Track practice was cancelled, so Beau is sprawled on the couch, wrist-deep into a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, when the front door opens.
“HEY ASSHOLE,” she yells.
“HEY YOURSELF,” Molly yells back. “IS GUSTAV HOME?”
“IS JESTER HOME?”
“NAH, SHE’S GOT MARCHING BAND SHIT.”
Their greetings thus exchanged, she slouches against the cushions, already focusing back on Twitter. Dairon just posted a video of her freerunning on the school roof, which is tight as hell and sick as fuck.
Then she listens, and realizes that the regular sounds of Molly shutting the door, kicking his ridiculous boots off, and wandering into the kitchen are accompanied by an additional set of footsteps.
Her whole body seizes up like she just got struck by a lightning bolt or some shit.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
She stands on suddenly shaky legs. God, she comes over and it’s like Beau’s never ran a marathon in her life. She breathes in, breathes out, and sidles over to the kitchen. Casually, so casually, she leans against the door frame. Nonchalantly, she lifts her gaze.
Six foot four of Amazonian goddess is staring into the fridge at Beau’s hoard of Gatorade, her wild, incredible mane of hair perfectly tossed over her broad, strong shoulders.
Yasha. Her older sibling’s best friend who’s super hot and really nice and way too good for him. Beau’s very secret and stupidly intense crush; a year above her in age, a foot above her in height, and head and shoulders above anyone else in their entire high school. She’s got her backpack slung over one shoulder and she’s wearing this tank top with this super metal bloody skull on it and these ripped black jeans that fit her really well, and good god, Beau always thought goth shit was stupid before she met her (mostly because Molly was into it, she won’t lie), but every time she sees her she re-evaluates everything she ever thought about ravens and eyeliner and My Chemical Romance and black lipstick and god her biceps are so hot--
“Do you need something, Beau?” Molly says snidely, grabbing a third can of LaCroix for his snack haul and breaking her reverie.
“Nah,” she replies, trying to sound breezy and unaffected by the vision in front of her, running a hand through her hair. “Just thought y’all had rehearsal today, s’all.”
“Shorthalt is sick or something,” Molly says, making a face. “If you ask me, he’s probably just day drinking again and didn’t want to stay at school. Crew rehearsal got cancelled too because fuck the show in a month I guess, so Yasha’s here. Hope you don’t mind,” he adds, pointedly angling an eyebrow at her. An eyebrow that she very much ignores.
“Cool cool cool,” she mutters, then switches her attention to her. “Hey, uh, Yasha? You can have, like, whichever flavors of Gatorade you want, I don’t mind. Except the blue, that’s my lucky flavor.”
Yasha leans back so she can see Beau from behind the fridge door. Beau is lucky she’s leaning against the wall because she’d probably be melting to the ground since she always forgets just how incredible Yasha’s eyes are and right now they are looking right at her.
“Oh,” Yasha says. “That’s… um. Blue is my favorite. Sorry. I’ll...”
“No no no!” Beau blurts out, hands waving frantically. “I mean, I have so much blue since it’s my lucky flavor, I have so much of it that uh, it’s cool if you take as much as you want! Go nuts, I won’t even notice!”
A smile tugs at one corner of Yasha’s mouth, and Beau can’t help grinning big and goofy back at her. She runs her fingers through her hair again so she looks casual. Casual and cool and collected. Yasha says, “I’m... glad to hear that.”
Molly cracks open one of his LaCroixes pointedly and she can hear the eye roll in the carbonation but she very determinedly ignores him, because he is not going to fuck this up for her. “Yeah! It’s cool that, like, we like the same flavor, y’know? Not everyone likes blue. So it’s cool that we, y’know, have that in common.”
Yasha’s head bobs in a nod, her bushel of hair bouncing with the movement. God, she is so cool. “Yes, I… agree. Blue is. Good.” She clears her throat, and sets a bottle of Gatorade on the counter. “It’s... the same color as your eyes.”
“Yeah!” Beau says, in what definitely isn’t a squeak. Casual, cool, collected. “Yeah, huh! Yeah, I guess my eyes are, like, the same color as blue Gatorade! That’s wild! I never noticed that!” Her heart is trying to pound out of her chest right now, what the fuck. Yasha’s been looking at her eyes? Since when?
Yasha goes back to rummaging through the fridge, and Beau has to strain to hear what she says next because she’s saying it to a bag of baby carrots. “Maybe… maybe that’s why it’s your lucky flavor…?”
Beau is so glad Yasha has her nose stuck in the fridge so she can’t see the dumb expression that’s probably plastered on her face. “Well, then maybe you should definitely drink as much as you want, so you get the luck? Or maybe--”
She’s interrupted by Molly whining “Yashaaaa…” in the same way he whines Beauuuuuu when he wants her to do a physically intensive chore for him, like mowing the lawn or taking out a slightly heavy bag of trash. He’s on his tip-toes, flailing his hand around near the tall cabinet none of them can reach. He pouts at Yasha, who gives him a fond look and easily grabs the bag of Takis he’d squirreled away there. God she is so hot and tall and inexplicably nice to Beau’s dumbass older sibling. Joke’s on Molly, anyway - Beau ate a handful when she got home an hour ago. Just climb up on the counter, idiot.
As soon as Yasha hands him his Takis, Molly slings his backpack over his shoulder and swans out of the kitchen. Yasha closes the fridge with two bottles of Beau’s lucky blue Gatorade tucked under her arm and follows him, and Beau trails after her.
Just before Molly heads upstairs, he grabs her arm. “Beau,” he murmurs. Yasha is fiddling with her backpack in the entryway, seemingly ignoring them. Probably just allowing Molly his privacy. She is so nice. “Do you... still have math tutoring tomorrow?”
Beau rolls her eyes. “Yes, Caleb will be in our house, at our dining room table, teaching me about trigonometry, at 4 PM tomorrow afternoon, for you to awkwardly offer snacks to.”
She can see him physically restrain a smile as he tries to glare at her. “Good.” He lets go of her arm and starts to head upstairs, but then she grabs his arm. “What, Beau,” he sighs. Yasha looks up, curious.
She holds her palm out with an expectant look. “I flunked that quiz so he’ll do double sessions next week. Pay up.”
Molly stares at her. She glares back. Then he sighs, shoves his hand in his backpack, and pulls out the promised twenty bucks.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” she says with what she imagines to be a roguish grin, sticking the bill in her pocket. The stupid little flush on his cheeks and the visible annoyance about how he has to go through her to get at his crush (even though they share two classes, just talk to him, Caleb is King Dweeb) is almost as good as the money. Almost.
“Honestly, you should be paying me on a weekly basis, with all I do for you and your little infatuation,” Molly mutters. He cackles when Beau hisses shut the fuck up! and dances away from her smacking hands, sauntering up the stairs to his room.
Yasha follows him. Beau is helpless to do anything but watch her go, drinking in every last second of seeing her before she and Molly lock themselves in his room listening to emo music and doing whatever it is goth theatre kids do in their downtime. She also guiltily glances at her butt, which is great, in Beau’s totally unbiased opinion.
At the second floor landing, Yasha turns a little and pauses, meeting her eyes. Beau realizes with a start and a flush that she’s been standing at the base of the stairs staring like a weirdo. Fuck.
But then -- Yasha gives her a little smile and a nod. It’s a good thing Yasha goes into Molly’s room right after so she doesn’t witness Beau staggering to the couch with a really stupid smile contorting her face as stupid gay giggles threaten to overcome her.
She sinks down into the cushions, whipping out her phone so she can text Fjord about what just happened, because she has to tell somebody and Fjord’s used to her rambling about Yasha and her little smiles and her hair and her biceps and Yasha.
Hopefully he doesn’t relay it on to Jester during a water break or whatever. Do trombones and alto saxes have water breaks at the same time? Fuck if Beau knows how marching band works. The problem is Fjord folds like a wet kleenex under any amount of pressure from Jester, just like literally everyone who has ever met Jester. Guess Fjord will also be hearing about double tutoring sessions for Beau and double pining sessions for Molly next week - that should catch Jester’s attention more than Yasha and her sharing the same favorite flavor of Gatorade and also Yasha knows what color her eyes are?
She shovels a fistful of Doritos in her mouth, tapping away frantically at her phone with her free hand.
Everything’s coming up Beau.