It only takes only one minute for Clarke to notice the girl with long brown hair and bright green eyes nestled in behind the groom’s parents across the way in the benches.
The sun is high and clouds are sparse; an otherwise perfect day for an outdoor Hawaiian wedding. Waves can be heard, muffled as they may be, crashing into the pebble shore just a short distance away and the air is thick with the scent of seawater.
From this vantage point, adjacent to where Octavia and Lincoln stand beneath the alter which is lined with white satin and champagne coloured flowers to match, Clarke can see everyone—friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers. She’s not interested in everyone though and her gaze repeatedly settles on the same girl. Clarke watches the way the breeze gently ruffles her hair against the bare skin of her shoulders covered only by the thin straps of her dress. Her earrings are hardly noticeable from this far away, but they glint small and bright.
Clarke has never seen this girl before, but as quickly as it takes to notice her, she’s already drawn.
*
Two is the number of times the girl wipes a tear from her eye. She’s relatively stoic and well postured, only smiling when Lincoln looks to her in the crowd. She nods reassuringly each time and Clarke wonders how they know each other. She’s here alone maybe, dateless that is. The gentleman on the one side of her looking moderately disinterested and distanced, and the obvious couple on the other side having hardly noticed her.
*
Three is the number of times Clarke gets caught staring at the girl.
The first time she plays it off as an accident; a coincidence that they just so happen to look in the same direction at the same time. It’s quick, just a flash of a glance. Then Clarke is awkwardly tucking a stand of blonde hair behind her ear and darting her attention back to Octavia’s vows, heart thumping steadily in her chest.
The second time it’s less of an accident and more of Clarke just not being able to take her eyes off the beauty ahead of her. The girl looks up, blinks once, and holds Clarke’s gaze. She’s trapped, doesn’t want to look away too quickly in guilt, too drawn in to the way the girl seems to be searching for something with her eyes. Clarke returns the gaze, but her face is flushed warm and the tips of her ears are undeniably red. So much so that Raven leans forward from behind her to ask her if she’s okay.
The third time, the girl is already staring at Clarke when Clarke looks at her, like she has been waiting to see how long it would take Clarke to look at her again. The bouquet in Clarke’s hands is sweaty against her palms and she’s cursing herself for being so damn obvious. She idly wonders if anyone else is paying attention to her, if anyone can feel whatever it is that she’s feeling. More importantly, Clarke wonders if anyone else has noticed the girl in the same way that she has.
This time though, before they pry their gazes apart, the faintest of smiles ghosts at the girl’s lips and her eyes twinkle green with a kind of brilliance that threatens to knock Clarke off of her mark.
The wordless exchange leaves Clarke hot and flustered, the embers of a fire sparking deep and bright in her stomach.
Suddenly, Lincoln’s vows are just background noise.
*
Four is the number of times the sound of girl’s laughter reaches Clarke’s ears after the ceremony is over. It sings soft like velvet, crooning like the classical music that reminds her so much of her father.
It tugs heavy at all the corners of her heart.
*
Five is how many times it takes for Clarke to work up the courage to actually say something to the girl.
She finds out from Bellamy that her name is Lexa and that she’s one of Lincoln’s lifelong friends and the only person whom Octavia had reservations about meeting. Clarke might vaguely remember the name from past conversations, but there was never a face to complement it.
It’s not like Clarke hadn’t tried to approach her already. It’s just that the first three attempts had been futile, various members of Lincoln’s family getting to her first; and the fourth time, Lexa alone as she could have been, Clarke simply chickened out. The sting only made worse by the way Lexa had been looking at her, willing her silently to approach.
Now, as Clarke nurses a vodka cranberry in one hand careful not to drip red on her lilac dress, the other drumming nervously against the countertop of the tented open bar, she spots Lexa alone again on the opposite side of the bar. She’s eyeing all the liquor confused and it’s endearing and whatever Monty and Jasper are blubbering about goes completely ignored by Clarke.
Maybe she shouldn’t because the moment might quickly pass, but Clarke takes her time to study her, to try and understand why she is so rapt with someone she has never known of before.
Lexa has changed her dress, this one small and black and completely strapless. Clarke’s eyes trace the length of her collarbone and then up her jawline so sharp it cuts like a razor. She’s practically glowing from the setting sun that just creeps under the white canopy. It paints her skin golden with warmth.
It’s not until the bartender asks Clarke if she wants another drink that she realizes she’s staring again. She shakes her head politely and bravely approaches Lexa.
“The vodka cranberry is good,” Clarke says leaning onto the bar. She leaves a foot of space between them and can feel Monty and Jasper’s watchful eyes.
Lexa turns her head, following Clarke’s voice and when their eyes meet, Lexa gives her a quick once over. Like she’s actually surprised to see Clarke.
“Is that what you’re drinking?” Lexa gestures at Clarke’s half empty glass.
Clarke nods. “Mine might have two shots, though.”
“The life of a bridesmaid must be hard.” Lexa quips.
“You have no idea.” Clarke exhales and extends her hand. “I’m—“
“Clarke.” Lexa finishes for her, taking Clarke’s hand. The touch is warm and soft, but Lexa shakes with authority. Clarke tilts her head and quirks and eyebrow, anticipation thrumming throughout her body.
“How did you know?”
“Lincoln speaks fondly of you. Also your name is in the programme.”
Clarke nods, slightly embarrassed. “Right. And you are?”
“You must not remember well.” A familiar smile from earlier this afternoon tugs playfully at the corner of Lexa’s mouth, eyes glimmering again. “I heard you talking with the curly haired boy. He told you my name was Lexa.”
Clarke’s cheeks instantly colour bright red. Her heartbeat quickens and her throat dries like sandpaper. Her eyes are wide and flitting in all directions as she tries to remember where they were standing when they had the conversation and how Lexa could have heard.
“Shit. I, um—“
“It’s okay.” Lexa’s smile stretches, more genuine. “I was very flattered.”
Still, Clarke is morbidly embarrassed and all her words are lost on her. She grips nervously at the glass in her hands and when she can finally bring herself to look at Lexa again, shy laughter cuts the tension.
“Can we get two more of these?” Lexa says to the bartender, pointing at what remains in Clarke’s glass.
*
Six is the number of minutes they stand talking at the bar for before Clarke casually suggests they have a seat elsewhere.
Tables are empty and spaces have cleared near the back of the garden space now that most people have scattered to the dance floor. Lanterns hung on strings between the palm trees light the way and candles in mason jars flicker as the breeze flutters. The sky is grey now, the tip of the dense tree line that separates the grassy reception area from the sandy beach silhouetted by a hazy deep red glow. It looks like the sky is on fire.
Clarke and Lexa exchange small talk for a while as they watch the mass of drunken bodies dancing on the dance floor. They both cringe at the lack of personal space and just how sweaty everyone must be. Clarke might be a little devastated to learn that they live on different sides of the country, and Lexa shows keen interest when she learns about Clarke’s fascination for art, particularly sketching.
Lexa is more guarded with her words than Clarke; quite and soft-spoken. But when she does speak, it’s eloquent and poetic. Each syllable spoken with pinpoint purpose. She tells Clarke little stories of her childhood with Lincoln and about how she met Octavia for the first time. She tells her about her pets and delves shortly into her hobbies, such as fencing and archery. Lexa also tells Clarke about the first time Lincoln had showed her a picture of her on his phone.
“He was quite taken by you, Clarke.” Lexa tells her as the music whizzes around them. “Not in the way he was taken by Octavia, of course, but he changed when he met you. You saw something in him, made him better. He owes a lot of who he is now to Octavia, but he owes you too. And as a result, as do I.”
Lexa’s eyes are big when she speaks, earnest. Clarke doesn’t take the words lightly. She remembers how Lincoln was when Octavia first introduced him and how much change he has gone through since. It’s inspiring. And Clarke would never take credit for changing a person, but hearing the words like this makes her heart feel heavy and full.
Clarke would have never known that this stranger she met literally minutes ago knows as much about her as she does. Though Lexa doesn’t say too much, there is much wisdom behind her eyes. Clarke can see it, can feel it.
It leaves her feeling captivated.
*
Clarke counts seven freckles that span from Lexa’s chest down to her forearm before the music changes from wild and upbeat to something slower and more mellow.
It’s a song for couples.
She finishes what is left of her drink before setting it down on the table with a thunk.
“Just hear me out.” Clarke says rising to her feet, alcohol rushing to her head. “You hate dancing, I hate dancing, but we’re at a wedding and it would be a shame to not, you know? Just one dance. Half a dance. Unless that’s weird. It’s weird, isn’t it?” She begins to stutter and ramble. What was she thinking? “It’s totally weird. Nevermind, sorry.”
“No.” Lexa is quick to interject. She stands too, slightly unsteady on her heels and places a hand around Clarke’s elbow. “Let’s dance. Please. I would love to.”
Okay, so it’s a little bit awkward. The dance floor is less crowded, which draws more attention to them. Not that Clarke cares that anyone is watching, except maybe her mother. She’s just been out of the game for a while and doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
That is, until Lexa takes the lead.
She steps close, putting one hand on the small of Clarke’s back and holding the other one palm up for her. Clarke smiles shyly, placing her hand into Lexa’s and letting the other fall to her shoulder. Lexa’s too tall it seems and Clarke presses her chin onto her shoulder.
“Is it weird?” Lexa asks, her breath puffing onto Clarke’s cheek. She smells sweet like cranberry juice and Clarke’s head is spinning in the good way, not the alcohol way.
Clarke shakes her head, letting their bodies sway together to the music. It feels strangely comfortable and natural, like she’s known Lexa all of her life. When she looks up across the way, Lincoln is winking wildly at her with Octavia in his arms nodding his head animatedly, approvingly. Clarke rolls her eyes, fighting a begrudging grin. Then she notices the rest of her friends who are gesturing similarly, including her mother who is smiling warmly tucked into Marcus’ embrace.
“They’re teasing you,” Lexa notes lightly. “We can stop if you want.”
“Only if you want to.” Clarke offers.
Lexa doesn’t say anything and Clarke gets her response in the way that Lexa tugs her closer and lets their cheeks settle together.
*
Eight is the number of tequila shots that line the bar.
There’s one for the entire wedding party plus an extra for Lexa. It’s Raven’s idea in and out and it’s been long enough since Clarke’s last drink that she obliges. It takes Lexa a little more coercing, but Lincoln has a way with his words and Lexa gives in.
It starts with a toast, lighthearted and meaningful words exchanged through friends about how happy and proud they are of Octavia and Lincoln’s journey of love. Clarke is sandwiched tightly against the bar between Monty and Lexa and when everyone raises their glasses to cheers, Clarke places a weighted hand low onto Lexa’s hip for balance and Lexa actually shudders.
The shot coats Clarke’s throat like fire, warming the rest of her body. It makes the way Lexa leans back into her feel better than it should. It makes all the hairs on Clarke’s body prickle at attention and there’s an ever-present tingle coursing through her veins.
The second shot is bad idea and Clarke knows it, but in all the chaos of the excitement, Lexa just sort of hands it to her and how could Clarke possibly say no to a face like that. It’s enough that any wall that might have stood between Clarke and Lexa comes crashing down.
Another small moment of chaos ensues when Raven waves over several other friends and family to join them for shots, but Clarke can’t stomach another one and Lexa is looking at her with a kind of salacity that makes Clarke want to steal her away.
So she does.
“Follow me.” Clarke whispers.
She takes Lexa by the hand and they slip into the nighttime away from all the people.
*
Nine is the number of stones Clarke and Lexa skip into the ocean when they sneak their way onto the beach.
It’s a rash idea, but they’re drunk so it doesn’t matter, their high heels long forgotten at the edge of the woody trail that turns into white sand. The water is cool as it laps around their ankles, sand crunching between their toes and the reflection of the moon haloing bright off the surface of the water.
Lexa’s body language is indifferent for the first time tonight, distanced from Clarke, wary. Perhaps she must be aware of the implications now that they’re alone with only the heavens and the sea to watch them.
It’s daunting for the both of them, having only met for the first time only just several hours ago. But everything changes when Clarke, seemingly out of nowhere, pulls her dress over the head, tosses her bra to the side, and runs into water squealing as the cold water kisses her skin.
Call it liquid courage or simply just spontaneity, but the adrenaline is like rocket fuel though her veins.
“Lexa, come on!” She shouts from the neck deep water. She can see that Lexa’s jaw has dropped, hears the giggles amidst the splashing waves.
“You are out of your mind!” Lexa shouts back. “No way, it’s freezing!”
Clarke twirls in the water then swan dives below the surface. When her head bobs back up, she’s several more yard out treading lightly where the waves are calmer.
“Are you really going to leave me out here?” She waves, arms flailing. “What if I get attacked by a shark? What if I can’t swim!”
Clarke can’t see, but Lexa rolls her eyes. It’s nothing short of amused, though. “You seem to be doing just fine!” Lexa answers, but then she’s willingly giving in and pulling off her own dress and diving into the water.
“Finally.” Clarke breathes when Lexa’s face appears before her, wet hair in clumps on her forehead, mascara running dark on her cheeks.
“You don’t make it easy, Clarke.” Lexa spits a slow and gentle stream of water at Clarke’s chin before swimming in lazy and teasing circles around her.
Clarke nudges her, tries her hardest to not watch the way Lexa’s bare breasts just skim beneath the surface of the water. Unfortunately, or fortunately, she’s not quite as subtle as she thinks.
“Eyes up.” Lexa smolders, tilting Clarke’s chin up with one finger. Out here in the dark, Lexa’s eyes sparkle unabated like the galaxies above her.
“I could say the same for you.” Clarke counters, voice low.
The current is gentle and it edges them together, legs brushing, hands reaching for each other to keep them close. Something tickles at Clarke’s feet and she lunges forward into Lexa gripping at her shoulders. They’re skin on skin and Clarke feels everything inside of her ignite, like she may spontaneously combust if something doesn’t happen soon. Especially when feels the hot exhale of Lexa’s breath onto her neck.
The kiss, when it happens, is clumsy. There isn’t much forethought; Lexa just kind of smiles and Clarke is helpless, guiding their mouths together. With Lexa’s foot just grazing at the sandy bottom, they sway with the current, salt water creeping into parted lips. Clarke is first to deepen the kiss, letting her tongue slide across Lexa’s bottom lip until she gets what she wants.
Lexa wraps her arms tightly around Clarke’s torso and that invites Clarke to wrap her legs around Lexa’s waist. Slowly, through the hurried mess of wandering hands and curious tongues, Lexa wades them back to shore until they can both plant their feet firmly into the sand, leaving them both exposed from the belly up.
“You are so beautiful, Clarke.” Lexa breathes, moonlit and radiant. She wipes the wet hair out of Clarke’s face and her fingers trail down Clarke’s cheeks until they settle loosely on her collarbones.
Clarke’s breath hitches in her throat and her heart flutters frantically into her stomach.
“I’m so glad I met you.”
Lexa leans forward kissing her once. Clarke takes her by the hand and leads them back to where their dresses lay crumpled in the sand.
There isn’t a soul in sight and the music from the wedding has since faded. The only thing to be heard is the way the waves creep up the shore, hushed and timid like it holds a thousand unspoken words; and the way the palm leaves whisper like secrets in the ocean breeze.
Out here like this, Clarke doesn’t have a care in the world; she doesn’t carry the saddening weight of her father on her shoulders. Out here, Clarke can be whoever she wants to be with Lexa. She can forget everything.
So as the night sky blankets them, stars and all, they will both savour this night for whatever it may be: drunken impulses, salt stained kisses, hundreds of shared breaths, and synchronization of heartbeats so palpable amid them that neither of them knows where they begin and end.
There are no more words to the said.
They let their bodies do the talking.
*
Ten is the number of states that will separate Clarke and Lexa come this time tomorrow. Whether or not their paths will cross again the future, neither of them can be certain.
It’s unsettling for Clarke to think that in such a small amount of time, she feels the way that she does about Lexa, that the connection they have is bar none to any of relationships she’s ever had, platonic or not.
She won’t dwell on that right now because the sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon. Somewhere in between all the kissing and the talking and the laughing, time had been lost and passions had been reignited. Now they sit huddled together under a palm tree, dresses hastily thrown on while they wait for the rising sun to warm the sky.
The scariest part of all is that Clarke isn’t even drunk anymore; there isn’t any alcohol to blame for the way she feels.
Her mind and soul are clear. She has no regrets.
So when Clarke looks at Lexa, she looks at her like it might be the last time. It’s a thought she doesn’t want to entertain, but she’s aware of the reality. And should that be the case she wants to remember this moment in all of its glory.
She wants to remember the way Lexa’s face looks when it’s sun kissed. The way her lips are swollen pink bruised with affection, and the way her eyes hooded like sacred emeralds. Clarke takes the time to memorize it all. She learns all of Lexa’s laugh lines, like the crinkle in between her brows; the way her nose scrunches.
She commits all of her sounds to memory—her laugh, her voice, her inhales and exhales.
Even now, after a drunken haze, Clarke still vividly remembers the way Lexa looked when she first laid eyes on her be it only hours ago, green eyes flashing through the crowd, face as resplendent the sunlight.
The image burns bright and everlasting in Clarke’s memory and sings tenderly in her heart.
END