.
“I want to go to Brown,” you tell her. “My dad went there, but also, you know, you can take classes at RISD.”
“You are an artist?” she asks.
“Yeah. But it’s not—I don’t think I want to do it as a career, really, because it’s just something that—it’s not a hobby,” you say, and she closes her eyes. “It’s something I love to do because, like, life can be beautiful and terrible and overwhelming and I like to make art to kind of get that out there.”
She nods.
“But I don’t want to feel pressured to make a certain amount of anything. I like taking classes to learn but, yeah, I don’t know—I wouldn’t want to make a profession out of it, I guess.” You shrug. “My mom’s a surgeon and I really like medicine, though, so—yeah, Brown would be nice.”
“That does sound nice,” she says, and her voice is slurring a little, and you smile.
“Did you just get another shot of pain meds or something?”
She nods. “I don’t like them, but they insist that I have some, otherwise my heart rate gets too high because pain is a bitch.”
You laugh a little and she grins, then blearily opens her eyes and looks at you.
“I’m fine but I’m going to fall asleep so you can go back to Octavia and text me tomorrow or something?”
“I’ll draw in here for a little while, if that’s okay?”
Her smile is so bright it makes your hands ache, and you think she’s one of the first people you’ve told about what art is to you, one of the first people who hasn’t brushed it off, and you know it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s on pain medication.
She falls asleep fast, and you take out your sketchbook. The lines of her body—slim and young—are easy enough, and the contours of her face are harsh and gentle at once. She has absolutely lovely hands—long, thin fingers that you think are probably suited to music, that you would really like to hold—and you sketch them until Octavia calls you to inform you that she’s finished.
You finish one of your sketches and you think, not for the first time, that Lexa is really, really beautiful.
//
You see Lexa again a few days later—she and Clarke have been texting a lot, so that’s gross, but Clarke seems happy, so that’s worth a lot in your book.
Clarke had invited Lexa to her house for one of her almost weekly pool parties, which you think is actually really cute, because a lot of your friends from school are always there, and that kinda means that Clarke wants everyone to meet Lexa.
You’re currently clinging to Lincoln’s back while he runs across Clarke’s huge front lawn—you’re racing Jasper, who is carrying Monty, and you’re winning by a long shot, when you see Lexa get out of a ridiculously expensive looking convertible. She’s beautiful and summery in a t-shirt and shorts and a canvas short slung over her shoulder, and you slide off Lincoln’s back when he skids to a victorious stop. You give him a high five and he kisses your cheek and you say, “That’s Lexa.”
“Oh,” he says with a grin, glances her up and down. “Get it Clarke.”
“Right?” you say with a laugh, and Jasper comes puffing behind you, Monty sighing disappointedly. You jog up the lawn to where Lexa’s walking and say, “Hi,” excitedly before wrapping her in a hug.
She stiffens a little and you try to remind yourself that you really shouldn’t hug people you don’t actually know, but then she brings an arm around your back and you grin.
Lexa puts her sunglasses on the top of her head and says, “Hello, Octavia.”
You pull back and stand up straight; you’re in a bikini top, and you have one of Clarke’s many ridiculous snapbacks on backward, but it’s obvious that you buzzed your hair—or, really, Clarke had haphazardly done it for you a little tipsy two nights ago. Your other friends have mostly been cool—it was bound to happen anyway, and it sucks, because, really, you had fantastic hair, but Lincoln doesn’t really care at all—you were a little worried until he cracked a joke about the two of you being able to match entirely now. Bellamy has by far been the weirdest, but he’s just your protective older brother and he wants you to feel beautiful and loved, and you adore him for it, even if he is painfully awkward.
Lexa stands expectantly and doesn’t break your gaze for a second, and, yeah, Clarke really should date her, you think.
Lincoln comes up and puts a hand on the small of your back, then says, “I’m Lincoln, Octavia’s boyfriend,” and offers his other hand for Lexa to shake.
She does, and she introduces herself—with the pronoun thing again, which Clarke had gushed about the other day, because “obviously Lexa is educated in the fact that gender is a—sometimes very deadly—construct and there isn’t any binary gender or correlation between appearance and identification” and “isn’t it just so great that Lexa is so good at acknowledging that?”
Lincoln grins, though—he’s actually the most well-versed person in feminism that you know, other than Lexa, now, you guess, so you figure he’s probably a big fan too—and you say, “There’s food and drinks and stuff inside. Clarke’s probably out back.”
Lexa nods and follows you inside. You yell for Clarke once you get into her gigantic kitchen that opens onto her porch, and she ends up jogging to you from somewhere near one of the lounge chairs, holding what you’re almost entirely sure is very spiked punch.
“Hi,” Clarke says excitedly, but softly, and Lincoln looks at you with a smirk when Lexa returns the sentiment with a little blush. Clarke offers her a whole list of drinks, and Lexa ends up going with lemonade, which was the second option. “Octavia,” Clarke says, and you raise a brow, “can you get Lexa some lemonade?”
“Oh my god,” you grumble, and Lincoln laughs heartily and walks with you in the kitchen.
“They’re so into each other,” he says, finding the bottle of vodka in Clarke’s freezer and putting some in his cup with an eye roll when you glare. It’s not that you care, it’s just that you can’t drink, which kind of sucks. You like beers during summer.
When you go back outside, Lexa and Clarke are sitting close together on one lounge chair, knees touching. You hand Lexa her very non-alcoholic drink—she’s on a shit ton of medications, you’re sure—with a smile despite yourself, because she and Clarke look really happy together.
“Lincoln and I are going swimming,” you say.
Lexa nods earnestly and Clarke says, “Stay safe, kids.”
You roll your eyes and lead Lincoln to the edge of the pool, challenge him to cannonball competition. He laughs—you’re sure he can win, because you’re small and he’s decidedly not—but he says, “Absolutely.”
You try to splash Lexa and Clarke after you jump in, but they’re too far away, and you swim over to the edge and prop yourself on your elbows with a pout. Lincoln follows and stands in front of you, and then he kind of just stares at you. It makes your chest ache—he’s been the best with all of this, and you were already in love with him, but you are even more now. “You know,” you say, “this isn’t some sad quirky cancer movies, right?”
He smiles—genuinely smiles, not with any tinges of sadness—and says, “Thank god, because then you’d probably not have to be an actual asshole, and I really like that you’re an actual asshole.”
You slap his arm and get a little distracted by his bicep for a second, which he notices. He laughs and kisses the top of your head and then your lips, then tickles your side and swims off. Monroe and Harper challenge you to a game of chicken and you’re absolutely sure you can kick ass at that, so you agree.
The sun is starting to set, and it’s hot and your skin is tanning like it always does in the summer. You have more bruises than normal, but you feel good, and your friends are blaring Taylor Swift and laughing along with the lyrics, and for tonight, that’s all more than enough.
//
Clarke asks if you want to swim, and maybe if there were far fewer people, you might—but people would stare at your scars. You don’t really care, but you have a lot of them, and sometimes you just really don’t want to explain why.
Clarke nods and goes and gets a plate of food, puts it between you. You eat some and talk about mundane things—what movies you want to see this summer, whether or not you like to bake. Clarke doesn’t ask how you’re feeling, which you appreciate; she seems to figure that since you’re here and seemingly okay, there’s no current crisis. You text a lot and she’s honest and funny and smart and has great intuition when it comes to what to say or not to say about illness, and you feel really, really lucky.
And also really, really scared, because you like her. You like-like her.
Apparently, you’re twelve years old, too, because you think that very sincerely and then jump a little when she puts her hand on your thigh.
She smiles and pulls back, and you frown because you wish she hadn’t.
“Do you want me to show you the house?”
“Sure,” you say, and your heart starts to beat a little faster. You take a few deep breaths but you just feel excited—nothing scary at all—and you smile when she takes your hand and leads you inside.
“My dad was this big time engineer,” she says, “and he built this house when I was little, which is why it’s obscenely large.”
You laugh and keep your fingers laced together. “Do you know who my parents are?” you ask.
She shakes her head and starts to lead you up a staircase. “My mom is Secretary of State,” you say, which is something you usually never would voluntarily tell someone.
Clarke stops and squints at you. “No wonder you looked vaguely familiar.”
You aren’t sure she’s joking until she elbows you gently in the side and laughs, which makes you smile.
“Sorry, Lexa,” she says, “I’m not really into politics, but—you probably live in a mansion or something then, huh?”
“We have a few houses,” you say. “My dad isn’t American, and he works for the UN, so.”
“Wow,” Clarke says, “and you still want to go into politics?”
She laughs at her own joke again and you are rapidly becoming sure that Clarke is one of the best kinds of people in the world.
She leads you to stand in front of a closed door and then turns toward you. “That’s cool, though. You’re less of an ass than I’d expect.”
“Thank you,” you say, and she grins.
“Anyway,” she says, “this is my studio.”
You get the feeling that she doesn’t show this to anyone except for maybe Octavia, because she fidgets with her hands nervously before she opens the door gently and ushers you inside. There’s a big bay window overlooking the river, and there are a few easels with oil paintings in various states on them, one huge canvas half-painted and leaning against the wall. She’s talented—immensely so—and you hold her hand as steadily as you can.
“These are beautiful,” you say, and your voice is quiet and hushed and it even surprises you. Clarke looks at you with a shy smile—you’ve never seen her look shy before, and it’s wonderful.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” you say and walk closer to look at some of them. The way she paints texture and color make you want to reach out and touch them, because the oils are thick and striking. Right now it seems like she’s working on a series of abstract, fluid figures of various genders and skin tones and body types, you think, and they’re all stunning. “You’re very talented,” you say.
When you turn to look at her she’s blushing but she meets your gaze. “Thank you.”
You nod, and she leads you to sit down on a little couch in the corner, tucks one leg underneath her so she can face you. “I wanted to show you these,” she says, “which has, like, never been a thing before?”
You smile softly and let her play with your fingers.
“Do you play an instrument?” she asks softly.
“Yes,” you say, “piano. Why?”
She shrugs and looks at you. Her eyes are the prettiest blue. “You have lovely hands,” she says quietly.
You bite your lip because your heart is starting to go really fast in the nicest way, and she scoots closer.
“Clarke,” you say, and then you remember what your doctors had told you earlier this morning, and you fight back the rush of tears that prick behind your eyes. You shake your head when she moves closer. “I—I just—” She stays still and she doesn’t break your gaze.
“I have to have a heart transplant,” you say, and you look down at your intertwined hands, because you’ll cry if you look at Clarke any longer. “I knew—I mean,” you let out a breath, “I’ve had three open heart surgeries—one the day I was born, one when I was four, and one when I was eleven, so—I knew I’d probably have to one day, but…” you trail off.
“Hey,” Clarke says, and it’s so gentle you look up and meet her soft eyes. “Are you scared?”
You shrug. “Death is not the end.”
The corners of her mouth pull up a little in a smile. “Lexa,” she says, “it’s fine if you’re scared, you know.”
It’s not, not really, because you’ve spent your whole life being brave, for your parents and Anya and Costia before she died, because you were a sick child and you’re still sick and sick children are the bravest things in the world, and you know that.
But now—now there’s Clarke, who isn’t shying away from you because of scars or surgeries or medications or anything.
You nod a little and she scoots even closer, and you start to worry a little about your health because your heart really is going fast.
“You know I don’t plan on going anywhere,” she says quietly, “right? Because Octavia’s stuck in that hospital for a while and she’s made me promise on multiple occasions and in a variety of creative ways that this whole experience isn’t some tragic John Green novel or bad boy meets good girl movie.”
You can’t help but laugh.
Clarke air quotes, “First of all,” she says, doing a fairly convincing impression of Octavia, “I’m not going to die. Secondly, not everyone is white, so that’s a huge bonus. Beyond that, Lincoln isn’t a huge tool.”
You keep laughing, and Clarke grins.
“In addition, none of us needs religious epiphanies, because we’re heathens and too far gone already, I’m pretty sure.”
“That sounds like Octavia,” you say.
Clarke nods, and she scoots even closer to you, runs her hand up and down your wrist once. Her face is close. “Also,” she says quietly, “queer girls make everything better.”
Your laughter quiets and you swallow. “Clarke,” you say in what would be some kind of warning if there was any sort of conviction in your voice.
“I want you,” she says, very, very softly, but with an assurance that makes your hands ache.
You can’t look away from her mouth. “Can I kiss you?” you whisper.
She mumbles out a yes as she leans forward. Her lips are soft and she tastes like vodka and peaches and chlorine and she smells like coconut sunscreen and she is entirely intoxicating, and your heart speeds up but then slows and when she weaves her hands in your hair it is the most peaceful you’ve felt in a long, long time.
//
You spend an unknown amount of time kissing Lexa—which is indescribable and beautiful and you know you both deserve much more than just surviving, for however long you have, so you aren’t scared: you like her, you might be falling in love with her, and she is present and smart and the gentlest kisser, and you lean her back against the couch and straddle her hips, deepen the kiss when she opens her mouth on a moan.
But then you hear Octavia yelling and stomping up the steps—in warning, you’re sure, so that she doesn’t walk in on anything—and you laugh into Lexa’s mouth.
She smiles a little and lies back against the couch for a second before sitting up and tracing your lips once with her thumb. “You are quite beautiful,” she says quietly, “and I would like to do this again sometime.”
You really want to kiss her again, but then Octavia is standing in the doorway with her back purposefully turned. “Is everyone decent?” she asks, and Lexa blushes while you roll your eyes.
“Yes, O,” you say, and she’s grinning hugely when she faces you both.
“Well, Monty and Jasper want to set off some fireworks but I said we should wait and see if that’s okay with you.”
You sigh and stand up, then offer your hand to Lexa. “Shit,” you say, and Octavia laughs.
“Figured you’d want to stop that.”
Lexa stands quietly and sends Octavia a small smile when you walk out of your studio and Octavia closes the door.
You end up successfully stopping Monty and Jasper from blowing anything up, and it’s dark now, the night just barely cooling off. Octavia and Lincoln have a blanket spread in your backyard, and Lincoln passes you a beer when you bring Lexa and sit down next to them.
Lexa had already called her parents to say she was staying over for the night, but everyone is starting to leave. You wave bye and make sure that everyone driving is sober—they are—and then lie back next to Octavia, who is telling ridiculous stories about the stars, which she’s done since you were little. Lincoln laughs and Lexa looks a bit confused because all of Octavia’s constellations are made up by her, but then she smiles softly and lies back next to you, presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder.
You listen to Octavia and Lexa sits up and catches a few fireflies, and then it’s late, and you head inside. Your mom won’t be home until the morning, but you clean up at least any bottles of beer and put away the food before you make sure all the doors are locked. Octavia and Lincoln stay over sometimes, and you hug them goodnight before turning to Lexa.
“There are, like, twelve guest bedrooms if you’d be more comfortable in your own bed,” you say, and she shakes her head. “Okay, then,” you say, “my bedroom is this way.”
You lead her to your room and she takes off her shorts and reaches under her shirt to untie her bikini top, but her t-shirt is big enough that you can’t really see her underwear, and she’s just adorable and beautiful in the moonlight, standing seriously and expectantly in front of you.
You turn your back and quickly put on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and then pull back your duvet, and she climbs in on the other side.
It takes her a few seconds of very stiffly lying on her back before you laugh and say, “Come here, dork,” and she sighs and turns toward you. You kiss her gently—because you get the feeling that she doesn’t want to have sex tonight, and, honestly, you’ve never had sex with a girl before and you’re a little drunk, so you don’t want to either, but you’d never pressure her anyway.
You lie back and she rests her head on your chest, drums her fingers along your stomach once. You run your hands through her hair and she kisses just above your breast.
“You have a wonderful heartbeat, Clarke,” she says.
It hurts you in all the ways that make you want to paint, and you nod. “See you in the morning, Lexa.”
“Yes,” she says, and her breath is warm. “Goodnight.”