Chapter Text
“Okay! Okay, everyone get in close— people on the edges, you’re gonna have to squeeze in! C’mon, act like you like each other!”
Their dance coach’s voice echoes around the rapidly emptying lobby, snakes through the people who are finding their way to their friends or family or whoever with slightly crumpled show programs still clutched in their hands, some arms bearing bouquets of flowers. Jasmine inches a little closer to her teammates, shifting on her feet and feeling the exhaustion of the day settle deep in her bones. Still, the smile on her face is a genuine one, nothing she has to force.
The banner that’s hanging over their heads right now announces it: Winter Benefit Showcase. The show had gone extremely well, smoother than any of them had probably anticipated. Nothing particularly disastrous had befallen her or any of her fellow performers, the only formation issue had been one in a dance they’d changed literally the night before last (totally understandable, in Jasmine’s opinion) and the audience had been electric. Cheering for every stunt, every playful interaction between people onstage, even some of the music transitions.
Jasmine’s sure Angeria’s very proud of herself for that, having made the music cut. Or, if she isn’t, she should be. Jasmine should tell her. Automatically, she looks to the side, trying to crane her neck and see where Angie’s gotten off to—
“Closer! Squeeze in even closer, guys, c’mon,” her coach yells, and Jasmine jolts to attention with a sheepish grin. She presses into Jorgeous’ side, wondering if her coach understands that it might be physically impossible to fit twenty-something dancers all into the same picture if they’re just standing side by side.
Her coach seems to realize this at the same time Jasmine has the thought, peering over the shoulder of whatever poor student volunteer has been dragged in from the concessions booth to take this photo for them. “Okay,” she says, stepping back, “I think we’re gonna have to do two rows. Taller people in the back, please!”
Everyone starts shifting around immediately, surely eager to go home and take off all the makeup and hairspray and sequins. Jorgeous slips away from Jasmine to join a newly formed front row. Jasmine stays right where she is. She doesn’t really feel like crouching for a photo, and besides, she’s definitely in the taller half of her teammates.
With Jorgeous gone from beside her, she steps in to fill the spot without thinking much of her, and gently bumps shoulders with the new person standing next to her.
Who happens to be…
Bosco’s signature perfume hits her nose before the sight of wispy ginger locks in her peripheral vision truly can register in her mind, before it can all hit the right combination of mental switches for Jasmine’s tired and adrenaline-fueled thought process to fully make the connection.
Before either of those things, though, is just the warmth.
Bosco’s shoulder is warm against her own, seeping through Jasmine’s clothes. Makes sense, since they performed less than fifteen minutes ago and it is very warm in here, after all. Or maybe that’s just Jasmine.
Suddenly, Jasmine’s never known what to do with her hands in her entire life. She flounders for a few seconds, trying to steal glances at her teammates to see what they’re doing without actually turning her head, because that would mean risking eye contact with Bosco, which absolutely cannot happen right now. It just can’t.
Jasmine settles for putting her hands on Jorgeous’ shoulders, who’s conveniently ended up in front of her. Thanks, Jorgie. Owe you my life.
Their coach finally seems satisfied, stepping back and grinning wide at them. “Big smiles!” she calls, and Jasmine does her best, with this familiar fluttering in her stomach that wasn’t there a second ago and a newly, acutely increased awareness of the entire left side of her body.
“The theater’s gonna be empty by the time we’re done taking this.”
It’s so low, such a tiny offhand murmur of a remark, and Jasmine almost misses it. First because she doesn’t hear it, and then because Bosco’s the one who’d said it. Jasmine’s brain reboots itself in the span of about two nanoseconds.
The laugh that comes out of Jasmine sounds like it’s been punched out of her, it’s this ungraceful little snort that’s just as easily lost in the buzz of noise around them as Bosco’s original comment, which is probably for the better because at least she’s not drawing excessive attention to herself. “No, I know,” she whispers back, trying to talk through her teeth. “Everyone’s gonna leave.”
“Right?” Bosco shifts in place, which presses her shoulder just that much more into Jasmine’s. Jasmine wonders if it’s possible for her to not be so in tune with every little sensation, if it would be possible at all in this moment for her nerve endings to not be lighting themselves on fire in the proximity to the older girl. That would be great, please and thank you.
And Jasmine’s never been great at being satisfied with what she has, she’s always been a wanting-more kind of gal, so— fuck it. Bosco’s here, she’s talking to Jasmine like Jasmine is worth her time. Might as well.
“You were great tonight,” Jasmine breathes. Her cheeks might be getting red. She doesn’t know how this goddamn picture hasn’t been taken yet. It seems like they might be using multiple phones, maybe getting some actual cameras in there as well. Can’t they just send it to whoever wants it? “I saw— I mean, when I was in the wings. For senior set. It looked really good, your center part was— yeah. Everyone loved it.”
She’s rambling by the end, and she closes her mouth hastily to stop herself from saying more. Bosco doesn’t seem bothered, though, She lets out a warm chuckle, a sound that Jasmine feels in her arm that seems to spread throughout her entire body.
“Thank you.”
Doesn’t return the compliment.
Doesn’t say anything more.
And then Bosco puts her hand on the other side of Jasmine’s waist, a casual gesture that’s light with the absence of any weight that might insinuate meaning, and Jasmine— Jasmine’s heart doesn’t seem to care, unfortunately. She sucks in a breath without letting it inflate her shoulders, keeps it low and tense in the pit of her stomach while the traitorous organ inside of her chest thumps out a steady rhythm against her ribs that she feels in her throat. She keeps smiling like nothing’s happening.
This is normal, actually. They’re taking a photo for their team’s social media and they’re all the way in the back, so it’s not like anyone is even going to see it.
(Which means there’s no real reason for Bosco to have her hand there, now that Jasmine really thinks about it. Maybe she’d done it out of habit? Yes. That must be it. Pure force of habit.)
The student taking their picture lowers the phone and gives them a thumbs up, prompting everyone to relax. Bosco’s hand falls away from Jasmine’s waist as quickly as it had settled there, lighter than a feather, and Jasmine wishes there was a way to tattoo sensations into the skin. Wishes she could preserve the feeling of Bosco’s palm warm against her ribs, felt even through her costume and her warmup jacket. The moment is over, everyone begins milling around and away to their respective people, and Jasmine stands there trying not to look as dazed as she feels. Succeeding? Maybe. Half-succeeding, only because no one is paying attention.
Instinctively, she looks to Bosco, and then immediately ducks her chin and looks at the floor.
The Bosco thing is—
It’s—
It’s complicated.
It’s not complicated in the sense that Jasmine’s feelings for Bosco are all that nuanced. Well— maybe that’s not fair to say, because maybe they would be if Jasmine would actually let herself feel them in their entirety. Maybe if she would let them exist in her consciousness for more than a half second every other hour, instead of shoving her feelings firmly down and out of mind only for them to end up keeping her awake more nights than not.
But, no, that aside, it’s not complicated in the slightest.
Jasmine likes Bosco.
Not just friend-likes. That too. She likes Bosco as a friend, if she can even call whatever they have a friendship. This thing where they talk at practice, and in the wings of late-night rehearsals, and not really any other time. This thing where Jasmine only has Bosco’s number because of their dance team group chat and she’s always been too chicken to just get over it and text her already, because she’s not sure if that’s allowed.
She likes Bosco. Likes her in the classic, stupid, overplayed, weak-in-the-knees and red-in-the-face way. Like every cliche teen coming of age movie where the main character has a crush on someone totally and completely unattainable in every way, only to somehow get everything they want in the end.
Except Jasmine’s not delusional enough to think she’s the main character, even if she does act that way sometimes, and she’s definitely not crazy enough to think she has a chance with Bosco.
Bosco is… she’s Bosco. She’s tall and has piercings and tattoos and this awful smile that makes everyone fall a little bit more in love with her every time they see it (at least if they’re Jasmine). She dances like she was made for it, like it comes as easily as breathing. She could take up a whole stage by herself, glistening under the spotlight and making the audience drink up her every movement, and Jasmine never believed that anyone could be born to do anything in particular until she met Bosco. Until she saw Bosco perform for the first time, in her freshman year and Bosco’s junior year, sitting in the front row of the Welcome Week showcase with wide eyes and parted lips.
She remembers it like it was yesterday. Bosco, not quite front and center in the formation. A little off to the side, which had put her right in front of Jasmine.
She remembers Bosco throwing a wink into the audience, at the end of the last number she was in, and how it had looked like she was winking right at Jasmine.
So, yeah. Bosco was born to be on the stage, probably. And if Bosco’s meant for the stage, then maybe Jasmine was always meant to be this way too. Watching her from the sides, waiting for her own turn to perform. Sitting with her back against the mirror in rehearsal, watching Bosco teach a combo or practice her own tricks off to the side with that look of blank determination on her face, utterly focused.
Not looking back at Jasmine, certainly not. No. She’s okay with that. She’s happy to even share a stage with Bosco, happy to get to watch her perform.
Even if it hurts sometimes. Even if sometimes her friends talk about who they like and who they’re going out with this week or month and Jasmine sits there with a lead weight in her throat, thinking about ginger hair and arm tattoos.
And now she’ll get to think about this day too, she supposes. The day that Bosco made an offhand joke that was ostensibly for her and no one else to hear and then put her hand on Jasmine’s waist.
Lucky, lucky her.