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The dome is just barely large enough for the eight of them and it feels stiflingly small when Viridian—Vilya—is returned to herself. The absent, pleasant calm of the druid has been replaced by something wilder; still contained, still quiet and assured, but instead of that fog being the only thing that fills the space behind her eyes, there is something white-hot and roiling made all the more dangerous for the fact that she compresses it, packs it away tight enough that hopefully the change will go unnoticed by the Avocado.
Beau has her doubts that whatever that thing was won’t notice. If the watchfulness was any indicator, the watchfulness she could still feel, the Avocado may well already know.
Viridian—Vilya—sits at the edge of the dome, staff held in a too-tight grip, sparks bursting in a flurry from her palms. The green wood doesn’t catch but it filled the space with the faint scent of burning.
‘My apologies. It seems twenty-five years of nothing has made me…agitated.’
‘Not nothing.’ Vilya meets Beau’s eyes. Lips downturned at the corners, pale with how hard she presses them closed. ‘Twenty-five years of that asshole stealing from you. You got a family?’
‘A daughter,’ Vilya rasps.
‘One you love.’
‘Very much. She must –‘ Vilya swallows. Breathes out. The air in the dome, typically Caleb’s domain, swirls with the force of her presence. ‘She must think I died.’
Beau grunts. ‘That sucks.’
‘Beau.’
‘What? It does!'
‘A little more sympathy. Just a smidge.’
Beau grimaces at Fjord. Tries to pull the expression under control when she forces a smile at Vilya. Sympathy, sympathy, sympathy. Okay, sure. Yeah. Sympathy. She can do that. ‘That really fucking sucks.’
‘Impossible,’ Fjord breathes. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘I’m doing my best here, okay. It’s been weeks since our last lesson and –‘
‘You don’t need a lesson to be a little nicer to someone who has been separated from her family for,’ Fjord’s voice drops to a tense whisper, ‘twenty-five years.’
‘Oh, right, because you’ve come across that situation before.’
‘It’s just common sense! That’s all it is!’
Vilya laughs. It’s barely a laugh, more surprise than amusement but it’s there, and she shakes her head. ‘That’s – please, don’t fight. She’s absolutely right. It fucking sucks.’
Beau waves a hand to Vilya. ‘See? Thank you, Vilya.’ The druid starts as if shocked. A smile blooms across her wan, worried face and Beau has to look away from the intense gratitude she reads in those eyes. ‘So.’ Beau clears her throat. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Well I’m going to talk to the Traveller because it’s pretty weird,’ Jester calls into empty space disapprovingly, ‘that you didn’t tell me about any of this shit. I mean, I had to give up my chain mail, dude. My chain mail! It was super shiny!’
‘I had to give up my drugs!’
‘Beau had to give up her drugs!’ Jester adds obligingly, appropriately irate, before she shuffles out of the dome with her backpack gripped tight and begins to set up a now familiar ritual circle, soot and ash and incense and dick statues.
‘Are those…’
‘Don’t ask,’ Caleb advises.
‘Dicks,’ Beau tells Vilya helpfully. ‘Yeah.’
‘Ah. Huh. This is – in the worship of her deity? The Traveller, she called him?’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s just Jester being Jester,’ Beau says. There is a murmur of agreement from most everyone still inside the dome. ‘But also, yes.’
‘I see.’
Cad starts to make tea and dinner. Vilya closes her eyes and starts to meditate, it looks like. Fjord watches Cad like tea-making is the key to whatever code the universe is written in. Caleb fiddles with his wand, not a euphemism, and Veth has curled into the smallest shape possible beneath her coat, no doubt missing the many treasures she’s had to give up today. It tugs at Beau’s heartstrings, knowing Veth out of all of them adores her treasures – and it was never about being a goblin, never about having a shiny little hoard, but that collecting that connected her to all that she always has been and now some asshole fucked-up kraken thing has Veth’s shit.
‘We’ll get it back,’ Beau promises as she stands to make her way outside, keeping her voice gruff and a little short so no one makes the mistake of commenting on her lack of sympathy. ‘Your flask and your diamond and your dagger and your gun. Not sure if we can get the gold dust back…’
‘That shit is gone.’
‘Right. But the rest. We’ll get it.’ Veth hums in response. The angry curl of her shape shifts very slightly. Before she can reply, Beau steps out.
The heat is powerful outside of the dome, the steam and mist weighty with whatever stinging toxins and minerals are caught up in it. Jester hasn’t gone terribly far but like with all their other treasures, it seems for a moment that the Avocado has hidden Jester away within the wall of mist. It blankets the air outside of the cavern entrance and Beau has to move slowly, sure that every step is going to be the one that brings her over the edge of the steep mountainside. Keeping an ear out, though, Beau hears Jester’s mutterings and the bright notes of her rapid conversation, not diminished even after the shitty fucking day they’ve all had today. Not wanting to intrude, Beau leans against the wall of the cavern – relieved to find that it isn’t of the sharp obsidian that makes up the interior of the cavern – and waits.
Footsteps crunch behind her. Beau whips a hand out to catch Yasha’s wrist as the other woman heads too far out on an angle, sure to meet the cliffside in a few more steps.
‘Beau?’
‘The cliff is over there.’
‘Ah. Thank you.’
A brisk wind – surprisingly cool – gathers the mist in curls and coils. It almost looks like it’s dancing. Or like a flock of white-coated sheep flooding down the mountainside. It’s weirdly fitting for Jester’s island that it can be in turns so pretty and lovely and in other moments devious and dangerous. Not that Jester would want the Avocado to be part of her island, or that dank-mouthed freak from that morning, but Beau thinks the analogy sticks. Sort of sticks. Sticks somewhere in the vicinity of correct.
‘Can I talk to you, Beau?’
‘Huh?’ With the mist shepherded away for the time being, Beau can see Yasha at her shoulder. She looks good. More of herself than she has been for weeks. Owes it all, no doubt, to the power of the sun and sailing. ‘Sure, yeah.’ She cuts a glance to Jester, still talking to the Traveller. ‘Now?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘I was going to keep an eye out for that green-cloaked fuck, actually.’
Yasha frowns. ‘The Traveller?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I… Should you call him that?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Hm.’ Yasha nods. ‘Okay. Later then?’
‘Yeah, totally.’
The Traveller doesn’t show up in a form that Beau can punch, unfortunately, and she walks Jester back into the cavern and rejoins the rest for the Traveller’s update – the rest of the “guests” aren’t far away, he had never met Vilya before or known that she was here, and that next time she should give the Avocado one of the Traveller figurines she had crafted and see what happens, though no one is entirely sure whether that was Artagan’s advice or just a thought that Jester had had and thrown into the mix.
Night crashes down onto them, exhaustion heavy on their shoulders, and soon they are settling onto thin bedrolls padded with blankets to fight the hard floor of stone and far too close, as per usual, within the protection of the dome. Jester sets her roll next to Beau’s, who situates herself as close to the wall as possible, and lays beside her.
‘So. You spoke to the Traveller.’
‘Mhm.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Good! Good. You know, fine. As fine as – I mean, he’s really busy at the moment, obviously, with TravellerCon 3000 being so close and all, and –‘
‘The TravellerCon you’re fully setting up and clearing the island for.’
‘Beau.’
‘What? I’m just clarifying.’
‘You’re antagonising.’
Beau pulls a face. Admits, ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe,’ Jester agrees. Even in the dark, even not looking at her, Beau knows she’s smiling. Then comes a rustle of blankets and a knock of knee and awkward limbs against Beau’s side.
‘What are you doing?’ Beau laughs the third time Jester knocks into her, shuffles away and onto her side to give her space as Jester sits up and turns around, shuffling in her bag. ‘You got bugs in your blankets or something?’
‘Huh? Bugs? I can help with that-‘
‘Cad-uceus. My blankets are fine.’
‘Are you sure? I’m sure I heard someone say bugs.’
‘I’m sure!’
‘Alright,’ he rumbles, returns to his low-set fire and the steadily warming kettle.
Jester finally settles. She smiles down at Beau, face cast in golden light and purple shadows by the firelight. ‘Give me your hand?’
‘Why?’ Beau demands, holding her right hand out. She doesn’t flinch when Jester takes it in her own soft hand.
‘I thought of something fun for TravellerCon. Tattoos!’ She holds tight to Beau’s hand and doesn’t let Beau wriggle free. Sharp teeth gleam in the firelight and it isn’t at all extremely attractive. ‘I’m just practicing, Beau. I promise.’
‘No actual tattoos?’
‘I swear.’
Jester’s promises came with a glint of mischief and Beau had to trust that she meant it. Trust wasn’t a thing that always came easy, but it always came easy with Jester.
‘Fine.’
Jester beams down at her. Beau watches, curious, as she takes out ink and pen and begins to scrawl various symbols over Beau’s hand. It’s too dark to make out what they are but Beau trusts that they’re largely inappropriate.
‘Don’t just draw dicks on my hand. Give me a couple boobs too.’
Jester laughs. ‘You already have two.’
‘Not on my hand.’
‘Not at the moment,’ Jester says, and wriggles her eyebrows.
Gold light, mischievous glint. It’s not the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen. It’s not the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, Beau repeats the mantra and hopes her palms aren’t sweating. ‘Huh?’ she asks when she realises Jester is staring down at her.
Jester reaches toward her face with the hand that isn’t holding the ink-dipped pen. She touches a finger to the corner of Beau’s eyes. ‘You have a couple wrinkles right here. Just a couple.’
‘What?’
‘They’re new.’
‘I mean, I do frown a lot.’ Another thought occurs to her. ‘It might’ve been that dank-mouthed freak though. It felt like… I saw its eyes and I… Maybe it aged me. Sucked the life right outta me. It felt like everything was just gone, y’know?’
Seeing Jester’s face now tells Beau it was the wrong thing to say. The smile is completely gone; Jester’s secret frown, usually well hidden, has settled into the corners of her lips and turned them down. It only lasts for a beat before Jester is smiling again.
‘Not everything. Yasha managed to bring you back. With her healing touch,’ she says, eyebrows waggling like her life and happiness depends on it.
Beau glances back over her shoulder. Caduceus and Fjord. Caleb and Veth. Vilya. She looks outside the dome and spots her seated at the open mouth of the cavern, looking out over the forests and mist.
‘Beau?’
‘Mm.’
‘Do you still have a crush on Yasha?’
Beau untwists, returns her attention to Jester and her artwork. It still looks like unintelligible squiggles in the dark so Beau doesn’t bother trying to decipher them. She’s having a hard enough time deciphering Jester’s tone; it’s light and breezy, but also deeply curious, and she steps down harsh on the part of her that wonders if Jester doesn’t like the idea, if she’s jealous. She’s just curious, Beau reminds herself, because she hasn’t had a relationship. She steps down far more harshly on that timid little worm that dares suggest Beau tell Jester how she really feels, and about who.
‘No,’ she admits, and instantly knows that saying yes would have made everything a lot easier and also a lot worse. Fuck Caduceus and his honesty is the best policy…policy. It’s ruined her. ‘She’s got great arms though, am I right?’
Jester arches an interrogatory brow, as though she can see how fast Beau is moving from the topic. Still, she nods. ‘She’s really beautiful and strong.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Smoking hot. But no. I never really did. Have a – a,’ Beau laughs quietly, more a clearing of her throat than a laugh. ‘I never really had a crush on her, I didn’t really do that kind of thing.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Nah. It’s easier to just…have a good time with someone and…’
‘Leave?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hm.’
Beau waits for a moment. Jester doesn’t say anything but Beau can practically hear the thoughts singing for her attention in her mind; she relaxes into the folded pillow of her bedroll and lets her attention drift to the tug and pull and just shy of painful needling point of the pen nib against the skin of her hand.
‘Do you think, though, that maybe you should tell…that maybe Yasha needs to know that?’ Jester offers after a little while, very quietly. ‘She’s only ever loved one person ever in her whole life so that’s really different to…’
‘One-night stands?’
‘Yeah. I think she really likes you so if you don’t like her like that then…’
‘You think she likes me?’ Beau glances over her shoulder again at the silhouette of their friend. She’d be lying if she hadn’t had the thought before that maybe there was something there, but at the same time she had thought it was irrepressible conceit that made her think it. For Jester to voice the same thought…
‘She did go to heal you awfully fast when you – when that thing attacked you.’
‘So did Fjord and I don’t think he’s about to confess his undying love for me.’
‘You didn’t see her face, Beau. She was really worried about you.’
Were you? Beau thinks, but doesn’t ask. Even in the dome’s temperature-controlled interior, the heat of the volcano is powerful. Even so, Beau feels a chill settle in her lungs, makes them seize for a moment. She feels it settle in her bones, feels every healed-over fracture and bruise, and she shivers. It feels wrong all of a sudden – wrong and painful and stupid – to be sitting here next to Jester like it could ever mean anything at all and Beau has to move. She pulls her hand back abruptly. When Jester blinks up at her with big, dark eyes, confused, Beau mutters,
‘Ticklish.’
‘I’ll be very careful,’ Jester promises.
She smiles so very sweetly that Beau can’t argue. She’s half a second away from giving her hand back when the cold spikes through her again and she half-chokes on it, sits up quickly and looks away from Jester lest she do something else stupid.
‘I should – you’re right. I should go talk to her.’
‘Oh. Oh, okay.’ Jester moves slowly to cap her inkwell. ‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘Huh?’
‘For letting me practice on you.’
‘Oh. Sure.’
Beau would never admit it but she flees that space, the quiet dark corner she and Jester had made just for the two of them, the one that Jester had broken the sanctity of by bringing Yasha into it. The one that Beau realises had only ever been in her own mind, and of which Jester had no inkling.
The night is hot; the breeze is cool. Beau is burning as the embarrassment, the utter foolishness of having a crush on Jester, burns away the chill; Yasha is cold to lean against, like an alabaster statue out under the dark night.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ she responds, and she smiles at Beau, small and pleased, and Beau’s belly clenches tight as she realises Jester may well be right. Yasha returns her attention to the ground in front of her. She has a stick in hand and she has nudged a many-branching line like a millipede into the dirt. ‘Avocado’s path. I think…I don’t think it’s right.’
‘It’s a good idea though. We should get Vilya or Caleb to draw one out.’
‘Definitely.’ Yasha breathes deeply. Her nose wrinkles. ‘I thought it was a good idea at the time but you really…You smell like a – What did N-Veth call it? A boozer?’
Beau barks a laugh. ‘Hey, it was a great idea, I loved it. I mean, it’s the best way to bring me back if I ever kick the bucket. Like smelling salts. Waft a bit of whiskey under my nose and I’ll pop right back up.’
Yasha’s smile crinkles up into a full grin and she laughs softly.
Beau can’t help but look back over her shoulder. Jester has crept a short way out from the dome and she smiles brightly when Beau looks back, flashes two thumbs up. Beau turns away fast, back toward Yasha and rubs at her forehead as a sudden pain takes up residence behind her eyes.
‘Hey, actually, on that topic. I – uh – can’t remember if I said this before, I was kinda fucked up, but thanks. For healing me, I mean.’
‘Yes, of course. I would – not want you to die,’ Yasha says like she’s translating the words as she says them, like she’s trying not to say something else.
Beau feels the weight of the unsaid words. They’re not painful, or insistent. They hang around her like the little lights Caleb conjures; small, imperfect and dim, but light nonetheless. She can tell Jester is watching them still; she can feel her eyes on them even though she doesn’t turn to confirm her theory.
‘Do you wanna go on a walk?’ Beau blurts. ‘Can we – I know you asked me before – can we talk for a minute?’
‘Yes, of course.’
They duck back toward the dome for a moment. Beau ignores Jester’s enthusiastic grin and less-than-discreet thumbs up. Caduceus, miserably, warns them to look out for the tarpools and not to stray too far. Beau can’t help but smirk; ears and eyes drooping low, legs caked with the dark muck all the way up and past his waist even after swimming the water-path, he looks so sad and out of place on this island, what would typically be his bailiwick. She pats his shoulder as they step out once more.
‘Poor Cad. He’s had a rough time.’
‘He didn’t die,’ Yasha says, tone pointed.
Beau bristles. ‘Neither did I.’ After a moment of nothing but silence from Yasha as they slowly descend the cliffside – not far, just far enough to be out of earshot and out of sight of their friends – she looks to Yasha’s face and finds upset writ clean across it. Instinct tells her to reach out, to do her best to fix it. History has taught her that she’s bad at it, so she refrains.
The treeline of the forest looms ahead. They stop a few yards within, where the saplings grow over their heads but not as far as the true forest which climbs dozens of feet into the sky. The ferns are dense underfoot and wherever they step, broken leaves and twigs and flower stems fill the air with the heavy scent of new and vibrant growth. A flutter of wings, a soft sound and barely noticeable in the night air so filled with the call and cacophony of insects and other small wildlife, draws Beau’s eyes to a small tawny owl, near identical to Vilya’s shape earlier in the day. It doesn’t approach but settles on a branch right on the treeline, not quite close enough to overhear them. Making sure someone would know if they got in trouble, Beau assumes, and draws no attention to it.
She leans back against one of the trees and crosses her arms. Yasha sits on the raised base of another tree across from her and looks to Beau. Her silence is a patient silence, a waiting silence, and the expectation in it doesn’t rasp at Beau’s raw nerves as she thought it would.
How to start a conversation like this? Was there a right way to do it? Beau doubts it but then again, she doesn’t know a whole lot about it. Going about a conversation without burning bridges, but also having someone, what? Like her? She rubs at her forehead again. Gods, but that felt immature.
‘Right,’ Beau says, nods sharply. ‘Right. This is gonna sound immature -‘ Honesty is the best policy, right? Please be right, Cad. ‘ - but do you...like me?’
Please say no.
‘Ah.’ A flush blooms red across Yasha’s cheeks. It’s unfairly pretty. ‘What gave it away?’
Beau swallows the loathing that rises hot into her throat. The corner of her lips tug up in a fish hook smile. ‘You carried me for free. Five gold, remember?’ Yasha laughs her surprise. Beau grimaces. Adds, ‘Also, y’know, Jester may have said something about it.’
‘Ah. She’s very perceptive.’
‘She can be.’ And so can Yasha, Beau remembers as the other woman notes her too-even tone. ‘So, it’s true then?’
Yasha looks at her and Beau feels something in her chest if not break then crack a little. A little fissure crackling through her and from it leaks some of that potent loathing and pain she had thought it was so clever of her to crush right down deep. She recognises those eyes.
‘Fuck. Fuck.’ She pushes off from the tree, twists away so she isn’t looking at Yasha, and slaps her hand against the tree trunk, knocks her forehead a few times atop that. ‘This is such a fucking mess.’
There is a moment and then Yasha laughs, a little disbelieving, a little hurt.
‘Somehow, I am thinking you don’t return my feelings.’
Beau wants to run. She wants to head into the forest and to the beach and steal a boat – ship, whatever – and not have to deal with this. She turns back to Yasha instead. Sits down on the tangle of roots at the base of her tree and drops her head in her hands. She scrapes her fingers through her hair and tugs a little, letting it hurt. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she rasps. ‘I’ve – god – I’ve really gone and fucked this up.’
‘You asked me to carry you.’
‘I know.’
‘And fell asleep with me.’
‘I know.’
‘And, I mean, that day at the fish market.’ Her voice tapers off. ‘You said I was beautiful.’
‘I know. I meant it. You are.’
Yasha mustn’t hear her, or doesn’t want to, because she talks at the same time and doesn’t stop. ‘I don’t say it as, Oh,’ she says, and Beau glances up in time to see her gesture awkwardly, pretending at acting, ‘this means you must have affection for me. This means you have to – to like me in return. I just mean…’ She blows out an annoyed breath, hands outstretched as she searches for the words like they’re lost in the mist. ‘I’m bad with understanding people,’ she confesses finally. ‘Why can things not be…easy?’
Beau huffs a laugh. Nods. ‘I feel that.’
‘So. Can we be…honest with each other, then? Totally honest? I promise I will not have hurt feelings.’ Yasha grimaces then. ‘Oh. No, I – can’t promise that. I promise…I will not make them your burden, though.’
‘Oh fuck you,’ Beau bites out, more disgusted than annoyed. Yasha’s brows crinkle, confused. ‘You’re so good.’
Yasha’s confusion clears and she smiles. The smile turns sad before it fully takes shape; she shakes her head, looks down at her hands and rubs them together, digs the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other, repeats it with the other hand, and does so a few times in a familiar motion that Beau can’t quite place.
‘I am not good,’ she says. On her tongue, the word is no juvenile thing, nothing discarded like it had sounded from Beau. On her tongue, the word is a road to the divine and her so far from it.
The pain in her voice makes Beau’s heart clench in sympathy.
‘Yes you are.’
‘No – the things I have done…’
‘Wasn’t you.’
‘It was my hand. My body.’
‘It wasn’t you. Fuck, Yasha… I’m not gonna say I totally get it. You’ve had so much shit go down in, like, the last couple of months and I know that’s gotta hurt still. It’s so much and here I am, like an asshole, being all “ooh, carry me” and not – not thinking about you at all and I’m –‘
‘I am happy to carry you.’
‘Okay, well,’
‘And I am not good.’ She shakes her head before Beau can disagree, vehemently, as she intends to. ‘I am trying to be - better. But.’ Yasha rubs her hands together. Looks up to Beau with an intensity she has always owned but rarely showed, whether it was hiding behind discomfort or whatever else. With just the two of them, and with the promise of honesty, Yasha doesn’t try to mask the way she looks at Beau. ‘You show – you show me how to do that. Others too, like, Fjord and searching for his new path and, and Caleb and his fam- ah.’
‘What was that? His family?’
Yasha stares a moment, striken. Then, highly convincingly, says, ‘No, nothing. I misspoke.’
‘Mhm. Right.’
‘I just mean that you – I don’t mean to offend,’
‘Go right ahead.’
Yasha ignores Beau’s permission. ‘But you were. Also not good? At talking to people.’
‘I’m a regular garbage person, yeah.’
Eyes narrowed, Yasha says with surprising heat to her tone, ‘Enough. There is nothing garbage about you. There is nothing – you aren’t regular either. Extraordinary, more like. Very wonderful.’
She’s not throwing this at Beau like a weapon – Beau would be good at that, give her a fight any day over whatever this is – but it hits something in her and she drops her head again. Rubs over her forehead and swallows. And swallows. And presses her fingers hard against her eyes and swallows again.
When it becomes clear that Beau has nothing to say, nothing she can say, Yasha continues.
‘I hated meeting your father. He didn’t see what I – what we see. And you can’t either. If that’s his fault, I would like to kill him.’
At that, Beau laughs. It’s a wet laugh, snotty. She hadn’t thought she was crying and she isn’t, not really, but she swipes rough under her nose with her wrist as she sits upright again, sniffs hard.
‘Leave him alive. He can be miserable right up to the end.’
Yasha stares. Her eyes burn into Beau, blue-hot. She inclines her head regally and Beau wonders what she had been, back in her tribe. Warrior? Or queen? ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘You’ll be the first to know if I change my mind.’
‘Good.’
Beau swipes under her nose again. ‘Well. Ha. This was…a weird direction for our – for the conversation to go. Kinda thought it would be like, “I don’t like you, like that”,’ she says and then leans to the side, turning her head as though acting out both parts of a two-person play, all the while gesturing wildly and badly, ‘and then, like, “Aah. That sucks, bye”.’ She grimaces, hearing and feeling precisely how awkward that had been, but Yasha laughs. At her, certainly, but genuinely. ‘Which is. So shitty of me because I know you’re – fucking great and all that,’
‘Enough, Beau. Relax. Please.’
‘Relax. Right. Something I’m super great at doing. My bailiwick, for sure.’
‘What is that word? Bailiwick.’
Beau waves a hand. ‘Just. Something Dairon said once. It’s like a fancy way of saying something you’re super interested in. Or really good at, maybe? It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look shit up in a dictionary.’
‘Tell me later.’
Beau offers her a smile. ‘Yeah. Okay, I will.’ She scratches at the back of her neck, over the raised bumps from the swarms they had waded through early in the day. ‘So. Are we…good?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course,’ Beau repeats, shakes her head. ‘Cool.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
Beneath her breath, Beau mutters, ‘Oh no.’ Then, loud enough for Yasha to hear, ‘Sure, yeah, shoot.’
One moment stretches into two into three in a long silence. It is weighty enough, considered enough, as Yasha arranges her thoughts and rearranges them into words Beau can understand, that all the ephemera – the beetles and bugs, the scratching things in the distance, the groan of trees as the wind howls like a nightmare down from peak of the mountain – cannot break into it. The silence holds them within it and everything else without, and Beau cannot break from it; all she can do is sit and wait as Yasha crafts the question, sit and wait and hurt in a dull echo to the hurt she can see in Yasha’s eyes, the hurt Beau had so recklessly given her.
‘Is there…’ Yasha shakes her head as if to clear those words away. Tries again. ‘It’s okay if there isn’t one or if you don’t know if there is but… Is there a reason?’
‘A reason?’
‘That you don’t – this really does sound immature,’ she mutters, laughs. ‘That you don’t like me.’
‘Oh. That reason.’
The wave of guilt that has filled Beau throughout this whole exchange drags out of her, cold along her spine as it pulls away like ribbons of freezing water, leaving her all empty inside. Hollow. She finds herself wishing for its return just so she can feel something and the thought, that desperate grasp for the guilt, for the hurt—like hurt could somehow help her, redeem her, like punishment could do anything about this utter shithole she has dug for herself, like punishment isn’t just some coward way to make Yasha back up, back off, stop questioning this—it is the tipping point and like the yawning nothing, the dragging sucking emptiness that flattens the sea before a tidal wave, so the guilt drags her empty and Beau – a natural disaster in human form – reels as it crashes into her ten, one-hundred times as powerful as before.
‘I shouldn’t have asked…’
‘No,’ Beau interrupts before she can do something agonizing like apologise. ‘No, just…give me a second. Please.’
‘Ya. Okay. I can do that.’
A reason. Yeah, there’s a reason. And it’s so unfair. She can’t possibly tell Yasha, except… Except that Yasha has asked her to be honest, and had been honest to her. Beau cracks her head from side to side. Drags a hand over her face and settles her chin in her hand, fingers covering her mouth as she thinks, staring across at Yasha.
She really is beautiful.
‘Y’know what the crappiest thing is?’
Yasha blinks. ‘Is this a trick question? Shit, I suppose.’
Beau barks a laugh. ‘No. I mean, yeah. But I mean like, the thing that’s just. Awful. Shitty.’
‘Ah.’
‘Other than bullshit world-ending cults and all that,’ she says, and braces her elbows against her knees, sucks in a deep breath, steadying herself so she can be steady for Yasha when she continues. ‘It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to fall for you.’
Yasha flinches at the unkind words.
‘I know. I’m sorry. But you have to know… You’ve got everything, Yash. You’ve got that whole swole brooding hero thing going on and you’re so fucking hot – I mean, my god woman! Your muscles! And your massive sword – heh – but then, it’s like, also you collect flowers and you play the harp, apparently,’
‘I am learning.’
Beau grins over at her, and she can’t help the very soft tilt of it. Endeared. ‘You’re thoughtful, and careful, and you protect your friends and you asked me to be fully honest so I have to say it… I’m shit at talking to people –‘
‘No –‘
‘Hold on, let me finish. I’m shit at talking to people because I’m mean and mistrusting, y’know? You’re shit at talking to people because you’re bad with words sometimes and kinda shy. The two… They’re not alike, they’re not – it’s not the same. They’re different inherently. And I see it, I do. And I admire that, I really, really do. And when I’m fighting with you, at – at your side, I feel invincible ‘cause I know you’ve got my back and that’s, that’s some lightning shit, y’know? It’s rare, it’s exciting.’
Looking ever so slightly bewildered, Yasha nods. She’s felt it too.
‘I…don’t understand,’ she admits. ‘This is – it sounds like very good things you’re saying.’
‘Because you’re amazing. You’re really, really amazing. And the shittiest thing is that the only thing in the way is – ‘ Beau stops just shy of admitting it. Her eyes flick to the side, over Yasha’s shoulder, back the way they had come from camp. She closes her eyes – hopes that Yasha didn’t see the look – and closes her hand around the marks Jester had painted onto it. She leans back against the tree, all the way back so that the back of her skull knocks against the bark. She lets the pain rattle around in her skull for a moment before dragging her attention back to Yasha. ‘Me,’ she says. The half-truth satisfies the part of her that wants to tell Yasha the truth, and the half-lie satisfies the rest.
Yasha presses her lips thoughtfully flat. Then, ‘May I ask…’
Beau nods.
‘You – Is the reason… Do you love someone else?’
Beau stares across the little clearing at Yasha. She forgets to blink, forgets to breathe until the need for it burns into her lungs and she sucks in a short, surprised breath. Somehow, despite it being a totally probable question, it hadn’t occurred to her that Yasha would ask. Perhaps because Beau knows she wouldn’t have, would have wanted to save herself that pain.
She clears her throat. It doesn’t help. Her voice is small and hoarse when she speaks.
‘I didn’t mean to.’
Yasha stares a moment. The night has grown darker around them; it hadn’t been ominous, hadn’t been terribly cold, but when Yasha shifts on her throne of tangled roots it feels like she is pulling back, pulling away, and the cold and dark rushes into the space she leaves between them.
‘It’s not the one you told me about,’ she says softly. ‘Tori.’
‘No.’
Another stretched thin silence. Beau’s starving lungs rebel, force her to breathe deeply.
On the other side of this space, the other side of this exchange, the sharp end of this sword, Yasha is the one who seems calm, steady, and lets out a long, slow breath. ‘Ah.’
She stands then. Beau scrambles up to meet her – not afraid, not of Yasha, but unwilling to meet anything that comes not on her own two feet. She moves forward toward Beau and smiles, and the cold – which it seems had only ever been the cold of the night – shatters with the resigned warmth of it, like the ache of sore muscles, like a fire burning down to its last.
‘I understand,’ she says. Soothes. ‘It’s alright, Beau, please don’t be so upset. I understand.’
‘Don’t – you can’t tell her, please,’
‘I won’t, no, I won’t, I understand. It’s okay, Beau.’
She says it again – don’t be so upset, it’s okay – and Beau wonders what it could be that her face is doing that Yasha is looking at her with such concern. It must grow worse because Yasha wavers in place and takes a step back, taking the warmth with her. Beau panics. Grabs at her before she can move away.
It’s cruel, probably, to hug her. To let herself be comforted by the way Yasha hugs her back, leans into the embrace and shifts just so to almost completely engulf her. The disparity between them – Beau all lean and fast, Yasha with muscles stacked on magic muscles – makes Beau laugh as she considers what it would look like from outside the hug, what Vilya must be seeing. A whole lot of nothing and then a desperate, clinging hug that lasts and lasts and lasts.
‘Better?’ Yasha asks.
‘I feel like I should be asking you that.’
Yasha’s hold tightens around her for a moment. Then, ‘I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.’
The hug doesn’t end so much as it loosens, falls into something less desperate. Beau shifts in the cradle of Yasha’s arms; she tucks her head into the crook of Yasha’s neck, breathes deeply of what she hopes will always be reassuring, that mix of leather and ozone and something vaguely earthly like chalk or clay or crayon. Beau sighs. Begins to pull back. Her hand slides over the broad plane of Yasha’s shoulders to stop, settle, on the back of her neck; rocking up onto her tip-toes so they are of a height, Beau places a kiss on Yasha’s cheek.
‘Beau…’
She has done so much bad already this evening, it seems like such a small thing to push her hand up into Yasha’s hair. To trace over the line of her jaw with her other hand and to hold Yasha’s face between her hands, to admire it, admire her the way she deserves to be admired. Just for a moment.
Yasha’s hands drop to Beau’s waist, move up and down her sides, up to her shoulders and down to her hips again, and wherever they go they drag warmth along Beau’s skin, energy crackling from her fingertips – with their closeness? With whatever turmoil Beau has expertly, awfully conjured in her? One hand moves to her back, rests warm between her shoulders, and the other curls around Beau’s waist no longer a hug but holding her close.
‘It could work,’ Yasha tells her. Already so close, she bends closer. The warmth of her breath against Beau’s lips, and then her nose skimming across Beau’s cheek, the electric press of her hand against Beau’s spine, thumb drifting over sensitive skin, and then—she stops.
Beau’s fingers press against Yasha—the column of her neck, into the hair behind her ear—and she isn’t sure whether she is trying to pull her closer or stop her.
She slides her hand deeper into the braid and tangle of Yasha’s hair and with her other hand tilts Yasha’s face, coaxes her forward, and sighs into the first press of Yasha’s lips against her own.
There is no translation necessary with this and Yasha kisses her without hesitation. She kisses all of it into her, I want you with the scrape of teeth, the sting soothed with the gentled I like you, the gentle burning hot and hotter and there’s no way to misunderstand what she’s saying. She hoists Beau up, encourages her legs around her waist and presses her back against the tree; she’s not alabaster anymore, she’s a living statue of molten metal, entirely hot against Beau and entirely relentless and she kisses her until she’s dizzy with it, until she’s buzzing with it. Kissing Yasha is overwhelming in the best way, soft lips and firm kisses, a goading nip against her bottom lip that has Beau retaliating.
From somewhere nearby, there comes the flutter of quiet wings that grow more distant as a watchful owl takes her leave. The sound – the reminder that there is something outside of the two of them – pulls Beau back into herself.
‘Wait. Wait, wait,’ Beau gasps. ‘I’m s- I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t.’
Pulling away just enough to rest her forehead against Yasha’s, she sets her hands on either side of Yasha’s jaw. Strokes her thumbs over her cheeks. Lips still buzzing, Beau sighs and leans back against the tree she is pinned to. Opening her eyes, she is struck speechless; there, above Yasha’s head, like a crown of thorns there is a faint slash of light. A halo of spiking, shifting lightning.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmurs. Kisses Yasha again, no heat to it, soft and sweet.
Yasha’s shoulders slump. ‘I – can wait. I can love you enough for both of us.’
‘Yash.’
‘I know, I know. That’s not – good.’
‘I’d be more of an asshole than I am if I let you do that.’
‘You aren’t-‘
‘Let me make the joke,’ Beau says, and she lowers her legs from Yasha’s waist. ‘I know who I am. I’ll probably be an asshole to you in the next couple days so…be warned. I’m not used to people liking me.’
Yasha grins half-heartedly. ‘I know. You won’t hurt me.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘No, I mean you can’t.’ She steps back, finally, taking her warmth with her. The move is a little unsteady and it makes Beau’s stomach swoop, turn over, and twist to think their kiss made Yasha weak in the knees. ‘I see you. I know you, Beau.’
She says it with such conviction, such trust, that Beau can only stare. None of what they had done tonight had been on Beau’s list of expectations but to be confronted with such faith, such – dare she think it? – love, it was staggering.
It was upsetting.
She wishes it wasn’t.
‘Why can’t it be you?’
Yasha’s smile fills after a moment. ‘You know why.’
‘It’s not fair. Especially not to you.’
She’s quiet for a long moment. Resolve and resignation washes over her face, washes away the regret and want that still lingered in the hungry cut of her jaw, her eyes. Yasha leans forward, tilts Beau’s chin up and kisses her one last time.
She lands on solid ground in a flurry of restless thoughts and resettling clothes, just out of sight of the cavern. The night air is not cold but it is cool against her skin; she welcomes it and the way it helps her to refocus. She doesn’t have as much time as she would like, the sound of footsteps crunching up the incline not far behind her and instead throws herself into the dome. Pulling herself tightly under control, she skims the space to see who is awake and watching.
Jester flashes a bright smile at Fjord, who had looked up at her entrance. ‘That,’ she says, sighs, ‘was a really big shit.’
Fjord grimaces. ‘God. Uh. Good for you?’
‘Thank you!’ she laughs.
Jester picks her way over a sleeping Caleb-and-Veth, curled into each other, and returns to her bedroll right next to Beau’s. She stands over the set-up, stares down at it. Worry turns her hands into busy friends and she tugs her skirt back into neat pleats, fixes the bow at her waist, as she considers. Should she pack up Beau’s bedroll and put it next to Yasha’s? Were they at that stage? No, surely not – Beau is her roommate, which means they get sleep together most of the time. Side-by-side, that is. Sometimes in one large bed, if circumstances called for it. If Beau wanted to move it, that was something different, but Jester could see no reason to do it herself. She looks up with that same, bright smile as Beau and Yasha break through the circumference of the dome.
Jester’s heart slams against her sternum and, for a moment, her smile falters. With the ease of practise, she sticks it firmly in place.
The two of them are standing so very close to one another, she notices first. Second, they’re not holding hands, exactly, but knuckles brushing against the back of the others hand too light, too sweetly to not be purposeful. They break apart when they enter. Yasha heads for the space she had claimed behind Caduceus. Beau is less quick to find her place. She seems stuck where she had entered, all of her attention on Vilya. The druid seems to be is sleeping – or meditating? – where she is, sitting upright near to the very edge of Caleb’s conjured hut.
Jester watches as a little frown begins to dig and worry and burrow into the line between Beau’s brows. Her attention slips sideways and lands directly on Jester. It flickers back to Vilya momentarily before settling on Jester. Beau stares at her, something unreadable in the covered blue eyes.
There is something strange about her, some shift in her energy that is equal parts eager and upset. Jester blinks owlishly at Beau. When that does seemingly nothing, she offers her a sweet smile instead and she watches, pleased, as Beau corrects her stance. Settles, breathes out, and the prickling energy that had followed her in like a dark mantle simply melts away.
Beau makes her way over. Pauses a moment before she sits heavily on her bedroll, collapses backwards. Even exhausted, even pretending at gracelessness as she does, Beau moves with a control of her limbs that Jester finds extraordinary. She mimics Beau, flings herself down onto her bedroll, and smiles across at her friend.
‘So,’ she whispers. ‘How did it go?’
Beau stares through the dome up at the glinting obsidian roof. ‘You were right,’ she says eventually, evenly. ‘She likes me.’
Jester’s heart has pressed itself into her throat, probably from excitement. Anticipation of hearing all about it, no doubt. Before Beau can begin, her thoughts have already carried her pretty far. What would it mean, if Beau and Yasha were together? Really, properly together? They would flirt maybe, the way they used to when all of them had first met up all those months ago. Would they be as awkward as they had been then? Or would they find some kind of groove – ha – and settle into something subtle? Or charged? Or would it all be inside jokes and side-long looks, that quiet kind of love that both of them seemed to be so good at? They would be roommates, most likely, or maybe the three of them would share a room but that didn’t seem likely. She would kiss her. Beau would kiss Yasha in the room that they shared. That had more to do with Yasha than it did with sharing a room with someone thought, obviously, because Beau had shared a room with Jester so many times before and she had never tried to kiss her.
Jester reaches over and takes Beau’s hand, the one she had painted. She traces one of the symbols lightly.
‘And? How was it?’ Her voice takes on a teasing tone and she shimmies her shoulders, waggles her eyebrows. ‘Did you kiss?
Beau tucks her other hand up under her head. Crosses her long legs at the ankles. Jester doesn’t know whether it was to hide her reaction to the question, or just the movements of a sleepy Beau. She wants to know that.
‘You really want to know?’
Jester starts, surprised by the words. Could Beau – did Beau read her mind? What had she asked—oh yes. She wriggles around in her blanket until she’s properly facing Beau, really looks her over. There’s a smudge of ink on Beau’s forehead where she must have rubbed her face at one point, and a small leaf resting in the wisps around the headband she had woven into Beau’s hairline. She sees kiss-reddened lips and the faintest trace of tears smudging her life-smudged eyeliner.
‘Yes,’ Jester tells her. The thought of knowing makes her stomach turn over. The thought of not knowing… Worse.
Beau nods. ‘Yeah. We kissed.’
Jester gasps. Shuffles a little closer. ‘How many times?’
‘Twice? I guess?’
‘Was it good?’
It hadn’t seemed like a terribly difficult question when Jester had thought it up and asked it, but Beau seems to be considering it very seriously. Eventually, she nods.
‘It’s…always good with girls. I think so, anyway. Girls you like. Doesn’t really matter if they’re bad kisser, girls are just,’ A smile takes Beau’s lips. She doesn’t truly seem to be aware of it. ‘Girls are great.’
‘Yeah,’ Jester agrees softly.
She hangs her head slightly, frowning down at Beau. The position sends her curls falling to cover her eyes and, completely by luck, covers the indecision she can feel all over her own face. Worrying at her bottom lip, Jester wonders whether kissing twice meant two kisses only, or if it meant two sustained bouts of kissing. She wonders how long it would take to make Beau’s lips look like that.
Jester tilts her head to the side, stretching out the muscles of her neck and back as they ache from holding her up. She readjusts and then again, catching herself before she leans too close into Beau’s side.
‘You said with girls you like.’
‘Mhm.’
‘So, you like Yasha?’
Beau purses her lips. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she says.
‘So beautiful,’ Jester agrees. ‘And?
‘And what?’
‘What does it mean? You like her! She likes you! Are you two dating now?’
Beau lifts her head enough to slip her hand out from under it. She scratches at her eyebrow quickly, and returns her hand to where it had been pillowing her skull. ‘It’s… Not as simple as that.’ Jester rolls her eyes. That’s not the answer she was looking for at all. She feels more than hears Beau’s quiet laugh and knows she’s been caught out, that Beau saw the expression. ‘We aren’t dating.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because. It’s – ‘ Beau sighs. Lifts her hand out from under her head again to press at the bridge of her nose, press against tired eyes. ‘It’s complicated, okay?’
‘Oh. Right. I understand.’
Beau tilts her head sideways. Her hand closes in Jester’s, within the loose hold Jester has on it. She doesn’t shake free of her but Jester feels it as a closing off, a retreat, and all she can do is watch as Beau fights the urge to lie to her.
‘I’m okay,’ Beau says, and says nothing of Yasha, who Jester can see with a quick look is awake and staring at her own section of the ceiling. ‘I’m okay, Jes,’ she says, truthfully. ‘This is more than I’ve ever had.’ What was? Jester wonders. All of them? This adventure? Beau’s hand turns and her fingers drift over Jester’s palm. Her? ‘I don’t want to – I won’t lose it.’