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It was cold. Bitterly so, but Bruce welcomed it. The familiarity of the bright, stadium light illuminating the otherwise dark world brought him back to his childhood; he could almost picture himself as one of the buzzing, nervous kids as they fluttered on and off the field with props and judge blockers, busy preparing their performances. It felt like centuries ago, but memories never truly fade away, even when the lights go out.
Technically, he was in attendance for Dick. The Boy Wonder was a senior now (Bruce could hardly believe it) and in the event of his final competition, he had decided it would be a shame not to take a night off and support his son; not to mention Clark’s adamant desire to see at least one of Dick’s performances.
Surprisingly enough, being a full time reporter in addition to superhuman didn’t allow for a whole lot of leniency when it came to work and time-off, so traveling all the way from Metropolis to Gotham weekly wasn’t always, well, possible. In fact, it was near impossible; Clark said he would be here hours ago, but he must be held up with something, considering his absence.
Regardless, Bruce was hopeful that his husband would be there soon so they could watch the countless hours of work Dick had put into his senior show; he’d tried so hard to perfect his routine that Alfred had begun expressing concerns that more of Dick’s bruises were from hitting himself with the flag and rifle than his usual vigilante antics. Bruce didn’t know how the kid stayed standing most days, after their vigilante gig in addition to his hours of practice and school, but Dick never did fail to amaze him.
He found a seat at the top of the cold, metal bleachers, and offered a quick smile to Wally West, who had glanced up at him from the crowd of students huddled below and was waving excitedly. Bruce was aware the speedster was more into track and field (admittedly a very risky sport for him but that was Barry’s problem) but it pleased him to know that the kid was eager to support his boyfriend; especially remembering the way Dick lit up at the sight of him a few weeks ago, noticing Wally’s shockingly loud cheers cutting through the crowd even before he laid eyes on the fiery red hair.
Bruce would never admit it to Clark, but the two reminded him of them in a way.
Settling and trying his very best to warm himself up, he checked his phone.
No new messages.
Bruce wasn’t worried; Clark could travel at the speed of light and the Gotham Academy band was still a few schools away from performing, but a part of him wished his husband was present to share the pre-show excitement that just seemed to hang in the air.
It brought him back to their own high school years, and before he could stop himself, Bruce found his thoughts wandering to a time before. Before all the sleepless nights and the violence of vigilante life. A time when his worries didn’t weigh on his shoulders, but instead could be drowned out by the chorus of instruments.
- - - - - - - -
Bruce Wayne had always loved marching band. He had since the night his parents brought him to see his first show, the colorful flags and pounding music rushed in his ears and caused his blood to boil with a fierce enthusiasm that he came to associate with the adrenaline rush of performing.
He remembered the excitement he felt, seeing show after show with his parents, and he remembered the pain of suddenly not having them beside him even more vividly.
It seemed almost like fate when he saw that flyer in his last year at the middle school, “Join the Gotham High Marching Bats! For more information, see Mr. Anderson in room 156.” Bruce practically leapt at the chance to be a part of the activity he had admired for years. Alfred certainly needed no convincing–he was simply happy that the young boy had finally displayed some enthusiasm after so many years of forced smiles and fake laughter. Bruce already enjoyed playing the mellophone, late nights were not a problem for either of them, and Alfred had come to enjoy marching band almost as much as his ward.
Band was his earliest outlet. Before he donned the mask, his costume was none other than a navy and gold vest with absurdly large shoulder pads, white halves, and tattered drillmasters that had absolutely seen better days and pinched his toes in a way that made it awful to stand for those long periods of time.
And finally, Band is how Bruce had met Clark, all those years ago.
It had been about a week into the hellish experience of band camp and he was beginning to understand why the veterans had all shuttered when the first few weeks of the season were brought up. It was hot as hell and Bruce could swear the sun was trying to kill him, if not drown him in his own sweat, his arms hurt like a bitch, the ice pick tick tick tick of the metronome was pounding in his head, and everyone was fucking miserable.
Well, everyone except for Clark.
Bruce had never seen the kid before that week, which was unsurprising since he had just transferred to Gotham from some small town out west, but would admit that he felt instantly (and embarrassingly) intrigued by him. Maybe it was just his golden-retriever nature, or the stupid glasses, or even that one damn curl in his hair that always fell perfectly into his eyes during practice, but Bruce fell and he fell hard. And by some otherworldly miracle, it seemed like Clark did too.
The first time they met was nothing special, honestly Bruce didn’t know why the horrors of band camp hadn’t purged it from his mind, but he remembered it like it was yesterday.
“Hey, you look like you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to run and grab a water or something?”
Bruce remembered squinting up at the concerned voice that had just spoken to him from his squat on the dry grass. The kid, who Bruce had only previously seen from across the field, had graciously positioned himself in front of the sun glare. Bruce vaguely recognized who he was; he had seen him joking around with his section from across the field (one of the trumpets, if he was correct), but the sheer brilliance of the bright day shadowed most of his features, aside from that one stupidly perfect curl that was outlined by the glare reflecting off his glasses. The kid had to have been only a little taller than him, but from down there it seemed like miles; he would have been grateful for the provision of shade if it wasn’t so god damned hot out regardless.
Bruce imagined he looked atrocious in comparison. Not only was he crouched on the ground like a feverish gremlin, but he could feel the sweat dripping off his face and his skin was lobster red thanks to the blistering, unrelenting sun (he had always preferred the night). And yes, he desperately needed water after forgetting his own inside and being too prideful to say anything. However, he was a stubbornly independent child and absolutely refused to let others pick up his slack, even if the others were annoyingly perfect(ly fine) looking (Bruce didn’t have a crush what-?) considering the conditions they were in. Seriously, Bruce remembered his first thought being, as he gazed up at the kid, how the hell does he manage to keep his hair like that?
“No, I’m fine.” Bruce had replied, taking a deep breath and pushing himself up to look the kid in the eyes, “Just taking a break for a minute.”
The second thought Bruce had about the kid was along the lines of “Jesus, his eyes are gorgeous”, but that was a fact that Clark never needed to know, even though Bruce later assumed that he probably could have deciphered it by listening to the way his heart skipped a beat.
“You sure? You look pretty spent.”
All of us look “spent” compared to you, Wonderboy.
“I’m Clark, by the way. It’s nice to meet youuuuu-?.” He questioned expectantly.
“Bruce.”
Then the kid, Clark, smiled. And ohhhh Bruce would swear it lit up the field more than the sun ever could, but instead of that blistering hot phenomena, this light felt more like a hug, comfortable, fuzzy, warm. He could have compared it to one of the sunsets from the field, kind of beautiful, the start of something new.
“It’s nice to meet you, Bruce!”
- - - - - - - -
Bruce snapped out of his trance as he felt his phone buzz from his jacket pocket. Taking it out, the screen illuminated to display a message from his husband, accompanied by his profile picture, a beaming Clark with a much younger Dick perched on his shoulders, blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
Clark
> On my way. I got held up with work.
> Remind me, what are Dick’s favorite flowers?
Bruce smiled to himself. They had discovered that Dick loved receiving flowers after his performances relatively shortly after the kid’s first few gymnastics competitions. He had tried to temper his reaction, but the first time Bruce presented him with a bouquet of bright, sunny daffodils, Dick broke down in tears. Right on the gym floor. He had always assumed that it was because they reminded him of his childhood in the circus, and he understood the pain the boy was experiencing, but Bruce just remembered feeling helpless, even guilty, afraid he had crossed a boundary with his son. However, Dick would later assure him that he really appreciated the gesture and it became a running tradition.
Clark knew this; he loved getting Dick flowers. In fact, he had even suggested the daffodils in the first place. Bruce, to his credit, had come up with the idea, and he remembered standing next to his husband in the little garden he and Alfred had curated beside the manor. Being raised on a farm, Clark knew a whole lot more about vegetation than Bruce did and was thrilled when Alfred had asked him to help plant and tend to the little corner. Bruce assumed roses would be more customary, but Clark chose the daffodils because they remind him of Dick’s personality.
“I mean, daffodils do symbolize resilience, strength, and hope. Like robins! If that doesn't represent Dick then I don’t know what does.”
He had said it with a chuckle, humored by his own connection. Clark’s view on humanity always seemed far too pure for Bruce. He always saw the good in people; Bruce saw their pain. He saw the reasons they may turn against him, become dangerous, or unpredictable. But he cherished Clark’s ability to see hope in everyone, and he loved his husband’s view of Dick. Because Dick was strong. He might be the strongest person Bruce ever met, and he was glad that others could see it too.
Clark
He still enjoys daffodils. <
He replied, then paused, before adding.
But recently he’s also really liked iris’. <
And hurry up. He’ll be on in about 20 minutes. <
> Don’t worry, B. I’ll be there in a bit.
> See you soon!
Bruce put his phone away and surveyed the crowd. He didn’t recognize anyone save for Wally and a few of Dick’s other friends. Perhaps that was for the best, Bruce wasn’t exactly the social type.
Still, the competition setting reminded him of, for some reason, the high school football games their band had played at, all those years ago. Maybe it was the loud crowd of spectators or the smell of food that drifted through the chilly fall air, but Bruce felt himself quickly slipping back into that nostalgic trance.
- - - - - - - -
The particular night that came to mind when Bruce imagined football games was the last game of his sophomore year. It had been late fall at the time and the Gotham High Bats had made it pretty far into the playoffs, but there was simply no way in heaven or hell that they were going to win that night.
Bruce didn’t know what had happened but they were losing badly. He would swear that the other team had deliberately begun tossing that ball in their player’s direction out of pity (or maybe even mockery), but even then they just could not score a touchdown to save their sorry asses.
Needless to say, it wasn’t the most exciting night in the stands. The band was in good spirits nonetheless, their last competition had been a few weeks prior and everyone was happy to have an excuse to see each other again. Bruce was no exception since he had no classes with Clark and could only see him briefly in the halls or after school.
The two had started dating about halfway through the season (it was about damn time) and were sitting together on the bleachers, Bruce leaning his head against Clark’s shoulder, which was nice but nothing special. Clark had been rambling about something and Bruce had to admit, he loved listening to him talk. He remembered being able to shut his brain off and just focus on the sound of his boyfriend’s voice; it was peaceful, even considering the loud objections from the crowd as they grew more and more disappointed with every play the team butchered.
But everything had been relatively standard. Nothing special. No, Bruce remembered that night for another reason.
It had been a little later, around halftime. Bruce remembered climbing down the bleachers, Clark right behind him, when their director called to him from the bottom of the stairs.
“Bruce, could you come here for a minute?”
This wasn’t an unusual request either, Bruce knew his family had helped fund the school’s music program and he assumed Mr. Anderson just had a question about checks or new equipment shipments. He started toward the man, telling Clark he’d be back in a little bit. He also vaguely remembered hearing Clark say something along the lines of, “Aw, but chicken sandwiches,” but was too far away to tell him that his stomach could wait, so he just smirked to himself and continued.
Mr. Anderson was waiting for him next to a group of very loud students from the opposing school, so the two started to walk around the track, heading toward a less crowded area.
“So Bruce, I actually wanted to talk to you about next year.”
Huh. Well that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting to hear.
“Something I am going to be doing, starting next year, is having two drum majors. You’ve shown exceptional leadership and capability both in music and on the field over these past two years and I think it would be better to have a junior and a senior, you know?”
Is this actually happening right now? He thought as Mr. Anderson continued.
“I wanted to know whether or not you would be interested in being one of them?”
Oh my god this is actually happening right now.
“You could start out next year and if you decide in your senior year you want to return to your section, you could and I’d select another senior. But if you wanted to keep the position, then you would have the experience necessary to train the junior drum major.”
Bruce had to remind himself to fix his face because he probably looked like a bewildered fish, wide eyes and mouth hanging half open. He knew he was competent enough, but the thought had never really crossed his mind. Mr. Anderson was looking at him expectantly though so he had to say something.
“I-yes. Yes, that would be great. I’m absolutely interested-thank you, Mr. Anderson.” Bruce stammered through his daze. Is this official?, he remembered thinking, Am I dreaming?
But no, he heard the crowd behind him shrieking, he felt the chilly fall air russell his hair; this was absolutely real.
“Perfect! Just do me a favor and keep this between us, at least until I announce it officially. Technically I wasn’t supposed to say anything but I wanted your opinion. You’re free to head back, enjoy the game if you can.” Mr. Anderson said with a grimace; the other team had somehow scored even more points, it was almost pitiful to watch.
Bruce, still stunned, headed back to the bleachers. His head was a whirlwind of surprise, excitement, and maybe even a bit of anxiety. He saw Clark through the crowd, standing nearby their ancient snack shack, probably contemplating the menu, and made his way towards him. Bruce tried to make himself look normal, like he hadn’t just received one of the band’s most prominent leadership positions, but Clark could somehow always read him.
“Hey B! I was waiting for you- what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sorry about that. Mr. Anderson just wanted to talk to me about something to do with finances. Boring stuff.” Maybe he was trying to sell it too hard because there was no way Clark bought it.
“No he wasn’t. What's up?”
“Nothing. I’m not lying.”
“Bruce.”
Jesus, how did he always know? Later, when asked, Clark would tell him he had just listened to the entire conversation, intentionally or not, but at the time Bruce simply had no idea how to counter his boyfriend’s stubborn persistence.
He wasn’t supposed to say anything, he knew that. He was usually great with secrets but something won him over and he snapped. Lowering his voice, despite the rowdy crowd probably covering anything he said anyway, he sighed and told Clark what he knew.
“Ok, fine. Mr. Anderson is going to start appointing two drum majors. He wants me to be one of them.”
“B, that’s awesome!” Clark exclaimed (probably a little too loudly for the secrecy aspect) his face lighting up as he pulled Bruce into a hug.
“I’m so proud of you!”
For some reason, that comment hit him harder than he would have thought. It’s not like he had never been told someone was proud of him, his parents used to say so, Alfred and occasionally some of his teachers did too, but Clark’s tone was so.. genuine. He was so happy for him, it made Bruce’s heart ace.
How did I get so lucky? He thought to himself as Clark let him go, still smiling like a kid on Christmas day.
The shock was still there, but the bit of anxiety he felt vanished, and he knew that he could handle whatever came with the new position. Their conversation quickly turned back to chicken sandwiches when the two realized they had to be back in the stands in 3 minutes, but the feeling of warmth and excitement stayed with Bruce throughout the entire night. Despite the horrible loss the football team suffered, Bruce felt like he had won; and in a way, he had.
- - - - - - - -
The loud crash of drums forced Bruce back to reality, and he looked down at the band currently performing. The music they played sounded familiar, probably some pop song Dick had played on the radio at some point. Brce had to admit that he didn’t mind the energetic vocals, but he also didn’t need every crimelord in Gotham thinking Batman was listening to Manchild by Sabrina Carpenter before patrol, so he had limited the Batmobile’s playlist to 80s and 90s rock. It was no secret that Batman was old(er).
Tuning out the band, Bruce turned his attention back to his phone. Only a few minutes had passed since Clark’s last text, so he still wasn’t concerned over time, but he did wish his husband would hurry up. He could see the Gotham Academy band lined up around the gate of the stadium, though he couldn’t pick out Dick from the crowd.
He felt a strange creeping anxiety crawling over him. He obviously knew Dick would do great, that wasn’t it, but he worried that the last competition would leave him disappointed. Bruce remembered how he was after his last show. But he also knew he would be there for Dick, whether they scored high or low, just like Clark was there for him.
With that reassurance, Bruce turned back to the current band and let his thoughts overtake the music once again.
- - - - - - - -
Senior year awards. He remembered standing on the field, the other band’s captains and drum majors lined up next to him. Clark was just behind him, so he could probably see the way Bruce was shaking, but not even he knew if it was from the cold, the nerves, or just sheer anticipation.
The announcer, some lady with a crackly voice, began calling out the scores for each division.
Band after band received their placements, some bursting out with excited cheers while others clapped, respectful, but disappointed. Bruce just hoped they would get to be the former. He tried to conceal his stress, and he probably did from the outside, but internally he was screaming.
Finally, they heard it.
“Open Class”
This was it. This was their division.
10 bands in the ranks.
Their show that year had potential. At least top five material, Bruce thought. And their performance that day had been better than possibly anything he had seen in his two years as drum major, or even his four in the band. But Bruce would be damned if he got his hopes up. That was Clark’s job; they completed each other in that way. He wished Clark was beside him, everything just felt so much more simple when he was there.
But even though he wasn’t, this was something Bruce could handle. Something he was capable of facing on his own. If they didn’t do well, then he would be there for his band, and they would all reassure each other. The world wouldn’t end if they scored lower than a five.
And if we score higher..
Bruce wasn’t able to finish his thought before the woman started reading off the sponsors and school names, and Christ it felt like a damn eternity before she got to the actual scores. Bruce, despite freezing his ass off, felt his hands begin to sweat. Time felt like hardening concrete, moving but horribly slowly.
She started with 10th. It wasn’t them, thank god. Their director would have had their heads.
9th. Still thankfully safe, but they clapped respectfully for the band that was called.
8th. Not their school, but Bruce’s heart pounded against his rib cage as he silently prayed for a good score.
7th. Still not them but Bruce could sense the tension growing as they approached the ranking they all expected but didn’t truly want.
6th. The field was silent, save for a few sniffles here and there, a product of the cold. Bruce didn’t know if he had ever heard his band this quiet before. It felt like forever before the announcer called out a band that he didn’t recognize.
5th. They all held their breaths. But they didn’t hear their school's name.
4th. Surely this was it. It had to be. But it wasn’t.
3rd. (holy shit) Bruce would take top three. Bruce was elated that they would be in the top three. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cheer and throw himself into Clark’s arms because they had made it. But their band wasn’t called.
2nd place. The tension finally broke when the school next to them received the second place award. He allowed himself a small smile as he thought of the band behind him. He pictured himself in every one of his peers, his friends, Clark. He knew they reflected his own excitement, his pride, his shock. Even though he couldn’t react right now, Bruce could hear the cheers behind him and knew his band would be loud enough to convey all of the emotions that swirled in his head.
1st. They knew what was coming. Bruce composed himself as best as he possibly could, but he knew his eyes were sparkling. The cold and the stress blew away as the announcer cried the very thing they had all worked so hard to achieve.
“And finally, in First Place, with a score of 94.3 (holy shit!!!!!)… GOTHAM HIGH SCHOOL.”
Him and the other drum major saluted as their band erupted in excited screams. They carried out their usual routine, receiving the award from some stoic looking guy that offered them a quick smile and a handshake. They thanked him and that was that. They had done it.
Bruce handed the award to the other drum major and began to walk with her towards their director before the sound of his name being called stopped him in his tracks.
“BRUCE!!”
He whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice and he could see Clark running towards him. The smile on his face was brighter than those giant lights that illuminated the field and so much warmer. Bruce practically leapt into his arms and while he was by no means a small kid, Clark somehow managed to effortlessly spin him around, lifting Bruce’s feet off the turf field. He felt like he was flying, or in a damned movie. And he might as well have been.
After awards just felt like a blur. Bruce remembers the loud screaming and the active crowd. He remembers his own excitement, the pride he had for himself and his band. He remembers shuffling back to the entrance, hand in hand with Clark; he remembers having to yell to him over the chatter of the other students, but he can’t for the life of him recall anything that was said, not that it mattered anyway.
Suddenly they were on the bus as it slowly crept out of the parking lot, driving away from the school. It was dark and the hum of the engine was muffled by Bruce’s exhaustion. Clark had (already) fallen asleep next to him, the blanket they shared was tucked up around his neck and shifted with each breath.
His glasses were slipping off his nose and however adorable that was, Bruce took the liberty of removing them and tucking them in the pocket of his garment bag, a small gesture but one that he hoped would preserve them, as Clark’s last pair had broken the week before. Something about a dog getting a hold of them, if he remembered correctly.
Clark looked so different like that, peaceful, serene, somehow even softer than he did normally, which is saying something. That one stupidly perfect strand of hair bounced over his eyes as the bus hit a pot hole and reality set in for a minute. As the lights of the sleeping city danced over them, Bruce could remember himself considering those four years, all the memories he had made with his friends and his classmates. Clark. If it wasn’t for the band, they would never have met. All those days all those moments he cherished so much were thanks to this band. And then, it was just- over. The bittersweet realization struck Bruce at once.
What if it’s never the same again?
God that thought hit him like a truck. The what-ifs came rushing in and Bruce was left feeling like a scared, emotional kid again. What was his life without this outlet? He had spent so long dedicating his life to this band, what was he supposed to do now?
He knew he was spiraling. He could feel his breath growing ragged as tremors shook his spine. Hell, it felt like so much of an overreaction, none of the other seasons had ended like this. But then again, he had always had another to anticipate.
Clark stirred from beside him, cracking open an eye and freezing at the sight of his boyfriend. He immediately jumped up, concerned eyes searching his face trying to decipher what was wrong, but Bruce just felt horrible to have disturbed him. This wasn’t something he needed to see.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Bruce could tell Clark was trying to keep all of the panic from his voice, but it slipped through the edges, only making him feel worse.
“I’m sorry- I just- I,” his voice broke.
“I’m sorry.”
Those were the only words he could force out of his mouth. This hadn’t happened before, he saw the horror on Clark’s face, the concern etched into his perfect features. This wasn’t the first time he had seen Bruce cry, but god it had never been this bad before. Panic surged through him, he couldn’t control his breathing, he just crumbled and broke, right in front of the person he loved and trusted the most.
Before he could consider what he was going to say, how he could explain, his brain cracked and words started flooding from his mouth,
“I-I’m scared. What if it’s never the same. What if I’m never the same? What if everyone leaves me behind? What if all the grief and anger that I felt before this comes back and I’m never the same again? What if I forget it all, oh my god Clark what if I’m never this.. this ok again. I’m happy. I’m so damn happy. And now it’s all just.. over.” That last sentence came out with a sob.
He felt so broken, but he didn’t understand why. He knew this day would come, he always thought it would be fine. He could handle it. So why? Why was he falling apart now?
Bruce was still spiraling when he felt Clark’s warm hands pull his own out of his hair, he hadn’t even realized he was probably close to tearing half of it out. He looked up and through the dark, through his tears, he could see his boyfriend; his hair was tousled, his glasses still tucked away in his garment bag, and the soft, blue blanket hung off one of his shoulders. His bright blue eyes looked grey in the dim light as they watched Bruce softly, almost sympathetically, like the way you would look at an injured animal, but his gaze was never condescending. It was full of so many emotions that Bruce wanted to reflect, but had no idea how. When Clark looked at him, Bruce could see his care, his consideration, his concern, his empathy, even some of his own sadness, but most of all, he could see that Clark truly loved him. Maybe that was the thing that reassured Bruce the most; he could grieve band, but the people it gave him weren’t going to let him go, not then, not ever.
“The season might have ended, but it still happened. All of our memories, all of the experiences we’ve gotten to share, they’re a part of us. We’ve grown so much over these past four years. All of that won’t just go away because we don’t have to suffer through band camp next year. Our friends won't disappear because we no longer see them every other night; and you’re not getting rid of me that easily, B. Things are going to change, the lights will go out, seasons are going to end, but I won’t stop loving you. Because the greatest gift this band gave me was you.”
Clark pulled him into a hug and Bruce let him, because his little speech did help. Everything always felt a little easier with him there, and although the end of band would be sad, and would be a change that Bruce didn’t know if he was ready for, he knew he wouldn’t have to face it alone.
For a moment, at least just a moment, everything was warm.
- - - - - - - -
Bruce watched as the Gotham Academy band filed onto the field. He could see Dick, running with a number of multicolored flags, a saber, and his rifle clutched in his arms, decked out in possibly the sparkliest, most flamboyant outfit anyone could fathom. Bruce held his breath as Dick took his place and looked up toward the stands, and for a moment, time seemed to slow down, just like it did all those years ago while he was waiting to start his show, with his band.
Bruce was so proud of that kid. He had never been so proud of anyone in his life, but he didn’t know how to tell him that, so when Dick’s eyes found his (after forcibly tearing them away from a very loud Wally West), he smiled, hoping that all of his emotions could be conveyed in even the simplest of gestures, and promised himself that he would let Dick know all that after the performance.
And as the announcer began to read off the pre-show intro and the students’ names, Bruce realized that Clark still wasn’t there.
Where the hell could he possibly be? It wasn’t like Clark to be late. Especially not to something that meant so much to Dick. About a hundred possibilities swirled in Bruce’s head as he checked his phone and saw that there were no new messages from his husband.
What if he was hurt?
What if someone attacked him?
What if his secret identity was revealed?
What if he needs me?
But as Bruce looked up, he saw that one stupidly perfect curl falling in front of a pair of blue eyes, glittering behind those dorkishly adorable glasses as Clark waved up at him from the foot of the bleachers. Clutched safely in his arms was an enormous bouquet of blue and yellow flowers (“Where the hell had he found that many?” Bruce thought). Daffodils and iris’.
From up there, Bruce could almost picture himself standing on top of the towers, all those years ago, watching Clark talk or laugh with his section as they waited for him to call set. His smile extinguished all the cold that had previously been surrounding Bruce, and he composed himself, stood, and started down the stairs to join his husband, the memory never fading from his mind.
“I told you I’d make it,” Clark said with a smirk as he reached the bottom, adding, “Worried about me?” before planting a kiss on Bruce’s forehead.
Bruce’s face would have flushed if not for the bitter cold already turning his cheeks and nose pink.
“Not in the slightest. I’d never doubt you.” He retorted, but he was smiling too.
Clark wrapped his free arm around Bruce as the announcer finished her spiel and the drum majors began conducting. Resting his head on his husband’s shoulder, just like he had done years ago, they watched as Dick danced and twirled, his smile wide and his eyes glowing, outshining even that atrocious outfit that Bruce was positive his son loved.
He could have stayed that way forever, standing with one of the people he loved most, and watching the other perform beneath the bright, stadium lights.
Despite the late fall cold, Bruce felt happier than he ever had as the sound of music filled his head and his heart with warmth.