Bellamy didn't see Clarke for the rest of the year. The chill December days began to resemble his mood, each day more morose than the last. After Kane picked up the Griffin women from the airport in Westchester, he dropped them off at the family home on the outskirts of Hyde Park. Clarke hadn't called Bellamy back and other than the occasional visit by Kane, neither of the women had interacted with the world. A funeral date was set for mid-January, but that was it.

He'd tried texting her and when he'd gotten no response, he'd driven to her house and watched from the end of the long driveway as she and her mother prepared dinner in their bright kitchen. Satisfied with knowing Clarke was alive, he'd put his energy into helping Octavia through their first Christmas without their mother and getting all the extra hours that he could at the rink while community college was on break. He'd barely paid attention to his grades at the end of the semester and he knew he needed to shape up if his dream of being a history teacher was ever going to come to fruition.

Clarke Griffin was her own woman and no matter how much he wanted to hold her in his arms and take away her pain, he knew when to stop pushing. The connection they'd shared in those few months had been real and it was up to her to take the next step.

New Year Eve had never been a holiday Bellamy enjoyed much, so he was perfectly content to be on closing duty at the rink. The crowds of holiday skaters had dispersed, but the mess they left in their wake remained. Murphy had begged off to go spend his evening with his gang banger girlfriend, which left Bellamy alone to clean the piles of candy cane wrappers and spilled hot chocolate. Maybe he would have been bitter about it even a month ago, but now he found a calm in the monotonous scrubbing. There was no drama in mopping a rubber floor, only the satisfaction of seeing it clean.

He started with the locker rooms and the lobby, the areas requiring the most attention, before moving on to the rinks. The west rink was silent, it's stands eerie in the light from the lobby. He hadn't bothered to turn on the main light banks. Their glare was a little too much and he could see decently enough. Not many of the kids or their families had made it into the stands, which made the job significantly easier.

West rink done, he headed through the tunnel beneath the stands to the east rink. As he swung the door open, he stopped short. The stereo system was on and the soft strains of Swan Lake floated ethereally through the vacant rink. Frowning, he moved closer to the ice, trying to identify the source of the music. No one else was allowed in at this hour and he was fairly certain Murphy wouldn't have left Swan Lake playing on repeat.

At first all he saw were shadows, the distorted shapes of the lobby benches and tables, but then another shadow emerged from the darkness. Dressed entirely in black except the shock of blonde hair flying behind her was Clarke. He froze in place, unwilling to upset the equilibrium and reveal his presence.

She was different. Her strokes held more anger, her jumps higher and stronger. He knew she hadn't been on the ice since that fateful December day when her entire life had melted down around her, but she skated like she'd never missed a beat. She ran through her short program, the one so well weaved to Swan Lake, over and over again, as if she was expecting something new to emerge if only she skated hard enough. She must have been exhausted, but she didn't slow, didn't pause in her dance of the dying swan.

It might have been minutes, or maybe hours, time had entirely ceased to have meaning, before she finally slowed, her ragged breath echoing through the rink. She dropped to her knees at center ice, eyes staring plaintively into the distance.

He couldn't help the sudden movement of his body, didn't even have time to think before shuffled across the ice and knelt beside her. Her eyes wavered, unfocussed for a long moment, before they snapped into focus upon his face.

"Bellamy."

It wasn't a question and suddenly he had no idea what he was doing. They hadn't spoken since her dad died and all those things that had held them together, that had made her seem more familiar than strange suddenly ceased to matter. He hardly knew her. He realized with a sickening pang that he had no right to invade her space like this. He wasn't Wells or Raven or even Finn. He was the janitor.

Muscles tensing, he rose to his feet. "Sorry."

She shook her head, rising to meet him. "You don't have to go."

He swallowed thickly. "Yeah, I do."

"I don't want you to."

Her words had his heart tying itself in knots and his brain short-circuiting. "You never called."

"I had no idea what to say." She shrugged. "I still don't."

He knew that feeling at least. "I'm not sure you ever do. You just starting talking and go from there. There's no one thing you're supposed to feel or say."

Her jaw worked silently for a long moment. "Am I supposed to feel this angry?"

"There's no rule book for how you're supposed to feel," he countered, moving to stand in front of him. With her skates on, they were nearly the same height and her blazing blue eyes instantly captured his.

"I hate that he died at the moment I figured out how much I love skating. I hate that I hate that program because he died. I actually love it and now I have to hate it." Her eyes pulled him and left him breathless, but her words cut deeper, snaking into his soul.

"Have you skated it?" That certainly explained why she'd been trying the Swan Lake program over and over again. It, at least, was not a symbol of death to her.

Fear skated across her face as she shook her head. "No."

He studied her for a long moment. "Is it still on your phone, the music?" She nodded, her expression uncertain. "Then skate it now."

Clarke looked for all the world like she was going to refuse, but after an infinite moment of her eyes searching his, she nodded. He followed her to the music box, silently watching as she switched songs on her phone and skated to her starting position. His finger hovered over the play button, waiting for her stillness. She slowly settled into her opening pose, her body melting into position like molten chocolate. Bellamy took a deep breath, never taking his eyes away from her, as he pressed play.

She sprung into action, the drum beats channeling her aggression into a swift and powerful dance. Her dark figure sailed across the ice at breakneck speed, her fury pouring out and tearing him apart. He could feel how broken she was, how lost she was. She was falling to pieces on the ice in front of him and he could do nothing but fall with her. Clarke's footwork lacked the clarity it had in her usual performances, but where it lacked sharpness it gained feeling. She was a black cloud of grief incarnate. He could see his pain in hers, his loss in hers.

The last drum beat shook the rink, but she stood tall now. Her shoulders shook, but her eyes were clear as they bored into Bellamy's. He moved toward her, Odysseus drawn to his Siren. Up close, he could see the sweat coating her skin, feel the heat she radiated as she panted before him. Her lips were parted, her breath ghosting across them as she gulped down oxygen.

Clarke's eyes swept across his face, pausing at this lips before returning to his eyes. Her gaze was haunted, but he could hardly resist her spell. Bellamy could feel every shift of her body, every hitch of her breath as he leaned toward her. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming for him to stop, but he no longer cared. He needed to taste her, to taste her grief and soothe it with his own. She was blazing hot against his chilled hands as they cupped her face, his eyes never leaving hers.

Then suddenly she was against him, her mouth opening against his, demanding all that he could give. A moan cut the silence and it took him a moment to realize the strangled sound had come from his lips. He could feel her everywhere, every inch of her heat pressing against him. Kissing her was everything he'd imagined and yet something else entirely. She was soft and hard, submissive and strong. Her moans were bits of heaven sent to him on Earth. He couldn't get enough of her, of the slide of her tongue against his own, the pull of her teeth upon his bottom lip, the grip of her hands upon his waist, The tangle of her fingers in his hair.

For a long while, she was everything and then she pulled away, brilliant blue eyes blown wide. Her hand flew to her lips, as if just realizing what had happened.

"It doesn't have to mean…" Bellamy couldn't bring himself to finish, to lie.

She shook her head fiercely. "No, it means something."

His tensed muscles loosened as her words sunk in. "But now isn't the right time."

The tension holding Clarke eased, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes were full of sorrow as she met his stare. "Not now, but not so long either. I think I need to figure out some things about me first."

Bellamy nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I get that. You know you don't have to go to Nationals if you don't want."

Clarke nodded, "I know, but I think I'll go this year for him and then go from there."

"If that's what you want."

"It is." She moved closer to him, her intensity sending shivers on his spine. "I want to do this right now, but I don't want to keep doing it. I'm going to apply for college this spring and then…" a wry smile spread across her lips. "And then, you and I, Bellamy Blake, are going to have a lot to talk about."

He couldn't help but smile back. "Is that so, Princess?"

Clarke eyes danced impishly as she leaned forward until it took all his energy not to grab her again and kiss every inch of her. She let her lips ghost over his for an infinite moment before backing away. "Yes."

She spun on her skates and took off across the rink. He merely watched her, eyes drinking in every edge and pose with a hunger he'd never felt. He knew they needed time, both of them, but when their moment came, was it going to be epic. Until then, he'd let her skate circles around him. He smiled as he watched her vault through the air and land with a satisfying whoosh, blade cutting deeply into the ice.