It’s not like Ocean hates her cousin, okay? She always prided herself on being tolerant to everyone at St. Cassian's, no matter how mean they were to her, so she tolerates them perfectly just fine. Absolutely. She is like Switzerland amidst the eternal conflict her household is. And she hopes her cousin doesn’t hate her, either, because that wouldn't be really nice of them. Especially considering how she has to share a bedroom with them, and the way she has to pick up their socks laying all over the room, and their school bag is always not where Ocean told them to put it, and they eat sandwiches with eggs, of all things.
They don’t talk much. Astrid isn’t a talker, and that’s alright, because that’s one thing to bother Ocean on her way to getting out of Uranium City and achieving greatness — of course, when they aren’t actually bothering her, which they are very keen on doing. In ways that she can’t prove it’s them, tiny, little mean tricks, but she knows it is them, because they keep snickering to themself when she falls for them, and Ocean hates that.
That. Not Astrid themself. She doesn’t think she could hate Astrid.
There’s too much between them. Even with how many cousins they have on each side of their families, which is, if Ocean's counting was correct, somewhere between seventy an a hundred, there was always some kind of an unspoken, closer bond between the two of them. Like they were meant to be in each other’s orbits, soft and gentle and so rough at the same time, like they can’t decide if it’s right. Sat next to each other on family dinners, ending up close on walks to the playground. Somehow, their ways always led to each other.
There are good moments. Something Ocean could say are good moments, at least. When the faint flicker of childish hope that maybe her and Astrid can still be friends reappears, and burns in her chest like a sparkler.
Like now.
(They come unexpected.)
It has been snowing in Uranium since mid–October, like almost every year, and Ocean almost cried on the morning of the first snow. Because what comes with the temperatures dropping is an absolute massacre of runny noses, coughs, fevers and about every single virus wracking chaos in Ocean’s body. At all the same time, obviously, because she can’t catch a break, fighting against everything with the last drops of caffeine and sheer will, until her body forces her to do so.
So now she’s miserable, sick as a dog and stuck at home like a caged tiger.
Phenomenal.
At least she has all of her schoolbooks to go over, and material worked out for the next two months. (Doesn't matter she has the next two weeks caught up, she can always do more, do better.) She’s nothing if not Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg, in sickness and health, and she will be damned if she misses a day of studying because of some stupid sore throat. And Constance is dropping off notes from today for her, compiled from the choir's noting together — they're horrible at taking notes, but they at least try for her —, so she has something to do besides wallowing in her misery in her bed.
As soon as Ocean gets the text from her that she’s on her way, she’s out of bed and stumbling to the kitchen.
Astrid is standing at the cooker — an old, reliable fire hazard that chokes like it’s about to die on them every time it's used — and swirling something on a pan, a spatula in one hand, mindlessly scrolling on their phone held in the other.
“Constance is dropping off notes for me.” Ocean informs the unusually empty room, devoid of any of her siblings or her parents' buddies, half–herself and half–Astrid as they give a small hum on approval. She stumbles towards the door, hand almost touching the knob, and then—
“Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.” Astrid throws, seemingly off–handedly. Ocean feels their eyes snap to and away from her as they say it, a strangely warm chill over her shoulder that tells her what the hell are you waiting for?
She wordlessly walks over to the coat rack, slipping Astrid’s leather jacket off and taking it on herself.
It’s surprisingly warm. She expected it to be more let–through, as every faux leather jacket is, enough to attain another day spent at home, but the fabric is sturdy against her torso, with thick padding inside. It hangs on her with how many little trinkets Astrid has in their pockets — Ocean witnessed them putting almost everything they get handed or find in them. And it’s soft, so soft Ocean feels she might just fall into it like her bed after a long day at school. Like Astrid has worn it out enough it molded to their body, and Ocean feels how unfitting it is on her frame, but it feels nice. Like home.
And, heck, it even smells like Astrid. Their favorite mint gums mixed with the awful stench of cigarettes, a smell similar to fresh snow, Hank’s strong cologne he wears every day, and something so intricately Rosenberg household–smelling it almost brings tears to Ocean’s eyes. She wishes she was brave enough to bring the collar to her nose and inhale the scent, because there's something so comforting, like her childhood teddy bear that still has his rightful place in her bed. (She hides it between her mattress at the frame during the day, so he won't get damaged. Astrid does the same with the jacket, but they just wear it instead of hiding.)
A horn sound rips her out of her mind, and she skittles out of the kitchen, slippers shuffling roughly against the stone floor and jacket still hanging onto her shoulders.
If Astrid sees the jacket folded neatly next to Ocean’s pillow the next morning, they don’t say anything.