Chapter Text
She didn’t quite know how it happened. How she got here.
It was pity, at first, maybe. That first time she caught Stella sneaking around, looking all pathetic, saying she was looking out for Sky, Beatrix believed her. It was the crocs, probably, that threw her off. And then she realised, of course, that it was just a ruse. But that was almost more compelling. So, Beatrix let herself be intrigued, and then invested, and then worried. And before she knew it, she was seeking Stella out, bottle of her favourite hard liquor in hand, offering company.
Beatrix knew, all too well, what it was like to have her magic inhibited, to be shackled to one place like a misbehaving dog. So what if she felt an inkling of kinship for Stella. It was all meant to be harmless commiseration. Someone outside of Riven and Dane to talk to. A friendly-ish face in the corridors, a girl friend to drink and bitch about Rosalind, and boys, and fashion with.
But then something happened, without her realising it before it was too late. Beatrix started to wonder, to think about Stella. Like what it must have been like for Stella to grow up so beautiful. A literal princess, with her golden hair falling always so perfectly into place, even when she was clearly not even trying to look good.
She wondered what it was like to have everyone bend over backwards to accommodate Stella’s every whim, to fawn over the princess, seeking her favour, her attention. Beatrix knew what the students whispered in the hallways about the princess of Solaria. So beautiful, so unattainable.
And before, Beatrix would scoff, and roll her eyes annoyed at all these fools. Sure, Stella was pretty enough. Always so put together, so poised. So boring.
Beatrix wished she still thought that.
Only now, as she’s browsing the library shelves, looking for anything that could be useful for her research on her family, when she overhears some students gossiping, she isn’t annoyed so much as angry.
“Have you seen what Stella was wearing the other day? Very different from her usual style,” some girl whispers conspiratorially from somewhere on the other side of the shelf Beatrix is currently perusing.
“I know!” a boy replies, awe ringing in his tone, “how does she manage to make pastel sweats and a shapeless jumper look so chic?”
Beatrix scoffs under her breath. She gave Stella shit about those sweats only last night as they shared a bottle of gin, and today the princess wore them to spite her specifically. She even gave her a shit-eating grin from across the dining hall at breakfast, raising a daring eyebrow after looking down at herself. Beatrix could practically hear her say, you like my outfit?
The girl on the other side of the bookshelf sighs dreamily, “She’s a princess, she can make anything work. And with that golden hair and perfect bone structure? She could wear a potato sack and half the school would be drooling over her.”
The boy hums his agreement, “She could punch me in the face. And I’d say thank you to be honest.”
“I want her to run me over with a car,” the girl chimes in, a hint of amusement in her voice. Beatrix is pretty sure that the girl is a little more serious than her tone suggests.
They keep going like that, until Beatrix can’t bear it anymore. The worst part? She realises that she doesn’t disagree with the sentiments. And isn’t that quite the worst thought that she’s ever had?
It’s later that same day, and Beatrix is still thrown by what she overheard in the library, and her reaction to it, when she sees Stella walking with Musa down the hallway towards her. They share eye contact, briefly, and Stella’s eyes light up, a soft smile gracing her lips. They don’t acknowledge each other openly, not with Musa right there, but for a second Beatrix’s stoic, unapproachable mask slips up, almost unbidden, and the corner of her mouth lifts up in a smile, almost a mirror of Stella’s. They walk past, quick brush of their hands in a secret greeting, and Beatrix feels her face flush red and the world slow down, the slow motion of her surroundings a contrast to her speeding heartbeat. She never flushes, it’s undignified, it’s embarrassing. And most importantly it reveals feelings that should stay hidden.
Beatrix frowns, thrown off for the second time in one day by her reaction to Stella. She doesn’t like this feeling. This giddy rush. It’s disorienting, dangerous and distracting. And Beatrix can’t afford a distraction.
She knows what this is, of course she does. It’s a crush, and it’s a problem. Not to mention how woefully unoriginal it is to crush on someone everyone wants to be with.
It’s several days later that Beatrix realises just how much of a problem she has gotten herself into. Stella’s barged into her office, looking annoyed.
“Are you busy? I need a drink,” Stella drapes herself heavily, and yet somehow still elegantly, over the sofa by her desk.
Beatrix lifts her eyes briefly from the forms she’s filling out for Rosalind, meeting Stella’s expectant gaze.
She’s looking down again as she replies, “I’ve still got a few forms to fill out, then I’m all yours, your highness.”
Beatrix doesn’t like how she anticipates the blush that colours her cheeks this time. She refuses to lift her eyes back up to see Stella’s reaction.
Stella groans, really playing up the part of a spoilt princess. Beatrix suspects she does it on purpose sometimes, to rile her up.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist anyway,” Beatrix drawls, steadfastly refusing to lift her eyes up, feigning a lot more concentration than the menial forms require from her. It’s easier this way, without seeing Stella’s stupid, blue eyes, and her stupid, perfect hair, and her stupid, adorable reaction to Beatrix’s quips.
Stella huffs, before going off on a long-winded rant about her day. She complains about teachers, and other students, some specialist who apparently had the gall to try and ask her out (Beatrix grips her pen a little too hard at that), the grovelling letter she started to write to her mother, in the hopes of getting her to take the stupid gem out. And on and on and on. And Beatrix listens, actually paying attention throughout the whole tirade, surprised at herself for actually caring.
She snuck a glance or two up at Stella, as she complained about her day, feeling entirely too fond at the sight of the princess on her sofa, hands flying about, cheeks slightly flushed as she remembers each and every annoyance. Beatrix hums in all the right places, showing Stella that she’s listening. It’s… almost domestic, hearing about Stella’s day, caring about what she has to say. The thought is jarring and she banishes it as soon as it comes, but the ghost of it still lingers in the back of her mind. It’ll come back to haunt her later, she’s sure of it. Bringing with it a picture of what could be, of a future where they are together, and Stella pads across the room to Beatrix’s side, casual and soft, maybe in one of Beatrix’s band t-shirts. And it scares her, how vividly she sees it. How quickly the image is conjured, and how reluctant she is to dismiss it.
Beatrix decides she needs a drink as much as Stella does at this point. The rest of these forms can wait until tomorrow.
She puts the pen down, and reaches for a drawer with a false bottom, pulling out her favourite bottle of gin. She lifts it up, sending Stella a smirk, “Ok, I get it, you really need a drink. You can stop whining now, princess.” She infuses just enough mirth into her voice to let Stella know she’s joking.
Stella rolls her eyes anyway, mumbling something about Beatrix being the one to ask. But her eyes light up, twinkling in self-satisfied triumph at having gotten her way. As always. And Beatrix has a fleeting thought so jarring, she almost drops the bottle.
Her eyes are like, clear blue waters so inviting, I’m tempted to jump in.
Suns, the situation was much more dire than she realised.