Chapter Text
The three exhibition halls, with the wall-dividers pulled back to merge them all into one large hall, were more than large enough to seat six-thousand people. This is a good thing, as it is currently filled with at least six-thousand high school students, teachers, marching techs, and parent chaperones grabbing their plates of pasta and single cups of lemonade from the buffet table on the side of the room and scrambling for a place to sit.
The Grand Nationals Marching Competition is the largest high school-level marching competition in the world. Seven-hundred high school bands from all across the continent come to Indiana where over the course of three days they are whittled down. After the prelims, forty bands remained. After the semifinals, twelve bands remain.
Up next, the twelve final bands will perform one last time to get their final ranking for the season—as well as to see which band will be invited to perform at the Rose Bowl Parade. Before that, all twelve finalists are packed into a convention center exhibition hall to eat lukewarm pasta.
Much to Shane’s dismay, there was no seating chart, the tables were not divvied up by school. Instead the twelve finalist and three exhibition bands were intermingling, a sea of primary colored T-shirts and pajama pants. A kid from his school — freshman euphonium, Shane hadn’t gotten a chance to actually talk to him yet — scurried by and took the seat Shane was aiming for with a group of low brass from his school.
No one saved a seat for him, they didn’t think to. That was mostly his own fault; he marched bass clarinet his first year, euphonium his second, then spent two years as a drum major. The constant section jumping paired with his lack-luster social skills didn’t exactly leave him with a huge friend group like some of the others had.
He found an open seat next to a couple girls (color guard with enough gel in their hair to turn it into a solid helmet). His question on if the seat was already taken was ignored, so he was probably fine.
The boy across from him wore a blue shirt and basketball shorts, despite it being November in Indiana. His hair was pulled back from his face with a wide headband and two curly pigtails and he dug into his meal as though he had never eaten before. He had two cups of lemonade, filled to the brim, on either side of his plate.
Shane glared. “You were only supposed to take one cup.”
“Or what, they arrest me?” He had an accent, thick and Russian, which Shane very consciously decided not to take an interest in. “I don’t think anyone is checking.”
“It’s to make sure there’s enough for everyone.”
“I think there is enough.” He shrugged, and shoveled a too-large forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. Shane told himself it was horror that made him watch the other boy swallow and lick the sauce off his lips.
He quirked his eyebrow and smirked at Shane, causing him to turn bright red and go back to his own meal.
“You go to Hepburn, right?” Shane asked after a sip of lemonade, gesturing somewhat redundantly at his own mustard yellow shirt, “I watched your prelims run. The drum break in the second was really clean.”
“Hm. Yes.”
The boy didn’t say anything else. He shrugged at Shane and took a long sip from his lemonade, then a sip of his other lemonade. Shane frowned deeply and pointedly drank from his single cup of lemonade.
“I’m Shane.” He introduced himself, somewhat belatedly. Before his brain caught up with him he reached across the table for the most awkward handshake of all time. “Hollander. I go to Avalon.”
“Avalon, fancy.” The other boy reached across and took Shane’s hand before he could retract it, holding more than shaking it. It was warm and calloused. “Ilya. Rozanov.” The last name was added belatedly, with a smirk.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, it is.”
Shane rolled his eyes and took his hand back, just in time for his phone to explode with about thirty different messages on the table. His band had drawn poorly for finals times—they were second to perform in just over forty-five minutes. Shane didn’t even have his uniform on. “I—shit!” he stood, eating as much pasta in three bites as he could. “I gotta get to warm-ups, good luck."
“You’ll need it more than me.”
“You wish.”
Halfway through warm-ups, Shane realized that the only instrument that could leave callouses like Ilya’s were drums.
Your drum break was clean. Shane considered throwing himself off his podium into the pit.
“You did so good sweetie.” Yuna said, squeezing Shane’s shoulder through his uniform. He wiggled out of her grip, acutely aware that everyone was around them, busily packing the trucks for the long drive home. The air was crisp and cold, freezing the layer of sweat on his forehead as he kept his hands buried in his armpits.
All of the large instruments, props, and sound equipment were being packed into two long trailers now, before the awards ceremony. The uniforms would be loaded after full retreat, and the trucks would leave then, hopefully to make it back home by the end of the weekend.
Yuna was chaperoning the trip, and her only task on paper was making sure sixteen teenage boys got to and from the airport in one piece. Unofficially, as the Band Booster President, she was in charge of managing all the other chaperones, and had taken to walking around the convention center with a clipboard she’d brought with her.
“We tore during the ballad.” Shane argued.
“For maybe one measure.” Yuna replied. She’d never been artistic, hockey was always her sport growing up, but once Shane expressed an interest in band, she studied and studied until she could hear all the chords and time signatures Shane complained about. “I couldn’t even hear it. The Meadowlands, right before you, they tore. And their trumpet soloist cracked his top note.”
“Well that’s Meadowlands, they got in by the skin of their teeth.” Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s gonna be close,” he argued.
“You just think it’s bad because you’ve heard it a thousand times.” Yuna said, “The judges won’t even notice. You did amazing.”
“You did good, Shane.” David said then, coming up behind them. He was nearly sweating through his jacket, helping load the trucks, “I could hear you all the way from where I was.”
“David.” Yuna scolded.
“What? It’s true.”
“You were on the sidelines.”
David was part of the pit crew, the group of dads that helped get the big percussion instruments on and off the field during the quick turnarounds. “And you sounded lovely from the sidelines.”
“Thanks.”
“You did great.”
“Now go take a nap,” Yuna reminded him, “You need it.” She hugged him one last time, then the band director called him over to corral the band back to the convention center across the street.
This was, without a doubt, the most tired Shane had ever been in his entire life. They’d been out of their hotel rooms since six AM, had a two-hour practice session and two performances, preliminaries and finals. A quick nap on the convention center floor with his jacket wrapped around his head to act as both pillow and sleep-mask did not help.
It didn’t help that the convention center had run out of water in the water coolers hours ago, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since his singular glass of lemonade with dinner. He had stooped to shoving his head under the bathroom sink for a drink—and he’d had to wait in line to do it.
In the future, he’ll look back on this moment with fond nostalgia. In the present, he was counting down the minutes until it was over and trying not to fall asleep standing up.
Now, everything was done. The last band had finished their performance half an hour ago, and everyone was lining up for full retreat, the awards ceremony where all the competing bands stood in formation on the field at the same time, filling it from end zone to end zone. As the first band to perform, Shane’s band was on the far right side of the field, which meant he got to lean on the wall while he waited — good for his tired legs, bad for staying awake.
“Past your bedtime?”
Shane jolted himself awake. Ilya was standing in front of him, navy pants and a blue and white double-breasted jacket. It was a bit loose in the front; Shane was right about his assumption that Ilya was on the drumline. His jacket was tailored with extra room for the harness, which he wasn’t wearing for full retreat.
It’s way too late—or early, since the clock struck midnight a couple minutes ago—for this. All week, Shane had not had a single moment to himself and he was about ready to scream at the next person who hugged him or shouted in his face. He just glared until Ilya laughed and bounced back over to his school’s section. When the organizers called everyone to attention to take the field, Ilya lined up behind his school’s drum majors and before the guard captains. He caught Shane’s eye and winked.
“And in second place, with a score of 97.685 points… the Avalon High School Marching Band!”
Shane didn’t hear anything after that. The stadium erupted into screams and flashbulbs. More than that, the band two rows over from him burst into screams and cheers, celebrating and laughing and hugging each other. Shane could hardly hear himself dutting to lead the drum major salute, moving through the motions stiffly and robotically with a cold pit in his stomach.
His last drum major salute, ever, and he got second place.
He tried not to be too bitter about it.
“And in first place, with a score of 97.690 points,” a rumbling through the crowd. A nearly unheard of difference between the first two bands, “put your hands together for our Grand Nationals Champions,” the dramatic pause set Shane’s teeth on edge. There was only one band it could be, and they were already celebrating, “Hepburn High School Marching Band!”
Shane held his shoulders stiff through the closing remarks, steadfast in his determination not to be a sore loser. He still got second place, it’s a huge deal. Besides, they’re the ones who won a spot at the Parade of Roses. He will not be a sore loser. He painted a smile on his face and if it looked strained that’s because he’s been awake for nearly eighteen hours now.
When the bands were given the signal to break rank and intermingle, Shane lingered near the front sidelines, hoping to avoid the shouting and hugging and crying. He’d hoped to lick his unjustifiably wounded ego in peace, but the universe was not so kind.
“So I guess you did need that luck.” Ilya approached him with a swagger, eyes glassy and cheeks red off the win. Shane wouldn’t be surprised if he’d managed to sneak something in with him to celebrate the win, he seemed like the type.
“Oh back off,” Shane said, “it was basically a tie.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Basically, though.”
“Hm. Still no.”
Shane rolled his eyes and huffed. The volunteers started moving through the crowd, directing bands to the tunnels to trudge back to the convention center. Ilya stayed put, though, and Shane stayed with him.
“See you next summer, yes?”
“What?” Shane asked, “I’m graduating. And there’s no competitions in the summer.”
Ilya laughed like he’d said something funny. “Me too. But I’ll be eighteen, so I’m joining Drum Corps. I’ll see you there, yes? Or are you super genius who is graduating high school at sixteen?”
“No, I’ll be eighteen.” Shane said, “How do you even know you’ll get in? Auditions haven’t even opened yet.”
“Of course I’ll get in, I’m the best,” Ilya held up his corny medal next to his face with a smile. It wasn’t a special first place medal or anything, Shane had one too, all the finalists got them. “And I’ll see you there, yes?”
Shane smiled back, and for a moment the loss didn’t feel as bad. “Only if you manage to make it in.”
The uniform they gave Shane to change into was bland and generic, black coveralls and a blue jacket with gold buttons and piping. It was an off-the-rack uniform with no customizations and a bit too much room in the shoulders.
He had been chosen as one of the models for the Band Thread’s catalog this year, and had spent the morning putting on every uniform piece individually and posing in front of an off-gray backdrop like taking the world’s worst yearbook photo. His mother made it seem like it was a big deal that he’d been selected, but it’s not like he was going to get rich and famous off of a few photos on a marching band uniform manufacturer’s website.
It was over now, though, and he ducked into the restrooms to change back into his clothes and head back to his hotel for the night.
“Wow. Flexible.”
Shane jumped out of his skin, arm dropping from where he’d raised it over his head to unzip his jacket, with the zipper running straight down his spine. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone in the bathroom.
Ilya was leaning against the wall, dressed in a generic, yellow-and-black marching uniform. His curls had clearly once been styled, but had since fallen in a mess from taking shakos on and off all day. He grinned crookedly, “No, no, do not stop on my account.”
“I didn’t realize you were here.” Shane said.
“Is a modeling gig.” Ilya said, “Of course they asked me.”
Shane rolled his eyes and kept undressing, reaching behind himself to pull the zipper on his jacket and hanging it back on the hanger. He reached for his cinch, starting to turn it around to unhook it, when his elbow bumped into someone — Ilya, standing way too close.
“Well?” Ilya asked.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to do me?”
Shane spluttered and stared, and cursed the part of his brain that brought up how good Ilya’s forearms had looked back in November.
Ilya spun around, “Not all of us are freaks of nature, Hollander,” he made a show of reaching behind his back and failing, miserably, to reach the zipper, “are you going to let me die in this thing?”
Of course, of course. Shane cursed his mind for wandering other places, though it was hard not to with Ilya standing close enough for Shane to feel the heat off his skin. His mouth went stupidly, inexplicably dry.
His hand shook as he grabbed the zipper, and his fingers briefly touched the back of Ilya’s neck. Maybe he was imagining it, but Ilya went still at that, too. Shane took longer than he would normally to unzip Ilya’s jacket, and the hand he put on his shoulder blade wasn’t entirely to stabilize the fabric.
“The belt, too.” Ilya said, bringing attention to the shiny gold sash wrapped around his waist.
“It’s called a cinch.” Shane corrected. And Ilya could definitely reach it himself. If he had trouble navigating the hooks and eyes behind his back, he could just twist it around to his front. Shane knew this. And he knew Ilya probably knew it too.
He unhooked the cinch and dropped it over Ilya’s shoulder without much fanfare, only letting his hand touch Ilya’s waist for a moment.
“Want me to do you?” Ilya asked, turning around and grabbing Shane’s waist.
“Huh?”
“Your cinch.” Ilya overemphasized the word, tucking his fingers underneath the cobalt fabric.
Shane stuttered. He was more than capable of taking off his own cinch. “Uh, yeah.”
He started to turn to give Ilya access to the hooks on the back, but Ilya steadied him with one hand. Then he grabbed the cinch and wrenched it around to the front. Ilya leaned in close, acting like he was trying to get a better look at the closures, but he kept his eyes on Shane’s. He undid each of the four hooks individually and let the cinch drop unceremoniously to the ground. He kept his hands on Shane’s waist.
“You’re looking pretty.” Ilya said, his eyes roaming all around Shane’s face.
Shane felt his face get hot. “You’re wearing makeup, too.”
“Yes, but I don’t look pretty.”
Shane wanted to tell him, yes, you do, but he held the words in and licked his lips. Ilya’s eyes darted to the motion.
He leaned in a smidge closer, officially entering weirdly close territory. Shane’s skin should be crawling, he never liked anyone in his space, but he stayed oddly calm. No, not calm, but the buzzing under his skin wanted more contact with Ilya, not less.
Shane stammered something, half a question, he didn’t even know where he was going with it. His brain was stuck somewhere between Ilya’s curls, his biceps poking out from his T-shirt, and the points of warmth hovering at Shane’s waist.
“You want to kiss me.” Ilya said, interrupting Shane in his tracks.
“What, I—no.” Shane lied. He took half a step away, not far enough to leave Ilya’s reach, but Ilya let go regardless. Shane was, faintly, disappointed. He shook his head and distracted himself by unzipping his coveralls — or bibbers, he’d learned the proper term for them.
“Wow.” Ilya snickered. “You are a really bad liar.”
Shane shrugged out of his coveralls and toed off his shoes. He didn’t look at Ilya. “I’m not lying.”
“Uh huh. Sure you are not.” Shane heard a zipper and saw Ilya’s bibbers hit the ground. Like Shane, he was wearing a T-shirt and black spandex leggings. “So if I asked if you wanted to kiss right now…”
Shane’s head whipped around to stare at him. Ilya was already staring at him, wearing a crooked smirk. “Fuck off, we’re in a public bathroom.”
“Public? Hollander, is a private photo studio. No one else is coming in here.” Ilya tossed his borrowed uniform haphazardly over the hanger. He slipped on sneakers and nudged Shane’s leg with his knee.
Shane stared directly at Ilya’s lips, which was really fucking obvious of him and shame burned in his throat. He refocused himself on putting away his uniform, making sure to fold the pants along the crease and balance them perfectly on the hanger. The whole time he felt eyes watching him.
When Shane stood, Ilya moved into his space. “That was not a no, you know.”
“No.” Shane agreed, “It wasn’t.”
“So? If I asked?”
Shane stepped forward with an internal fuck it, and kissed Ilya right on the lips. It was warm. Nice. Different from kissing his old girlfriends; less chapstick. Ilya’s hand grabbed his bicep and that startled him into action, jumping and leaning back.
“I, shit, sorry, I—” he took a step away, “We can pretend that never happened, yeah? I’m just—”
“You always talk so much?” Ilya asked and pulled him back in by the arm. He held the back of Shane’s head as he kissed him, as if he were afraid Shane would try to run again. His other hand moved up to Shane’s shoulder, kneading the muscle and pushing him back.
Shane pushed back, both leaning into the kiss and resisting the motion, “You are not getting me against that filthy wall, Rozanov.” He muttered, barely leaning back enough to breathe.
“Wanna bet?” Ilya’s words were cool against Shane’s lips, followed by a second quick kiss, then a third. The fourth kiss lingered and Shane’s hands found themselves on Ilya’s waist, so he felt when Ilya’s phone buzzed.
Ilya grunted, and took his hand off Shane’s head to get the phone, holding it over Shane’s shoulder to read it. “My ride is here.” He declared, somewhat dejectedly.
“Oh.” Shane began extracting himself from the cage of Ilya’s arms. “Yeah, you shouldn’t keep them waiting.” He hoped his face didn’t look as cold as he felt. He stood awkwardly to the side, still in his socks, as Ilya finished packing his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He started to leave without a second glance, so Shane called out,
“See you this summer, yeah?”
Ilya looked over his shoulder, “Now who is getting cocky?”
It wasn’t a no.