The smoke is like a balm; it smothers Sugarcoat's throat with acrid heat, driving back the unforgiving sting of winter. She regrets inhaling anyway, even before the warmth surges down, filling her lungs and making her gag.
A stupid decision, one to round off a month of stupid decisions.
Still coughing, she passes back the cigarette and wipes her eyes. Lemon Zest takes it with a carefree swagger, and for a moment Sugarcoat hates her for it. Then she's once again aware of the downpour, a relentless march of drums against the roof of the bus shelter. She's aware too of the blades in the breeze, slicing through clothes and skin alike.
More than anything, she's aware of how lonely she feels, and how hate is too trivial an emotion to rival that.
"Yeah, I totes didn't peg you as a smoker, dude," Lemon Zest is saying, her eyes fixed on the water pooling above. "But, you know... I guess that's a good thing."
Sugarcoat isn't sure whether she's making a statement or throwing her a line. But by the time she finds the shape of the words the world has surged on without her. She's aware of Lemon Zest gently shoving her with her elbow.
"Ah, come on," she continues, "they're just dumb exams. Who the hell cares?"
"Spoken like a true queen of flunk."
The words betray her with their speed and form; Sugarcoat screws her eyes shut, but is too slow to avoid the flicker of uncertainty on Lemon Zest's face. In the comforting darkness, Sugarcoat can hear the blood pounding in her ears and the rain throwing down its judgement. Then, above it all, she hears Lemon Zest sniggering.
For a moment, Sugarcoat loves her for it.
"I'm sorry," she manages, the words cracking like ice in the air. Inhaling, she opens her eyes. "I wasn't thinking. Again."
Lemon Zest frowns at the cigarette dangling between her fingers, but then elbows her again. This time, though, her arm loops under Sugarcoat's, and she squeezes as though she's running through a workout routine. When Sugarcoat squeezes back, Lemon Zest grins and looks away, the cigarette returning to her lips.
"It's gonna be a-ok," she says. "Or, uh, I dunno." She bumps her head against the hard plastic of the bus shelter. "I mean, you ain't gonna know jack one way or the other until you tell your folks, right? Whether they're pissed at you or not, it's gotta be better than this."
Sugarcoat tries to think about that, but her mind all too quickly returns to the results. Of a life suddenly cast adrift. Her stomach starts to contract, threatening in pulses to betray her. Her vision swims, the world around her bleached and lurching. Desperation floods her lungs—she wants to howl and punch and kick and scream, but even now, even now, her mind refuses to bubble over. Instead it starts forming lists of what she could do differently if the impossible happens and the clocks turn back.
"No, it definitely can't be any worse," she concedes, trying to shake her thoughts free from cruel hindsight.
For a moment Lemon Zest looks as though she's about to say something profound, something reassuring. For a moment it looks as though she's going to verbalise a safe harbour for Sugarcoat to drop anchor in. But then she shrugs.
"Yeah. I mean, Coach is always telling us that even if we don't win, we never leave anything out on the pitch. What-if's are the worst."
Sugarcoat watches the reflections of shop lights bleed across the floor. "They're just exams," she says, but the words don't sound as carefree coming from her mouth.
Lemon Zest tugs at the zip of her hoodie. Smoke is curling around her face, softening the frown on it. "Heh, yeah I knew when I said it that it was a sucky thing to say; those exams mean a lot to you, the results too. I get that. I wish I could say something more helpful. I'm kinda more of a do-er, you know?"
"You should be organising your time better," Sugarcoat says, because it's less painful than acknowledging. "You're missing training being here."
Her friend studies the cigarette between her fingers, the grin forming on her face absolute. "Ah, it'll be fine. I'll run 'til I puke later."
"Gross." Sugarcoat shifts against the needling waves radiating from her stomach. She wants to be angry with Lemon Zest—should be angry with her. After all, her route won't change. Whether it's music or sport, there won't be any obstacles to her achieving her dreams unless she wills them into existence with her own inaction.
Up until this morning, Sugarcoat could have said the same about herself. She almost laughs as that thought sinks in. It feels like a lifetime ago. Now, everything has to change. Everything.
Her vision starts to swim, turning the streetlights into blurry fireflies that wink in and out of existence. Sugarcoat scrubs at her eyes. She can hear Lemon Zest's intake of breath—half wince, half nervous laugh—but everything else is soon lost in the vortex. The air snags in her throat, panic wraps itself around her heart.
Then she feels a tentative hand against her shoulders. The gentle slaps of camaraderie merge into something that's awkward and yet reassuring, and Sugarcoat can feel the rhythmic motion pull her senses back from oblivion. Her emotions find rigidity again, and her body quickly follows.
The wind feels less cold now, the world a little less lonely.
"You're a good friend," she manages to say. The sound and the words ground her further.
"Uh-huh, the best!" Lemon Zest's hand becomes insistent, pushing Sugarcoat from her position. "Now c'mon! Let's do this!"
Sugarcoat nods, but her body is less certain. She draws in the cold air and waits as the terrible feeling within her stomach creeps down to her legs. It's a mirage, though; Sugarcoat shuffles her feet and digs her hands into her coat pockets, and life returns, stuttering and uncertain.
"Yes," she replies. "Let's."
"Alright!" Lemon Zest grins and launches herself from her seat. Beyond the shelter, the rain is unforgiving. Within moments her vibrant green hair is hanging in strands, the colour of her hoodie darkening, but Lemon Zest is still a picture of ease. Sugarcoat studies her as she pulls up the hood of her coat, the academic part of her brain attempting to convert the image into something she can learn from.
Then she follows.
The rain brings with it clarity as it splashes against her face. As they run, Sugarcoat presses a hand to her stomach.
She wonders when she will start to feel something press back.
Author's Note
Been a while, huh? I make it a quarter of a year or thereabouts since publishing my last story on here. This was just a piece of microfiction that I developed into something a bit longer; my first piece of anything involving the EqG universe, no less. Woo.
As always, thanks for taking the time to read my work, particularly during such a tumultuous time. And if you came across it hoping for a few minutes respite then I hope it fulfilled some of that expectation.
