Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“…desire is understood to be a space of freedom as well as a strategy that redefines space. This desirous freedom is not a panacea that solves all problems, nor is it necessarily long-lasting; nevertheless, it offers moments of satisfaction, control, and autonomy. Sometimes, a simple kiss can make one feel freed for a moment.” - Avilez

—

Beatrice pinched the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes and took a moment’s respite from her work. While the library had been a comforting refuge during her time in undergrad, the sheer volume of reading she had done in preparation for her qualifying exam had wrung much of the charm out of sitting between the stacks. Even though she had already passed the exam’s oral component with flying colors, the frantic pace of studying she had cultivated during the months before had all but annihilated her ability to relax.

Her focus fraying further, Beatrice snuck a glance at her phone, looking for any excuse to continue her break. Fortunately, a handful of missed texts from her roommate offered her an opportune distraction.

Beatrice felt a pang of guilt at the lie, even though it was one she had practiced telling Camila many times before. It was practically a part of their nightly routine at this point: Beatrice would claim to have left the library already, end up staying for another half hour or so, and then, when met with Camila’s questioning look upon finally arriving home, tell Camila that she must have just walked a bit slowly today.

The look had become less questioning and more pitying lately.

Beatrice’s line of reflection was interrupted by an almost immediate response.

Camila (9:09 PM): beatrice, you better be packing your stuff up at least

Camila (9:09 PM): ok good, ive got news

Beatrice hesitated for a moment before letting out a sigh and closing her book, her curiosity getting the better of her.

—

At home, Beatrice finds Camila reclined on their couch, hair in a towel, typing away at her laptop at her usual breakneck pace. Before Beatrice can even set her backpack down, Camila has shut her computer and beckons her over.

"Ah, Beatrice, there you are! There’s food in the fridge for you. Go grab it and join me on the couch."

Beatrice does as she's told and on noticing that Camila has gotten her favorite–duck panang–her eyes narrow with suspicion. "What's this about?"

"I told you, I have news," Camila responds innocently.

There’s an unusual quality to her voice that Beatrice can’t quite place.

“Good news, I hope? Are you and Lilith official now?”

“Beatrice.”

“I just thought I’d take a stab at the most likely option.” Beatrice says with a shrug as she plops down on the couch next to Camila.

Camila reaches over and pops open the lid of the takeout container in Beatrice’s hands. She gestures impatiently for Beatrice to start eating before she continues. “We had a lovely, friendly dinner- that you were invited to, I might add! You’ll get the details of my love life when you have a love life worth exchanging gossip about, thank you very much.”

“Fair enough. Go on then, what’s the news?”

“You’re playing the bass in a band!”

“What.” Beatrice blinks rapidly. “Surely you meant to say that you, Camila, are playing the bass in a band.”

“Before you get mad, let me explain.”

“Very bold of you to assume I’m not already mad, but go on.”

“Look, you know how I took that audio engineering job at the recording studio near campus?”

“Of course I do. You’ve worked there for months. You said it was a perfect fit for you, technology and music. You’ve got a sticker from there on the back of your laptop.” Nonplussed, Beatrice tacks on the details that come to mind in some vain hope of making sense of the situation.

“Well, you see- there’s a really, really nice girl- Ava, that’s her name, who’s trying to record an album there. But she doesn’t have anyone to play with! She booked a bunch of recording time with her band, but they ended up all bailing on her so she’s really been in a funk. She finally found a drummer to record some backing tracks a few days ago, but she still desperately needs a bassist.”

“I’m not seeing the connection here.” Beatrice purses her lips in resigned frustration. She knows what Camila is about to say, but some kernel of pettiness within her refuses to let her roommate get away with this so easily.

“Well, I remembered how much you loved playing the bass in college.”

“Okay, but that was-”

“And the piano!”

“Sure, but-”

“Hold on- and the violin!”

Beatrice falls silent, knowing better than to try to out-talk Camila when she’s in this mood.

“And I remembered the other day you sounded so sad when you said you hardly had time to make music anymore in grad school.”

“Mhm.”

“Which, frankly, doesn’t even make sense to me. You’re in graduate school for music.”

“Musicology, Camila, not musical performance.”

“Whatever. Point is, I thought I’d give you a push to get that joy back in your life! Plus, I can’t stand to see Ava moping around the studio by herself again.”

Beatrice squeezes her eyes shut tight, hoping she’ll open them to find herself waking from a ridiculous dream. But, rather than her bedroom ceiling, Camila’s hopeful face is all she sees. Beatrice opens her mouth to protest that she simply doesn’t have the time, but she can’t bring herself to let down her friend quite so hard. She had been feeling rather burnt out at work, after all- maybe humoring Camila wasn’t the worst idea.

“Okay, fine. Fine! I’ll go. Once. That’s all I’ll promise.”

“Perfect! I knew this would work! I’ll tell Ava she’s got a recording session with the best bassist I know” Camila punches the air in excitement.

“Camila, please don’t get her hopes up. Can you at least tell me what type of music this Ava makes so I know what to expect? And when is this recording session?”

“Punk. And tomorrow at five!”

“Wha- tomorrow? And punk?” Beatrice lets out an exaggerated groan. “Camila, you have got to be kidding me. You know what- I’m putting you on dish duty until next year.”

“Fine by me, it’s not like you’re here to make dishes during any reasonable meal times anyway.”

—

The next day, when Beatrice arrives at the recording studio, she finds the front door locked and sees no sign of anyone through the windows. She sets her bass case down gently and fishes her phone out of her pocket to shoot Camila a text.

Camila (5:02 PM): ack, sorry, i thought it would be open. i’m waist-deep in cables right now, but i’ll come get you in ten minutes!

Beatrice is perfectly content to wait outside and watch the sky in silence, but her solitude is soon interrupted by a woman she doesn’t recognize practically skipping towards her and the door. Before she can stop herself, Beatrice notes that the woman is almost shockingly pretty. but there’s an effortlessness about her prettiness, in the precise tousle of her hair, the way her loose t-shirt hangs on her just so that can only be the result of either painstakingly careful construction or an act of God.

“Hey there!” The woman shamelessly looks Beatrice up and down, taking in her outfit (today, like every day, a button down and slacks). “I didn’t realize the studio was business casual only today.”

Beatrice doesn’t usually take to chatting with people she doesn’t know, but she has an eternal, damning weakness for brunettes.

“Don’t worry, this is just how I dress all of the time. I’m sure they’ll let you in.”

“Thank god, I’d hate to have to bike home and change. I’m late for my session anyway.” The woman gestures to the banjo slung over her back by way of explanation. “Are you also recording something?”

Of course she was late. It just made sense.

“Kind of. My friend enlisted me to help out her friend. A punk musician. She needed a bassist.”

“No way? You’re going to play in a punk band?” The woman’s eyes are open wide, sparkling in the afternoon light, and it’s all Beatrice can do to not be hypnotized by them.

“Ostensibly.”

“First of all, somebody aced their SATs- I think that's the first time I've ever heard someone say 'ostensibly' out loud. Second, that’s crazy! Do you know anything about the band?” There’s a slightly strange eagerness in the woman’s voice, but Beatrice dismisses it as an artifact of speaking to a stranger.

“No, I’m afraid not. Punk isn’t usually my thing.”

The woman laughs, a loud, full-bodied sound.

“Yeah, I mean, punk musicians can be so weird right?” Her mouth hangs open with hyperbolic shock. “Oh my god. What if she’s like, a punk punk, you know?”

Beatrice just arches an eyebrow in response, but the woman pushes on animatedly.

“She'll probably have some crazy outfit on, with a million patches and pins and whatnot. And a mohawk! Yeah, definitely a mohawk.”

Beatrice snorts in amusement. “You paint such an evocative picture, it’s like she’s standing right in front of me.”

“What can I say, I’ve got an active imagination!” The woman pauses for a moment, then lights up again. “Wait, if punk’s not your thing, what sort of music do you listen to?”

“Usually something without lyrics so I can work at the same time. Classical. Jazz. A little metal if I’m feeling like it.”

“Oooh, a jazz fan huh? Guess you’ll have to trade in your Thelonius Monk records for a little Thelonius Punk.” The woman giggles at her own joke.

The light atmosphere is infectious, and Beatrice dares to let loose for a moment. “You know, if I see you around afterwards, I’d be happy to tell you how accurate your predictions were. For the record, I’m betting against the mohawk.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m putting my money on spikes or unflatteringly short bangs.”

“You’re totally right!” The woman is practically bouncing on her heels at this point, and Beatrice thinks she’s never quite seen someone so excitable in her life. “And you know what? I bet she’s also got like, such a winning personality and probably just absolutely amazing tits, and-”

Beatrice is struck by confusion at this rapid change in tone, but before she can question her new acquaintance, the door bursts open and Camila walks through, looking slightly breathless.

“Beatrice! I see you’ve met Ava already!” Camila exclaims, smiling wide.

No.

Beatrice slowly turns back to the woman, who now sports a sheepish grin.

“You’re Ava.” she says flatly.

“Yeah, guilty. I figured you were Beatrice when I saw your bass. I want to say sorry, but you should have seen the look on your face just now. So worth it.” Ava chews her bottom lip, bravado wilting just a bit under Beatrice’s stare.

“Ava the punk musician. Ava, Camila’s friend.”

“Yup.”

Beatrice can feel her whole face rapidly approaching tomato-red.

“Ava, I am so sorry-”

“I wasn’t lying about my personali-”

They both stop in tandem, not wanting to speak over the other. After a brief stand-off, Beatrice breaks the silence with a deep inhale.

“The banjo?” Beatrice asks weakly.

“Folk punk. I’ve got a harmonica too, before you ask.”

Beatrice buries her face in her hands. “Clearly, I have a lot to learn about punk music. And musicians.”

“Good thing I’m here to teach you then!” Ava’s face lights up, clearly relieved that Beatrice was less upset about the deceit and more absolutely shell-shocked with embarrassment.

“Hello? I’m here too?” Camila chimes in. “Can we go inside?”

The slightest hint of pink dusts Ava’s cheeks as she responds. “Oh yeah, sorry Cam!” “After you, Bea!”

Cam?

Bea?

Slightly stunned, Beatrice walks into the building, robotically following Camila.

Nobody calls me “Bea”.

—

Inside the studio, Camila scurries off to the control room, and Ava sets up in a flurry of disorganized motion. Lyric sheets flutter out of her bag as she digs for some unknown, but clearly important, item.

While Ava is busy, Beatrice allows her eyes to flutter over Ava, taking in the way she moves, drinking in the curve of her neck and taking residence in the divet of her collarbones. If she was going to be forced to play in a punk band, she notes, she may as well enjoy the view.

“Ah-hah!” After a few moments, Ava triumphantly presents a well-worn harmonica holder before quickly slinging it around her neck and slotting her harmonica in with a satisfying click.

With this, Ava meets Beatrice’s gaze, and Beatrice busily makes a show of staring on the dinged up piece of gear as if it had been the object of her attention the whole time.

“It’s so I can play the harmonica and a banjo simultaneously.” Ava offers in response, although a slightly amused twist in her expression makes Beatrice feel as though she’s a child again, caught with one hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m aware.” Beatrice deadpans. “It just… looks a bit out of place.”

“Are you hating on the harmonica holder? I’ll have you know It’s a family treasure.”

“I very much doubt that Ava, it’s half plastic.” Beatrice exhales sharply to suppress a giggle.

“Well, I’m my own family and I like it, so close enough!” Ava breaks into an achingly genuine smile, and Beatrice feels equal parts disarmed and discomforted by the girl’s quick familiarity.

“I swear I’m not, as you put it, ‘hating.’” Beatrice’s control slips and the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. “It’s just- I mean, compared to the rest of- it just looks a little… dorky?” Beatrice winces internally at her own awkwardness.

“Dorky? I didn’t realize you were the cool police, Beatrice.” Ava huffs dramatically, before cracking a puckish grin. “Usually, people are just impressed that I’ve got so much practice using my mouth and my hands simultaneously.”

Beatrice chokes on thin air, coughing furiously. From the next room, Camila howls with laughter.

—

A cup of water and some gentle ribbing from Camila later, Beatrice is finally ready to begin.

Before she can get out her bass and start attempting to decipher Ava’s messy handwritten sheet music, Ava pipes up with a new plan: “I figure, for today’s session, I’ll just play some music for you, let you get a sense of my vibe before you have to put yourself out there?”

Today’s session? This is the only session, Ava.

Beatrice bites back her initial response and settles on a polite “That sounds great, thank you.”

“Awesome!” Ava cracks her knuckles and plops herself down on a stool with a flourish. “One song, coming right up.”

Beatrice, unsure of what exactly to expect, braces herself for a possible cacophony, but Ava’s playing, while spirited, is smooth. Ava bounces her leg as she almost tenderly coaxes notes from her banjo, fingers dancing joyfully across the strings.

Beatrice can only stare, entranced.

When Ava begins to sing, Beatrice knows it’s over for her. Ava’s voice is strong, sweet, and defiant all at once. Each sung line pierces through her, slipping gently between her ribs and coiling around her heart.

Come on lady, lay with me,

In the shade of the weeping willow trees, we’ll be.

Your eyes are like an amber dream, hair the color of honey.

And your skin tastes salty, like you just evolved and crawled on out of the sea

Beatrice forces herself to breathe and loosens her white-knuckle grip on the edge of her chair. The lyrics had been so openly and frankly queer, answering questions about Ava that Beatrice had not even dared to ask. Ava’s voice rings with an alluring freedom, a freedom to be oneself, to loosen the binds of expectations and baggage. A freedom she cannot afford.

Come with me and waste away,

We’ll pick each other's resting place.

Darling, it's okay, don't be ashamed, don't be afraid!

They say even God does it, she's been sleeping since that break on the seventh day.

Beatrice aches to let herself listen to Ava’s words, to let them gently chip away at the walls she’s built around her life. But it’s an impulse she’s well-practiced in quashing.

—

When the song ends, Beatrice and Ava sit together in silence for a beat.

“So… what did you think?” Ava asks, a little nervously.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

Ava blushes and Beatrice works to shake the bubbling feeling it inspires within her.

“How long did it take you to write that song?”

“Would you believe I did it just now, when I saw you at the door?” Ava sends a roguish wink at her.

“Ava.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It was rattling around in my head for a few months, I think.”

Beatrice nods, but an unwelcome part of her latches on to Ava’s first answer- who was the song about, anyway? Against her better judgment, she can’t help but ask.

“Are the lyrics… about anyone in particular? Beatrice didn’t mean to sound quite so pathetic, but here she was, inquiring after a stranger’s love life like a pining high schooler.

Ava cocks her head and looks at her, really looks. A shadow of something passes across Ava’s face before she smiles, the expression not quite reaching her eyes.

“I guess not really? Maybe someday. It’s more about the feeling.”

Beatrice feels her heart flutter, and she immediately tries to stamp out whatever strange energy had possessed her.

The feeling indeed.

—

The rest of the session passes without incident. Ava and Beatrice swap some information about their personal lives- she learns that Ava works as a barista at a local cafe, and Ava half heartedly pretends to understand Beatrice’s explanation of her thesis plan. Ava suggests they swap numbers to coordinate recordings and practices, and Beatrice doesn’t have the heart to say no. (She does however, do her best to avoid internalizing the implication of having Ava’s number, instead focusing on the wall behind her while Ava excitedly types her contact information into her phone.)

Beatrice clears her throat, ready to give Ava a polite, sterile goodbye when Ava beats her to the punch.

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry- do you wanna grab dinner?”

That was decidedly not a goodbye.

“Oh. Sure.”

Neither was that. But Beatrice’s self control wasn’t flawless. The distance between pretty good and perfect had been her problem all her life.

—

Ava and Beatrice made their way to a local pizza joint (Ava’s choice, after Beatrice had politely ceded the decision to her). They grabbed a pie and set in on the hood of Beatrice’s car, taking in the sunset as they ate.

“Ava. May I ask you a question?”

“Mhm!” Ava answers while cramming a slice of pizza in her mouth with alarming speed. Beatrice wasn’t sure if she was more worried about the possibility of Ava choking or the possibility that she would have to do something about it.

“Why do you want me?” Beatrice regrets her wording almost immediately.

Ava’s eyes widen as she hurriedly swallows.

“Wha-? Um. What do you mean?”

“To play the bass? In your band. You’ve never even heard me play.”

“Oh! Oh yeah. Well, Camila said you’re good, and she has had amazing recommendations so far. Mostly of like, coffee joints and bakeries and stuff, but I don’t see why her taste in bassists would be so much worse.” Ava rambles, crumpling a napkin between her fingers as she speaks.

“What if you hear me and I’m truly awful?”

Ava laughs, her whole body moving with the sound.

“Bea, have you seen yourself? You’re way too put together to be bullshitting about playing the bass. I’m sure you could be Donna Dresch herself and you’d probably say your bass playing was ‘passable.’”

Beatrice attempts to marshal a rebuttal, but she can’t bring herself to bring down Ava’s buoyant mood.

“Besides,” Ava talks through a fresh mouthful of pizza. “Your bass is in the car! You could just play something for me now.”

“Ava, I am not touching my instrument with neon-orange grease on my fingers.”

“Now that is definitely not very punk of you.”

In the end, they compromised, and Beatrice washed her hands in the pizzeria’s dingy bathroom before breaking out her bass for the first time that day. She couldn’t help but notice Ava’s eyes tracking her every hand movement as she started to play- not evaluating or testing, but mindfully enjoying each note. Beatrice plays something simple, a riff she had spent many tens, if not hundreds of hours practicing when she had first decided to learn the bass (she had been in college at the time, looking for an instrument she could play without being sucked back into memories of the strict music lessons of her youth- something that could be hers). Somehow, in this moment, the familiar notes take on a new quality, not merely precise and practiced but personal, almost loose. Beatrice isn’t sure if it’s the sunset, casting the sky a pretty purple, the slight summer breeze, or the company, but she feels comfortable, even confident, as her quiet, ampless notes reflect off the parking lot asphalt and sail off to the clouds.

When she’s finished, Ava is uncharacteristically silent, just smiling, head cocked to the side.

“How was my audition?” Reality rushes back and Beatrice suddenly feels uncomfortably exposed.

“You had fun.”

“I’m sorry?” From someone else, the response might have seemed like a polite deflection covering some vague disappointment, but Ava comes across as genuine as always.

“That’s all that matters to me. You were having fun making music.”

“Surely that’s not true.”

“Well, yeah, I mean if you couldn’t play at all, I guess that would definitely stick a wrench in things.” Ava’s expression radiates a warmth Beatrice is not sure she could ever deserve. “But, honestly, if you sucked but really enjoyed yourself I’d still want you.”

Beatrice feels her ears tinge with pink.

Ava takes a deep breath, steeling herself to speak again. “That’s why they ditched me, actually.”

“Your old band? Camila mentioned them to me.”

“Yeah. JC and the others. They wanted to try to actually make it, even found a label that liked our demos and everything. Once that whole process started, they didn’t have a lot of patience for all this.” Ava gestures at herself comedically, but her eyes shimmer with sadness.

Beatrice instinctively reaches out to comfort Ava, but retracts her arm before she can make contact.

“I’m really sorry, Ava. I think it’s refreshing, honestly. When I was growing up, my parents made me learn how to play a number of instruments. But it was always about landing that first chair, or impressing their friends- never about the music.” Beatrice blinks, unsure where all this vulnerability had emerged from.

“Man, what assholes!” Language aside, Ava is smiling again, and Beatrice feels like the world is just a bit friendlier. “Thanks, Bea. You’re a real one.”

“You’re really not what I expected, you know. When Camila told me you were a punk musician who couldn’t hold down a band. You’re very… kind.” And pretty, Beatrice thinks.

“What, you think just because I’m a punk musician and depressingly friendless, I can’t be nice to people? That’s not very intersectional of you, Bea! I expected better.” With a flash of self-deprecation, the old, deliberately unserious Ava returns.

“Ava, that is really not what intersectionality is.”

“Yeah, yeah- Kimberlé Crenshaw would be rolling in her grave, I know. I’m just joking, Bea.”

“Ava.”

Ava mistakes Beatrice’s tone for surprise at the reference and bristles slightly.

“What? I read.”

“Ava that’s not- Ava. Kimberlé Crenshaw is not dead. She coined intersectionality in 1989! Not everything academic is ancient.” Beatrice can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

“Sorry I forgot I was talking to a doctor-to-be over here. But I’m just saying, plenty of people who were alive in 1989 are dead now.”

“Ava, I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Ava’s hair flutters in the evening breeze as she belts out a laugh.

“Well, if it makes you feel better professor, you’re really not what I expected either.” A playful glint has returned to Ava’s eyes, and Beatrice knows she’s being set up for something.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah- you’re way cooler than Camila gave you credit for.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know your appraisal of her description.”

“On the other hand, though,” Ava’s grin is almost worryingly exuberant. “You’re just as good at fingering as I expected.”

Beatrice nearly drops her bass onto the pavement.

—-

When Beatrice arrives home late that evening after a frustrating attempt to make up lost time at the library, Camila is practically buzzing with excitement. “So? Are you going to record with Ava again?”

“I wasn’t aware I had much choice in the matter, you’ve already volunteered me.” Beatrice answers dryly. “As if I’m not busy enough.”

“Yes, with work I’m half convinced you’re making up for yourself! In case you forgot, Lilith is also a graduate student, and she still finds the time to do things she enjoys.” Camila heads off Beatrice’s attempted comeback with an uncharacteristic fierceness. “You enjoy making music! Plus, Ava’s interesting, isn’t she, Bea?” Camila prompts Beatrice pointedly.

“I’m not taking the bait, Camila.” Beatrice tries to sigh as disinterestedly as she can, but her breath comes out raw and jagged.

“That response already tells me everything I need to know, thanks.”

“I just don’t understand- why are you so eager for me to help Ava? From what I can tell, you barely know her.” Fatigue from the day seeps into Beatrice’s voice as she sits stiffly on the couch, brow furrowed.

“Truthfully? It’s not about Ava, really. I’m worried about you, Beatrice.” Camila speaks softly. “You hardly come out anymore, and I don’t think I’ve seen you do something for fun in months. You’re just working day in and day out. Ava- she just seemed like she might be able to get you out of the library for once, if I can’t.”

With Camila’s admission, Beatrice’s rigid countenance melts away in an instant. “I’m sorry Camila- you’re right, I guess I do need a little help to relax sometimes.”

Despite the verbal olive branch, Camila can’t resist a playful jab. “Besides, you need more friends that aren’t me, Lilith, or random library employees.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes, but lets herself smile. “First of all, that’s quite rude of you to say. Yasmine is a full person, not a ‘random library employee.’ Second, what’s wrong with her? She’s perfectly nice.”

Camila stares at her, mouth agape. “Beatrice. Last time you invited me and Lilith to ‘hang out’ with you and Yaz,” Camila takes a moment to reemphasize her air quotes. “We went to a bookstore and the two of you started organizing shelves for fun.”

“Yaz”? We’re just abbreviating everyone’s names now? Has this always been happening?

“There’s no way I said ‘hang out.’”

“That’s besides the point! Beatrice I swear-”

—

While studying a couple of days later, Beatrice feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. Silently chastising herself for forgetting to silence it, she sneaks a peek at the offending notification before turning the buzzer off.

It’s a text message from Ava.

She blinks. It’s still there.

ava!!!!! <3 (1:11 PM): hey bea! guess who

ava!!!!! <3 (1:13 PM): how’d u know?

ava!!!!! <3 (1:13 PM): o yah lol

ava!!!!! <3 (1:14 PM): im free btw if u wanna hang out? mayb chat about music?

Ava (1:15 PM): beatrice?

Ava (1:15 PM): wow bea, riveting

Ava (1:15 PM): also u text exactly how i thought u would lol

Beatrice takes a moment to copy the address into the chat window before closing it and putting her phone away. Budding friendship or not, academia waits for no woman- even one as breathtakingly debonair as Ava.

—

An hour or so later, Ava strides through the library doors like a whirlwind. Heads turn, papers are dropped, and Beatrice swears at least one study date is ruined after one, or maybe both, participants spend a moment too long gawking at her.

Ava’s short hair bounces as she swivels around looking for Beatrice. Beatrice opens her mouth to quietly call out to her, but the sound dies in her throat as she opts to continue watching Ava instead, guiltily drinking in the sight of her.

Ava soon notices her, and bounces over to the nook Beatrice had taken residence in. There’s only one chair, which is usually ideal for Beatrice, but in this case, it results in Ava sitting down on the desk itself, putting her legs inconveniently close to eye level.

Beatrice gulps involuntarily.

“Hey Bea! Whatcha up to?”

“You know.” Beatrice gestures at the pile of books next to Ava. “Studying.”

“Let me help you out- ‘Wow, what a great question Ava, funny you should ask, I’m actually reading a super interesting book about how to appreciate punk music.’” Ava’s imitation of Beatrice’s voice is laughably bad- Beatrice would be offended if she wasn’t convinced that this was simply Ava trying her best.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to bore you with all the details. I’m trying to get my dissertation prospectus together, so I’m working my way through anything I might want to cite.” Beatrice has never felt quite so uncool as in this moment.

“You’re reading all this for a paper?”

“It’s not just a paper, Ava.” Beatrice suddenly feels defensive, this is the life she’s chosen, after all. “And this is really not all that much reading.” She adds reproachfully.

“Sorry not everyone’s a genius, Bea!” Ava waves her hands in mock surrender, but there’s no malice behind her movements. “Hey, there’s at least one of these books I could probably wrap my head around, though.” She gestures at The History of Sexuality, Volume 1 in the pile, and Beatrice’s ears go pink at the thinly-veiled implication.

“Well,” Beatrice stammers out her reply, “You know how Foucault is, it’s not really about sex, per se, so much as it’s about power-”

“Oh yeah, ‘everything in life is about sex, except sex, which is about power,’ right? Oscar Wilde or something?” Ava preens a bit with the quote, seeming satisfied with herself for remembering something vaguely academic in Beatrice’s presence.

Ah! A classic misconception.

Beatrice seizes her opening to steer the conversation back to familiar territory. “Actually, Wilde died in 1900, and the use of the word “sex” to describe…” Hoisted by her own petard, her ears flush again. “Well, what you’re thinking of, didn’t become common until a bit later in the 1900’s.”

Ava leans in conspiratorially, and Beatrice immediately felt her already tenuous grasp on the interaction slip as she frantically devoted all of her willpower to maintaining some semblance of propriety (and eye contact).

“What exactly do you think I’m thinking of, Bea?” Ava’s eyes glimmer with mischief, and, if Beatrice didn’t know better than to hope against hope, the barest sliver of something else.

The air was suddenly very, very thick, and Beatrice’s mouth very, very dry. Perhaps, she mused, her brain, salivary glands, and lungs had all decided to go on strike together at this very moment to protest how poorly she’d been treating herself lately. Or, a small voice chimed in the back of her head, maybe you’re just really horn-

“Nope!” Beatrice, a bit taken aback by her own outburst, doesn’t know exactly who or what she’s talking to.

“Shit, sorry Bea! That joke was too much, my bad.” Ava manages to tame her grin into a passable attempt at a look of contrition. “You’re just too smart for me to keep up without resorting to some… dirty tactics.” Ava’s eyebrows waggle with the innuendo before she bursts into laughter. “Okay, okay, that was the last one, I promise!”

Ava keeps her word, but even still, the rest of Beatrice’s study session is stunningly unproductive. Each time Beatrice thinks she’s about to be able to concentrate again, something from Ava (a funny story, a silly joke, a friendly but lingering touch) pulls her focus away. Somehow, she doesn’t quite mind- the words on the page can’t match the magnetism of her new friend.

—

plan bea! (2:47 PM): Hi Ava. Sure, I’m free after 4:30 PM.

plan bea! (2:48 PM): As long as you promise to eat real food as well.

plan bea! (2:49 PM): Once that I know of.

plan bea! (2:50 PM): That would require you to think about a text before you send it.

plan bea! (2:50 PM): But I suppose there’s a kernel of truth in what you’re saying.

plan bea! (2:51 PM): I regretted it immediately. They don’t really work well over text, anyway.

plan bea! (2:54 PM): I suppose you will.

—

Over the following weeks, Ava and Beatrice settle into a comfortable rhythm of practice sessions and aimless meet-ups, and Beatrice is forced to admit to Camila that she has, in fact, made a new friend (she pointedly ignores the ten-dollar bill Lilith passes Camila in that moment).

The first big surprise for Beatrice occurs midway through a band-practice-turned-game-of-never-have-I-ever, when Ava asks if she wants to perform at a real, live gig.

“Never have I ever performed live with Beatrice.”

“I really don’t think this is in the spirit of the game, Ava.”

“Okay, but hear me out! Playing music by yourself is fun and all, but there’s nothing like the energy you get from an audience!”

I’m not by myself, Ava. I’m with you Beatrice thinks, but she keeps it to herself.

“I’m just not very confident with crowds.”

“It’ll be small, I promise, just at a friend’s bar. Well, a bar that a friend works at anyway.” Ava is practically vibrating with excitement at this point.

“I just don’t know…” Beatrice is nervous, sure. But something else motivates her reticence as well. A possessiveness, a desire to keep Ava’s music, and Ava, to herself.

“Please, Bea? I swear I’m never going to shut up about this otherwise.”

Despite her protests, Beatrice already knows she’s going to say yes. Ava has a way of doing that to her. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make her new friend work a little.

“I’ll move to the no-speaking study room in the library.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Ava gasps. “I’ll just have to get us both kicked out then. You know I love a challenge.”

Beatrice laughs, a sound she had largely forgotten before Ava had come barreling into her life.

“Alright Ava. I’ll think about it.”

Ava whoops and jumps up, scattering pages of sheet music everywhere.

—

The night of the gig, Beatrice is almost overcome with nerves. She’d always prided herself on being in control of her emotions, but something about the particular mix of the unknown, Ava, and feelings she doesn’t dare to name had her heart in her throat and her pulse in her ears. She and Ava had practiced their set over and over again, but even still, the careful threading of her emotions threatened to come unraveled.

Ava, always attentive, noticed Beatrice’s discomfort in the green room (really just a small hallway outside a dingy bathroom) and rushed over to her side.

“Hey-hey Bea. Listen to me. We don’t have to do this, you know? We can leave, it’s not a big deal. They’ll understand.”

Ava holds Beatrice’s hands gently and peers into her eyes. The contact itself is not entirely new- Beatrice has learned that Ava is a very, very hands-on friend, but the tenderness is sudden and unexpected.

“No, no that won’t be necessary. I want to do this.” Beatrice strengthens her resolve and puts on a weak smile. She wants, for a moment, to return the tenderness in kind, but the words evaporate on her tongue. She exhales, and imagines her breath whispering I want to do this with you, for you as it dissipates into the beer-drenched air.

—

It was, in the end, a very relaxed affair- they hadn’t even sold tickets or anything. Hans, Ava’s bartender friend, simply had an open stage that night and a very relaxed boss, and knew Ava was at least good enough to not scare any potential customers away.

After a slightly shaky start, Beatrice gains her footing, letting her surroundings melt away and imagining herself playing music with Ava in the studio, in an empty room, in a parking lot. It’s easier that way- just her and Ava, letting their feelings out into the world.

Halfway through their set, Beatrice even manages to pick out Camila and Lilith in the crowd, nodding their way and hearing an approving “Go Beatrice!” in exchange.

Everything was good and normal, Beatrice noted with some satisfaction. Another challenge conquered. Ava had wanted to do this, and it was her job, her utility, as a friend to help.

—

Trouble comes only at the tail end of their final song. It’s not the crowd, who remain very friendly, or her playing, which is as good as always. It’s Ava that trips her up.

Going into the last stanza, Ava leans forward, lips almost brushing against the microphone. Beatrice is seized by the image, as though her whole being was compressed into the infinitesimal space of possibility dancing between the cool metal and warm skin.

Well, I walked through fire, I will wander through the ash.

I will look for in the future what I looked for in the past.

Ava’s voice rises to a raspy yell as she turns to Beatrice for the final line. The harsh lighting above the stage puts her features in stark relief, illuminating every drop of sweat and errant hair.

And- although I’m scared, I know! That! I have weathered worse!

Beatrice stands transfixed, the frenzy in Ava’s eyes working the bellows in her until her spirit glows white-hot. Though unbidden, she cannot help but whisper in response. I have weathered worse.

—

After the show, Beatrice quietly packs her bass away, letting the cloud of chatter in the bar cushion her descent back to reality. The constant buzz and churn of the crowd which so intimidated her at first had been recast into something familiar, even comforting. It was as if the performance itself had transformed the space around her, Ava’s growls and shouts weathering away the sharp edges and leaving only a supportive softness behind.

Ava bounds over towards Beatrice, shaking her out of her reverie. “You killed it today, Bea! Wanna grab a drink?” Ava waves around a thick stack of drink tickets in one hand and carelessly dangles a half-drunk beer in the other. “I don’t think the band is usually supposed to get this many free drinks, but maybe the venue manager is a fan.”

“Of the music or of you?” Beatrice is momentarily shocked by the words coming out of her mouth, but any chance for shame is quickly interrupted by loud peals of laughter from Ava.

“Who cares? What matters is that you.” Ava pokes Beatrice in the stomach, and warmth blooms from the point of contact. “Are an absolute badass on the bass. And we’re gonna celebrate your first gig!”

Any attempts to protest are quickly snuffed out when Ava grabs her wrist to drag her towards the bar. Like everything else about her, Ava’s hands are filled with delightful contradictions, her palms impossibly soft, her fingertips firm and callused from years of playing.

Beatrice wills herself to move on from that particular image and grasps desperately for something else for her mind to latch on to.

Thankfully, Ava, quick to provide distractions as always, acquires a shot and presses it into her grasp with almost preternatural speed.

“Cheers!”

Beatrice hardly has time to respond before Ava’s is chugging the remains of her beer, head knocked back, exposing an alluring expanse of skin from the bottom of her jaw to a neckline Beatrice does not dare to let herself perceive.

“Oh my goodness, you were amazing Beatrice!” Camila pierces through her stupor, dragging Lilith along with her.

“I know, wasn’t she?” Ava beams at her.

“Thanks, but I’m just playing along, Ava wrote all the songs.”

“It’s good that you’re not letting fame get to you, Beatrice.” Lilith remarks dryly. “If you’re not careful, they might print your name in a local zine or something equally earth-shattering.”

“Lilith.” Camila takes a moment to glare into Lilith’s utterly unapologetic face before turning back to Beatrice.

“What she’s trying to say is that we’re all really proud of you-”

“-for doing something other than work for once.” Lilith finishes.

“Anyway, we should be leaving before Camila has one too many and I have to play babysitter. Good night, Beatrice.” Lilith pulls their protesting friend away and Beatrice is once again left alone with Ava.

“What, no good night for me?” Ava says, expression set with mock offense, eyes narrowed comedically.

“Lilith is just like that, you’ll get used to it.”

—

“I just think everyone should give gay sex a go at least once before they call themselves straight. You know. Try before you bi and all that. Get it?” Ava, fully tipsy at this point, slurs her words directly into Beatrice’s ear.

Beatrice can’t quite remember how they got on to this topic, and she’s slightly too drunk to be able to gracefully navigate them away from it. It’s all she can do to keep her eyes from twitching as her fascinating, wonderful, and distinctly attractive friend rambles about sex for what feels like an eternity.

“Yes, Ava. I- I get it.”

“I just think it would really help a lot of people dislodge the sticks up their asses. Figuratively, of course.” Ava continues, unfazed by Beatrice’s stiffness, absentmindedly lays her head on Beatrice’s shoulder.

Beatrice is extremely thankful Ava isn’t in a state to pay the closest attention to her. She’s quite sure that under brighter lights, in quieter surroundings, or with weaker drinks; her blush, racing pulse, or fumbling speech would give her away in an instant.

“A revolutionary in every bedroom cannot fail to shake up the status quo.” Beatrice tries to break the tension within her with a quip, but her tongue feels leaden in her mouth.

“Who was that? Marx being horny on main?” Despite her words, Ava sounds strangely serious. She shifts slightly to better face Beatrice, and Beatrice tries to avoid thinking about how at this short of a distance between them, she can make out every fleck of color in Ava’s irises.

“Shulamith Firestone. From The Dialectic of Sex.”

“See, there’s your problem Bea. You’re spending too much time dialecting or whatever about sex and not enough time having it.” Ava’s eyes pierce through Beatrice, and she loses herself to the reflection of her own hungry gaze in the ever-widening darkness of Ava’s pupils.

“Ava! I know plenty about sex, thank you very much!” Beatrice hisses.

“Pfft. Yeah, in theory.”

With the last syllable, Ava’s gaze shifts down to Beatrice’s lips without any attempt at subtlety. Beatrice, resolute, keeps her eyes fixed on Ava’s. But she doesn't need to look at Ava’s lips to imagine them- she’s seen them stretched in laughter, pursed in considerations, and wild with song. They had already taken up permanent residence in her mind.

“Also,” Beatrice valiantly tries to continue her point, trying to stamp out what has quickly developed into an emotional five-alarm fire within her. “That’s really not what she meant by- you know what, fuck it.”

Beatrice pulls Ava in and kisses her. It’s sloppy, wanton, and shocks her even as she does it. For a fearful moment, Beatrice imagines opening her eyes and seeing Ava’s repulsed expression, but her fears are assuaged as Ava is quick to reciprocate, angling her hips towards Beatrice’s and pressing into her, closing the loop of electricity running through them.

Ava’s harmonica, still in its holder and forgotten in her haste to celebrate, juts into the exposed skin between Beatrice’s collarbones. Her skin prickles pleasantly at the touch of the cold metal, and Beatrice isn’t quite sure she’s ever felt so aware of every centimeter of her own body.

Beatrice pushes forward slowly and Ava follows, carefully mirroring Beatrice’s movements, never pushing the boundaries but constantly, fervently, signaling her approval.

In that moment, Beatrice knows that every part of her, hands, lips, heart and all, are utterly, hopelessly, Ava bound. Bound, not in that they are destined to be together, Beatrice could never feel something so naively optimistic. But bound as in tied, restrained, surrounded, tendrils and webs of Ava running between her fingers, encircling her neck, winding around her limbs.

She had only known the girl for a few weeks, but in that short time Ava had already laid her claim in shimmering gossamer on every bit of Beatrice’s life. The sudden realization first thrills, then frightens her, and the breath she had been sharing with Ava stills in her throat.

It takes only that instant of doubt for the anxiety that constantly writhes just below Beatrice’s skin to crest, overrunning its careful containment and flooding her chest with an icy rush.

“Bea?” Ava murmurs quietly, as if awakening from a dream. “What’s wrong?”

“I just- I shouldn’t- I’m really sorry Ava, I have to go.” The words come rushing out of her in a deluge of confusion, shame, and fear, like curses freed from Pandora’s box. Beatrice pulls away, not daring to process the look of hurt, or worse, knowing disappointment she knows must be on Ava’s face before half-running towards the exit of the venue.

Choking back a sob, Beatrice can only dream that, like Pandora, she too has held on to hope.

—

plan bea! (5:50 PM): Hi Ava. I’ve arrived.

plan bea! (5:52 PM): Does the bar always smell like this?