Nochelle - Our Stories

N U M B E R

~Season 3~

"Can I have your number?"

"Wh-what?" Noah looks up from his schoolwork, turning a little too quickly around on the bench, squinting as his eyes finally adjust to see her standing over him – Richelle. Like usual, her arms are folded, and her newly brown hair is drawn into the neatest ponytail he's ever seen - but her natural condescending expression (she's spent the last few weeks talking down to him like he's a child because she's annoyed about Internationals) is replaced by a half shy one that he doesn't think he's seen since they were in J-Troupe.

He prays to every imaginable deity out there that she hasn't noticed how his cheeks have flushed a heavily embarrassing shade of pink as he slowly realises what she said.

He kind of just stares at her for a second, trying to process what she's asking of him – Richelle wants his number.

Richelle, who he has already spurned a stupidly competitive rivalry withover the past few months - and that's the only reason why he thinks about her a lot when he should be doing schoolwork. And while he's in Rehearsals. And when he's lying in bed at night.

Richelle, his new duet partner and long-time friend, who he absolutely definitely does not have a kinda sorta thing for, doesn't already have his number?

"Your phone number, weirdo."

"Why do you – er, why?" She looks at him like he's an idiot, which has become another frequent occurrence over the past few months since he made A. Noah has an ominous feeling it's going to continue a lot in the next few years they're inevitably going to end up spending together on A-Troupe, and his skin prickles with nervousness at the thought of the overwhelming presence of Richelle in the—in his—near future.

"For the duet, remember, I got a new phone?"

"Right. Yeah, of course. The duet." He says slowly, firmly pushing down the slight pang of disappointment he gets once his brain finally kicks into gear and realises she only wants his number for dance. Obviously.

"Phoebe set us both that little challenge and you're not getting all the credit just because you're the A-Trouper. We've worked together for years it's not like I'm going to learn anything."

"I'll get all the credit because I'm gonna teach you something, Richie." He bites back, half joking - but she just folds her arms even tighter, raising an eyebrow, and the second he sees the fire in her eyes he knows he's made a mistake.

They'd been on J-Troupe together for years, the only reason he was on A and she wasn't, was that she picked a way stronger dancer out of the hat. He's pretty sure if they had faced off, she would have wiped the floor with him.

(God help him if he ever actually tries to ask her out.)

(Which is never going to happen, because this is all just a stupid crush and he definitely likes Abi, right?)

"I was the one who taught you how to do a layout - you couldn't do one back at those Nationals auditions and then I taught you. So who's really gonna learn something here, hmm?" She says hotly, and he's almost ready to argue with her for the fifth time this week, a thousand retorts and jokes already in the forefront of his mind that he just knows will make her do that adorable thing where she gets really angry and her face scrunches up and she won't stop furiously pointing for some reason.

But it's Friday, and he's tired, and he's just finished a three-hour finals routine rehearsal (no, he hasn't been making more of an effort to make it better to impress her), and for some reason he really doesn't want to argue with Richelle today. Not because he likes her, obviously, but because she'll probably win and he doesn't want to ruin his good mood. So he relents, just this once.

"Okay, okay! I'm...sorry."

"You – wait, you're what?"

"I'll... give you my number."

"Oh. I mean, yes. Good. Thank you." She says, clearly surprised at the apology, still adorably flustered but with the heat of her fierceness fading away.

He can tell, he just knows, that she had a thousand retorts to counter his that she's now filing away for another day too, and for some reason that makes him smile. A few years of dancing together and being best friends have proven they both have a talent for driving each other crazy, but they're definitely equally matched, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like a bit of healthy competition.

He'd been getting bored in J-Troupe before she came along anyways.

"No problem."

There's this one second where they're just half-smiling at each other awkwardly and she's the only thing that even matters in the room and maybe even in the entire world and it's, uh, nice, as seconds go. One of the better seconds he's had, definitely.

"I...uh, I actually don't know what my number is, but you can give me yours? If you want." He breaks eye-contact once he realises he's been staring for way too long and nervously rambles a bit, suddenly feeling intensely awkward, fumbling for his phone and looking like an idiot. The Noah speciality.

She just nods, and he can tell she's itching to roll her eyes at him and get critical again, but he's glad she holds back. He pulls out his phone, presses 'New Contact', and hands it to her, trying not to watch as she types her number and name in carefully.

Their fingers touch for half a second when she hands it back - and he hates more than anything in the world that it makes him quietly feel like he's about to spontaneously combust.

"Okay, great. Thanks, Noe." She turns on her heel to walk away, but he clears his throat, because apparently he's intent on building bridges today. Plus (not that he'd ever tell her) if she stopped talking to him like he's a child and criticising his perfectly normal eating habits, he thinks they could actually be something more than friends.

"Uh, Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"...I'll text you. If I...figure anything out. About the duet. We'll teach each-other, I promise."

"Okay." She smiles at him, properly this time, which is a nice change - and it doesn't exactly help the whole overwhelmingly irritating massive huge crush thing that he's currently dealing with, but he can't really bring himself to care.

After she's gone, he stares long and hard at her contact name. 'Richelle Nolet' - her full name, like she's somehow worried he'll forget, like it isn't currently his favourite phrase in the English language. The capital letters, lack of a nickname and the horrifyingly distinct lack of any emojis make her name stand out a mile against everyone else's on the list, and he swiftly changes it to 'Richie' followed by a string of overly-obsessive emojis.

Sue him – he likes her. As much as he hates to admit it, they do work well together - and he's pretty sure she's either going to drive him completely insane or his silly crush is only going to grow and grow until he does something either very brave or very very stupid. He smiles quietly as he closes up his textbook, brainstorming all the ways he can prank text her later.

He can't say he knows where they're eventually going to end up, of course - but he's pretty curious to find out.

~~~
This is kinda like after they make the bet but before they start their duet mkay