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Six years ago, on New Years Eve, Clarke and Bellamy were the only ones of their friends who were single, and suddenly faced with the only ones without someone to kiss at midnight crisis.
So, after a few drinks, they made a pact.
If they were in this same position in six years, they’d say fuck it and get married.
And well, after agreeing to a marriage pact, not kissing each other seemed silly, so at midnight, they did that too.
They were in Monty’s kitchen, and Bellamy pressed her up against the counter, and it may have lasted for a few more minutes than it needed to.
(Her tight braid was a little mussed and she couldn’t keep from staring at the spot where her red lipstick had transferred onto his skin, after.
She went into the bathroom before returning to the party, fixing her hair to how it had been before and smoothing out her dress. Even as the party started to wind down after, Bellamy never did rub away that hint of red.)
So a tradition is started. On New Year’s Eve, they get tipsy, make out a little, and ring in the year together.
They’ve both dated over the years, of course they have, and Clarke’s not really sure how they have managed it, but they’ve been single every New Year’s Eve.
The thing is they never talk about it. The marriage pact. The making out at midnight. It never comes up outside New Year’s. Their friendship, somehow, isn’t impacted by this.
So when the day comes, and Clarke shows up at Monty’s at 9, the nerves start setting in.
By 10, she’s only seen Bellamy in passing, a hey when he shows up, a ‘scuse me, princess when he squeezes passed her for the kitchen, an across the room smile here and there.
At 11, she sees Bellamy laughing with Echo in the corner of the living room, and that seems like a sign she’s can’t ignore. It’s not happening. She doesn’t even know what she was expecting. So she stops holding her breath, she stops subconsciously looking for him when she enters a new room. She drinks a glass of champagne and talks with Raven and Emori and Wells.
Everything changes ten minutes to midnight. Everyone has somewhere else to be, Emori and Wells disappearing, a vague excuse on their lips before slinking away to some other part of the party.
(She knows it must be her imagination, but it feels a bit like everyone is keeping their distance from her tonight.)
Then Raven asks her to get her some champagne from the kitchen.
Clarke does so, with a tad bit of hesitation.
But when she returns to the living room, everything stops.
Bellamy’s standing in the middle of the room, the entirety of the party standing behind him, like they’ve lined up for a much awaited concert, even despite the music that had been playing all night having been turned down to a soft hum.
She has no idea how time passes, but when Bellamy steps up to her and gently takes the two flutes of champagne from her hands, smiling nervously as he sets them down with slightly shaky hands, her heart stops in its tracks.
What is happening?
“I know we said six years ago that if we were still single today, we should get married.” Breathe, Clarke. Breathe. “But I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I kind of want the rest of it, too. Dating, making out when we’re not drunk, and, uh—” He seems to remember there’s a gaggle of people behind him, steaming with barely contained excitement, cheeks flooding with a faint hint of color. “All of the other stuff.”
Her heart comes back with a vengeance, beating so wildly and rapidly she could barely even think, her brain moving from one thought to the next without any tangible connection.
Her eyes flicker downward when his arm moves, hand digging into the pocket of his dark colored pants. She sees the flash of a heart-shaped box covered in red velvet and breathing goes out the window. “So, Clarke Griffin, would you maybe, possibly, consider marrying me in a couple years if you don’t get tired of me first?”
Despite her shock, she can still hear Harper whisper-shouting to Monty, “That’s not the line we rehearsed!”
“I hate you for doing this in front of everyone.” Not in a million years did she imagine that would be her answer, but on the other hand, not in a million years did she think she’d be hearing that question tonight.
He drives her insane. (She loves him.)
“I made the mistake of letting Harper in on the ring shopping, so it was kind of inevitable after that,” he responded instantly, and Clarke’s eyes move to Harper, who gives her an anxious smile and a guilty wave. Okay, yeah, Clarke can see how that would snowball, knowing their friends. “So is that a yes?” He adds, careful hopefulness across his face.
“Yes, you idiot,” she shoves his shoulder and he pulls her in for a hug, so fluid and smooth it’s like they both knew it was going to happen. His face disappears behind a curtain of blonde to rest at the crook of her neck just as she wraps her arms around him, and even amongst the screams and shouts of all their friends, there has never been a more peaceful place than this.
Eventually, they pull away, and with a hand that still shakes just the tiniest bit, he slips the ring on her finger.
It glints under the fluorescent lights.
“This better not be expensive,” Clarke says, a pressure in her chest that she can’t quite explain as his hand still holds hers.
Bellamy grins, the prettiest smile she’d seen out of him all night, the kind of cheek that only he could pull off. “Fifty bucks on Etsy.”
She breathes out a laugh, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. There’s a red stain from her lips that gets left behind, just like six years ago.
“Besides,” he says, clearing his throat nervously, tangling his fingers with hers, the cold of the ring pressed between their skin, “I’d give you my mom’s ring.”
“I think future me would love that,” she responds softly, a gentle smile on her lips to match his anxious one.
His gaze drops to her lips and a flurry starts in her stomach at the way he looks at her, not like she’s delicate, not like she’s new, but like she’s real. Every New Year’s Eve they’ve shared has always been surrounded by this sense of surrealism, something almost magic-like, a ghost that turns to flesh one night and disappears back behind the veil when the sun rises.
But this, right here, it’s real. And tomorrow, it will be real. And the next day and the day after that and the day after that.
They have a shot at this. A real, tangible shot.
“Okay, I love you guys and I can’t wait to tell Bellamy I told you so,” Monty cuts in, loudly and efficiently for how soft-spoken he usually is. “But it’s almost midnight and we still have an offense amount of booze left, so let’s ring in the New Year like a bunch of delinquents!”
There’s a sudden burst of noise, hoots and hollers, and Monty sends them a wink as he leads the pack towards the kitchen.
“So, how many glasses have you had?” Bellamy asks when the noise settles into a leveled tone, excited chattering, both about the New Year and about how stupid they both are, wafting around the apartment. Nothing new there.
“Just one,” Clarke answers, just half a second too quick.
Bellamy shoots her a look.
“Okay, maybe two.” She caves, giving him a pearly, too-sweet smile.
“You wanna spend the next five minutes getting tipsy and then make out while a shiny ball drops in New York?” He counters, and it’s the best question he could have ever asked her.
She untangles her fingers from his so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders, lets his own encircle her waist before answering. “Absolutely.”
When she presses her mouth to his, it’s meant to be short and fleeting, but he catches her lips in a kiss that’s much more heart-pounding, leaving her dizzy.
“On second thought, staying right here sounds better all of a sudden,” he murmurs against her, low and sultry.
“Tell you what,” she says, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, catching a shiver that makes her smile. “If you come get drinks with me right now, and let the gang bully us for a few more minutes, then we can dip out early and you can come home with me tonight.”
He blinks, like somehow this was the last thing he was expecting. She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and she can see the flurry of thoughts racing through his mind through his warm brown eyes.
“Really?”
“It’s been six years, Bellamy.” She answers, her nails knotting into his hair as she pulls him down for another kiss, this one far less sweet and innocent, and the way he instantly melts into her signals that it definitely works. When she pulls away, it’s to whisper in his ear, “And it’s about time you prove it was worth the wait.”
When she pulls away for real, she sees his tongue swipe over his lower lip, she sees the warmth in his eyes turn to heat, she sees a mixture of obedience and stubbornness that makes her sure it will be.
“Okay, princess,” he agrees, low and gravelly, like he’s trying with effort to control the intrigue in his voice, but it falls apart halfway. “Deal.”
Grinning, she gives him another chaste kiss to the cheek, still stained with her own mark.
“Cool. Now you wanna go make out in front of our friends and make them regret getting so involved in our love life?” Clarke asks, all pep and sweet smiles, as if she didn’t have him wrapped around her little finger in a moment’s notice.
He laces their fingers together, “After you.”