Grass
An old oak tree stands tall not far from the soccer field. Clarke sits cross-legged in its regal shadow. A lower lip prisoner between teeth and thoughts crinkling her forehead, Clarke studies the sketchbook resting in her lap. Clarke’s index finger tiptoes along the edges of the page, a criticizing eye studies her work, the flawless contours of the human body, the depths of light and dark shades overlapping.
Charcoal strokes resemble a female soccer player dribbling her way around an opponent. Her movements are skillful, effortless. Her eyes are playfully calculating how best to approach the task ahead. Her smile is confident, and the letters on her back – light against a dark canvas – are carried with pride: Heda.
Heda is finesse in its finest form. Muscles flexing under sweaty skin, outstretched arms to defy gravity. It is a ballet of elegant ball control and agile sprinting as Heda maneuvers towards the goalie. Her superiority manifests itself in a swift motion as she stops the ball with barely a toe, twirling to pull it around the goalie to send it towards its inevitable destination.
Heda is adroitness in a modest sense. Offering the goalie a hand to get back up on her feet, then gives her a respectful nod and a grateful smile. It is only then that she runs back to her teammate to honor her assist in a camaraderie hug. A great leader cannot be without her people’s loyalty, and loyalty is granted where the path is shown and trust is given.
The referee whistles end of game and Heda’s troops march on, undefeated. Clarke watches as Heda goes to thank the other team captain for a great play before joining her own in a celebratory group hug. Afterplay traditions usually take a while, so Clarke returns to her charcoal replica of her favorite soccer player to brush up on details with a skilled hand.
Someone takes a seat next to Clarke, shoulder brushing against shoulder. She looks up from her sketchbook to find smiley eyes, fresh cheeks and soft lips look at her.
“Clarke.”
“Lexa.”
“You made it.”
“I did,” Clarke nods, reciprocating her smile. “Nice goal, Heda.”
“I dedicate it to my favorite charcoal-drawing cheerleader.” Lexa leans in, her chin resting on Clarke’s shoulder, to sneak a peek at the sketch. She points to the ponytail. “I like this detail, it looks like I’m running really fast.”
“You are,” Clarke agrees, leaning her head against Lexa’s.
“Mh… and this too. Do my muscles really look like that?”
“They do.”
“Don’t think so…” Lexa says shifting to investigate her calf muscles with her fingertips. “Maybe in your head,” Lexa says, earning an airy chuckle from Clarke.
Clarke waits for Lexa to meet her eyes again. “Hey,” she whispers.
“Hey back,” Lexa leans in for a kiss as soft as Clarke’s voice. “How did it go?”
Clarke shrugs.
“Bad news?”
“Not bad, just… not good news. The doctors say it's too risky, I could end up blind.”
Lexa observes Clarke’s sunken shoulders, the way she avoids eye contact. She swallows hard before saying, “so, status quo?”
“Status quo,” Clarke sighs.
“I love you just the same, Clarke.”
“I know,” Clarke gives her a sad smile. “Which is why I love you too. It just sucks. I wish I could see the world like you.”
“The world is not the same to any two people. This, for instance,” Lexa points to the sketch, “I look so strong and fearless. That’s how you see me. I wish I saw myself like that too.”
“You are strong, Lex,” Clarke says.
“Not always. I like to pretend I am. It’s easy out there,” Lexa nudges her head towards the now empty soccer field. “My team makes me strong. You make me strong. On my own? Not so much. I am a weakling when left to my own devices.”
Clarke shakes her head, Lexa nods hers.
Clarke sighs and rolls her eyes, Lexa smiles.
“My weakling,” Clarke breathes whimsically.
“Your weakling,” Lexa nods once.
Running a hand through the grass, Clarke studies its lines and curves and pointy ends, how it tickles the palm of her hand. She lifts her fingers to her nose only to find fresh traces of Summer.
Lexa’s eyes soften. She reaches to take Clarke’s hand, presses a kiss against her knuckles before entwining their fingers. “Your eyes are the color of the sky,” she says, “of clarity, of serenity and of endless opportunities.”
Looking up onto the canvas above her, Clarke finds fluffy edges that form clouds, and there’s a single trail left behind by an airplane. The sky is bright against the silhouetted crown of the old oak tree.
Making sure to keep her eyes on Clarke, Lexa gives her hand a squeeze. “Your hair is the color of the sun, it’s warm and vibrant and full of life.”
Clarke’s eyelashes flutter. Once. Twice. She looks from the sky and back to her sketchbook. Taking in a deep breath, she pushes her hair back behind one ear before meeting Lexa’s eyes.
“This grass needs oxygen and light to grow and to thrive,” Lexa says.
“And soil and water,” Clarke adds to the list, a hint of a smirk on her lips.
“I get plenty of that on the field,” Lexa grins.
Clarke nods, already lost in thought. “Persistent in growth, smells really nice, soft to land on and... aesthetically pleasing,” Clarke wonders out loud. She ends her thought with a definitive nod.
Curiosity paints Lexa’s irises, love paints her smile.
“Grass,” Clarke explains matter-of-factly. “The color of your eyes.”
Lexa raises an eyebrow in question, amusement dancing in the corners of her lips.
“Shut up, I’m terrible with words, you know that,” Clarke pouts dramatically. “Colors too.”
“Come here,” Lexa chuckles, smiling into a kiss.
Lexa’s lips taste of salt, her forehead is sticky from sweat. Clarke leans into her, eyes pressed shut and charcoal covered fingers clinging to Lexa's jersey.
“Clarke?”
“Mhm?”
“I'd give you my colors if I could.”
“You already have.”