ava teasing bea about her short haircut growing too long
[turned out silly! god bless]
//
beatrice wanders out of your bedroom around 11, hums in thanks when you get up from the couch where you had been reading to fix her a cup of coffee. she had been up early to surf, like usual, then back to sleep after you had laughed at her drooping eyelids and kissed her soundly after she'd showered. it's not new, not really, but the war is finally over and it feels like a series of small miracles: to sit on the couch as the day warms; to watch the sun float to the middle of the sky after the marine layer burns off; for beatrice to sleep without nightmares, to curl up into your side with her cup of coffee and kiss your shoulder. things are quiet, quieter than they've ever been since you'd had a piece of metal shoved in your back and life roaring through your veins; since you had kissed beatrice, sure you were going to die; since she had kissed you through tears when you finally made it back.
it's normal, these days, for her to nap: even though she won't fully admit it, she's catching up on, like, a whole lifetime's worth of rest, you're pretty sure. and a whole lifetime's worth of pleasure too, which you are all too eager to experience with her: the smell of peonies in the spring, the burst of taste from the plucots from the farmer's market, the feel of her hand buried deep inside you. and then rest — a pleasure borne of safety, of comfort, of finally, finally, not feeling like she's going to die. like, in some way, she deserves to.
she sighs into your neck and you kiss the top of her head, settle your fingers there. 'your hair is getting long.'
she huffs, quietly and mostly for show, which makes you smile. she sits up and rearranges her limbs, still casual, still soft and unassuming in her boxers and her favorite hoodie. 'i know.'
'you growing it out?' she's actively pouting about it, but fun to ask anyway, just to see her frown sharpen.
'ugh. no.'
'so you're just... vibing with this? it's, like, very 2010 justin bieber. i'm into it, though, don't worry.'
it adds a blush to her pout, which is delightful. 'horrible.'
'mmm. harry styles, original the x factor audition? more british, just for you.'
'ava.'
you laugh.
'you think you're very funny, don't you?'
'i'm, like, the funniest person i know.'
'that's okay,' beatrice says, a little smile sneaking its way into the corners of her mouth — delighted enough to make you suspicious. you narrow your eyes just in time for her to say, completely seriously, 'because, you know, looks aren't everything.'
'wow.' you clutch a hand to your chest. 'this is a worse pain than any injury i've ever had. a blow to my soul, beatrice. my very soul.'
it's worth it all, just for her silly laugh, for the terrible wink she offers you, for her apology in the form of a forehead kiss, gentle and reverent. 'i don't think that's true.'
'obviously not,' you say. 'and, also, i know it's a lie. i'm hot as hell. actually, hotter. i would know.'
she sighs, exasperated and overwhelmingly fond.
you brush back bangs that fall into her eyes. 'what's up, then?'
'i —' she pauses, fiddles with the chain around her neck, picks at her fingernails until you take her hand and squeeze. 'i don't know. ptsd and executive dysfunction?'
'ahh. so, super fun in your head lately, huh?'
'i—i've told you,' she says, a little hesitant.
'oh, babe,' you say, scoot closer to her and offer your hands. 'i know. and i'm sorry. you know i understand.'
she nods.
'can i help? i can schedule an appointment with your barber; we can make a little evening of it, if you want. or we can totally just come back here after. you know i'm, like, a sucker for a fresh fade.'
she grants you a gentle smile, a real one, a little indulgent and just for you. 'i do know that.' she squeezes your hand. 'our sisters asked if they might come over later, actually. so, if you could help me make the appointment for late afternoon, then maybe we can have a pizza night afterward, or something.'
never in your wildest dreams a few years ago would you have dreamt of having a pizza night with a bunch of nuns, or ex-nuns — one of whom is your hot butch partner, the rest of whom are your family — but, 'fuck yeah. that sounds awesome.'
beatrice nods, straightening and focusing seriously. you hide a smile. 'okay, i can do it. make the appointment.'
'you can.' you rub her back. 'or i can.'
she gets out her phone, opens her texts. there are... a lot of unopened messages, and you make a mental note to go through them with her tomorrow, but she scrolls to her barber's contact and sends off an extremely polite and perfectly punctuated text, and, like, god, you love her.
'okay, well, can we, like, make a music video or something with this hair before we go or something?'
'no.'
you scramble to follow when she stands up — lithe and graceful and powerful; you're still undeterred. 'what about a video in the car? taylor swift gay love interest?'
'oh, and you're taylor swift in this scenario?'
'you love her. i know it. speak now is like your favorite album of all time.'
'it certainly isn't.'
you follow her into your bedroom, just for fun, and nod when she tells you that her barber is available in an hour.
'hmm. 1989?'
she gives you a muffled sigh from the closet as you flop back onto the bed, and you smile up at the ceiling. her favorite taylor swift album is red, and you know it for a fact, but that's okay; you'll let her keep her silly secrets for now.
she emerges in a men's sage green linen co-ord set, slouchy and perfect, and pristine white sneakers, and holds out her hand. 'lunch?'
you pop up and lace your fingers with hers.
/
beatrice orders six pizzas, all different kinds from the sourdough pizzeria nearby, which you try to tell her is too many, but she's still a little anxious about things so you let her have it; you can eat leftovers and force camila and yasmine to bring some back to mother superion anyway. beatrice also sets the table outside, which is one hundred percent ridiculous, but it's cute so you just tell her it looks nice and put the whole stack of pizza boxes in the middle. there's a whoosh and sulfur and then mary, lilith, camila, and yasmin are dusting themselves off in your living room. you hug them all tight, compliment mary's freshly done braids and camila's t-shirt, yasmine's new earrings. you make it a point to annoy lilith with as many pick up lines as possible until she just walks away from you to skulk around on the patio while you get everyone wine or beer, but she takes the glass of a beautiful chardonnay she and beatrice like with a small, genuine smile.
'your hair looks nice, beatrice,' camila says, digging into her slice of pizza once you're all sitting around the table.
beatrice steels herself for a moment, and you all know she's still working through everything: a lifetime of trauma, from her parents, the church, a holy war. 'thank you,' she says, soft and sure, and you share a smile with camila.
'yes,' lilith says, and beatrice is mid-eyeroll when lilith contines: 'very love island boy.'
there's a brief pause and then mary is delightedly and loudly laughing, beatrice is blushing up to her ears, and it doesn't take long until the entire table dissolves into giggles.
'oh my god,' camila says, 'let's have a love island party!'
'it is summer,' yasmine agrees.
'i'm ordering you a waterbottle, right now,' mary says, phone in hand.
beatrice groans and looks to you, exasperated and adorable. 'better than justin bieber, at least.'
you grin, put your hand on the back of her neck, run your fingers along the grain of her buzzed hair until it fades neatly into the short top, where it's always inevitably, and fashionably, a little messy. 'i'd crack on and then couple up with you every trip to the firepit, if that's what you're asking.'
'i'm leaving,' she says. 'i'm on a journey of self-discovery, and you're all the worst,' but it's all posturing: she laughs and eats her pizza and is apparently swayed into actually having a love island party next weekend by your promise of wearing your tiniest bikini for it.
a few days later, a package does arrive on your front porch, and you almost snort seltzer through your nose laughing so hard when beatrice opens it to find a water bottle with her name on it in bright pink, curly font.
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