The Three Truths

Chapter 3

The first time she had to actively fight against her feelings for Clarke, it was merely a week before graduation. Clarke and Finn had broken up only days before, and she'd taken to sleeping next to Lexa, claiming she wasn't willing to spend the night alone. (She was lonely, she said. She was sad, she said. Would it be okay, she asked. Lexa was helpless to say anything but of course.)

She woke up with Clarke pressed against her.

It wasn't innocent. Their legs were tangled, Clarke's back pressed firmly to Lexa's front, Lexa's hand resting on the curve of Clarke's hip, fingers splayed out, face pressing into Clarke's neck, lips against her ear. It wasn't innocent, because Lexa woke up with her heart beating too fast, with heat pooling in her belly, between her legs, and all she wanted was to move slightly. To kiss Clarke down the slope of her neck, to hover over her, look into her deep, blue eyes as she eliminated any and all distance between them—eliminated the inches of free space, eliminated the clothes, eliminated, eliminated, eliminated.

It wasn't innocent.

And she knew, she knew, that Clarke was lonely. That she was sad. That she just didn't want to be alone at night. And it was easy, it was effortless, to quell the desire welling up, to stamp out her needs, her wants, and focus only on Clarke. It was easy to move away, create distance rather than eliminate it.

It was always easy. Until it wasn't.

The kiss was supposed to be innocent. A 'practice run' Clarke had called it, in case they needed to kiss in front of anyone (a point made by Carol after they came back from their trip to the grocery store, barely acknowledging each other).

"You two are colder than the weather. It's ridiculous. I can't even believe you're friends, let alone girlfriends."

"Mrs. Griffin—"

"All you do is say no, Lexa. Come on. What if someone asks you to pucker up? They always do that in the movies." Clarke had agreed, claimed it would be quick—a dry run. She had grabbed Lexa's hand and led her upstairs, surprising her by stopping on the second floor, pressing her against the wall, crashing her lips to Lexa's.

It was supposed to be innocent.

But Clarke was warm and tasted like hot chocolate, she was warm and her hands gripped Lexa's waist, she was warm, and she tilted her head to the side, deepening the kiss. Because when Lexa's hands went up to her neck, to tangle in her hair, Clarke let out a soft moan, pressing even further into her—as if she wanted them to become one, to eliminate the distance, eliminate, eliminate, eliminate.

It was supposed to be innocent.

It wasn't innocent.

It wasn't innocent, and it was hard—it was near impossible—for Lexa to break away, to breathe, to push Clarke back, to shake her head.

"Stop," she managed, one word, one word, somehow making Clarke's face fall with the one word.

"That was—"

"Wrong." She shook her head some more, not meeting Clarke's eyes, not wanting to see more anger, more hate, more revulsion (she had seen all that and more after Finn, she was tired, oh so tired. It used to be easy. It used to be so very easy). "I'm sorry. I got carried away."

"Right," Clarke said after a moment, and Lexa's eyes flitted up to meet hers, shocked by the desolation she saw. "Me too. It didn't mean anything."

"Right. Nothing."

"So...?"

"We're good." She coughed, clearing her throat. "I'll, uh. Let Mrs. Griffin know."

"That's a bit weird, right?"