Into the Lyons’ Den || Saraber
@simba-lyons
Simba and his mother were not talking.
It was Berlioz’s fault--
No, it wasn’t. Ber had been trying to fight that line of thought ever since Simba told him, since he knew the reason it’d taken so long was because Simba was scared of exactly that. Berlioz was already absorbing enough guilt and worry and anxiety, even if some of it had faded as time went on and everything got more...settled-- whether that meant Berlioz settling back at Simba’s or InterPride clippin’ along or even Nala and Simba, reaching some sorta tepid peace, which from what Ber could tell through observation alone, was built on a bridge of Black Panther (though he didn’t think either acknowledged that there’d been shit wrong in the first place. Which meant the bridge was made outta the most precarious of building blocks and if either of em pulled out the wrong one…)
But apparently, even with things getting better, Simba and Sarabi were still not speaking. And as much as Berlioz tried and tried, he couldn’t help his stomach sinking, this sick kinda feeling filling him up. He couldn’t pull the feeling out of himself. He couldn’t stop the nagging in his brain. It kept coming back.
And so Berlioz had to… do something. He had to do something for a hundred reasons. First, yeah, for Simba, but also for himself. And for them-- Simba-and-Berlioz and whatever kind of...future that Ber desperately wanted to imagine for the both of them. It’d not exist if Sarabi hated Berlioz.
He had to fix it.
Berlioz spent a week tortured by all this, going back and forth on what to do and how and when (should he try to call her? House trip?) until he was thinking more about it than he was not and he just had to: do something. So after his class, he checked Pride U’s website and saw Sarabi Lyons did have office hours…
Maybe he could just go-- go and ask-- to talk to her...later, if she-- if she was busy…
Before he knew what he was doing, Berlioz was beelining for her office, his heartbeat in the soles of his feet. Before he could lose whatever little nerve he had, he knocked on the half-open door and peeked in, seein’ Simba’s mum there at her desk.
Fuck--
“Uh-- Mrs. Lyons?” he uttered. He smiled a little, his hand clutching at the strap of his bag. “Er, do you… a-are you busy?”
