Chapter Text
“I was very clear with where the line was,” the director shouts. “You’re splitting the 40 and 45, do you understand me?”
George winces. “Yes,” he mutters.
“Good. Mark your dot, then commit it to memory. You have to be there or else you won’t fit in with the rest of the band. It’s a straight line, the judges will be able to see clearly from the box if you’re out of place or not,” she rambles on. George tries his best to make it look like he’s paying attention.
“I understand,” he repeats when the director has finished speaking, trying with all his heart not to cower in fear. She nods resolutely, moving on to speak with another section.
George sighs. He drags his right hand down his face, the left one at his side holding his clarinet loosely. This whole thing is way out of his comfort zone, and he’s starting to regret joining the marching band at all. He’s heard many people say that band is like their family, that all of their friends they met from it, but as of right now he’s just tired.
It’s weird being a senior but a band rookie. It feels like he’s supposed to know what he’s doing already, to be on par with the rest of the students that are his age, but he’s hopelessly bad at marching and it doesn’t look like he’s going to improve at all. He had only joined for the P.E. credits that he had neglected in his freshman year, and was expecting it to be an easy A.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t, and he’s just now realizing what a predicament it is.
A tap on his shoulder makes George turn. It’s Karl, thank goodness. Karl was the only person in his section who actually made an effort to become friends with him, and he appreciated it even if the sophomore was a little too friendly sometimes.
“Hey, we’re running from the top until here,” Karl says, pointing to where the rest of their section is gathered in a block ten yards away. George offers a half-hearted “yep,” trotting after Karl. As he arrives, the majority of the section pay him no mind. They all have their own little friend groups, George had noticed, even within the clarinets. He takes his position, and on the director’s cue, begins the show.
After a minute or two, as the music swells and the drill approaches what they’ve recently learned, George’s mind hits a blank. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Karl moving forwards, and blindly tries to match his movements in a moment of panic. He’s so focused on watching Karl and copying him that he doesn’t notice the other person approaching to his right until he’s already falling, hands stretching out to his sides to shield both his body and his clarinet at the same time.
It’s unsuccessful, though, as he skids on the warm turf of the field with a soft oof .
At least his instrument is okay , he thinks wryly after giving it a once-over. And then oh , he remembers that someone has knocked him over, and whips his head over to his right to see a blond trumpet player rushing to stand back up and get back into his place in the drill. George catches a glimpse of green eyes as they meet his own for a split second, wide and concerned.
The music continues, muted in the background, as George looks up in a sort of confused wonder. He can only glance up at the stranger for a moment, but time seems to slow; the other boy’s eyes speak for him, offering a silent “are you okay?” before he snaps his gaze back to the front of the field, and George is jostled out of his trance by a brass fanfare and the pounding of drums.
Belatedly, George realizes that he’s laying on the ground in the middle of a bunch of people who would walk right over him if he didn’t get out of the way. He scrambles up and skims the crowd for Karl and the rest of the clarinets. By the time he finds them, though, the music has stopped and the director is speaking strictly to the pit about something or other, without a care in the world about the accident.
He rubs his arm, trying to ease the lingering pain from the fall, when there’s a tap on his right shoulder. He turns, and lo and behold, it’s the same trumpet player that he had just knocked over. He cringes at the memory, but when he meets the other student’s eyes, there’s no malice there.
“Hi,” the other boy says tentatively, but he sounds cheerful and friendly enough. George relaxes a bit, offering a greeting in return.
“Are you okay? That was a pretty harsh fall,” the trumpet player says.
George nods. “I’m fine. What about you?” The other boy nods with a toothy grin.
“Sorry, it was kind of my fault. I forgot where I was supposed to be going and I guess I was in the way,” George explains.
The trumpet player shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It happens. I’m Dream, by the way. I’m the trumpet section leader,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“George,” George responds, giving the other a glance. He’s wearing a t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, and it probably should be unattractive given the glaring heat of the sun, but his hair shines gold in the light and George? Well, George is staring.
At that, they’re interrupted by a shrill whistle tone as the director calls them all in again. George catches a muffled “from the top” before the band is clamoring back to their dots, preparing to start again. George glances towards the rest of his section, then back at Dream, who offers a smile.
“Well, it was nice to meet you! Remember, you go backwards, and to the left,” he says with a cheeky wink. George flushes slightly.
“Right. Sorry, again.”
Dream waves a hand at him, before turning on his heel and jogging back to the opposite side of the field with his trumpet in hand. George sighs, rubbing the back of his neck before doing the same.
-
The rest of rehearsal, he would say, goes fairly well.
He manages to remember his drill the second time around; Dream’s voice filters through the music in his head with a “backwards and to the left,” and that’s enough. He can play his music from memory, of course, so he’s already better off than the majority of the band.
The rest of rehearsal goes fairly well, except when it doesn’t.
He misses a step-off once, twice, three times in a row, until the director is walking towards him and he cringes in anticipatory shame.
“You,” she says while pointing a finger, “are stepping off too late. You have to push with your right foot on the pickup if you want to make it on time for beat one.” George nods.
“Also, fix your posture. Straighten your back, relax your shoulders. You know the drill.”
He doesn’t, but that’s a different problem.
Right now, as the harsh words of the director ring in his skull, he’s more concerned with the fact that the entire band is staring at him.
Well, presumably. The rest of the clarinets are, at least, and he averts his gaze from Karl’s sympathetic one. He can practically feel the others’ eyes on his back, and he knows they heard him get yelled at.
( Of course, the one time everyone decides to shut up and listen, he thinks bitterly.)
With another shouted command from the director, the rest of the band shuffles into their places and idle chatter starts up again. George sighs, shoulders drooping, and reluctantly joins them.
After a few more run throughs, at the next water break, he sits apart from the rest of the clarinet players. Karl tries to talk to him a few times, but he brushes off the attempts in favor of sitting on his phone in self-pity. He scrolls through Twitter idly before a pair of sneakers appear over the top of his screen, stopping in front of him.
George looks up, meeting the eyes of the same student before.
“Hi,” Dream says with a tentative grin. “Can I sit here?”
George stares. When Dream starts to look a little uncomfortable, playing with his hands with a fading smile, he shakes his head bewilderedly.
“Yeah, sure,” he says belatedly, and Dream beams. He takes a seat on the bleachers to George’s left, placing his trumpet in his lap.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, leaving George utterly confused. Dream leans back on his hands, staring up at the sky. George coughs awkwardly, setting down his phone.
“Did you need something?” He asks, and cringes at how unwelcoming it sounds.
Dream startles. “What? Oh, right. Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” he says, sitting up and turning to face George. George mirrors the action, looking up from his shoes and at Dream’s face. He looks open and relaxed, but there’s a hint of something else hiding in his eyes. Apprehensiveness? Something similar, he can’t entirely tell.
“Okay, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if this comes off the wrong way but you kinda suck at marching,” he blurts out finally. George can’t do anything but stare in shock. He wants to be offended, and a part of him is - getting told he’s bad at something by someone a few years younger than him is a little bit humiliating - but the more rational part of his brain knows that Dream’s right.
At his blank expression, Dream waves his hands. “Sorry, that sounds so rude! Oh, God, I should not have said that. I’m so sorry,” he says hastily. “I’ll just go now, sorry again.”
George blinks as Dream stands up and begins to walk away, before his lips curl into a smile against his will. He lets out a small laugh, deciding to just embrace it.
“No, come back, it’s fine. You’re right,” he says, beckoning to Dream as he turns around again.
Dream stutters. “Okay. Sorry, again.” He cringes, reliving the moment, which only makes George chuckle again.
“No, don’t worry. I know I’m bad,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I only really joined band because I need P.E. credits since I didn’t do it in my freshman year.”
“Oh. Okay, that makes sense,” Dream responds after a moment. “Well, it looks like you’re having a hard time, especially because, you know, you knocked me over-”
At this, George flushes indignantly. Dream must notice, because he breaks off with a laugh.
“-and I was wondering if you wanted some help?” He finishes. He meets George’s gaze again, and his eyes sparkle with mirth and friendliness.
“Uh,” George says lamely.
“Come on, it would be fun! I’m sure you would like band a lot more if you were actually good at it,” Dream says excitedly. “Once you get the hang of all the technique stuff, it’s so fun!”
George has half a mind to say no. He isn’t in the marching band for the fun of it, just out of necessity, but something about Dream’s demeanor doesn’t let him refuse.
He sighs resignedly. “Sure, I guess,” he replies, and Dream claps a few times in glee. His smile is endearing, George thinks, and contagious; he can’t help but offer a small grin in return.
Dream pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to George. “Here, put your number in and I’ll text you later! We can arrange something soon,” he says. As George does so dutifully, he idly listens to Dream ramble about all of his plans. A smile plays at his face when he hands the phone back.
He opens his mouth to say something: a thank you, maybe, or a you're kinda cute when you’re excited like this, but he’s interrupted by a shout from the director.
“Water break is over! Run it from the top, everyone!” She yells, and the band clamors around him. Amidst the rattling of the bleachers as everyone climbs down, he catches Dream’s last words.
“I’ll message you!” He yells, before another student also holding a trumpet grabs his arm and tugs him unceremoniously towards the field.
George can’t help the giggle that escapes him as he picks up his clarinet to join the rest of the students.
Somehow, he thinks, things are starting to look up.
When George gets out of the shower that night, he’s greeted with two new messages. One of them is Karl from their section group chat, reminding all the clarinets to mark up their music with the drill that they tend to forget. The other is from a string of numbers.
Unknown number
hey! it’s dream from band :)
are there any days/times that work well for you?
for the practice thing
we can go to my house or just stay at school, whatever you prefer
George grins at his screen. Of course Dream is the kind of guy to quadruple text him instead of just sending everything in one message.
Yeah! I kind of don’t have a life so I’m basically free whenever. After school would probably work best though because it’s easiest, he sends back. Almost immediately, the gray typing bubble appears and he’s getting another message.
Unknown number
great okay
what about on friday? we don’t have practice that day
That works for me, George texts. He sighs after a few minutes with no response, setting his phone down while he towels off his hair and finishes up some homework.
Hours later, when the light from his bedroom window has faded completely and his room is shrouded in shadow, there’s still no text back.
This is stupid , he thinks with a sigh, plugging his phone in on his bedside table and getting under the covers. He doesn’t know why he’s so dead-set on getting a reply; the conversation ended hours ago, and there was nothing more to be said, but he finds himself wanting to learn more about Dream and his unspoken promise of friendship.
For a while, the only sound is crickets, in a literal and metaphorical sense. Resignedly, George lets his eyes slip shut.
In that strange headspace, when he isn’t awake, but he’s not entirely asleep, either, George thinks he hears the buzzing of his phone against the wood of his nightstand. Once, then twice - and then the room is quiet, and he falls asleep with a name on his lips and wondering whether he heard anything at all.
Dream from band
sorry for late response! thats great, ill meet you in the music room after school
:)