Work Text:
The school hosting State this year has one of those outdoor campuses that make it easy to sneak through. Angela follows the scent of smoke through its twists and turns until she rounds one last corner and, just as she'd thought she might, finds Binah sitting in the center of a tiny courtyard. She's perched on a low brick wall, her warm-up jacket spread under her legs to keep her tights from snagging, and a just-lit cigarette dangling from one hand. When their eyes meet Binah smiles in that inscrutable way of hers, and something in Angela unclenches at the sight.
She makes her way over before copying Binah and using her jacket as a blanket to sit. Binah silently offers her the cigarette; Angela plucks it from her fingers, takes a drag, and only coughs once before handing it back, which makes Binah laugh. "Nearly got it that time."
"Shut up," says Angela. Their knees knock. "It's terrible for your lungs."
"Mm," Binah agrees, before taking another drag and blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air above them. "And yet, and yet."
"And yet what?"
That just gets her another laugh. Binah's always like this, inscrutable and irritating on purpose, only smiling wider and wider with every bit of frustration she manages to poke from the people around her. It's no wonder she's willing to spend time with Angela, who some days feels like she can't breathe without wanting to scream.
The lipstick that Binah wears to compete is darker than the shade Angela favors. The paler ring from where the cigarette sat in her mouth is visible when Binah lifts it up to take another drag. "How were warm-ups?"
"I didn't bother." It's a small enough gym that there's only one basketball court, which is currently being used by a bunch of snot-nosed children proving that they are in fact capable of marching in an eight-step square. "Doing multiples outside is a nightmare."
"One might argue that multiples is the only event you can truly practice for outside—except strut, of course."
Angela snorts, rolls her eyes. Digs at Angela's best events are nothing new; she would be angrier if she thought Binah actually believed the words leaving her mouth. As it is, she just contests that with, "Marching."
"Marching," Binah agrees, and for a moment as their eyes meet, Binah's ever-present grin feels like an invitation instead of a wall. Just for a moment, though: Binah takes another drag, and then says, "Your coach didn't want you to get ready?"
"Who gives a shit?"
The relief of being with Binah: her eyebrows don't shoot up at Angela's language, her mouth doesn't twist disapprovingly, her head doesn't shake in disappointment. She just takes another drag with a grin, and then offers Angela the cigarette again.
It's just as miserable as it was the first time, but this time she at least manages to keep from coughing. Binah takes it back with a faux-approving nod; Angela rolls her eyes but Binah's grin only widens, just like always. She's the only person on Earth who sees Angela's sharp edges and leans into them instead of away, who watches Angela snap at her fingers and reaches out again anyways. And yes, Angela's well aware it's only for Binah's own amusement—but who else is even amused by her? Who else sees Angela coming and stays right where she is?
No one. Not a single classmate, not a single clubmate, and certainly no one in her awful empty home. Just Binah. Binah, who she sees maybe seven times a year, whose phone number she doesn't even know. Binah, four years her senior and a complete mystery outside of baton and her cigarette addiction. Binah, who isn't even really her friend.
All at once Angela's exhausted, even though it's barely eleven and she's still got four events left in the day. She leans over before she can stop herself, finds her face resting on Binah's shoulder. "Careful," comes Binah's voice, floating and unbothered. "You'll smear your blush all over my arm."
"Just wash it off," says Angela. At that, again, again, Binah only laughs. Her throat is tight; if she cries, she'll have to redo all her makeup, which will necessitate going back inside just that much earlier. So instead she squeezes her face up, breathes slowly, tries to focus on the smell of Binah's cigarette and the feeling of Binah's skin warm against hers. Tries to forget everything but this moment, right now.
It works, or at least it works enough that the burning in her eyes starts to subside. Slowly the tension in her begins to unslacken; slowly her breathing starts to come naturally. At some point she grows aware of the light filtering in above them, of the micromovements of their bodies as they breathe in and out, of the faint rustle as Binah periodically raises her arm to to take a drag. She never pushes Angela off.
But the peace doesn't last forever—Angela's alarm startles her immediately upright. For a moment she catches sight of Binah's face, looking somehow far older than eighteen without the grin, before their eyes meet and the smile's back. "Time to head in?"
Angela huffs out a breath. "Solo is starting soon. Don't you compete in that too?"
"Seniors have a later start time," says Binah, waving her hand dismissively. "Ten more minutes."
"Warm-ups."
"Already done."
"Team warm-ups are not the same as individual warm-ups," says Angela, who has heard that sentence directed her way practically every time she's tried to scrape a little section of floor for stretching and early practice before group events. The words, echoed, are snippier than she'd meant. "They emphasize different skills."
At that Binah openly laughs. Says, "You get more miserable every time I see you."
And that—that hits like a knife, though Angela tries her best to pretend it doesn't. Snaps out, "Whatever," and shoots up before she can embarrass herself, pretending her cheeks aren't hot as she strides away. She's nearly out of the courtyard when she hears her name, and, before she can stop herself, turns.
Binah looks just like she did when Angela found her, slouching in her seat with her cigarette between her fingers. The only difference is how much of it has burned down, and how Binah now is leaned forward instead of back. And Angela waits for an apology, braces for more mockery, but all Binah says is: "See you at Regionals."
Angela nearly scoffs, nearly snaps; Binah is just—she's always just so unbothered. She drifts through the world without a single care, like being alive is no trouble, like it's easy. Like there really isn't anything Angela could do to hurt her. Like Angela could march back and slap her across the face and all she'd do is laugh, and take another drag of her fucking cigarette. Like if Angela stormed off right now, she wouldn't chase after her.
…Like if Angela instead went back and sat down, Binah'd just offer her another drag. Like the space at Binah's side is always open to her, if she wants it. And yes, she has to be the one taking it—but Binah won't chase her away if she does, either. Not invited, but for once, for once, not rejected, either. Like she's welcome, if she wants, to rest her head.
All at once the tension drains out of her; Angela sighs, a great heaving thing, and rolls her eyes as hard as she can. "Whatever," she says, but even she can hear the lack of bite. So can Binah, if the widening of her grin is any indication, which should be annoying but mostly is just… a relief, she thinks. Binah, just the way she is, is always such a relief.
So Angela just shakes her head, flicks her hand in dismissal as she turns, and, as she heads back towards the gym, lets herself find comfort in the still lingering scent of smoke.