## Preface

communication issues
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27898336.

Rating:
  Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
  No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories:
  F/F, Gen, Other
Fandom:
  Critical Role (Web Series)
Relationships:
  Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, Beauregard Lionett & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Characters:
  Beauregard Lionett, Yasha (Critical Role), Caleb Widogast, Mollymauk Tealeaf
Additional Tags:
  Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - College/University, Clubbing, Recreational Drug Use, Developing Relationship, minor presence of marijuana, Genderfluid Mollymauk Tealeaf
Language:
  English
Series:
  Part 1 of the college AU
Stats:
  Published: 2020-12-05 Words: 2,766 Chapters: 1/1

# communication issues

by dicaeopolis

Summary

> "Am I," says Beau, and slurps down half her iced coffee in one gulp, "a bad kisser?"

> "Yeah," says Molly absently. Then they look up from their phone. "Wait, what?"

Notes

> THIS IS PART OF A LONGER AU THAT LIVES MOSTLY IN MY HEAD BC NO TIME TO WRITE. I did make Molly and Beau's pregame playlist and drew the two of them getting schwasted at karaoke though. and anything further I write for this AU will be in the series.

> I am on line

## communication issues

"Am I," says Beau, and slurps down half her iced coffee in one gulp, "a bad kisser?"

"Yeah," says Molly absently. Then they look up from their phone. "Wait, what?"

Beau repeats her question. Molly scrunches up their nose. "Why do you have to ask me?"

"Cuz I know you'll tell me if I am."

"Ugh," says her best friend, which means she's right. "I guess you're alright."

Molly and Beau's friendship started like this: they met lips-first at a Halloween party during their first semester at Zadash State, made out on someone's beanbag chair long enough to sober up a bit, started bickering about bad movies, stopped kissing entirely, and argued themselves to sleep. They'd woken up in a bleary hungover tangle on the beanbag, kept arguing over breakfast, and, as the natural progression of things, have been living together for three years.

"I mean, you were sloppy and gross," Molly adds, "and that was definitely too much tongue-"

"I was sloshed-"

"-and you called me beautiful a lot, which, thank you, you're correct, but it was way too soon for that, darling."

"I take it back," Beau grumbles, "you're ugly inside."

"Fuck you, Beau."

"Fuck you, Molly."

They're at the Owl's Roast between Beau's nine a.m. Imperial History class, which she'd skipped, and Molly's eleven a.m. Hemomancy, which they are also going to skip. The half-orc behind the counter is murmuring heat and pressure spells over the espresso machine, and a few moments later the smell of fresh-ground beans washes through the place. At the armchairs in the corner, Beau is making a token effort to study. She's opened a PDF, at least. Molly has been scrolling through their own Instagram for well over an hour. After this they'll probably go home, get minorly high, and look at pictures of jalapeño poppers and baby firbolgs on google images. Normal Friday.

"So I am a bad kisser, then," Beau says.

Molly heaves an overdramatic sigh. "Sweetheart, you were a bad kisser when you were drunk as hell at a party three years ago. I was a bad kisser too. I'm sure we've both made leaps and bounds since."

Beau picks at her cuticles.

"…This is about Yasha, isn't it?"

"She hasn't texted me back," Beau mutters.

"You kn ow Yasha barely knows how to text."

"But after a first kiss?"

Molly makes some noncommittal sounds.

"I mean - fuck, Molly, I'm not even used to having first kisses with people. I'm used to, like, going on a crash-and-burn first date six months into your hookup situation-"

"I'm so glad you're not fucking Keg in our home anymore, I hope I've told you that-"

"Yeah, at least once a week - anyway. I mean, like, it was a nice date, the streetlamps kiss at the front door, like a fucking movie-"

"You don't have to tell me, I was watching out our window-"

"Shut up! I - I didn't even give tongue, it can't have been that bad, right? I don't think my breath smelled-"

Molly lets her ramble herself out, and then says, "Yasha moves in mysterious ways. If she weren't interested, she'd say so."

Beau removes her head from her hands to fix them with a stern look. It never really works on them. Asshole. "You've been friends with her since the dawn of time, you have to have some useful insights."

Molly pats her shoulder, which Beau takes as an act of aggression. "How about a bright side? She's coming out with us and Caleb tonight, if you'd forgotten. You'll get a chance to talk to her whether you like it or not."

Beau punches them in the shoulder, which she feels they deserve.

The reason Molly can't get on Beau's shit about going after their oldest friend, even though it's a topic ripe for Vicious Mockery, is that they did the same thing to her first.

To their credit, they hadn't known. Caleb had been "cute Zemnian TA" for months before Molly had actually brought him home and Beau had just about throttled them. Caleb had known, because there are only so many purple tieflings named Mollymauk on campus, but Beau and Molly hadn't been living together yet and Beau hadn't formally introduced them because she was kind of worried Molly would scare Caleb off, which, in retrospect, would've been better, and Caleb hadn't told her the connection because, and she quotes, "it was funny."

Caleb Widogast, her annoying younger next-door neighbor since birth. Caleb, with whom Beau had endured enough family trips to the Menagerie Coast and awful block parties that they couldn't not be friends. Beau punched out his bullies and Caleb showed her how to cheat on mathemancy tests and they figured out alcohol and first relationships and were each other's beards at prom and all that dumb teen shit.

Caleb, her baby brother, who now regularly sexiles Beau from her own damn apartment. She doesn't even share a room with Molly. It's just apparently going to be that loud. Beau never stays to confirm.

Caleb and Molly, Jesus fuck. It's been years and Beau is still kind of shell-shocked.

It'd be less annoying if they weren't so fucking cute. The minor alarm spell that serves as their doorbell goes off around seven that evening, and Molly buzzes Caleb in and greets him at the door, looking all soft and in love. They aren't that bad about PDA, though Molly has been an awful influence, but they do kiss each other hello in a way that makes Beau want to pretend gag. Cupping each other's faces, murmuring to each other a bit afterwards, that kind of shit. Christ. Beau grabs a beer out of the fridge, pops it, and starts chugging.

"Hey," she says to Caleb through a burp, once he's done being disgusting and Molly has gone off to make their own drink. "Nice jeans."

The jeans are slightly darker and tighter than usual. He's also wearing a t-shirt instead of a polo, which, points. He'll get there someday. Though it is his Transmutation Quiz Bowl t-shirt from high school. And he's got his same old worn-out black hoodie on.

"You should cut the sleeves off that thing," Beau suggests.

"Hello, Beau," says Caleb. "I will not be doing that."

"Your loss." Beau shrugs and offers him her beer.

He accepts and drains half of it. Fucking Zemnian blood. At least Beau can outdrink him at wine. "My 'look' seems to be working well enough on your roommate, thanks."

"Ugh," says Beau.

Maybe she lets a little too much bitterness slip. Maybe Caleb just knows her too fucking well. He hands the beer back - but when she goes to take it, he doesn't let go. Just raises an eyebrow at her.

"I - shut," Beau tells him. "Sorry, alright? I didn't mean it like that."

"I know you didn't." Fucking Christ, he's such a little snot. "Yasha?"

"Give me the fucking beer. Yeah."

"She hasn't texted you back?"

"Molly said it's cause I'm a bad kisser."

"No, they didn't."

"No, they didn't. But I think so."

Caleb surveys her, and then sighs deeply. He opens his arms.

They have never once had a hug that wasn't extremely awkward. Beau's tendency to squeeze as tight as she can does not mix well with Caleb's floppy fish-like gestures. Molly, watching from the kitchen door, comments,

"I hate it when you two do this."

"Fuck you, Molly."

"Fuck you, Beau."

"There, there," says Caleb, as he extricates himself with obvious relief. "Everything will be alright."

"Thanks, Caleb," Beau says, even though that was almost entirely unhelpful, because she is a good fucking friend.

The alarm spell rings again. Beau freezes, and then spins towards her room and books it.

She emerges about ten minutes later, muttering something along the lines of "sorrywasgettingready." To be fair, she did take the time to get dressed. Ripped jeans tight as sin itself, a cutoff tank top that lets all her abs and traps and delts out to play.

"You look hot," Molly tells her as they breeze by.

"Duh."

Yasha is there in their living room, looking like the huge goth goddess she is. She smiles at Beau and says, "Hey."

"Hi."

Beau squirms.

"You didn't text me back," she blurts out. Immediately there is shame. "I - I mean, not that you have to. If you're not interested. Just. Kinda thought. Um."

"Oh… I don't really text," says Yasha.

"Oh."

Silence. Molly and Caleb are in the kitchen, probably, like, kissing or something equally horrible.

Beau sucks in a huge breath and then manages, "Are you?"

"Hmm?"

"Interested. Still." Beau is quite sure she's flushed all the way down her neck.

Yasha looks at her, really looks at her. Her eyes drag all the way down Beau's body.

"Yes," she says, and it's smoldering.

God. Fuck. Christ.

Molly chooses that moment to re-enter, followed by a rumpled Caleb. Gross. Caleb could Prestidigitate himself decent, but no, Beau has to see it, apparently. "All right, Blue is the Warmest Color, you two want to help me with my makeup? That wasn't a question, by the way."

They all crowd into Molly's room, and then there's drinks disappearing and music starting to bump from Beau's speaker and Molly trying on four different kaleidoscope-covered outfits and Yasha carefully applying their eyeliner. Beau mostly sits on the bed with Caleb and makes fun of Molly's wardrobe and fails at matching Caleb drink-for-drink.

By the time Yasha finishes, Beau has gotten to her feet and is pacing around. The music's getting into her bones, and Christ she loves dancing. Yasha slaps Molly's ass and proclaims them ready, and Beau pulls the whole lot of them downstairs and out into the crisp Zadash air.

The Laughing Gnome is already bumping when they get in. The others will probably want drinks, but Beau heads for the dance floor directly, throws herself in.

Beau is at Zadash State on a ki scholarship, but she's always loved dancing just as much as punches. Doesn't even matter what kind of music. Though she does enjoy the creature Mollymauk turns into on Ladies of the Eighties nights. She likes hurling herself at a beat, likes cocking her eyebrow at a hot orc chick and ten minutes later they're moving as one and mouthing lyrics against each other's lips. Beau dances hard and energetic, yeah, but joyful, too. The kind of joy you mostly only find on a crowded, thumping floor, with Dancing Lights soaring colorful overhead.

Her friends join her shortly. Beau makes a point of dancing with everyone on nights like these, even though Caleb really doesn't want to. He's more amenable than usual tonight, though. He's smiling kind of slow, holding both her hands, and moving to a rhythm that is definitely not the rhythm of what's playing. She'll take it.

"You seem happy," she shouts at him over the music.

"Mollymauk gave me Unkeen Mind," Caleb says cryptically.

"Huh? Is that a sex metaphor?"

Caleb chuckles, leans in, and says, "We were ripping the bong in the kitchen earlier."

"Fuckin' - without me? And did you make out with them on my countertops afterwards?

"But of course."

"Stop dancing with me, you're my worst friend, god, gross-"

Beau is proud, though. She spent years as a teenager trying to get Caleb high, and it only happened one time and he spent the whole time cowering in the corner of her room trying to Google if you can die from smoking weed once. And look at him now.

To express this, she shoves him away and goes to dance with Molly instead.

Maybe she mostly shows affection through belligerence. So what.

Beau likes dancing with Molly - can't actually remember the last time she went dancing without Molly. They dance like a fight, each trying to lead, always just on the edge of actual moshing.

But Molly's already spoken for, it seems. They've got their back pressed up against Yasha's broad chest, head tilted back to rest their horns on her shoulder. Well, against her shoulder, really. Yasha's fucking huge. Molly always dances sinuous and seductive, all rolling hips and arched back. Yasha's hands are on their hips, guiding them, and she's got her nose pressed to the peacock tattoo at the crook of their neck.

Jesus christ alive they look good together. And they know it - the two of them are always like this when they go out, showing each other off. Beau forgets to dance for a moment, watching them. Then she remembers the beat and elbows her way over.

"Mind if I cut in?" she shouts above the crowd.

And Molly, the damn traitor, who definitely knew what she meant, opens one horrid, evil eye, says "But of course," and slides off into the crowd as Yasha reaches for Beau.

Fuck you, Molly, she mouths at them as they retreat.

They glance over their shoulder and mouth back, Fuck you, Beau.

Yasha doesn't grind on her like she did with Molly, though. Instead, she pulls Beau in to face her, forehead nearly touching Beau's. She's got her hair pulled back for dancing, but there's some black-and-white wisps out around her face and sticking to her forehead. Beau can feel Yasha's breath mingling with her own.

"I did mean it," Yasha says between songs.

"Huh?" says Beau eloquently. She's finding it kind of hard to focus. Yasha's hands on her hips and all that. Beau is five ten, she doesn't often feel small, but she's pretty sure Yasha could encircle her whole waist with those hands.

Yasha is saying something. Focus, Lionett. "…earlier. I'm still interested."

"Yeah?" Beau's actually pretty proud of getting that one out without stuttering, and god help her she is Beauregard Lionett, bro lesbian extraordinaire, so she pushes one step further and says, "Wanna prove it?"

Yasha's thumb smooths along the bare skin between Beau's waistband and the hem of her crop top, and she says, "Later."

Fuuuuuuuuck. Hooooooly fuck. Beau needs to jump this woman, like, yesterday. She presses herself closer to Yasha, fitting their hips against each other so close their legs are nearly tangled together, and the music fades into something hard and fast and hot.

When they're taking a break at the bar later, watching the barkeep here show off the series of immovable rods she uses to balance different liquor bottles all around her in the air, Yasha leans in to murmur, "I don't know if I can get used to texting, though," lips right against Beau's ear.

Beau shivers all the way down her goddamn body. "Fuck - can't believe I'm offering this, but do you do phone calls?"

On God if Yasha says she only uses email this whole thing is off, huge hands be damned.

"Yes, I usually hear the ringing. I left you two voicemails last Saturday."

What the fuck? "What the fuck?"

"You… Didn't call back, so, um, I thought you might not-"

"…be interested," Beau finishes, feeling incredibly stupid. "I don't think I've checked my voicemail in - we have got to work on our communication."

"Phone calls," Yasha offers.

"Phone calls," Beau agrees. "Christ, I thought I was an awful kisser or something."

"Well," says Yasha, "to be fair, I didn't get that much of a chance to see."

"Oh?" says Beau, cause she isn't an idiot, no matter what her asshole roommate might say, and she knows a line when she hears one. She tilts her head towards the door, raises an eyebrow in a question.

So, like, maybe being twenty-two with a hopeless crush isn't that awful. Beau tends to get lost in long-terms. What if she and Yasha get divorced immediately after their week-long sex marathon honeymoon in Port Dumali? What if their perfect little sperm‐donor babies burn down the cottage they're going to have together someday? What if she's too needy? What if she worries so much about being needy that she ends up being too cold?

But she can't really know unless she goes for it, as she is often reminded by Molly, who glides through going for it like it's an automatic door that opens at their very presence. Maybe she will die in sperm donor baby cottage arson. She'll deal with that when she gets there. Only step you can ever take is the next one.

Specifically - wound around Yasha against the brick wall of their favorite club, as, out of the corner of her eye, Beau spots Molly exhaling a cloud of something into Caleb's laughing mouth down the way - this one.

## Afterword

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