Fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff. Thanks to @gingerniiiija for the prompt, holiday seasons, which I twisted a bit to get here.
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“Hey, Bea.”
“Hmm?”
They’re in a hammock, acquired on a whim by Ava on a trip to the city and strung up by Beatrice in one of the groves a little further away from the Cradle. It’s a lazy afternoon, something Beatrice is learning to allow herself more, and she’d abandoned her book some time ago, focusing instead on the press of Ava’s body and unhurried kisses and the warmth of the springtime sun. Ava’s nose is tucked into her neck, and she feels the question in the breath against her collarbone.
“Wanna go on vacation with me?”
“Vacation?”
There’s a jostle, the hammock swinging unevenly until Ava employs the halo, a distinct hum and small glow, to finish hauling herself overtop Beatrice. She rests her arms across Beatrice’s chest and her chin on her wrist as she looks up at her. She is, as always, beautiful, hair a little wild and bright brown eyes wide and excited.
“Yeah!” She bites her lower lip, and Beatrice thinks idly that she’d like to take it for herself, refrains because Ava is telling her something, is excited to tell her something. She files the desire away for later. “I was thinking maybe France? The beach? We have time now, and we can afford it.”
They do have time, war no longer on the horizon, and they can afford it, the Church having set up very generous accounts for them both shortly after Ava’s return.
(She asked questions, of course, when she was unceremoniously handed an account login and a new debit card, numbers so high she had to read them three times to be sure she wasn’t mistaken. Ava, looking at the information on her own account, said simply, “Holy shit.”
“It’s the very least they can do,” Camila said dismissively, already back to reading her book.
“Indeed,” Mother Superion added from her own chair, “And you will continue to receive pay, of course. We can discuss the details when you’ve decided whether you’d like to stay and what you’d like to be doing.”)
Beatrice thinks for a moment, finds all of the excuses not to go far less convincing than the hopeful eyes blinking up at her. It’s a gift of peacetime that she doesn’t take for granted, the ability to say yes to Ava.
“I think you’ll love Nice.”
It’s only the halo that saves them both from toppling to the ground with Ava’s enthusiastic response, Beatrice wrapped around Ava like a koala as she laughs and then lowers them gently back into the fabric, kissing her in apology.
-
They leave two weeks later, after wrapping up a training series with some of the new recruits. Ava is delighted by everything, starting with the airport, and Beatrice knows, as she watches her girlfriend talk excitedly with a six year old about the plane taking off from the gate next to theirs, that this is going to be wonderful.
She spent most of her life surrounded by people who had everything and made a show of thinking it was nothing. Blasé discussions of trips to Vienna and Moscow and Santiago, vineyards and exhibitions and Michelin stars. She was ashamed, when she first got to know her sisters, of the distance between her life and theirs. She was ashamed of the respect Lilith granted her based on her last name. She was, most of all, ashamed to find that she had learned to take so much for granted herself.
Ava takes nothing for granted. It had been difficult for Beatrice, at first. She’d given her whole life to duty and service, and Ava was so focused on herself, on her own life. She hadn’t understood, at first. But teaching Ava to swim, watching her practice her letters every night, listening to her sing terribly in the shower and learn the names of all of the regulars, Beatrice saw an unfamiliar appreciation for life. She sees it still, although now its more selfish edges have been tempered by security and maturity and love. She is learning, with each lazy afternoon and late-night baking experiment and reality television marathon with Dora and Camila, to feel it herself. Still duty and service, of course. But she’s trying for balance, these days.
“Bea!” Ava squeezes her hand as they fly over the coastline. She’d given her the window seat, happily, and she leans into her now to get a better view of the ocean, letting Ava’s excitement catch hold of her, too.
After dropping their bags in the hotel, their first stop is the Mediterranean. Ava loves the beach, and Beatrice loves watching Ava on the beach, the seemingly endless joy she gets from letting the waves wash over her feet. She also loves the warmth of Ava’s skin after a day in the sun, the way she leans back into Beatrice on the balcony of their hotel room and shamelessly weaves her hand into Beatrice’s hair, tugging her down and letting out a pleading noise that Beatrice understands and responds to immediately, trailing kisses across the precious skin bared to her. Beatrice lets herself go, tries to let every bit of the love she feels make its way to Ava through the press of her lips and the touch of her fingers. She thinks, as she feels Ava come apart underneath her in the hotel bed, the salt of the ocean on her skin, that this must be joy.
On their second day in the city, Ava takes her shopping. Beatrice doesn’t own things appropriate for this weather, for the beach, and she knows this, so she agrees with only some trepidation to spend their morning finding clothes. Ava, who has a collection of things that work in this kind of weather, finds a pair of high-waisted black shorts that she loves and that make Beatrice feel a little stupid when Ava comes out of the dressing room, tanned skin on display. Mostly, though, she finds things for Beatrice. Or, she helps Beatrice find things for herself.
She knows what Beatrice wants. She’d spoken it quietly into the darkness of their room at Cat’s Cradle as Ava traced her fingers over Beatrice’s ribs and listened to her heartbeat. They had a rare day of freedom, in the time when things were still so unsure, and Beatrice and Ava and Camila wandered into one of the smaller local towns to see a movie and get ice cream. They passed a couple on the sidewalk, and it was nothing more than a moment, but Ava watched Beatice’s eyes track one of the women, wearing dark green chinos and a patterned button-down, all in a masculine cut, tattoos visible below her rolled sleeves and boots deep brown and well-worn.
“I think when we…I think after…that I’d like to try to find clothes that make me feel…more like myself.” Ava pressed a kiss to her sternum. “I love that. I’m so excited for you to get to do that, baby. We can go shopping together, if you want.”
Now, she steps into the men’s section without any kind of hesitation, and Beatrice follows. Ava pulls a shirt, a green linen henley, and holds it out in front of her, tiling her head slightly. She must like what she sees, because she turns to Beatrice with a question in her eyes, hanger out in invitation. Beatrice kisses her, hard and eager and more deeply than she usually would in public, trapping the shirt between them. Ava makes a startled noise but recovers quickly, relaxing into the kiss. She uses her free hand to cup Beatrice’s jaw and pull her closer.
Beatrice can’t help herself. This girl, this girl who loves her, is standing right there, holding up clothes from the men’s section for Beatrice as though it’s nothing, as though it wouldn’t occur to her to do anything else. Beatrice knows, actually, that it wouldn’t occur to her to do anything else, that the moment Beatrice expressed that this might make her feel good, Ava was on board immediately; Ava was ready to conduct the fucking train. When she pulls back, Ava is a little dazed, which is rare, and Beatrice feels accomplished. She gets the shirt and several others, as well as some linen pants. Ava even manages to get her to try shorts, and she likes them enough that she gets three pairs.
They wander past a barber shop the next day and Beatrice finds herself stopping, watching through the window as someone gets their cut cleaned up. Ava, who loves Beatrice so perfectly that it sometimes makes her chest ache, stops behind her and presses up to rest her chin on Beatrice’s shoulder. She says quietly and without any fanfare, “I think you’d look very handsome, if you ever wanted to cut your hair that way.” She slips her left hand into Beatrice’s back pocket and presses a kiss under her jaw.
“Really? You…you wouldn’t mind? I know you love my hair.”
“Baby.” It’s so gentle. Beatrice has never been treated with such care, and she’s not sure she’ll ever be used to it. Ava’s hand slips from her pocket and meets its pair around Beatrice’s waist. “I love you. It makes me so fucking happy to see you trying things, figuring out what you like and what makes you feel good.” She tugs at the short-sleeved button-down Beatrice wears as if in demonstration. It’s one of their purchases from yesterday, linen with wide light blue and white stripes, and Beatrice feels good in it.
“I’m thinking about it.”
Ava comes around to kiss her, grinning, and then takes her hand again. “Love that. Wanna go get ice cream?”
They go back to the beach for the afternoon and then return to the hotel to get ready for their reservation at a place down the street recommended by one of the older women Ava befriended on their beach walk yesterday, bonding with them over her obvious delight in a pastry from the bakery next door to their hotel. “You must try it,” the woman, Simone, said to Ava of her favorite seafood dish, before reaching a hand out, and, at Ava’s nod, wiping flaky pastry from her cheek. Ava went a little red but Simone laughed affectionately and said, “You remind me of my granddaughter. Very beautiful. Very alive.” Yes, Beatrice thought as she made the reservations while Ava discussed additional food they must try, very beautiful and very alive.
She takes a shower while Ava naps a little, puts on new, light linen pants and a dark blue button-down. She’s finishing her braid when she hears the sheets rustle, and she turns to find Ava sitting up and blinking sleepily at her. She’s in one of Beatrice’s t-shirts and underwear, the covers kicked entirely off of one leg. Beatrice’s breath stutters, as it does sometimes when she looks at her.
“Hello, love. Did you sleep well?”
Ava’s eyes grow dark as they wander over her, and Beatrice walks toward her like she’s on a string being pulled, no conscious decision, just movement. She’s barely managed to sit on the edge of the bed before she has a lap full of Ava, who is warm from sleep and largely naked and pulls Beatrice’s hands under her shirt immediately. They do not make it to dinner, Ava promising into her skin that she’ll call to move the reservation. Instead, they eat bread and cheese with wine in their hotel room, Ava still in her t-shirt and nothing else. The fish is just as good the next night.
She hands Ava a coffee, iced with caramel and coconut milk, and settles into the seat next to her with her own, more boring latte. Ava kisses her cheek in thanks and hums happily as she takes a sip.
“So, how was your first vacation?”
Ava grins at her.
“Perfect.”
Beatrice sits her coffee in the cupholder of the airport chair and then leans forward to kiss her, her lips sweet and a little cold.
“Perfect.” Beatrice echoes. “Where do you want to go next?”
Ava’s room is the last sacred space in their apartment. A room that belongs to Ava, and Ava only. The living room is shared space, of course. Their breakfast bar holds both of their tea mugs: Ava’s in the shape of a bulldog holding a bone, her own a dark gray and white plaid pattern. The bathroom has a small stand with both of their toothbrushes and two face cloths on small hooks, one on each side of the sink. The face of the kitchen refrigerator is littered with pictures and ticket stubs and small post-it-note drawings they’ve both accumulated over the last few months.
We exist, Beatrice, Ava likes to tell her. If we died and someone came to pack us up, they would know we both existed here.
It’s a morbid thought, but it rotates in her mind for days afterwards. They exist. They exist together, in this shared space. There’s two of everything - a testament to a life shared between two people who found comfort in each other. Who found a home. Their shoes are by the front door, their bills are on the counter, their sweaters tangle into knots on the couch where they dare cross the line Beatrice has drawn between them.
Ava’s room is a line. She doesn’t cross it. She lets their shared existence fill every corner of the apartment except for Ava’s bedroom. She’s never crossed the threshold. Even on the day Ava moved in, she dutifully passed her boxes from the living room, marveling at the idea that one person who existed in a single dorm room for a handful of months could accumulate so many things.
She’s not sure that Ava even noticed. If she did, she didn’t say anything about it. Because she’s kind and takes Beatrice’s actions into consideration with the sort of care no one else in her life has ever shown.
But that’s par for the course. Ava is unlike anyone else in her life.
It’s why Beatrice is so careful. She’s gotten used to having this unusual, perfect thing in her life. She’s gripping it tightly with two hands, firm enough to keep it in one place but soft enough that it doesn’t break. It took her years to learn that grip and only a month with Ava to master it in a whole new way.
She should know by now, after seven months, that being careful around Ava is never careful enough.
“Blue or green?” she hears Ava call from inside her room.
Beatrice sighs, resting her pencil tip against the page she’s taking notes on. “Ava.”
Ava’s head pops around the doorframe. She’s smiling in a way a younger Beatrice would have called dashing or roguish. It’s charming. Infuriatingly so. Ava knows it—has never forgotten it since the time Camila said it out loud one night when Ava convinced them to try roller skating at some wooden rink nearby. That smile is a weapon, a carefully drawn bow whose range Beatrice can never escape from.
“Blue or green?” she repeats.
“I’m afraid I need a bit of context, Ava.”
Beatrice resists the urge to rub tiredly at the space between her eyes. Finals week is upon them. She’s prepared - has been preparing all semester - but then her Early Christian Women’s professor gave her some last minute feedback to restructure her entire research paper. It’s left her molded to the stool at the breakfast bar for the last three days, the entire top of it covered in color-coded index cards and texts she’s expressly forbid Ava from going anywhere near.
Ava pinky promised that she would listen. Beatrice would have accepted a confident “okay,” but Ava had taken it a step further, tightening her grip on Beatrice’s pinky and pulling her whole hand up to her mouth as Ava kissed her own fist, eyes on Beatrice the whole time.
“There. Now it’s really a promise.”
Beatrice thinks maybe she didn’t have enough friends growing up. Or that she didn’t have enough friends like Ava growing up. Because she’d never heard of this particular kind of promise. Shannon had made a face when Beatrice asked her about it. No, I’m not making fun of you, Shannon assured her. I just mean… Bea. Come on.
Beatrice does not come on, but the next time Ava makes her promise she won’t throw all her sources out the window and develop a list of new ones, she quickly presses her lips to the outside of her own hand, eyes darting to Ava’s face. Just as a test. Just to see if she’s doing this right.
She must have. Ava beamed for hours.
“Blue paint or green paint?” Ava expands.
“For what?”
Ava extends her arm past the doorway into Beatrice’s view. A small bucket of paint, hardly larger than a box of baking soda, dangles from her fingers.
She holds back the long-suffering sigh building in her chest. “Ava.”
“I’m painting my room.”
“You’re-” Beatrice turns, notecard on Thecla abandoned. “You’re painting your room?”
Ava frowns at her like she’s the one who just announced that she’s completing a home makeover project. “I told you this.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” Ava’s arm drops to her side, and she leans a little further around the doorway.
Beatrice shakes her head. “You most certainly did not. Because I would have remembered that.”
“You can’t remember everything I say.”
I do. The thought nearly makes its way to Beatrice’s tongue, but she bites it back. She certainly can’t admit that, though she thinks Ava would, if she was in her position. Ava has always been more free in her words, in her certainty.
“I would have remembered this,” she repeats.
Ava shakes her head. “I definitely told you I was doing this. I asked if you wanted to go pick out-”
Her forehead wrinkles into a frown that Beatrice immediately wants to smooth away. She can feel Ava’s skin under her fingertips, warm and soft. She blinks.
“Huh. Maybe I mentioned it to Mary, now that I think about it.” Her face brightens without Beatrice’s help. “I guess I’m telling you now.”
“You can’t- You can’t paint your room.”
Ava nods like she understands. “I can’t paint it alone, no. I’ll need help. Oh! A paint party!”
“No, I mean-” Beatrice takes a deep breath. “We would lose our security deposit if you paint the walls. It’s in our rental agreement.”
That doesn’t seem to bother Ava. “We can just paint it back when we move out. Or if we never do, then no one will ever know.”
If we never do. The words are like a lightning bolt in her chest. If we never do implies that Ava has thought about living with her indefinitely. That Ava has considered the possibility of a future where they're still in each other’s lives, where they’re still living in this same apartment doing the same things together. Movie nights and take out and reading while Ava watches something on TV, and talking about the few hours they spent apart and deciding where to take weekend trips and what new household decoration Ava is going to talk her into.
Their life in shared spaces, for everyone who visits to see.
Forever roommates.
The thought is too overwhelming for her to breathe properly.
“So, will you help me pick a color?” Ava continues on as if Beatrice isn’t slowly burning from the inside out. “I’m thinking green. Blue seems more like your color. Hey! We can paint your room next.”
Beatrice shakes her head. “Ava, no.”
Ava either doesn’t hear her, or pays her no mind. “I got this cool mint color. It looks like mint chocolate chip ice cream!”
“Mint,” she repeats, voice strangled.
Ava beams. “It looks like our toothpaste.”
Dread washes over her, as cold as ice cream out of the freezer against her tongue. Their toothpaste is a frightfully minty green color that always catches Beatrice off guard no matter how many times a day she’s brushed her teeth, even after the ;five months since Ava started buying it. It’s a sickly green, almost. Certainly not something that should be on a wall, let alone four of them. Ava’s room would glow, practically radioactive.
“No,” she insists. “Not that color.”
“Come see it. Then you’ll understand.”
She moves without meaning to, without giving much thought to it. Ava calls like a siren, and she swims out to meet her. She gets as far as the couch before the water comes up to her chin and she stops again.
“I don’t think you should paint your room.”
Ava waves away her concern. “It’ll be fine. The whole room is just so… white. We need a little color in our lives, Bea. A little bit of… spice.”
“A little bit of spice.”
“You know. Excitement.” Ava is firmly in the doorway now, paint can hanging at her side. “We can’t live with white walls forever.”
Why not? she wants to ask. She grew up with white walls. Pristine ones. Washed down every week by their housekeeper. Sanitized. She pauses. Ava might have a point.
But their landlord would not approve of it. And Beatrice intends to stick by the rules. She opens her mouth to say so, but Ava cuts her off.
“Come here. Just have a look.” She pads forward on bare feet and curls her fingers around Beatrice’s wrist, tugging her forward gently enough that Beatrice could step back, break their connection if she needed to.
She doesn’t. Not yet.
But she gets closer and closer to Ava’s doorway, to the raised threshold that separates her from this last sacred space. Ava is stepping back over it, eyes on Beatrice, and then her toes are bumping against it and she stops. Their arms stretch between them for a moment before Ava catches up and steps forward so they hang loosely again.
Ava waits for her. Always waiting for her. It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s not fair that she’s always waiting for me.
“So, I have something to admit,” Ava says slowly, pulling her out of her head. She’s smiling sheepishly, her head ducked a little as she searches Beatrice’s face. “I might have already painted a few swatches on the wall.”
“Ava.”
“Just a few,” she rushes on. “Small ones. Like, the size of a book. A small one! I’m sorry, I just wanted to see what they looked like.” She strokes her thumb over Beatrice’s wrist. “The mint kind of looks horrible,” she admits.
Beatrice fights that never-ending sigh again. “Of course it does.”
“But the other green looks good! It’s kind of turquoise-y, actually.” Ava’s forehead wrinkles into a frown that lingers for just a second. “Greener than a normal turquoise, though. Almost like the sea. Like - okay, just look.”
Ava’s hand falls away, and she takes a step back into her room. She’s looking at the wall, eyes moving quickly over what Beatrice assumes is the paint swatches she’s done there.
She eases her weight onto the ball of her foot. The floorboard creaks under it. Ava is still looking at the wall, still studying her choices. Beatrice feels a ripple of fear race through her. It’s just a room. Their apartment is made up of rooms. But it’s Ava’s room. Opening this door, crossing this line - she’s not sure she can come back from that.
Ava meets her eyes again and tips her head in that effortlessly endearing way, a soft smile on her face that immediately ebbs the fear away. Ava crooks a finger in her direction, beckoning her forward. It’s like a piece of string loops its way around Beatrice’s wrist and it pulls.
“You’re going to like the turquoise,” Ava says just quietly enough for Beatrice to hear. Another siren’s call.
She’s a strong swimmer. She can survive this. Her toes brush the raised threshold, and then they’re curled over the other side of it as her shoulders breach the doorway. The air shifts. She feels a little lightheaded. The lights seem dimmed, lowered. She holds her breath and waits for God to strike her down, and when nothing happens, she silently exhales a thin stream of air.
She doesn’t go further than that. Her body doesn’t seem to want to move past the invisible line that goes from the ceiling down directly to the floor. Her eyes immediately go to the wall Ava was looking at.
She was correct. The mint looks horrible.
“I know,” Ava says, reading her mind. “It looked a lot better at the store. Maybe it’s the light?”
It takes Beatrice a minute to reply, almost as if the words were a trade for tipping forward into Ava’s room. “I don’t think different lighting is going to help this.”
Ava studies it for another moment before she nods decisively. “You’re right. But what about this green-turquoise?” She moves and touches her finger to the wall. It comes back with a sticky greenish color. She frowns at it. “Huh. Thought it’d dry.”
“I like it,” Beatrice allows. “But Ava-”
“I promise we’ll paint it back. I just…” Ava stops, running a hand through her hair. She leaves behind a smudge of turquoise on her forehead, disappearing into her hair. “It’ll be easy to paint back. Please, Bea?” She clasps her hand in front of her, holding them to her chest. “Pleeeease?”
They both realize she’s going to give in at the same moment. Beatrice didn’t think she had any tells, has always prided herself on being someone fully in control of their actions, emotions, and facial expressions. Lessons learned from her parents that she actually appreciated. Expressive got you in trouble, gave too much away. She spent years tightening up to prevent anyone from knowing too much.
Ava does not carry the same burden. And Ava, it appears, has learned to recognize when Beatrice is on the cusp of expressing too much, of giving in. Maybe she’s giving it away in the quick pull of the corner of her mouth. Maybe there’s something in her eyes, a flicker of acceptance. Maybe she clenches her hand into a fist, a small flex of her muscles. Maybe she shifts her weight. Maybe she blinks too many times.
Whatever it is, Ava sees it in her. And she grins, the light in the room becoming impossibly brighter.
“I want nothing to do with this,” is what she decides to say.
Ava claps her hands together. “You won’t regret this.”
“I’m sure I will.”
It doesn’t dim Ava’s smile. “When I’m done, you’ll see how much it brings this place to life. And then we talk about your room. And the living room! Oh, and wouldn’t the kitchen look so great if we painted it some kind of blue? I saw a swatch at the store that looked exactly like the water in the Blue Grotto. I want to go there one day. I always thought it would look-”
Beatrice steps back. Something that was fizzling inside of her fades, though she didn’t know it was there until she felt its absence. Ava is still going on – the bathroom would look good in pink. With black and white tiles on the floor – but Beatrice feels a sense of calm come over her, and she takes her first deep breath since she crossed the threshold.
Ava stops. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” she says sheepishly.
“It’s okay.” And it is. Beatrice doesn’t mind getting swept up in Ava’s elaborate plans. “But I’m going to go back to my homework.”
Ava flashes her a thumbs up. Her finger is still stained turquoise. “Okay. But you’re not studying for too long. We can’t have a repeat of this weekend.”
Beatrice feels her face flush. “I swore I went to bed.”
“You did. Standing in front of the refrigerator. I thought you were going to fall over.”
“I’m very disciplined.”
Ava grins. “Well, put a cap on studying tonight. When I’m done with the first coat, we’re going to get something to eat.”
She pretends to be annoyed by this, just because she likes the way Ava narrows her eyes playfully and shakes a finger at her. She’s not disappointed when Ava does exactly that before turning back to the stool she stole from the kitchen where she’s stacked two small paint cans, one open and one closed, and a paint roller.
Crossing the room back towards her homework is easier than going the distance from it to Ava’s room. She feels lighter with each step. She sits back down, her intention to focus on this paper she’s supposed to submit in two days (but feels nowhere near completion). Work, then break. As long as she works for the next hour, at least, then she can offer to buy Ava Indian food and ask her to watch a documentary about a filmmaker befriending an octopus. Cedrick, in her Study of Film elective, had suggested it to her. She doesn’t think it’ll be hard; Ava has said more than once that she thinks octopi are cute.
But as thoughts of Ava and octopi float in her head, some of the words Ava just mentioned start to register in Beatrice’ brain. Ava never mentioned the Blue Grotto before. They’re inching closer to the end of the school year and she doesn’t know Ava’s plans yet. Does she want to go backpacking across Europe? Alone? Will Beatrice have to haunt the corners of the apartment waiting for her to come back? Will Ava be different when she comes back? Will she forget about Beatrice?
Will she find a new forever-roommate in another city and leave Beatrice on her own?
Her homework is suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. She can’t focus on Eve or Thecla or their impact on the religious narrative. She can only think about the possibility of spending the summer alone - Mary and Shannon are going on a graduation trip across Spain, and Camila secured a summer internship with a tech startup company, and even Lilith found a program that allows her to travel for the few months before the start of the fall semester.
Beatrice’s big plan is to work at the campus library, splitting her time between shelving books, starting her graduation capstone project, and Ava. The practical side of her knows she should try to make that time an even three-way split, but the more she thinks about the coming months, the more adventures she keeps coming up with in her head. Things she wants to do and try with Ava, because she knows it’s on Ava’s list. They could visit the Prado Museum. Take a long weekend and travel to some seaside town where Ava could practice swimming in the waves. They could find new restaurants and new hiking trails. She’d even let Ava convince her to try roller skating. Again.
Beatrice hasn’t told her yet, but she has the whole summer mapped out. And Ava is embedded into every bullet point of that. It just hadn’t occurred to her that Ava might have her own plans. Ones that didn’t include Beatrice.
“Ow!”
Beatrice’s head snaps up. The sudden noise is followed by a heavy thud, thud and a rattle as something hits the floor. She’s up and moving before she has time to second guess herself, crossing the apartment in long strides until she’s reaching Ava’s room.
She crosses the threshold in a breath, suddenly plunged into the smell of paint and the sight of the bright lights Ava has rigged up in the center of the room. It nearly blinds her and she quickly looks at the ground.
Ava is lying on the thick, plush navy rug at the bottom of the bed, body curled in on itself as she clutches her foot. A small unopened can of paint is rolling slowly away from her towards the corner of the room. Ava groans loudly and turns her face into the rug as her whole body expands with a breath.
Beatrice drops to her knees, ignoring the dull ache that rockets up her thighs into her hips. She grabs Ava’s shoulders, turning her onto her back as her eyes scan Ava’s face for any blood or bruises. Her hands follow the same path, tucking Ava’s hair behind her ear and trailing her thumbs across the flat of Ava’s cheeks.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
Ava’s eyes flutter closed, and Beatrice immediately becomes concerned about a concussion. Her fingers slide to the base of Ava’s head, and she applies a little pressure to tip it back. Ava’s still blinking up at her but as the light reflects against the honeyed color of her irises her pupils shrink. Beatrice heaves a relieved sigh. No concussion.
“Bea,” Ava groans again. She turns her face into Beatrice’s palm. “I think I broke it.”
Beatrice’s hands fall from Ava’s face and skim down her shoulders to her elbows, cupping them gently. “Let me see,” she says softly.
Ava shakes her head. “Just leave me behind.”
A rush of fondness ripples through her. She presses her fingertips into Ava’s bare arms, the sleeves of her This may be cheesy but I feel grate t-shirt brushing against the backs of Beatrice’s knuckles. “Ava,” she urges.
“No, it’s too horrible.” Ava’s grip tightens on her foot and she immediately winces.
Beatrice slides her hands down to Ava’s slowly. She curls her fingers into the spaces between Ava’s and her foot, pushing them back until she has enough room to free Ava’s foot from its self-imposed prison. There’s a bruise already forming at the base of her toes on the top of her foot, blooming across the first three toes. She ghosts her thumb across it and Ava flinches slightly.
Beatrice’s lips purse into a frown. “I’m sorry.”
“S’okay.” Ava rolls completely onto her back, staring up at Beatrice. She’s still blinking rapidly and Beatrice is worried about a delayed concussion now.
“I think you’ve bruised it.” She presses down, gentler this time. Ava draws in a breath but doesn’t flinch away. “I don’t think anything is broken.”
Her hand drifts higher, curling around Ava’s ankle bone. It’s delicate under her fingers, the point rounded. Her other hand, still resting on Ava’s foot, goes to her other shin. There’s nothing but an expanse of smooth and warm skin under her palm.
“Good,” Ava says faintly. Her eyes go to Beatrice’s hand, lingering.
Beatrice’s eyes follow. Oh. She quickly pulls her hands away, cheeks suddenly hot.
“I didn’t mean to-”
“You don’t have to-”
They both pause, staring at each other. The air feels electric, goosebumps running up Beatrice’s arms. Her chest feels tight with unspoken words. She looks away first.
Ava’s hand on her own pulls her eyes back around. She looks at Beatrice for a long moment before she smiles a little. There’s something on her face that Beatrice can’t read, but it settles the rising tide of fear in her chest and she feels it ebb away into nothingness.
It’s not unusual, the sense of calm that comes with a simple look from Ava. It’s a peace that feels second nature now. It’s odd how seven months with Ava has untied almost all the knots her life created. Seven months isn’t very long - a blip on the radar, really. She’s had the same study group for longer than that. But these seven months have felt so monumental that it seems to have lasted years.
But Ava is monumental, so really, it does make sense.
Still. Her hands got ahead of her head. She touched before she thought, and now she’s kneeling on Ava’s floor with her hands hovering between their bodies, and Ava’s eyes are even more honey-colored than usual. The lights reflecting off the white walls makes her feel like she’s under a spotlight on a stage where everyone can see her, here in Ava’s room.
In Ava’s room, across the threshold. Completely across it.
A line she hasn’t crossed, a step she hasn’t taken. The room rushes in on her suddenly. She’s hyper aware of the faint chemical smell of paint, the too-bright lights, the rough fibers of the rug against her bare ankles, the way Ava’s laundry seems to be crawling out of the basket in the corner.
“I’m-”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Bea.”
“I’ll just-”
“Beatrice.”
Beatrice blinks. Ava’s hand has turned over in hers, her palm up. “Yes?”
“Help me up?”
Beatrice blinks again. “Oh. Yes.” She shifts back onto her heels and grabs Ava’s wrist, fingers spread to distribute her grasp so she doesn’t pull Ava’s wrist off her arm, and gently leads her forward. She wobbles as she rises, leaning into Beatrice for support, and Beatrice quickly winds an arm around her waist to steady her as she stands. They’re so close that Beatrice can feel the way Ava is breathing, the push of her ribs against Beatrice’s hand. She helps her to the bed carefully, cautious of the paint around them, and sits her down gently.
There’s more turquoise paint along her forehead, and dried paint on her fingers, and Beatrice wants to find a clean washcloth, wet it, and gently wash it away. She does the next best thing.
She picks up a rag next to the small container of water Ava must be using to clean the brushes and dips the corner into it, wetting it. She hands it to Ava and waits as she rubs furiously at her finger, washing the paint away.
“What happened?”
Ava sighs, eyes narrowing as she looks at the unopened paint can on the ground. It’s rolled across her room away from them. Luckily, the open can remains in place on the stool, the paintbrush hanging precariously on the edge of it.
“I went to reach for the paintbrush and knocked it off. Freaking thing landed on my foot. Obviously.”
Beatrice’s free hand goes to Ava’s foot. Her thumb sweeps across the bruise. Ava’s fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s forearms. “You are lucky it didn’t break anything.”
Ava shudders. “Manuel, one of the guys on my floor when I lived in the dorms, he broke his foot the first month in. He had to wear a big walking boot for weeks. It was so ugly.”
“It would hardly go with your outfits,” Beatrice agrees.
“How would I even get my jeans on?” Ava frowns thoughtfully. “I’d have to walk around in my underwear all day.”
Beatrice nearly chokes on a cough, but she swallows it back down, uncomfortable in her throat. “I think… I think you could remove it to put your clothes on,” she says, her voice too light to be her own.
Ava’s face flushes unusually. “Oh, right. Of course.” She starts to smile wickedly. “Don’t want me walking around in my underwear, of course.”
Beatrice doesn’t quite hide her blush like she hid her cough. Because she has envisioned Ava walking around in her underwear before, just with one of Beatrice’s big sweaters dusting her thighs and coming down over her hands. She quickly blinks, turning the image to black in her mind. It was a passing thought, just once. She never had it again. It was unfair to Ava to even begin to form that picture in her mind. It flashes in her head like a bang now and she tightens her grip on Ava’s wrist, suddenly aware she’s still holding on.
She goes for a strangled joke. “It would prevent Lilith from coming over.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Ava latches onto it. Her eyes light up. “Consider it done.”
Beatrice immediately concerns herself with something else. Ava’s foot.
“Let me get you some ice,” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver this time. Shannon, if she knew about this, would be proud. She’d praise Beatrice’s restraint, call it admirable.
Shannon would also probably tell her that she should do something that would completely change the trajectory of her friendship with Ava. So maybe the Shannon in her mind should be a little quieter.
“I don’t think I need ice.”
Beatrice looks down at the bruise, darker now, and then gives Ava a pointed look. It has the desired effect. Ava’s cheeks pinken and she smiles sheepishly. Beatrice nods, assured in her success, and carefully extracts her hands from Ava’s foot, standing.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises. “Don’t forget the paint on your forehead”
Ava carefully taps her foot, higher than the bruise. “Not going anywhere.”
Beatrice could argue that Ava could go somewhere. It’s not broken. It’s uncomfortable, of course. She once flexed her foot at the wrong moment and kicked a pine board toes-first. The bruise remained for weeks and the slight limp from accommodating the pain had lasted a little longer than that.
But Ava wipes her forehead carelessly and falls back onto her bed, hands hanging over each side of the bed in a T-shape as her legs dangle off the end. Her shirt rides up her flat stomach revealing a sliver of skin Beatrice wants to run her fingernail over. Ava’s eyes are closed, head tipped back just enough for her chin to lift up, exposing the long unbroken line of her neck.
Beatrice looks away before another thought rushes unbidden into her mind. Her cheeks burn.
“I’ll be right back,” she repeats, unnecessarily. Ava hums on the bed.
She doesn’t linger, striding out of the room and across the apartment. She opens the freezer, welcoming the blast of cold air against her face. She takes a moment, almost forgetting why she’s standing there. But Ava calls her name from the bedroom, and Beatrice remembers quickly. The ice maker hasn’t worked in a few weeks - she makes a mental note to have Mary look at it before she calls her landlord - but Ava only found that as an excuse to buy increasingly ridiculous ice cube trays.
It takes her a minute to decide between ice cube shapes. Ava went a little crazy online, buying shark fin-shaped ones, brain-shaped ones, ones shaped like ice monsters and another set shaped like centipedes. Beatrice decides on ones shaped like rubber ducks, twisting the silicone tray so they pop out. She wraps them in a cloth quickly so her hands don’t get too cold.
Crossing the room feels like a walk she’s made a hundred times before. She knows in her mind that it’s only been twice but now that she’s opened the flood gate, her feet move her without thought. Past the books and notes she’s abandoned, the armchair, the couch. She pauses just before Ava’s bedroom, toes against the threshold.
She crosses it as easily as she exhales.
Ava is still laying on her back, an approximation of a cross as she rests with her eyes closed. Beatrice watches her chest rise and fall as she breathes in and out evenly. There’s a beauty in simplicity, she’s always thought so. Ava only strengthens that.
“Ice,” she says quietly, unsure of why she doesn’t want to say anything at all. She doesn’t want to break this moment, startle Ava and ruin the weightlessness of it.
Ava cracks one eye open, a half-smile on her face. “You’re back.”
Beatrice holds out the ice. Ava crooks a finger at her, beckoning her closer. She hesitates. Ava pushes up, resting on her elbows now.
“I think we’ve established that I don’t bite.” That smile turns wicked again. “Unless you ask nicely.”
Her fingers clench around the ice, and she feels the cold bite at her skin. But she stays still, not giving anything else away.
Ava sits up, foot dangling over the end of the bed. She rests her palms flat against the comforter before she pushes up and stands. She puts her weight down on her foot and her leg buckles almost instantly.
Beatrice doesn’t think, arms looping tightly around Ava’s waist and pulling up her. Her fingers slide into the dips of Ava’s back, the ice trapped between one of her palms and Ava’s skin. Her feet tangle with Ava’s. Their hips are nearly pressed together, almost no space between them. Ava exhales in a noisy rush, lips twisted in a grimace. Beatrice feels the hot air against her collarbone.
“Are you okay?”
Ava tilts her head back slightly. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
Beatrice’s mouth flickers in a smile. “No.”
“Then we’ll just assume the answer.” Ava’s hands are wrapped tightly around her elbows and her fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s arms. “Wow. Do you work out?”
“You know that I do.” She keeps her voice light.
Ava’s fingers dance further up her arms, under the hem of her sleeve. She squeezes again, gently. “Yeah, well knowing you do, seeing you do it, and feeling its effects are three very different things.”
Her fingers are maddening, burning hot against Beatrice’s skin. Ava rubs her thumb in a small circle over her bicep.
“Really, Bea. You could probably crush an egg with these things.”
She frowns. “Why would I want to crush an egg?”
“Well, it’d be a way to spice up breakfast.” She presses gently, dimpling the skin. “And a killer party trick.”
Beatrice fights a shiver despite the way her skin feels like it’s burning. “I don’t go to parties.”
But that’s a lie. She does when Ava invites her. She thinks of the party they went to, the spinning disco lights and the way Ava’s body pressed against hers in the hot swell of sweaty, drunken students. She thinks of Ava slumped over on their couch later, saying she’d wait for Beatrice.
That voice that sounds just like Shannon’s whispers that it means exactly what Beatrice hopes it means. She’s never been good at telling Shannon to stop, but this is easy enough to sweep under the mental rug so it remains unknown and unseen.
Truth unknown and unseen is still truth, Shannon has said before. I read that on Pintrest.
Beatrice shakes the memory from her mind and focuses on the facts in front of her: Ava. Ava, close enough to breathe in. Close enough that Beatrice could eliminate the mere inches between them and-
“I bet you’d go to more parties if you had a party trick,” Ava interrupts.
“I doubt it.” But Ava is grinning and Beatrice can’t help but smile back. “But I’m sure you could convince Mary to give it a try.”
“I mean, Mary has decent biceps, but I don’t think she could crack an egg.”
Beatrice shakes her head. “Why an egg? Why not, I don’t know. A walnut.”
“A walnut. These are good goals.” Ava squeezes Beatrice’s bicep once more to emphasize her words. “Let’s start with an egg and work our way to something more advanced.”
The flex of Ava’s fingers against her skin pulls her from her next thought. It’s not that she didn’t notice the lack of space between them, it’s just that it’s rushing in on her now. It’s dizzying, the way Ava is standing so close. Beatrice tries to breathe in, but her chest pushes out until it nearly brushes Ava’s and she’s sucking all the air back into her lungs just as quickly.
Ava notices, eyes dropping down past Beatrice’s chin and neck before they dart up again, crinkling at the corners. She takes a step back, dropping to the bed again, the ice in her hand. She pulls one leg up under her, chin resting on her knee as she puts the ice against her bruising foot.
Beatrice blinks, oddly cool air rushing in where Ava’s body had been despite the humid air of their apartment as the spring pushes towards the hot summer. “You’ll need to ice that for a bit.”
Ava nods, adjusting the ice for a moment before she looks up and says, “So, first time?”
Beatrice frowns. “Administering first aid?”
“First time being in here. Properly, I mean.” Ava looks around, throwing one arm wide. “What do you think?”
Beatrice takes stock of her situation. It’s technically her third time being in here, but Ava is right. She’s in here properly now. Not just over the threshold or charging through barriers because Ava’s been injured. She crossed the line intentionally this time. And she remains, the walls of Ava’s room coming at her from each side without boxing her in.
Ava’s laundry flows from the hamper. Her bed isn’t quite made, but isn’t quite a mess. There are books stacked on the desk in a way that tells Beatrice Ava hasn’t opened them in some time. Hobbes sits next to them. A series of pictures is on the wall opposite her desk, ones of her and Ava and the rest of their friends. Beatrice’s eyes catalog each inch, committing it to memory in a place where she knows she’s going to see it for a very long time.
“You’re missing the best part,” Ava says. Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to startle Beatrice. She waits until Beatrice looks before she points upward.
Beatrice’s eyes follow the imaginary thread from Ava’s fingertip to the ceiling. She nearly gasps.
White-green stars dot the ceiling, filling all the space. Spider web-thin lines connect some of them, forming constellations she recognizes from the pictures Ava has shown her and the ones Ava has pointed out on rare nights when she can convince Beatrice to go out to the quad and lay on the grass to watch the night pass by. Some of them she doesn’t and she focuses on those ones, studying their shapes and trying to decide what they look like.
“Apus.” Ava’s finger moves, tracing the lines she’s drawn between the glow-in-the-dark stars. “We call it the Bird of Paradise. Derived from the Greek word apous, which means ‘footless’. There’s a story that birds of paradise were once believed to have been footless.”
“I don’t believe I know what a bird of paradise looks like,” she admits.
“My mom loved them. She’d never seen one in person, but she liked looking at pictures of them. They have these large plumes. They look so soft.” Ava sighs wistfully. “There was a nun, in the orphanage when I was first there, that called me a bird of paradise.” She pauses, eyes darting to Beatrice. “Because I was footless, you know? She reminded me of my mom. She didn’t stay long, but she was nice.”
Beatrice’s heart clenches as it always does when Ava talks about her past. But this is a softer ache, a longing to thank this woman who showed Ava a sliver of mercy.
“And that’s Grus, the crane,” Ava continues. “Originally, it was part of another constellation, Piscis Austrinus. But a Dutch astronomer defined it as its own separate constellation. Its brightest star is Al Na’ir. It’s Arabic for ‘bright one’ which feels a little on the nose.”
Beatrice studies its shape, noting the bigger star that Ava must have defined as Al Na’ir. “Why do you like this one?”
Ava thinks for a moment. “Did you know that cranes have the ability to fly over the Himalayas? They can. They can go as high as 8,000 meters. Imagine being that high up, feeling the wind in your hair.” She blinks, looking off towards the wall littered with paint swatches. “I spent so long tied to one place that the idea of being able to fly over a mountain, to graze the tip of it with a set of wings, sounded like a fairytale.”
Beatrice slides her hand over Ava’s, fingertips resting in the dips between her knuckles. “I think we could hike the Himalayas one day, if you wanted to.”
Ava looks down at their hands and blinks before her eyes meet Beatrice’s. “You think so?”
“I think you could do anything you want to do.”
Ava doesn’t blink this time, doesn’t even look away. “If I can do anything I want to do, I want to…” She pauses, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
Beatrice waits, but the rest of Ava’s sentence doesn’t come. She clears her throat. “What do you-”
“Did you see that one?” Ava asks, interrupting her and pointing up at the ceiling.
Beatrice blinks, startled at the intensity of Ava’s voice. She searches Ava’s face but it’s unreadable, a mix of something Beatrice can’t quite put a name to. So she looks up helplessly, searching for what Ava is pointing at.
“That’s Drago.”
“The dragon,” Beatrice translates. “What’s his story?”
Ava shrugs. “He’s just fucking cool.”
A sharp laugh slips out from between her lips and Ava grins widely back at her.
“So, you like it, then.” Ava looks around her room and nods to herself. “It’s a pretty great room, isn’t it?”
“It’s very… Ava,” Beatrice allows. She’s smiling though, hoping that her words don’t sting.
“Isn’t that all I can hope for?” Ava sighs and turns her hand over so her palm presses against Beatrice’s. “But can I ask another question?”
When she breathes out, “anything”, she means it.
Ava hesitates still. “You never come in here,” she says slowly. “Why not?”
Something tightens in her chest. Words rise in her throat and she swallows them back down, a reflex more than anything else. Ava must notice something pass over her face or feel the way that Beatrice’s hand jumps in hers, because strong and warm fingers stroke up her wrist as they lock around the bone, keeping her anchored to the moment.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Ava rushes on. “I’m just… curious, I guess.” She smiles crookedly. “Does it smell in here?”
Yes. Like something deep and woodsy and so uniquely Ava.
Ava’s nose wrinkles. “Does it? Because if it does, I-”
“It doesn’t.” Beatrice’s voice is too loud. “It doesn’t,” she says, softer now.
Ava’s frown doesn’t smooth out. “Then… why?”
It’s not you, it’s me, her mind supplies. She doesn’t say that. She thinks about how to put it into words, how to unpack all the things she tidied away and put in a cedar chest, locking it tight. Nothing comes from it, just an empty explanation that won’t make sense if she says it out loud.
But Ava is her best friend. And if it doesn’t make sense, if the words don’t come out right, she’ll wait patiently for Beatrice to try again. She’ll sit here, one leg tucked up as ice melts through a washcloth and she’ll wait for Beatrice to find the right words.
I’d wait for you forever, Ava had said, lips loose with party punch. And Beatrice believed her.
Ava makes her brave. Brave enough not to make an offhand joke and turn the conversation back on the open can of paint and the paintbrush quickly drying out.
Instead, she clears her throat and straightens up, the first thing she does when an image of her parents enters her mind. And Ava doesn’t let go of her wrist, moving with her instead, ebbing and flowing with her seamlessly. Beatrice turns to face Ava, watching Ava mirror her, and she exhales out the tension building in her muscles.
“Bea, if you don’t want to-”
“I do.”
She does. Holding onto these things makes her feel heavy. And almost more than anything - but not more than wanting Ava - she wants to be lighter.
Ava shakes her head. “I’m serious.”
Beatrice grips Ava’s other hand, their arms tangled around each other. “I… I have to.”
“Okay,” Ava says softly. Her smile is the same. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear.”
Ava isn’t always sledgehammer, she realizes. She thinks of her as a hammer, crashing into everything and leaving a wake of needed destruction in her wake. But Ava is also a set of picks, quietly and discreetly slipping into the lock around her. For all the stomping around she does, all the things she knocks over in her haste to get from one moment to the next, she’s also deft, hands built with finesse.
Beatrice tries to find the start. Was it Penelope Marshall? Was it the start of boarding school? Was it her parents finding her journal when she was thirteen? Was it all the time she spent with the diplomat’s daughter? Was it her fifth birthday when she cried because her parents bought her the dress with the pink frills instead of the bicycle she wanted?
“My parents…”
“I hate them.”
She doesn’t chide Ava for saying so. A deep, angry part of her hates her parents too. She smiles humorlessly. “They sent me to boarding school, as you know. When I was thirteen. Right at Christmas time. I remember it because it was my present that year. An ‘opportunity to further my education in an environment that would foster appropriate and lifelong lessons’,” she quotes. She can remember the brochure she’d been given unceremoniously, a smiling girl on the front. Even in print, Beatrice could see the hollow light in her eyes.
“Appropriate,” Ava scoffs. “Like anything they did was appropriate.”
Beatrice feels Ava’s pulse thunder under her fingers. “They said it would give me a framework for my life. Lucille Thomason had graduated from there a year before and she was going to Oxford, on her way to inheriting her mother’s social calendar. My mother always fawned over her at dinners. ‘Lucille is following the plans her mother set out for her. Lucille has accomplished so much at such a young age.’”
“Lucille sounds like a loser.”
“Lucille sounded exactly like the daughter my mother wanted.”
Ava frowns softly. “You know that you’re leagues above whoever Lucille is.”
“I didn’t think so,” she admits. “Lucille was someone to admire. Her achievements were something to strive for. She had something I so desperately wanted when I was younger: my mother’s approval. And so, when they presented the option-” She stops herself. “It wasn’t an option. But when they presented their plan, I reconciled myself with it by reminding myself that Lucille was leading a very successful life.”
“There’s more to life than success,” Ava says gently.
Beatrice smiles a little. “To you. To me. But to my parents, there is nothing more.” She takes a deep breath. “And if they were framing it as me taking an opportunity to lead a successful life, then they would forget about… the things they were discovering about me.”
Ava immediately tenses. The Beatrice she is now knows it for what it is: an attempt to contain her anger. The Beatrice she was months ago would have worried. Was Ava afraid of her? Was Ava disgusted by her? The thoughts had swirled that movie night. What if she did admit to a crush on Patricia Velasquez? Would this new person she wanted so badly to be around, without knowing why, suddenly change her mind once she found out the truth?
But Ava hadn’t. Ava won’t. Beatrice knows it with every fiber of her being. There are very few absolute truths in the world, but this is one of them.
“They read my journal, you know,” she continues. The words are coming out easily, this tiny fissure in her chest cracking open as Ava looks at her with wide and trusting eyes. “A new girl started school at the beginning of the term. Her name was Mina. Her father was in banking, I believe. She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my life.”
Ava scoffs lightly. “Blue eyes.”
She skims the pad of her thumb over Ava’s wrist. “One day, our hands brushed. It was something simple, innocent. She was passing me a paper, and we miscalculated the distance. I’m sure it meant nothing to her.”
“It meant something to you,” Ava guesses.
“I was thirteen. Everything meant something.” Beatrice sighs, feeling her chest rise and fall heavily. “And anything that meant something to me went into my journal. I just didn’t know that what went into my journal eventually landed in my parents’ hands.”
“So those bastards went through your private journal and read about some girl who touched your hand,” Ava hisses. “I swear, the minute I meet them, it’s fist to face. They don’t call me The Piraya for nothing, you know.”
“No one calls you that.”
“They might call me that, you don’t know. I have a whole superhero persona you don’t know about.” Ava puffs out her chest a little bit.
“The name Piraya implies you’re more of a villain than a superhero.”
“I’m a villain’s villain. How’s that?”
The trickle of despair of dragging this up again fades as Ava’s smile widens. She knows what Ava is doing. But she doesn’t stop her, grateful for the brevity and the way it makes her feel like she’s grounded in something, not floating listlessly and endlessly in her terrible memories.
“I mean it.” Ava’s voice drops, low and serious. “I’ll be their worst nightmare.”
“I’m afraid that role is already taken,” she says quietly. “Though, I don’t think they intended for it to be their daughter.” She sighs. She used to be her mother’s doll. But once she started moving her own parts, she found herself moving in the opposite direction.
“Bea,” Ava whispers. She tightens her grip on Beatrice’s wrist.
“I remember I wrote that touching her hand was as if the heavens opened up and I finally understood what song the angels were singing. We were in the middle of a poetry unit, and I fancied myself quite good at it.” She lets out a dry chuckle. “When I found them in the kitchen one night holding onto my journal I foolishly thought they had found out I was reading Emily Dickenson instead of studying for my science exam.”
Beatrice remembers coming down the stairs, flushed with the late November cold. Mina had invited her for dinner the next night, and she promised to show Beatrice the new video game she got. Beatrice didn’t care about those kinds of things, but no one else had gotten an invitation to Mina’s. Beatrice felt special.
But her parents’ faces had stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t notice her journal at first. It was made to look discreet, not to stand out. It had blended into her mother’s dark skirt, and it wasn’t until her mother raised it into the air that she saw it for what it was.
They asked her to explain herself. She wasn’t sure what they wanted her to explain, not at first. She stumbled through an apology about delaying her studying; she’d do it immediately and ask her teacher for an extra take home lesson. She scrambled through a rushed explanation about having new friends meant more opportunities for networking. With new friends, she could join a new club. It would do well on her list of extracurriculars.
It wasn’t until her mother spit out the name Mina that she had any idea of what she was supposed to be afraid of.
“What did they say?” Ava asks gently.
“They didn’t have to say much. There were questions about who Mina was. My mother had a particular talent of making something that wasn’t a swear sound like it. And she hissed Mina’s name like it was the dirtiest word she could say.”
Beatrice thinks of Mina now. Where was she? What was she doing? Beatrice never heard from her after she left. No letters, no calls. She came and went in her life so quickly, it was as if Beatrice made her up. The only sign that she had been there was the page missing from her journal, returned to her the night before she left for school.
“They demanded to know what she had done to me. What had I done to her? I was so confused. She had touched my hand. I certainly hadn’t…” Beatrice’s chest hitches at the thought. “It was a fleeting moment, but I learned that fleeting moments were the most damaging ones. That,” she says dryly. “And that locks do nothing to keep a determined person out.”
“Locks are meant to keep people out,” Ava all but hisses. She sighs, working her fingers up Beatrice’s arm to her elbow. They rest in the dip of her arm, right over the thin vein under Beatrice’s skin. “God, Bea. I’m so sorry. They were - are - horrible. No one should have had to go through that. Especially not you.”
Especially not you, Ava says. Like Beatrice is better than anyone else. Like she should exist under different rules.
“Of course you’re afraid,” Ava says quietly, speaking to herself. She raises her voice, talking to Beatrice now. “Of course you’re worried about even - Jesus, Bea. Touching a girl’s hand?” She looks down as if she’s suddenly noticing how she’s knotted herself around Beatrice’s arm. She laughs dryly. “What would they say if they saw us now?”
Ava means what if they saw me comforting you? Not what if they saw how I touch you like nothing else matters?
The answer would be the same: her mother would simply set fire to the room.
The chasm is widening now. She’s cracked the seam on these memories, and her mind is cycling through the events that followed: a new suitcase set, pink with her name on an address tag; a set of starched uniforms that felt like coarse wool against her skin; a final meal in her parents’ formal dining room, the chef-of-the-week uncaring of her dislike for persimmons; a single plane ticket pressed into her hand and a dismissive nod as a car pulled away from the airport, leaving her alone.
She tells Ava this in stilted words, as if narrating someone else’s life. But then it starts to sink in, the anger. And it spreads in her belly, burning into a rage. She feels the moment the numbness transitions to an inferno. She hears herself exhale the word alone and something snaps.
“They had no right,” she says. Even through her anger, the words surprise her.
Ava’s voice sounds hoarse, unused. “They didn’t.”
“I was a child. Their child.” Her hand clenches tightly into a fist, Ava’s hand moving with the flex of her forearm muscle. “A ‘problem’ arose and they just…” She stops. “They strung me along until I was no longer of use to them.”
“You are not a problem.” Ava's voice is low, burning hot in the rapidly closing space between them, in a tone she’s never heard before.
Beatrice almost startles, confused. She had nearly forgotten that Ava was here, so consumed in her story. But now she’s noticing her.
Her eyes flash. The tops of her cheeks pinken slightly. She’s angry. Beatrice has seen her on more than one occasion get angry on her behalf. The mere thought of her parents seems to send her into a flurry, but the anger in her eyes now is nearly staggering.
“You’re not,” she says again, insistent to the point of almost desperation. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”
And Beatrice, blinking, already falling, dives deeper into love with her.
-
Ava feels her cheeks go hot with a liquid anger that roils in her blood. She’s been angry before - angry at Bea’s parents, even. But this feels like pure molten rage. All of the pieces are slotting together: a young girl who just wanted to make her parents proud; who saw someone - touched someone so innocently - and felt the world shift; who didn’t understand why a cliff rose up between her and the people who were supposed to love her more than anything; who trusted so completely and had it thrown back in her face as if she was the one who somehow failed.
Ava’s fingers tighten until her fingernails cut deep half-moon shapes into her palm. She pulls the words out from between her teeth like nails scratching the floor.
“You are not a problem.”
Bea blinks. The broiling heat in her stomach softens its edge, replaced by the confusion in Bea’s eyes as she blinks again.
“You’re not,” Ava insists. She tugs Bea’s hand, pulling her closer until they’re pressed together, an almost-sweaty slide of the skin of their knees bumping together. Bea blinks a second time, mouth parting slightly. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”
She needs Bea to believe her. She’s never needed anything more in her whole life. She could live without air. She could make it minutes without oxygen. But she can’t live with another second of Beatrice believing her parents’ poison.
She coaxes Bea another inch closer. “Do you hear me?”
Bea’s mouth parts further, something on the tip of her tongue. Ava squeezes Bea’s hand a little tighter. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Bea says faintly.
Ava isn’t satisfied. “You need to believe it. You’re not a problem. You’re-” She softens her grip, thumbs Bea’s wild pulse. “You’re-”
“Don’t say perfect,” Bea whispers, eyes slamming closed. “Please don’t say perfect.”
Ava hesitates. She was going to say perfect. She was going to say frustratingly perfect. But she can pivot. There are a million other things she can call Bea - courageous, intelligent, kind, beautiful. All things she’s told Bea before and all things she’d tell her a million times more.
“Human,” she lands on. Bea’s eyes open slowly. “You’re human, just like every single other person on this big rock orbiting in space. You live like everyone else. You laugh, you cry. You love, just like everyone else. And none of that- not who you are or who you love, or even the special little rules you have for tea that took me forever to learn - not a single part of you is a problem.”
The space between Bea’s eyes wrinkles in thought. Ava usually holds herself back, usually just wishes to press it flat gently. But the line between them is so thin now that she doesn’t think twice about it, reaching up and resting her thumb between her brows, pushing gently until the skin relaxes.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks in a whisper. Bea holds so many of her secrets, one more won’t hurt.
Bea nods slowly.
“When I first met you, I was so… intimidated.” Bea’s eyes widen slightly and Ava nods. “I was. You seemed so… cool. Composed. Not at all affected by someone who crashed into your table with the grace of a… what did you call it?”
“A newborn foal,” Bea says lightly.
Ava grins, her smile widening when some of it reflects in Bea’s face. “A newborn foal. That’s a giraffe, right?” She doesn’t wait to be corrected. “I thought, I need to know who this is and I need to know everything about her right now or I’m going to combust.”
Bea rolls her eyes, the motion of her eyes disrupting Ava’s thumb, still on her forehead. She doesn’t drop her hand, being bold and dragging the blunt ends of her fingernails against the smooth skin just above Bea’s eyebrow.
“You’re very dramatic.”
“Did I pretend to be anything else?” Ava shakes her head when Bea opens her mouth. “Don’t answer that. Just know.” She sobers, breathing in and exhaling the most truthful thing she thinks she’s ever said in her life. “The minute I met you, I knew you were something spectacular. I knew you were going to change my life.”
A weight hangs between them now. Bea looks shy under it, her head ducking slightly. Ava’s fingers slip, nearly burying into Bea’s hair. She drops her hand back into her lap but curls it over Bea’s, not quite wanting to let go yet.
“Can I tell you a secret now?” Bea asks, eyes still on the space between them.
Ava nods without being seen. “Anything.”
“I never really felt like that.”
“Like what?” Ava frowns. “Spectacular?”
“Human.” Bea looks up. “I spent so long feeling like… an other. That feeling like a human just didn’t… I couldn’t make sense of that. It took some time.”
Ava smiles gently. “But you got there.”
“After-” Bea stops herself, pulling her lips in as if she’s trying to keep something from erupting out. Ava watches the thin stream of air work its way through her nose, and catches the slight shine of Bea’s eyes, the way they seem to sparkle as unshed tears fill them.
“Hey,” she says softly. “No. No, don’t cry.” She drops Bea’s hands, cupping Bea’s face. Her thumbs brush along the flats of Bea’s cheeks. “I don’t know what to do when pretty girls cry,” she admits.
Bea laughs, choked and watery. “Neither do I. But it never stops me from telling you that Lilith doesn’t actually hate you no matter how much of her fancy vodka you drink.”
“One time,” Ava mutters, lips pulled back in a smile as she pretends to be annoyed.
It works. Bea’s smile seems a little stronger. “Ava,” she says quietly.
Ava strokes down a line of freckles absentmindedly. “Yeah?”
“Can I tell you another secret?”
“You can tell me you’re responsible for bringing down the Vatican, for all I care.”
Bea doesn’t laugh, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth instead. Ava wants to press down against the smooth skin but she stops herself before her thumb drifts that low. That perfect, soft-looking skin, a breath away. She focuses, pulling herself back into the moment.
Bea’s voice is nearly a whisper when she says, “Someone thought I was spectacular once.”
“Just once?”
Another silence. Ava tightens her jaw. Listen, don’t talk. She can do that. She can be still. It’s something Bea has taught her - just be still. Just wait. It will come to you when you stay in one place. So, she’s been waiting, patient against every urge within her to jump up and down and scream.
Sometimes, these feelings for Bea are so big in her chest that she feels like she’s going to explode into a hundred stars. She pictures herself shattering as the unspoken words build in her until they can’t go anywhere but out. But Bea is something to wait for. Bea is someone Ava doesn’t mind standing still for. She knows it’s there. She knows the feelings aren’t just her and that Bea needs to find her way forward. Ava just needs to be the flashlight in the distance, waiting for Bea to find her.
“At least, I thought she thought I was spectacular,” Bea continues, almost as if she didn’t hear Ava. “She said- well, she said something close enough to it.”
Ava can feel another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. Another brick that makes up Bea’s nearly-impenetrable walls. For every one Ava manages to crack and loosen, another suddenly rises in its place. But she feels like this time, it falls and nothing slots into place.
She doesn’t stop herself from touching a freckle this time, tapping out a song she heard years ago before her hands drop again. “Was she pretty?”
She’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But Bea is doing that thing again, learning how to run without knowing how to walk. And Ava is practicing. She’s trying so hard. She stays so still that Bea could almost imagine her gone.
“People are pretty in different ways,” Bea finally says. It’s a very diplomatic answer, something so very Bea that Ava breaks her stillness to smile. “All the other girls wanted to be her. I remember someone saying that her hair was so shiny, she must brush it a hundred times on each side before bed.”
Ava can’t help herself. “Is that why your hair is always so perfect? Are you secretly combing it until your wrist hurts?”
“A brush through wouldn’t kill you, Ava.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Bea’s growing smile flickers out. “I suppose it didn’t matter if she was conventionally pretty. I…” Ava watches the way she shores herself up against an invisible storm. “I thought she was beautiful.”
“What was her name?” she asks quietly.
“Penelope Marshall.” Bea says it like a prayer.
“Penelope.” Ava suddenly creates an image in her mind. A girl with wide brown eyes, bronze skin, a perfect smile of perfect teeth, a button nose, long and shiny hair.
Bea swallows and Ava feels the click of her jaw under her palms. “She was in my year, her room just down the hall from me. We were partners in Latin.”
“I bet she copied all her answers off your test.”
“Maybe once or twice,” she admits. “She certainly did not always do her homework on time. But Sister Magdalene liked her and simply turned a blind eye every so often.”
Bea’s cheeks are warming. Ava can see it in the way they pinken.
“It’s silly, but… I remember the first time she smiled at me. I had conjugated the verb, sum, to be, in the pluperfect subjunctive. She had been trying for the better part of an hour, but the switch from esse to fui for the tenses was always confusing to her.” Bea smiles slightly. “When I gave her the answer, she smiled at me and it felt like…”
“Like the world kind of tilted off its axis?”
Bea looks surprised. “Yes. Exactly that.”
“I’m familiar with the feeling.”
Because she is. So, so, deeply familiar with the feeling. The first time she saw Bea, that first smile she got as she bumbled her way through cleaning up the few drops of tea that spilled, the world went sideways and it hasn’t completely righted itself since.
“It’s peculiar, that feeling. It sticks with you, doesn’t it?” Bea looks down. “I used to dream about it,” she admits.
“That’s normal, Bea,” she says gently.
Bea looks up again. “Is it? Because it didn’t feel normal. It felt… other. Strange. Like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Penelope would touch my arm over our Latin text, and I could see my parents poring over my journal, looking for any otherness that might exist between us.”
“She made you happy, though.”
“I thought I made her happy as well.”
Ava doesn’t need Bea to tell her the rest. She can imagine how it went: touches as they broke down a dead language, sitting with their shoulders brushing at meals, giggling as they studied in what Ava assumes must have been a massive and cold library. She can imagine the small strands of Bea’s hair slipping from her bun across her cheeks and Penelope pushing them back behind her ear with quick fingers.
Ava lets herself be selfish and do that same thing now. Bea’s face turns slightly into her hand. Not enough that she probably even notices.
“When did she kiss you?”
Bea looks surprised again and Ava’s hand falls away. “How did you-”
“A good guess,” she lies. Because she knows that having Bea there and not kissing her is God’s strongest battle. She has been a good soldier.
She’s not sure how much longer she can be good.
“A few months into the semester.” Bea’s voice goes taut. “She invited me to study for her biology test. On the recommendation of our teacher, she told me. I imagined it was a lie; she had the same grades as I did.” Her cheeks pinken. “We were reviewing the different biological features of various aquatic animals and she…”
“She kissed you over the cod?” Ava says, voice a little strangled.
Bea meets her eyes. “It was my first kiss. Everyone I knew had theirs already, but I thought that if this is what I was waiting for, it was worth it.”
“The best things are worth waiting for.”
“I’d read about whirlwind romances in novels. Girls in the dormitories talked about it. Boyfriends they had back home that they saw on holiday weekends. But it was nothing like kissing behind locked doors. It couldn’t be. No one else could be experiencing what I did. It was so uniquely ours. Do you know what I mean?”
She does. It means closed doors. It means secrets. Bea reads it on her face because she can see something close to shame bloom across Bea’s cheeks.
“It was just for us,” Bea confirms. “A secret not even my parents, kilometers away, would learn of.”
Ava has never been one for secrets. She doesn’t like the way they taste in her mouth. You’re keeping your own, a voice like Mary’s reminds her. But that secret isn’t really a secret, is it? Because Mary knows. And Shannon knows because Mary knows. And her favorite barista, Lucy, knows it. JC knows it. The belayer at the rock climbing place and the guy at the one party she dragged Bea to and Lilith and Camila - they all know.
Bea knows too. Ava feels the truth of that in every crevice of her heart. Bea knows. Bea isn’t going to do anything about it - she feels that truth too. But the list of people Ava is hiding this from is shorter than the list of people who know it.
“You loved her.”
Bea’s smile is sad, far away. “First kiss, first love. I was convinced we would graduate and run away together. She would lie in my bed propped up on one arm talking about Paris and Rome and the places we could travel as soon as we got away from school. I’d felt so futureless when I arrived, but now I could imagine a million possibilities.”
Ava thinks of making a joke. Something about Bea jet-setting across all of Europe with a pretty girl, exactly the kind of lifestyle she deserved. But she knows this story doesn’t have a happy ending.
“She told me she loved me. More than anyone she loved in her life. She said we were young, but it doesn’t matter. You just feel love louder, she would tell me. I…” Bea takes a deep breath. “Mina may have been the first girl to touch my hand, but Penelope…”
Bea goes quiet long enough that Ava nudges her hand gently. “She…”
Bea’s eyes clear a little. “She touched me in other places. In other ways.”
Ava guesses the next part of this story too. “You wanted to tell someone and she wanted you guys to stay a secret.”
Bea laughs, short and sharp. “I wish it had been that simple. I wish I had been enough to stay a secret. Instead… She must have learned my parents’ trick. When someone becomes unseemly, when it becomes ugly and unwelcome, you simply… strike it from the record. Forget it ever existed. Send it away to boarding school and hope for the best. Or-or pick a new Latin partner and create an ocean that feels uncrossable.”
“Bea,” Ava says quietly.
“I could have accepted it was all done. An ending. I’m sure I could have. But instead I was…” She shakes her head. “Have you ever had someone you thought you were in love with look at you and tell you that none of it mattered? That it was girls being girls and that whispered promises in the corners of classrooms were never more than just a game? A joke?”
“Bea.”
But Bea has a haunted look in her eyes, like she’s somewhere else than Ava’s bedroom with its overflowing laundry and rumpled comforter and the paint swatches on the wall. Ava imagines she’s back in a girls dormitory standing in front of a pretty girl who is cutting her down to bits.
“She told me that none of it was real. It was wrong. It was just something to do. She wasn’t like that,” Bea says, voice just as haunted. “She promised that she wouldn’t tell, because she didn’t want people to think there was anything wrong with her.” An empty laugh, sardonic and hollow in a way that Ava’s never heard, escapes Bea’s lips. “Don’t worry, she said, I wouldn’t want people to think there was something wrong with you, either. I suppose in some twisted way, she still cared.”
The thing about Ava is that she’s always capable of more than she thinks she is. They said she’d never walked; now she runs across campus after Mary. They said she’d never be smart enough to go to university; now she’s in the front row of all her classes, her scholarship enough to make sure she doesn’t need to worry about her degree. They said she’d never make friends; now she has six of them who make every single day something more than she ever hoped.
They said she’d never fall in love; now she has Bea.
And when she doesn’t think she can go a little further, push a little harder, she thinks of Sister Frances and the way she told Ava that she’d never be capable of anything.
But she’s capable of this: setting everyone on fire who ever hurt Bea.
Her anger unleashes like a wildfire, and it swells in her chest so brightly that for a moment she can’t breathe. She can’t see straight. She’s imagining Penelope again but all of the softness is gone and she’s a cutting monster knocking Bea to the ground. She tightens her hand into a fist so tightly that sharp pinpricks echo in her palm from her fingernails.
She doesn’t realize she’s nearly growling until Bea’s fingers are working hers apart, smoothing them flat.
“Ava, it’s alright.”
“It’s not.” Her voice sounds stretched thin. “She’s not.”
“She’s gone.”
“But she’s still here.” Ava shakes her head insistently. “She’s still stuck in here.” She presses a single finger over Bea’s heart. “She still has all this space to be cruel. And when I meet her - not if. I’m going to find her - I’m going to make her suffer. I’m going to-”
“You can’t go on a one-woman crusade because someone hurt my feelings.”
Ava stares. “Hurt your- Bea, she didn’t hurt your feelings. She broke them.”
Bea straightens up slightly. “I’m not broken.”
Ava softens instantly, like someone turning out a light. “No. No, you’re not Bea. Of course you aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She ducks her head, catches Bea’s eyes, and smiles a little. “You’re incredible. You are spectacular. I promise you that.”
Bea exhales. “I’m embarrassed to say someone had such a hold on me.”
“That’s not embarrassing. That’s human.” Ava raises a cautious hand to Bea’s cheek again. “That’s wonderfully, perfectly human.”
“She just…” Bea takes a deep breath. Ava’s hand slips to her jawline. “My whole world ended in a single minute. Everything I did after that felt… fraught. I couldn’t trust her, couldn’t trust anything anymore. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if she was going to change her mind and tell someone how different, how terrible I was. She made me… nervous.”
She made me… nervous, Ava thinks.
Ava feels the soft skin between her eyes wrinkle as she works the words over in her mind. Of course Penelope made Bea nervous. Of course she made Bea doubt everything - every friendship, every interaction. Of course she held so much power over the way Bea engaged in the world. Of course she-
Oh.
Bea, who doesn’t linger too long when she’s looking at Ava. Bea, whose cheeks go pink when Ava dusts a hand down her bare shoulder. Beatrice, who is always the gentleman, always the one to hold back when they seem to be teetering on this invisible line of why aren’t we.
Of course Bea is going to be scared of what their friendship could become. Because she had this happen. She put her whole heart into something only to be told how wrong it was when it was over, how wrong she was, and that none of it was real.
Ava has been wondering why Bea is so afraid of what they could be. She thought if she proved herself, if she stayed when she could have run, then Bea would understand. She thought Bea would look at her and see someone worthy enough of falling in love with. She thought, some nights when the stars on the ceiling just weren’t enough light, that there was something wrong with her. Something that Bea wasn’t telling her because she was too nice to let Ava down so cruelly.
But it’s not her. It’s not Bea. It’s all the ghosts of Bea’s past stacked up against an ‘Enter’ door that are stopping Bea from pulling it open. It’s all these things outside of Ava’s control that’s holding them back.
It all comes together so neatly in her mind. Bea is not going to make the first move. She never was. She’s been leading Ava to this place, but she can’t make the final step. She’s loading the gun but she can’t pull the trigger. She’s putting this in Ava’s hands and hoping that Ava doesn’t break it in two.
Ava’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But she’s also been practicing so hard at being still and maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Maybe Bea needs her to move, to run ahead and give in first.
Ava takes a deep breath, feeling it expand in her chest. It’s loud, roaring in her ears. Bea looks at her curiously. Maybe she doesn’t know that Ava has put it all together. Maybe she’s just as confused as Ava was a second ago. But Bea is smart. No, she’s not just smart, she’s Ava-smart. And she can read Ava like one of the dog-eared books littering their breakfast bar.
“Bea.” Her voice is remarkably steady.
Remarkable, because her whole body feels like it’s moving, vibrating at a frequency unable to be heard by the human ear. She catches Bea’s wrist in her fingers, locking them tightly around the delicate bone.
Bea is still, eyes dropping down to where their skin meets. “Yes?”
“Beatrice.”
Her hand is the thing shaking now as it rises up between them and slowly presses to Bea’s cheek, fingernails curling around her jaw. She feels it move as Bea swallows, hears the slight click of it as the silence magnifies. Bea’s eyes widen and she nearly pulls away, Ava’s hand on her face the only thing stopping her.
“Ava, I…”
Ava imagined their first kiss. She’s dreamed of it almost from the moment she met Bea, already wondering what it would be like before she knew who Bea really was - before she knew how good it was going to be. But she read something somewhere about how knowing someone enhanced the experience of loving them. How something steeped in history made the love richer. And the history she has with Bea may be short, but it is rich. Bea knows all her secrets and now she knows all of Bea’s.
So, fucking kiss her, a voice like Mary’s demands.
And isn’t Mary always telling her she has to listen better?
She only closes her eyes just before their lips touch. She wants to see Bea’s face and is rewarded with the fluttering of delicate eyelashes, the slight parting of Bea’s lips, the quiet hitch of her breath and the way her throat bobs as she tries to hold it back. Her hand slips to the back of Bea’s neck, pulling just until her top lip brushes Bea’s bottom one.
Her eyes slip closed as Bea’s bottom lip slips between hers and they’re kissing. They’re kissing. Bea is warm and soft and still. She stays there, intent in the way her mouth clings to Bea’s. I’m here. I’m kissing you. I’m choosing you. And you’re spectacular.
Bea shudders, her whole body coming alive, and she surges forward as Ava starts to pull away. The air goes out of her lungs and she tips backwards a little and she panics, unwilling to break apart now that Bea is kissing her back. But Bea’s hand goes past her, holding her up as she exhales against Ava’s mouth.
They’re so close together, their knees knocking. Bea’s mouth presses hot against hers, closed mouths clinging to each other. She can’t believe it, can’t believe they’re finally kissing and Bea isn’t running - she’s closer as Ava’s shoulders fall back against the bed, Bea’s hand curled around her shoulder as she settles against Ava’s side. Her free hand has found the hem of Ava’s shirt and her knuckles are brushing against the sensitive skin above Ava’s navel, steady and warm.
It’s Bea who takes the hesitant step forward, her lips parting just enough that Ava’s slide, and then Ava can feel Bea breathing as she kisses a little harder, mouths open against each other. It’s Bea who takes a less hesitant step again, the tip of her tongue ghosting along Ava’s bottom lip.
Ava pulled down the last brick, but Bea was a roaring river behind the dam and she kisses like she’s been uncorked. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh beneath Ava’s shoulder, her knuckles press into Ava’s stomach, and she kisses with reckless abandon.
“Bea,” Ava whispers between kisses. She’s never been one for religion but maybe she’s been worshipping the wrong gods. Maybe this is who she should have been praying to all along.
Bea hums pleasantly against her mouth. She’s bolder now, kisses a little more frenzied. Ava understands. She tightens her hand at the base of Bea’s neck, pulls her closer. Her other hand slides down the flat of Bea’s stomach and curls around her hip bone, thumb stroking over the soft fabric of her sweatpants.
She thought kissing Bea would be amazing but she was wrong. It’s life-altering. She can see everything shifting to accommodate the way Bea’s lips press, hot and open-mouthed, against her own. She’s going to be completely altered after this, her life now in two separate parts: Before Kissing Bea and After Kissing Bea.
Bea’s hum burns into a low moan as Ava’s fingers dig more insistently into the dip of her hip. Ava is addicted now. She kisses harder, body starting to move as she rolls, a leg going over Bea’s until she’s bracketing Bea’s hips. She slides her mouth along Bea’s jaw to just below her ear, following the way Bea pants at the sensation of her teeth against smooth skin.
She needs to be closer. She needs nothing between them. She sits up, holding her weight as she works her fingers in her shirt and lifts it high and off her shoulders. She tosses it onto the corner, adding to the laundry pile, and sits above Bea in her bra with the flamingos on it, her chest heaving in anticipation.
Bea stares up at her, her face flushed and her lips bruised. Hesitant hands go to Ava’s waist, fingers flexing experimentally as they settle just above the hem of her shorts.
“Hi,” Ava whispers.
Bea nods, the line of her throat bobbing. Ava watches as her eyes track down her body, shoulders down to the sliver of skin just above her shorts. It takes her a minute to look back up and meet Ava’s eyes.
“Is this-?”
“Yes,” Bea interrupts. Her fingers feel purposeful now, like she’s burning her fingerprints into Ava’s skin. “I… I want this.”
A niggling thought works its way into Ava’s mind. Just a breath of hesitation. “You’re sure?”
Bea sits up, hands sliding to the small of her back. She blinks, eyes wide but focused. “Ava, I’ve wanted this for…”
“So long,” Ava finishes.
“So long.” Bea’s eyes flutter and she leans forward, mouth brushing over Ava’s collarbone. She feels her eyelashes against her throat. “Are you sure you want me?”
Me, she says unspoken. Me out of everyone else you could have.
Ava puts two strong fingers under Bea’s chin, lifts her face up until their eyes meet. I’ve never wanted anything more sounds too small. But it’s the only way she can think to say it. And when she does, Bea’s smile brightens the room.
Bea presses her lips to the pulse thudding in Ava’s neck, gentle teeth scraping against the skin. Ava breathes in sharply at the feeling of it, of Bea’s fingers working steadily up her back until they’re hesitantly touching the clasp of Ava’s bra. Ava is brave enough for both of them. She reaches back and loosens it, the fabric falling away from her chest. She tosses that away too.
Ava hisses softly when Bea’s fingers skate up her stomach to cup her breast. Her hand is burning, and Ava pushes into it so she can feel herself on fire. It only grows hotter when Bea kisses her collarbone again, teeth a little more insistent as she makes her way down to her own hand.
Ava pulls at the bottom of Bea’s shirt, freeing it from where she’s sitting on it, and pulls gracelessly until it’s over her head and somewhere by the door. She traces the lines of Bea’s navy bra until she finds the clasp and undoes it, flinging it away.
“I’m not going to make a joke about your boobs,” she whispers into Bea’s temple. Her tongue swirls over sensitive skin at Ava’s chest. “But just know that I really want to.”
Bea lifts her head. “I appreciate your restraint.”
“Saint Ava, they call me,” she babbles. “Patron Saint of-”
Her words are swallowed up in a gasp as Bea presses a hand down purposefully down on her waist. It sends a shiver through her and pulls a little bit of a moan from the hollow of her throat, Bea’s eyes widening slightly in surprise.
Ava tucks some of the loose strands framing Bea’s face back behind her ear, cheeks just a little red. “Before we… Before we do anything else, you need to know that I’m not going to be normal about this. Like, at all.”
Bea walks two fingers up her side, using ribs like steps. She moves them across her chest, brushing against her nipple. Ava shivers again. “I don’t know that I’m much interested in normal,” she admits.
Ava arches into her touch. “I’d hope not, considering how much you’re into me.”
She pauses, breath caught in her lungs as she waits for Bea’s reaction. Bea looks up with wide, imploring eyes. She searches for something on Ava’s face, and Ava hopes beyond hope that she finds it.
Not because she needs Bea’s hand to keep doing what it’s doing. Not because she wants to slip her fingers beneath Bea’s waistband. Not because she wants to hover over Bea and nose down the long stretch of what she’s sure is perfect skin from her chest to her belly button.
Because she wants all those things. But she also wants Bea to know she’s safe. That it’s okay to want her. That Ava is going to be someone she can trust, that Ava won’t treat her like something that’s going to break but will hold her gently regardless.
It feels big, to say that. But Bea is right there, a fingertip away, with her lips bruised and her hair starting to tangle around Ava’s fingers, and she thinks: I’m never going to come back from this. I’ll never be the same. What she feels is undeniable and real, the most real thing she has ever known and she would never, ever want to go back, even if she could.
“I am,” Bea finally says, voice a breathless whisper.
“A lot?” Ava asks, a sliver of neediness in her words.
Bea nods, unblinking. “A lot, yes.”
Ava makes a show of breathing a sigh of relief, a relieved smile on her face. “Well, that’s embarrassing for you.”
“Ava.”
Ava buries her reply in a kiss, fingers curling around Bea’s shoulders as she slowly inches her backward onto the bed until Ava is a shadow hovering above her. She wonders what the hollow of Bea’s throat tastes like, and she smiles into the kiss as she realizes she doesn’t need to ask. She breaks away from Bea’s mouth, kissing over the point of her chin and the underside of her jaw and down to the dip of her throat, teeth nipping at sensitive skin as Bea’s breath hitches. She can feel fingers flex at her waist and then tighten more purposefully.
Sensitive neck, she catalogs. She wants to make a list, grow it until she knows all of the places that cause Bea to make that breathless noise.
Bea’s fingers are insistent at her neck, drawing her back up until they’re kissing, harder than they have before. Bea kisses with lips and teeth, her tongue soothing away the nips, while one hand works its way to Ava’s waistband, curling into the thick denim fabric of her jeans.
She would have been satisfied with some heavy making out. Her skin is already burning where Bea’s bare chest is pressed against hers. She can live with this. But Bea doesn’t seem to be able to live with just this. Ava feels the back of her knuckles against her stomach as Bea pops the button of her jeans and works down the zipper. It’s so loud in the silence.
Ava kisses her way down Bea’s throat again then goes lower, tongue leading the way as she flicks the tip of it over a pebbled nipple. There it is again, that breathless noise. The fingers at her waistband freeze, tighten around the denim, and then release. Ava’s hand goes to Bea’s other breast, and she feels it press into her palm as Bea arches her back slightly.
Ava dares to go lower, kissing over the swell of Bea’s breast and down to her navel. She slides back on Bea’s legs, her fingertips light against Bea’s skin above her hip bones.
“Ava,” Bea breathes. She reaches down, hands reaching for Ava’s chin. Ava kisses the center of Bea’s palm as strong fingers curl around her jaw. “Ava.”
She doesn’t know what Bea’s trying to say, but she doesn’t need to. She can feel the heat radiating off Bea, the anticipation. She hooks two fingers in the waistband of Bea’s study-sweatpants, the ones she wears on all-nighters where she’s going to fall asleep sitting up, and starts to work them down a little as Bea’s hips lift off the bed.
She rests her forehead in the dip of Bea’s hip. She’s never believed in a God, but she does believe there’s a higher power out in the cosmos, and they’ve suddenly found her worthy of this gift: Bea stretched out across the sea of her comforter with her eyes closed and her chin tipped into the air as her chest rises and falls with increasingly harder breathes and her hips arching just slightly until Ava feels her against her forehead.
Because shit, this is holy.
A hand snakes its way into her hair, blunt fingernails scratching against her scalp. She can feel them trembling slightly. Ava wants to feel the whole of Bea tremble. She kisses down as she pulls Bea’s sweats down until they’re past the top of her thighs to her knees.
This feels like a moment they can’t come back from. And looking up at Bea, at the way those dark eyes stare into hers and the hand in her hair tightens slightly, she doesn’t want to come back from it. She wants to never, ever come back from this. She only wants what happens on past this moment.
She works Bea’s underwear down until they’re on the floor with her sweatpants in a tangled heap, and she noses her way lower until it’s nothing but heat and something slick against her tongue. Bea keens, hips lifting high off the bed, and Ava presses down hard against them with flat palms, keeping Bea down in one place.
The hand tightens in her hair, Bea’s knees tighten around her shoulders, trapping her in this crystalline moment. She rolls into it, tongue working more steadily as she feels Bea’s hips start to roll in response. She dips lower and soars higher, an unknown melody working into her mind and guiding her as Bea lets a sigh loosen from her throat.
Her hand climbs until she feels Bea’s breast against her palm, and she works her fingers over sensitive skin. Bea’s hand traps hers in place, palm burning. She can feel Bea’s legs start to tremble, and she licks a little more precisely, a little more purposefully.
She swirls, she drives forward and pulls away. She finds a rhythm until Bea’s whole body starts to tighten into an invisible line, pulled taut by an some unseen string. Ava doesn’t stop, even as Bea’s legs tighten around her. Even as that hand in her hair pulls a little harder. Even as Bea’s breathing swells into a hard pant and she lets out a strangled cry of Ava’s name.
She doesn’t stop until Bea’s body melts into loose muscles, until Bea’s hand goes slack in her hair. Everything is hot against her skin. Her tongue eases away, laving up and over Bea’s hip to her navel and charting a slow course to the center of her chest until she’s back at the hollow of Bea’s throat, teeth nipping as she feels Bea’s chest rise and fall rapidly against her own.
Bea draws another ragged breath, a hand up over her red face.
Ava pulls it away and kisses Bea hard, their mouths sliding together. Bea’s fingers curl around her throat, holding her in place when Ava tries to pull away. A tongue dips behind her teeth. Bea inhales sharply, stealing the air from Ava’s lungs.
Bea, still panting softly, hooks a leg under her and twists, rolling until Ava is on her back, and Bea is hovering over her, eyes dark and flashing.
The air punches its way out of Ava’s throat. If she’s cataloging the things that turn her on, this has just gone to the top of the list, right after the way Bea tastes and the feeling of her mouth sliding against hers.
“Bea.” Her voice is strangled and warped between them.
But Bea doesn’t answer her. She works her fingers purposefully down Ava’s front, sliding beneath her waistband without fanfare, without hesitation. Ava’s legs part with a half-breath, the other part of it stuck in her throat.
Then it’s nothing but an overwhelming sensation and the soft sound of Bea panting in her ear as Ava feels the world start to tighten around her. Bea’s breath is replaced by a white static, and there’s a fullness in her that she knows she’s going to be chasing for a while. Her hips lift and fall, a rhythm she knows without having to think about it. She rides it out, settles into it like she’s known it all her life and then-
And then-
Then she’s soaring, hips off the bed and her whole body shaking as she tries to focus on the rhythm again, the whole dance gone from her mind as it’s replaced by fireworks exploding, one after another. She can feel Bea’s hand on her, in her, and nothing else. She’s disconnected from reality except for where Bea is touching her. Floating weightlessly in an in-between where nothing but this feeling and Bea, hot against her side, exist.
She crashes back down, the world slamming back into her head as her legs clench, Bea’s hand between them. Strong fingers slide away and stroke across her thighs before they go up and curl around her side. Her breath comes hard, her pulse pounding in her head. She squeezes her eyes tightly, afraid to open them and see that the whole world has been turned upside down.
She wouldn’t care if it was, is the problem. She wouldn’t care if she suddenly found herself light years away where there was no oxygen in the solar system. As long as Bea is next to her, she doesn’t care.
She opens her eyes slowly and turns her head, finding Bea looking back at her with liquid pools for eyes.
“Hi,” she breathes, the word sticking in her throat.
Bea smiles softly. “Hi.”
“That was…” She inhales raggedly. “It’s never been like that.”
Because I’ve never been in love, she doesn’t say out loud.
Bea is biting on her bottom lip, eyes searching Ava’s face. “Me either,” she finally says.
Ava hums, content and boneless. “We are so doing that again. Soon,” she promises. “When I can feel my legs, it’s over for you.”
Bea laughs a little. “Okay, Ava.”
Ava lets her eyes close again and when she opens them, Bea is still looking at her. It doesn’t unsettle her. She lets Bea drink her in, and she lets her own eyes follow the lithe line of Bea’s body.
“Boobs,” Ava sighs. She curls one hand around Bea’s breast, no intention in the movement.
Bea wiggles around as if it tickles slightly, but she just settles more tightly against Ava’s side.
“I’m going to be insufferable,” she warns.
“So I can expect more jokes about my boobs.” Bea walks two fingers up her side and across her chest, pressing over where her heart is. “What else?”
Ava inhales shakily. “Anything else you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” she promises. “Whenever you want. I’ll be a court jester for you, babe.”
Bea’s face pinkens at the name, but she holds Ava’s gaze for another moment before she rests her head between Ava’s shoulder and neck. “I do find you marginally funny,” she admits lightly.
Ava grins, the smile lazy. “See? You need to tell more people how funny I am. Mary doesn’t believe it.”
The blush doesn’t fall from Bea’s face. “Please don’t talk about Mary while we’re naked.”
“Why not? She’ll think it’s hilarious.” But Ava stretches her neck and kisses Bea’s temple. “But okay. Just this time.”
“I appreciate it,” Bea murmurs. It’s familiar, the exasperation, but it’s tinted with this whole new feeling. A new depth. “Ava?”
“Hmmm,” Ava hums, sleep pressing against her body.
“I can tell you later.” Fingers brush hair off her damp forehead. “Close your eyes for a little bit.”
“Just a little,” she agrees. “And then I’m making you stir fry.”
Warm lips press against the hollow of her throat, humming an okay against her skin. Bea settles against her side as a warm and welcome weight.
She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she knows she goes quietly and calmly, and that Bea is still there, still pressed against her side, molded to her like she was never meant to be anywhere else.
-
She wakes up to the smell of paint. Her eyes take a minute to adjust to the light in the corner but she pushes up on her elbow, the comforter over her sliding down to her waist. She blinks as Bea comes into focus.
“You’re painting?”
Bea turns. She’s barefoot, in her underwear again, and one of Ava’s cropped t-shirts that has a white cat in red shadows and I’m not cute I’m purr evil written on it. It hangs a little higher on her and Ava can see the swell of her breasts through it.
She’s the most beautiful woman Ava has ever seen.
And she’s blushing. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Ava sits up more fully, stretching her arms above her head. She watches, a slightly smirk on her face, as Bea’s eyes drop to her chest. But she doesn’t push. There’s time to tease Bea about staring at her boobs. All the time in the world, really.
“How long was I asleep?” She looks at the wall. Bea has nearly finished the whole thing.
“Not long.” Bea puts the paint can down on the stool, balancing the paintbrush on the edge of it. “But you looked…”
“Like a dead fish?” She’s aware of the way she sleeps, limbs thrown about and head rolling back. Years of being unable to move makes it so she never stops now, even sleeping.
“Peaceful,” Bea finishes. She’s hesitating, torn between wanting to do something and worrying about doing it.
So, Ava takes the lead, leaning in until she’s kissing Bea. She feels Bea sigh into it and knows it was the right move, that it’s what Bea wanted to do. She wants Bea to know she can do this whenever she wants. Bea kisses back almost instantly, sliding into an already-familiar rhythm.
She pulls away, a smile on her face. “Hi.”
Bea is a little breathless when she says hi back.
“I thought we weren’t painting.”
Bea looks back at the wall, most of it covered already. “You were right. About leaving our mark on this place. Someone needs to know we were here.”
“If we ever move out.”
Bea smiles. “If we ever move out.”
Ava pulls her legs up under her and Bea’s hand into her lap. “The only place I plan on moving is into your room. Or you can move in here, since we’re already decorating.”
“Oh?” Bea says. Her voice seems tight, like she’s holding something back.
A wiggle of doubt worms its way into her mind. “I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I’m more than happy to stay here and we can pretend like-”
“I don’t want to pretend,” Bea interrupts. She seems surprised by the firmness in her words and she sucks in her lips for a second before she shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure if you- I know you just kissed me but maybe that was you letting me down and-”
“Bea.” Ava waits until Bea’s mouth snaps closed. “I don’t want to pretend. I’ve been waiting months to kiss you, and unless you tell me otherwise, I plan on kissing you at least a hundred times a day.”
Some of the tension drains from Bea’s shoulders. “A hundred.”
“Give or take another hundred.” Ava grins. “One kiss for every time I’ve thought about kissing you the last seven months. Spread out, of course. Otherwise we’d probably be stuck in this apartment for days, just kissing.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “That might not be the worst thing to happen, though.”
“I’d miss finals,” Bea points out.
“Do you really need to pass them? Aren’t you teaching the classes at this point?”
Bea rolls her eyes, fond and exasperated. “Ava.”
“Bea.” She rolls her eyes back. “Fine. If you won’t lock yourself away to make out with me for days on end, what else are you willing to offer me?”
Bea is quiet for a long moment, her hand twisting in Ava’s as she thinks of something. Ava can see it pressing against her teeth, can practically feel the tension of whatever Bea wants to say radiating off her and lighting up the whole room. Ava waits it out patiently, knowing that whatever Bea has to say will be worth it.
She stays still. She waits. Bea has a way of bringing out all of the things in her that no one else has bothered to look for before. And after another minute, Bea looks up.
“Me.”
Ava’s heart clenches in her chest. “You.”
“I’m willing to offer me. Just… me. If you’re willing to accept.”
Ava turns Bea’s hand over in hers and presses two fingers to the thudding bundle of nerves at the base of her wrist. Bea looks down at where they meet and her eyes stay locked there for a moment while Ava watches her.
“If you think there’s anything just about you, then you don’t know the Beatrice I know,” Ava finally says. “Because I’ve never thought there was anything just about you. You always leave the light on for me. And you never make me do the dishes alone. And you don’t mind mushrooms on your pizza. You keep soda in the apartment and you always vacuum when I’m not home.”
A funny smile graces Bea’s face. “I think that makes me good for you.”
“The best,” she agrees. Her smile softens. “I’ve never thought there’s anything just about you. You’re incredibly kind, trustworthy. You’re humble - maybe too humble,” she jokes. “And considerate. And insanely intelligent. Hilarious. My best friend.” She pauses. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life.”
Bea inhales sharply.
“I know that’s, like, a lot. And I don’t need you to say it back, because I’m not trying to pressure you. But saying it all has lifted some kind of weight off my chest. Like, I didn’t know I was suffocating under not saying anything but I guess that I was,” she babbles. “But honestly, you don’t need to-”
“Ava,” Bea says patiently. She waits until Ava snaps her mouth shut and mimes zipping it closed. “My parents…”
“I’ll kill them,” Ava says cheerfully, looking guilty when Bea’s eyes cut to her. She closes her mouth again.
“My parents made me believe that love had to be earned. That if I wanted it, I had to work for it.” She takes a breath, astonishingly steady. “But you’ve never done that. You’ve never made me work for it. You’ve just… given it. It’s who you are.”
Ava’s smile wavers a little. “Because you don’t need to deserve love.”
“I didn’t know that before you.” Bea shakes her head. “I’ve had to unlearn a lot of things since meeting you. Like that. Like how to not be afraid. Like how to eat pizza. All these things that were so ingrained in who I was that I didn’t think I’d ever know anything different.” She reaches up and cups Ava’s cheek. “You changed all of that for me.”
She thinks Bea is saying I love you. She thinks Bea is saying You’re the love of my life, too.
And then Bea, spectacular Bea, looks into her eyes and says exactly that. “I love you. I’ve loved you since you spilled tea on my very important notes, and I’ve fallen in love with you every day since.”
Ava feels relief flood through her like a dam breaking. “That’s good. That’s really, really good. Because it would be embarrassing to be sitting here naked telling you how much I love you if you’re not going to say it back.”
Bea shakes her head but she’s smiling. “Ava.”
“Beatrice.” Ava curls a finger under Bea’s chin and beckons her forehead. She kisses her slowly and sweetly before she pulls back. “Kiss one of a hundred today.”
A blush spreads across Bea’s face. “You’re not really going to count, are you?”
“I’m going to keep a tally, that’s how serious I am.” She kisses Bea again. “Number two.”
Bae rolls her eyes and when Ava kisses her a third time, she opens her mouth, tongue brushing Ava’s bottom lip. It leaves her breathless when Bea pulls back.
“If I knew getting you in my room would have ended up like this, I would have tried a lot harder,” she says, eyes still closed.
Bea’s lips press against her cheek, then under her eye. “I wasn’t ready for that,” Bea whispers against her skin.
Ava doesn’t open her eyes. “I know you weren’t.”
Bea’s forehead rests against hers. “I am now.”
“It’s okay if you’re not. I won’t stop loving you.”
Bea’s breath ghosts across her mouth. “I am. I’ve never been ready for anything more in my life.”
“Not even your finals? Because you’re really ready for those, even if you think you aren’t.” She feels Bea start to argue more than she sees it, eyes still closed. “I’ve never met anyone who studies as much as you study. Seriously, you’re a beast when it comes to notecards and colored highlighters and-”
She does stop this time as Bea’s lips press against her. She hums, sinking into it. “Oh,” she says when Bea ebbs away. She finally opens her eyes.
Bea is smiling, beautiful and wide. “More than my finals. If only because I’m still not convinced of Thecla’s real contribution to modern religions.”
“I don’t know who Thecla is, but she’s never been less relevant to my interests right now.” Ava twists a strand of Bea’s hair, resting on her cheek, around her finger. “She could be Jesus’ mother for all I care.”
“She’s not-”
“I know she’s not.” Ava grins. “But I like the way you look when I say something wrong.” She presses her finger to the space between Bea’s eyes. “Like you’re not sure if you want to lecture me or kiss me. For the record, I’m very much in favor of the second option.”
Bea’s lips pull up in a slight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ava breathes in deeply, letting the air fill her lungs as she stretches her arms over her head, noting the way Bea’s eyes follow the lift of her chest. She smiles to herself. Maybe Bea is a boob-girl. She’ll have to weaponize that knowledge for later.
“I think I promised you stir fry.”
Bea opens her mouth to argue.
“And I’m hungry,” Ava says over her. “And can be trusted with a knife. So, I will be making you stir fry, because it’s the one thing I’m good at. And I want to impress you.”
Bea’s smile is fond, and Ava thinks back to the first time she saw it, how it was aimed at Camila and how she wished one day it would be a smile for her. And now here she is, Bea in her shirt and an I love you between them and a smile that is reserved just for her.
“So let me make you stir fry and you can come sit and study some more. In my shirt. Which, by the way, is very sexy.” She winks.
Bea rolls her eyes. “Mine was quite tangled up in the comforter, and this was just the most easily accessible.”
“You have a bedroom about a hundred feet away,” Ava feels the need to point out. Bea’s eyes narrow and Ava grins. “But for the record, I really like seeing you in it.”
Bea blushes a little but stands and opens Ava’s drawer, pulling out a pair of underwear - Ava’s favorite, yellow with pineapples on them - and then a big t-shirt she stole from Mary that has a pug with a pair of aviators on printed across the front. She hands them to Ava.
“No pants?” she asks as she pushes the comforter down and wriggles into her underwear. She pulls the t-shirt on, huffing her hair out of her face.
“No pants,” Bea says simply.
Oh. Okay. She grins and stands up, curling her hands around Bea’s waist and pulling her in. “This is going to be so good. I know it.”
Bea smiles, swaying slightly with her when Ava starts to go back and forth on her feet. “I know it too.” She presses her lips to Ava’s forehead and speaks against it. “Thank you, Ava,” she breathes.
Ava frowns. “For what?”
Bea pulls back and tucks a strand of Ava’s hair back behind her ear. “For waiting for me to be ready.”
“Of course I waited. I love you,” she says easily.
Bea’s smile widens. “I know.”
Ava beams back at her, feeling like everything has slotted into place so neatly. She never wants this moment to break, never wants it to go away. She wants to remain forever in this room with Bea in her arms and the rest of the world somewhere else doing whatever it is they’re doing. All that matters is this moment, these kisses between them, the possibility of what the next moment brings.
I just got time to finish a picture that I have in my head since the day I saw Ava in overalls. Reminds me of one of ‘Dr Slump’ manga covers with Arale riding a mini bike. 🏍️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Warrior Nun
Main ship: Ava/Beatrice
Sub-ships: Camila/Lilith, Mary/Shannon
Rating: E (for eventual smut)
Chapter Summary:
Beatrice has a much-needed heart-to-heart with Shannon. Meanwhile, Ava tries to keep her mind off things by helping Lilith figure out what went wrong in the tent.
Teaser:
As soon as Hans had everything he needed from the judges, Mary marched Beatrice into the Manor and told her to pack an overnight bag. Arguing with Mary after she’d made up her mind about something like this had never done any good, so she quietly accepted her fate.
At least Mary didn’t follow her into the bedroom. When she stepped out with a small bag slung over her shoulder she caught the tail end of Mary’s phone call with Shannon.
“We’ll be home by five, baby. Mmhmm. I’ll tell her. See you soon, love.” Mary hung up the phone. “All right, vamoose. Shannon’s making you rösti for dinner.”
Beatrice didn’t have to face Ava before Mary lead her out to the car park. She was still filming the post-bake interviews.
“I told Michael you’re with me, so no one will send out a search party,” Mary said as she tossed both their bags into the boot of her beat-up Volkswagen.
It happens occasionally, which is still more often than she likes to admit. She dreams of Lucy, of the morning when everything changed. It’s always vivid - the smudge of peanut butter on the corner of Lucy’s mouth from breakfast, the smell of apple & cinnamon muffins baking in the kitchen, the gentle flow of Lucy’s giggle, the slant of morning sunlight shining against the porcelain faces of Lucy’s dolls. Then, it’s the pitch of Mothers scream and the vacant look in Lucy’s eyes that has Beatrice trembling.
Every time, as though her brain is trying to protect her from reliving it, it jerks her back to reality. Her eyes fly open and she tenses, hot tears blurring her immediate field of vision.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, she whimpers around exaggerated breathes. She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to dispel the oppressive brand of crippling emotions that coils inside her, permanent and rooted and weeping. She swallows thickly and works on tempering her oxygen levels, but it’s a difficult task considering just how real it all feels. It’s over now, she tells herself, it’s okay.
A low groan, an unimpressed sound that doesn’t belong to her, causes her heart rate to spike again. Her body automatically jolts into a half-sitting position, the back of her hand wiping furiously at her face as she surveys her surroundings with an alertness that has her mind spinning.
A messy dresser. Blue sheets. An overflowing hat rack. A band poster of the Pixie’s, one corner peeling away.
She looks down. One arm is trapped beneath the body of a naked woman, her bare shoulders and back on display. The tattoo of a cartoon ghost sits at the top of her spine. Messy brown locks spread across a pillow, a slight frown on her face.
Quick little thing. Thanks @gingerniiiija for the prompt!
-
They live on the edge for a while. There’s no war, but the threat looms, and there are too many battles, too many wraiths, new demons, an annoying number of cult-y losers who try, and fail, to pull an Adriel. Things begin to slow, although nobody is really willing to trust it, and then, one Wednesday evening, a tarask shows up to bring Ava some news.
Like an asshole, he shows up in their fucking bedroom, Beatrice out of the bed, out from under Ava, and armed within like two seconds and Ava instinctively sheltering them both in a halo bubble as she scrambles in the bed. When she realizes what’s happening, she groans, flopping back in frustration and pulling her shirt back into place.
“What the actual fuck, man?”
The messenger doesn’t answer, but his massive shoulders move and his head tilts sideways in what Ava likes to think is a flaming, otherworldly demon-ish gesture for, “My bad.”
Beatrice is close to flaming herself at this point and her glare is only mildly less intimidating with her bright red cheeks. She’s pulling her hair back into a bun and has somehow already pulled on sweatpants. Ava mourns.
“This better be good, dude. I was busy.”
It is good, in the end. It’s fucking fantastic. Ava’s crying when she sits up in bed, tosses the crown as quickly as she can before pulling Bea into her.
“It’s over, Bea. It’s over. We’re done.”
-
They’re not done done, of course. There are still wraiths and weird demons and whatever, still egomaniacs trying to harness supernatural shit to do bad things. But it’s at, like, a normal, manageable level, and, not for nothing, Ava’s now got a (sort of) god on (sort of) speed dial if things get really out of hand.
They can relax a little. They can relax a lot, relative to the way they’d been living, and Ava’s ready. She’s got a long list of things she wants to do and she knows exactly where she’d like to start.
-
It’s not that they haven’t had any time together. They share a bed, and they’ve tried really hard to find time to be together outside of work. She has loved the little moments, where they could steal them—tucking herself into Bea’s shoulder for a movie or star-gazing on the roof or taking dinner to the garden, Bea shyly pulling candles from a backpack. She has loved them, and she wants more of them, but she also wants to take Bea into the world. Since she’s been back, every non-work trip outside of the Cradle has been a group outing—some combination of friends and novices and other OCS members. It made sense while the war was still an “any minute now” kind of thing. Safety in numbers and divine protection on her spine and all that.
No more.
She finds Cam and Mother Superion and Dora in Mother Superion’s office while Bea is training a small group of novices who are ready for more advanced sparring.
“Ava!” Camila springs up from her seat to give her a hug, standard practice regardless of the fact that they’d seen each other three hours ago. Ava welcomes it and then stands in front of Superion’s desk, arms crossed. She realizes she might look a little too serious when Superion’s brows furrow and she asks, hand reaching automatically for the spot where Ava knows she keeps a favorite knife, “Is something wrong?”
Forcing herself to relax, she moves her arms to her side and breathes out. “No. No. I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong. I just…I need a favor.” Superion raises a brow. “I want to take Bea on a date this weekend. In the city.”
A Goldilocks array of grins appears across the three faces in front of her.
Camila, big and beaming, claps her hands and says, “Oh, yay.” Ava smiles dopily back at her, because yeah, oh yay is right.
Superion prompts, after a moment, small but genuine smile still in place, “And how can we help?”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.”
They agree, happily, to keep an eye on things and avoid calling either of them unless it’s absolutely essential, a standard she does not have to explain. They also agree to keep it to themselves until she actually asks Bea. Camila walks out with her, asking about the details of Ava’s plan until they reach the turn for the chapel. Her chest expands as it does sometimes in moments like these, when she realizes she has a friend like Camila, who will get into it with her about plans to take her girlfriend on a date. Gratitude, big and effusive, runs through her.
“You better tell me everything.”
“Of course.” Ava lets her smile shift to something a little less wholesome, and Camila immediately rolls her eyes, pushing her shoulder.
“Not everything. You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
A hug, reflexive and familiar.
“Text me when you actually ask her,” Camila orders as she turns down the hallway.
-
Ava takes a deep breath. Her stomach flips again and she feels silly for being nervous, given that they sleep in the same bed in a very non-platonic way. But like, Bea deserves to have someone be nervous over her. My god, is she the kind of girl to be nervous over. And Ava deserves to get to be nervous over a girl, is fucking outrageously lucky to get to be nervous over Beatrice. Neither one of them got to have this when most people do. It’s a gift to get to have it now. She won’t waste it.
She lets herself enjoy the swoop in her stomach as she says, “Hey, Bea.”
“Hmm?”
They’re finishing lunch, Bea contemplating the fruit on offer for her afternoon snack. Her sharp eyes, having already found both a banana and a pear wanting, are now critically appraising an apple.
“Do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?”
She feels better now, about her nerves, as Bea’s cheeks shift close to the shade of the apple in her hand. Her wide eyes meet Ava’s and suddenly she’s back in Switzerland, hoping hoping hoping—in the bar, at the farmer’s market, in their tiny kitchen, in their perfect, uncomfortable bed—that maybe the look on Bea’s face means Ava isn’t the only one in trouble.
“That.” Her voice is low and a little rough, and she clears her throat, cheeks even darker. Ava nearly bursts with affection. “That would be nice. Yes.”
Ava kisses her then, because she can, because there are some definite perks to having done basically everything backwards. Beatrice melts into it, strong shoulders relaxing as one of Ava’s arms wraps around them, the other cradling her jaw. She feels Bea’s right arm lift and then drop, limited by the apple, but her free hand settles at the small of Ava’s back. They’re still in the dining hall, even if they are relatively tucked away, so they break apart much more quickly than either of them would like. The blush is still there, but Bea’s eyes are bright with something else now, and Ava lets the halo hum a little as she steps back and reaches for Bea’s hand.
Beatrice opens her eyes and lifts her head from where it was resting on the back seat of an expensive limousine.
“Explain to me again how you managed to book and pay for this excessive lift?”
Camila simply giggles as she adjusts her hair in the pop down mirror. Her curls bounce energetically on her shoulders. She is clearly more excited than Beatrice for the night ahead.
“You’re one of the most prestigious artists in the country, Bea. You’re about to win the most coveted prize on offer in Britain. We can afford a little luxury.”
Camila clicks the mirror shut and turns to look at her friend.
“I haven’t won yet, though.” Beatrice states wryly. “And just because we can, doesn’t mean we should.”
“Have I made you uncomfortable?” Camila asks, the perky smile slipping from her face. “This is a huge moment in your career, Bea. I know the prize isn’t being awarded tonight, but all the art on display tonight is in the running for it. I just thought it’d be nice to -.”
“It’s fine, Cam.” Bea interrupts with a gentle hand on her knee. “Don’t stress. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Camila drops her chin to issue Beatrice with a look close to smothering.
“Really?”
Beatrice forces her shoulders to relax back to their natural position and exhales.
“Yeah. Promise.” She says. “And thank you, Cam. You’re very thoughtful.”
Camila’s characteristic grin is back, bright and eager, and Beatrice reflects it, albeit with a little less enthusiasm. The car comes to a stop, and a voice crackles through the speakers.
“We’re here, ladies.”
Camila bounces in her seat and adjusts the straps on her dress once more.
“You ready?”
Beatrice despises these kinds of events. It’ll be full of convoluted conversations and ass-kissing, and she’ll have to smile her way through it. There’s a reason she is an artist, happy to be left to her own devices in her secluded properties dotted around the globe. She knows where she’d rather be right now. But, alas, she promised a rather convincing Camila weeks ago that she would come out of her self-induced hiding and ‘celebrate the (almost) win you deserve’.
“I guess I can’t back out now, can I?”
Camila giggles and shakes her head. She gives Beatrice a once over, checking her impeccably tailored suit. Beatrice raises a single eyebrow as she’s inspected, and Camila flicks the lapel of her jacket in approval. Satisfied, she reaches for the handle and looks back at Beatrice one final time.
“Then let’s go.” Beatrice says as cheerfully as she can manage.
Summary: Sister Beatrice likes complicated mathematical formulas, sci-fi novels, and routine. Then Ava Silva arrives at Santa Areala Academy for Girls like a shock of rain on a hot summer day.
i was clearing my PS folder and stumbled upon these files. istg this might actually be one of the most complicated things i've done when it comes to color manipulation 😭 i fucking hate yellow color grading in wn 😭
kianamaiart
areudirty
