#sapphic bartylus

“Okey,” Bee says through a bite full of apple where she’s propped against the backside of a seat, “Fuck, marry, kill—”

“Not playing this anymore,” Regulus replies, stabbing at her ceasar salad in lackluster fashion.

But Bee continues, unbothered, because Regulus doesn’t mean it. Because she’s said a similar variant of that same sentence for the last two rounds already. Yet she’d still given Barty thoughtful answers. And so will she this time, too.

Bee lets her gaze rove over the students on the grounds. It’s sunny outside, unusual for this early in the springtime, so naturally the meadow in front of the enormous, colosseum-esc entrance of the university is packed with people. Small groups of them studying, some more active with frisbees or slack lines and similarly lame shit and some loners here and there with a book or simply headphones.

Bee picks her way through the masses to choose. “Mmh,” she makes thoughtfully, tongueing at the corner of her mouth, “Callisto Greengrass,…Amycus Carrow—”

Regulus, visibly oh so disinterested looking, makes a retching noise at the mention of his name.

“aaand…” Bee’s eyes keep skipping off people. Not interesting, jock, bland, Barbie much?, ew, tool, is that the janitor?, meh, oh—

Who do we have here?

Bee squints and as the girl shifts, long hair gliding over a shoulder, revealing a sweet, rounded, freckled face she grins. Teeth glinting and digging sharply into a chapped bottom lip.

“—and Lily Evans,” Bee concludes, proudly.

That pick in particular manages to raise Regulus’ head with curiosity, following Bee’s line of sight.

“Who?” she asks.

“Evans,” Bee repeats, imploringly, “Miss organisation committee co-president in her very first year.”

And she sees it—in Regulus’ expression—the moment she makes the connection, the moment her eyes land on Lily, recognising her, remembering her. Or, the thoughts Regulus has had about her, rather.

Because Regulus’ eyelids flutter and the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips before, suddenly, her face goes blank again, the signature crease between her manicured, dark eyebrows reappearing.

Bee barely refrains from giggling.

“Kill Evans,” Regulus answers, immediately.

“Ah ah ah—” Bee chides, clicking her tongue, “Honest answers, love.”

Predictably, Regulus doesn’t like that.

She huffs, irritated, and lets herself fall into the backrest of her chair, dramatically. Her arms cross, going a full level 3 on the Regulus-Black-annoyance-scale, which is right before ‘snapping & bitching’, and only topped by ‘toddler tantrum’—though Regulus prefers the term ‘princess predicament’ for the latter.

It’s a miracle, really, that Bee’s never made acquaintances with that stick up Regulus’ ass with the amount of times she’s been in there.

“I’m waiting,” Bee sing-songs. She lets her hand find its way up Regulus’ neck, fingers taking a grip at the roots of her thick, wavy hair. With a slow twist of her wrist she urges Regulus to look back into the direction of Lily, forcing her to rethink her decision.

Her back is tense, cheeks rosy and Bee sees when she swallows thickly, instantly affected by the controlling touch.

Regulus makes a grumbling noise, still acting all prissy and reluctant, because that’s just her thing, Bee guesses. Just like it’s Bee’s thing to keep poking fun at her until eventually she loses her cool and explodes, or, in rather few but still existing cases, doggedly tries to one-up Bee. Trying to make a snide remark even closer to breaking than pushing their boundaries than Bee, something even nastier, a stab wound even deeper, even closer to something important. But only close, never purposely dead center. Never fatal. Maybe they like to leave scars on each other like this, as evidence perhaps. Some fucked up form of security.

I know you well enough to know where it hurts just right. Look, this right here I caused after you said something mean about my shoes in 3rd year. And remember this? You did this after I insulted your brother one too many times when we were drunk the night before graduation.

But, well, what can Bee say? That’s just how they work. And they like it that way. Bee would choose this over any other sort of relationship a hundred times over and the decade they’ve known and stayed with each other is evidence enough that for Regulus it is entirely the same.

It’s a unique bond to have and Bee treasures it.

“Fine,” Regulus hisses between her teeth, “Kill Amycus.”

Bee’s grin widens and she drags the nail of her thumb rewardingly along Regulus’ scalp, “There we go. Good girl.”

“Marry Callisto, I guess,” she continues in a petulant mumble.

Bee’s grip tightens again. “Why?”

“Ngh- ’Cause she’s sitting on a fuck ton money of real estate inheritance.” Regulus is glowering at her now, pale grey eyes gleaming threateningly and Bee loves it. Loves the way Regulus thinks she’s winning now, how she thinks she’s the one a step ahead, not Bee. Loves how Regulus’ triumph carries naivety each and every time, so sweet and mouth watering like a sugar coated piece of sour candy.

“And…?” Bee goads.

Regulus huffs, gnaws on her bottom lip until it comes away swollen. She takes a deep breath before— “Fuck. Evans.”

She says those two puny words like it physically pains her to do so, like Bee is actually forcing them out by a string wrapped in barbed wire and not like she’d been secretly fantasising about it months ago. Because she had and Bee knows.

“Yeah,” it rolls off Bee’s tongue syrupy slow. She relinquishes Regulus’ hair in favor of grabbing her by the jaw instead, knocking around her head gently, “yeah, you gonna fuck Evans, huh?”

Regulus is helplessly staring back into Bee’s eyes, up from under long lashes, lips parted. “I- no, it’s just a—”

“Oh, but you would,” Bee cuts her off knowingly, bending her long torso over Regulus, “You want to.”

And Bee’s got her squirming in her seat now, black nylon clad thighs and the shortest plaid skirt moving against scratched, faded green plastic. Because Regulus is feeling things that make her nervous—excitement and shame, desire and resentment and confusion.

Eventually Regulus’ face falls into a cute frown, eyes averted but defiant, “Doesn’t matter anyways.”

Bee searches her gaze again, ducking lower, “Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“Because,” Regulus huffs, “I’d never in a million years simply walk up to her. I’d probably barely even do so with a good enough reason.”

That’s not a satisfying answer. “Good enough reason like…your best friend really badly wanting to watch you get flustered by a foxy redhead?”

Regulus bats a hand at her, tsking. “Good enough reason like, fuck if I know, like a- a group project, perhaps.”

Bee lets herself sit with that thought for a moment.

She imagines long nights at the library, messily done up hair, focused eyes tearing through page after page while teeth nibble absentmindedly on the end of a pen. Short skirts rucked up, blouses undone comfortably by a few buttons, a peak of a lacy bra, or a nipple even if she’s especially lucky. Bee imagines the warm, familiar weight of Regulus in her lap and the strange and exciting feeling of wrapping her free arm around a chubby waist. Each hand toying with a head of hair, one wavy and black and smelling of shea butter and one thick and straight and auburn red.