#mss1

“I came out here to get some privacy.” She tells him pointedly, hastily averting her gaze away from his bare, glistening chest. “But it turns out you’ve hijacked my hiding place–”

That gets a snort out of him, accompanied with that stupid, smug smile that she hated. “I must have missed the part when you became a proud land-owner, then.” With a furrow of his brow, he adds mockingly, “tell me, how is the market doing these days? I was looking for a bunker, maybe two rooms, somewhere in the–”

“Alright, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.” Clarke interjects, flopping down onto the bank exasperatedly. She could already feel beads of sweat forming against the back of her neck, pooling under her armpits, and it made her irritable and cranky beyond measure. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Cooling off,” he says quickly, chipper, and if it was anyone else she would have believed them but it’s Bellamy, and she knows how he’s like when he’s lying.

Arching her brow, she waits, refusing to look away.

He stares right back, lips pursed and jaw set, the petulant twist of his mouth only intriguing her further. Then, with a grimace, he relents, mutters, “I was trying to teach myself how to swim.”

She blinks, thrown by this development. “Wait, you don’t know how?”

“Not everyone lived in a sector with access to the public pool, princess.” Bellamy sneers, crossing his arms over her chest. Bringing up their class differences was the easiest way to rile him up, and it often led to pointless, meandering arguments that lasted for days.  

Determined not to be sidetracked, she barrels on. “It’s not that hard, actually. I could teach you how to float.”

“Floating is not swimming.” He argues.

Scoffing, she peels her shirt up and over her head, hiding her smile in the crook of her elbow when she hears him make a strangled noise. “Suit yourself then. It’s not like I’m going to lose sleep over your inability to keep yourself afloat.”

Her pants go off next, and she can feel his gaze pinned somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead instead. It’s strangely chivalrous for someone like Bellamy, but then again, it’s not like she expected less of him.

“Okay,” he says finally, soft, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he drops his gaze down to the water. “Fine. Maybe some pointers would be good.”

“Only took you 84 years to admit that.” She declares brightly, stifling a laugh at the aggravated eye-roll he shoots her. “First step? Ease up.”

The next few hours go by in a blur; the weirdness of being semi-naked around each other fading by the time the first hour went by. It didn’t help that he was impatient and tense as a rock, with Clarke having to hoist him out of the water constantly, sputtering and kicking all while trying to catch his breath.

“You’re terrible,” she tells him after the eighteenth attempt, slumping against his shoulder while he pants into the grass.

“I’m getting there.” Bellamy insists, rucking his fingers through his hair and spraying water droplets everywhere, “come on, one last try.”

Sighing, she follows him back into the water. “If you say so.”

“I know so.” He huffs, rolling out his shoulders, muscles rippling under acres of bronzed, freckled skin, and for some inexplicable reason, she blushes. “Come on, we’re doing this together on three.”

“I won’t be there to haul you up if you start sinking.” Clarke reminds him, and at the sharp jerk of his head, gives in. “Fine, if you’re so sure. Shall I count us off?”

His exhale is shaky, a little ragged. “Uh huh.”

Swallowing, she does, lets her eyelids flutter shut at three–

Then she’s floating, arms outstretched and face pointed up at the sky, and distantly, she can make out the sound of Bellamy whooping accompanied by the lapping of waves, birds crying out above them.

She doesn’t even try to hide her grin this time (it’s not like he can see her anyway), skims her fingers over the water’s surface instead, reaching for him, “fun, right?”

The only response she receives is a sharp jolt of laughter, carefree and triumphant, and she finds herself filing it away for future reference, cataloguing it.

His fingers find hers, lacing together effortlessly as they drift in circles, letting the tide carry them, faces tilted up to the sun.

Yelping, Clarke scrambles for the sheets, reaching to shield herself instinctively. “What the fuck, Bellamy?”

He blinks up at her sleepily, grit caught in lashes and arm still pinned over her hip possessively. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because!” A strangled noise escapes her throat in lieu of words, fingers clutching tighter at the sheets. “I can’t believe– you’re the one on my bed and you’re asking–”

“Your bed?” He interjects, pulling away to prop his chin up in his palms. “You certain about that, princess?”

Her retort dies in her throat at the sight of the weathered stack of books at the foot of the bed, the sleeve of his jacket dangling over the posts, impossibly crumpled and creased.

She licks her lips, swallows. “Oh.”

“You’re the one who came looking for me,” Bellamy says, mild, flopping back down onto his back. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re incredibly pushy, even when you’re only semi-coherent?”

“No,” Clarke says a tad forcefully, wincing at the flare of pain that races up her skull at that.

His gaze roves over her, careful and assessing all at once. “Relax,” he says finally, quiet but sincere, too, “the last time I checked, you were still clothed.”

And now that he’s mentioned it, she realises that it is indeed her shirt that is clinging against her skin, and feeling slightly chastised, drops the sheets.

“So we didn’t…?”

(She almost sounds disappointed by this, which is, well. Strange. But she’s not going to dwell on it.)

The corners of his mouth quirk up at that, bracing himself up on his elbows before he reaches for his discarded shirt, slipping it on. “Nah. You passed out pretty quickly after all that yelling.”

Clarke wiggles her sock-clad toes at him, resists the urge to peek when he works at his belt. “What was I yelling about?”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy mutters, bending over to work at his laces, determinedly not looking at her. “You seemed pretty mad. Maybe you just needed to yell at someone and I was the best option around.” Then, a little sardonically, “You do it all the time when you’re sober already anyway.”

She gapes, nearly falls off the bed in her haste to get to her feet. “I don’t just yell at you. I wasn’t looking for you because–”

He bursts into laughter at that, side-stepping past her smoothly. “I was kidding, Clarke. Jeez. Aren’t you supposed to be hungover?”

“No.” Clarke scowls, reining in her sullen expression. It was difficult to explain why it bothered her so much- why it was important that Bellamy understood that he meant more to her than what he just insinuated, why it mattered that he knew. The weight of the words left unsaid sat heavily against her chest, making her flounder and stutter and–

“I was looking for you because I was upset,” she admits, soft, fascinated by the bob of his throat when he meets her eyes, swallows. “And I didn’t think anyone else could understand. I wanted you.”

A beat goes by, and he doesn’t say a word, just stares at her, expression inscrutable, long enough to make her fidget. The space between them feels quiet, muffled, holding your breath right before you plunge off a cliff.

For half a second, she think he might kiss her. (She might even want him to.)

Then, in a surprisingly fond gesture, reaches up to tap at her cheek, nails rasping gently against her skin.

“What were you upset about?” He asks, gruff, the small smile playing on his lips morphing into a full-blown one at her non-response. “Betcha still can’t remember though, can you?”

“Shut up.” She replies, prim, grateful that they’re back on familiar territory, swatting at his shoulder in a valiant effort to calm the racing of her pulse. “I swear, this is the last time I go to you for anything.”

(It’s a bald-faced lie. Clarke’s pretty sure he knows it, too.)