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One thing they don't tell you about band: the grass is wet.
She pondered this little sentiment the world had sent her not so long ago; the mallets were strewn somewhere in the haze, and the harness weighed down on her back. Dew poked through her light shirt like needles, sewing her to the ground. There she was- Honoka Kousaka, helpless and void of any former energy. Breathe in, breathe out, and maybe she'd regain some of that characteristic cheer.
What did it mean, anyway? All of this was pointless, but she had to keep going because Honoka Kousaka does not give up; Honoka Kousaka does not surrender. Honoka Kousaka can, however, collapse on the grass after the drum major (she's a first year while Honoka can hardly keep rhythm) calls for water break.
It was odd- the redhead hadn't even touched her water. What would happen if Honoka followed suit? She'd die for sure, but that's not what she wished. She wished to fade out of existence without anyone noticing she was gone. That'd be nice, as someone would take her place anyway.
Wasn't that the stunt she was performing right at that very moment, though? She neither had a place in the world nor in the band pact, so it'd be best to dissolve into the damp dirt below. Maybe she was only drawing attention to how pathetic she was, but it didn't matter.
Days had turned to weeks had turned to months, and July had turned to October; rubble had turned to gold, and here was the Otonokizaka Marching band, the morning of semifinals. Honoka could hardly recall her first day, hand in hand with hope (sleep deprived, but still hand in hand regardless). What was she fueled by? Vigor to save a school, of all things? Even if seemed to be false faith, it worked. The school was saved, but what now? All she had to do was dissolve into the wet grass.
“You tired?”
Oh.
Unexpected company, just in time. The soft gleam of a golden trumpet having been placed at just the right angle struck a beam right into Honoka’s eye, causing a flinch. Not as if it could be helped, but she sure wished it could. Yet, here was Nico Yazawa. Too dedicated, too proud, too rotten; all Nico.
“Don't pretend you care,” she sputtered in between breaths.
“Are you tired, though?” Even she was offset by the lack of excitement, lack of life in her voice, but Nico could never admit it. The drummer could only muster a slight nod and grunt of approval. “Will you stick with it?”
Such a question resulted in a soft, worn giggle. “How do I answer that?”
“You're not a rookie anymore, Honoka.”
The grass was wet, and with this sudden confrontation, it was getting itchy.
“You've done your time, and you've grown… a lot,” Nico admitted before taking her sweet time, choking on her air. “You’re really good, too- though,” the atmosphere broke, “not as amazing as the fabulous Nico Ni~!”
“Nico, Honoka smiled, flailing one of her arms around haphazardly. “Your solo has exactly five notes!”
Fwap! A hand hit her nose, and the two marchers were roaring with laughter at a fortissimo.
“Great, now even the great Nico is out of breath!” Nico managed to say after their laughter had reduced to chuckles. “But… are you gonna stay?”
“I'm still not really sure.”
“Okay, everyone, opening set!” the voice of one of their fellow students commanded.
“When you decide, get back to me,” Nico sighed, lifting herself off the ground with seemingly no effort.
She grabbed her harness.