Chapter Text
A month before band camp started, Dean met the band director for the first time.
He remembers the date clearly: June 10th. A totally random, unremarkable date that probably would’ve left Dean’s mind years later, if he hadn’t been so nervous about that day since the week before, constantly mulling and pacing over it as he helped his parents settle into their new house.
He heard that his new school—Universe High School, if he’s correct—had a marching band, and that it was mandatory for all band members to join. He had no idea what marching band entailed, though; after all, his previous schools only had concert bands. When he first heard about it, the only thing that came to mind for Dean was military parades. Soldiers marching in neat, tidy lines, staring straight ahead without the tiniest bit of humor; instruments being held at near perfect angles, playing music without any actual enjoyment. He’s been to a few, courtesy of his father, and it did not look fun to him in the slightest. And now he was going to have to play in one himself?
Dean had panicked at the news at first. He enjoyed band, yes. He enjoyed playing his bass clarinet, enjoyed listening to his new pieces, enjoyed the moment of silence after the band finished a piece, the last note lingering in the air before the cascade of applause started.
Maybe enjoyed wasn’t a strong enough word. No, Dean loved band. But if he had to participate in one of those military parades, Dean thinks—no, knows—that his love for band would instantly wither away, and he can’t bear to lose the one thing that’s kept him alive throughout all the moves he’s had to go through for the sake of his father, who is constantly following military orders.
June 10th. What would have been a totally insignificant date if the week leading up to it hadn’t felt like a ticking time bomb, slowly but surely counting down to the death of the only thing that was his.
Dean thought about quitting band. It was a thought that had never occurred to him before until then. A thought that would’ve appalled the Dean of the past, the Dean who has spent countless hours dutifully practicing his etudes and scales over and over and over again in an attempt to ignore his loneliness, to ignore how he still hasn’t made any friends at his new school. But in that moment, that decision made perfect sense to him: he would cut off the one thing that he cares about before it was taken away from him. His father had never been happy about him playing an instrument anyways; all Dean had to do was say the word, and he would never have to march a day in his life.
It made perfect sense to Dean. It really did.
…So why did he hesitate, lingering at the doorway of his father’s room, three days away from when he was supposed to meet the band director? Why did he feel such a strange sense of guilt and sickness, a wave of sadness, whenever he looked at the case of his instrument, worn down yet clearly well-loved despite the years? Why couldn’t he just open his mouth, to allow the words to spill out, to leave band behind, for his bass clarinet to start collecting dust?
Why was it, that when his father finally looked up from paperwork, he saw nothing at the doorway other than a flash of green, leaving in something that couldn’t be deciphered between guilt or hardened resolve?
…
…In the end, Dean decided against quitting band.
The thought of him losing the one thing he loved was frightening enough, yes, but he couldn’t even begin to stomach the thought of Dean himself being the reason for his loss. He can’t bring himself to think of leaving his bass clarinet in the back of his closet to gather dust, of never having the feeling of finishing a performance knowing that he’s done his best ever again, of abandoning the one thing that has stayed with him throughout his constant moves during his years.
If he was going to lose his love for playing music either way, that was fine. Dean could handle it. Maybe he’ll finally learn how to actually talk to people, to make new friends. Maybe he’ll stop locking himself in practice rooms, delving head first into a piece of music until he finally looks up hours later to see the janitor knocking on the door, letting him know that he’s long overstayed his welcome. Maybe he’ll look back one day, and wonder why this was ever such a big issue for him.
Or maybe he’ll just find something else. Something else to keep him up at night, something else that helps distract him from his loneliness, something else to help him make up an excuse for not having made any friends. But at least he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror every day and know that he hadn’t given up on something before he even tried it, that there wasn’t anything he could’ve done to stop what was coming.
Yes. If he had to lose his love for music, then so be it. Dean can live that fact. But at least he will live knowing that it wasn’t his choice that he now had nothing he loved left to his name.
Or maybe this was just a coward’s way of looking at things. Would it not make more sense to not do something you know you won’t enjoy? Would it not be more brave to have the guts to do the honor yourself? After all, Dean’s probably going to move again eventually. What’s just, what is it, half a year of not performing in the grand scheme of things? Maybe next he’ll move to another school without a marching band, or at least one that’s not mandatory, and he’ll be able to pull his bass clarinet again from the depths of his closet. Therefore, it’s not quite quitting band entirely, just… taking a break from it.
Whatever the reason was for the change of heart, though, didn’t matter on June 10th, as Dean sat in the back of the car, hugging his bass clarinet close to his chest as if it was his lifeline. (And maybe it was, considering how much it has gotten him through.) His dad muttered something up front, but Dean didn’t hear him in favor of staring at his new school with wide eyes. Purple flags waved on top of the school, bearing a black dragon as its mascot. Neatly trimmed bushes surrounded the school, and the few windows he could see were dark.
“Is this where this band director told you to meet him?”
Dean’s eyes shift over to his dad. “...Yeah.” In a previous email, the band director (Who’s name was apparently Mr. Swag? Dean can’t tell if that was his actual name or a joke) had mentioned going through a door in the back of the school, which was precisely where the car was stopped at now.
“How long will this take?”
“Not sure.”
“Whatever. Just be back soon, I still need to do some work at home.”
Dean didn’t reply, instead sliding out the door and making his way towards a lone door at the back of the dumpster. It was propped open, to Dean’s relief. He turned around hesitantly, unsure if he should be here in the first place even though Mr. Swag had told him to meet there, but there wasn’t anything to be seen besides his father driving off to go find a parking space. Dean stood in front of the door for a while, wondering if he should wait for the band director to come out or if he should just walk in.
After a bit of waiting, Dean made his choice. As the summer sun blazed down onto him, Dean pulled onto the door and stepped in. A blast of AC instantly hit him, making him shiver slightly after coming from outside.
He glanced around at the halls, at the purple and black tiles on the floor, at the numerous doors leading to what Dean recognized to be practice rooms. The walls were littered with plaques of names of previous students and pictures of unfamiliar faces in uniforms, beaming down at him and holding various trophies. He spotted a rack of the said uniforms down one of the halls, but other than that, there was no one present.
…Where was he supposed to go?
Dean bit his lip and glanced around, his grip tightening around his bass clarinet. Maybe he should’ve tried to search up a floor plan of the school? What if he had actually misread the email? What if he had come at the wrong day, and now he was going to get in trouble before the year even started—
“Oh! Hello! What are you doing here?”
Dean startled, abruptly torn from his thoughts. He glanced down at another hall, and saw an adult turning a corner, holding long, thin bags that dragged on the floor behind her. She had brown hair, pink and yellow glasses, and she was wearing an orange shirt with shorts.
“Um.” Dean shuffled his feet. “I was told to come here today to meet the band director?”
The adult blinked. “Ah! Right, right, Ash did tell me something about that, yeah. Here, follow me, and I’ll take you to him.”
He muttered a quiet thanks, and started following the adult. She continued down the direction she was heading in, still carrying the long bags. Dean didn’t know who Ash was, but he figured it was probably the band director.
“Sorry, what’s your name? Ash has probably told me, but I might’ve… kinda… forgotten…”
“It’s Dean.”
“Nice to meet you, Dean! Welcome to Universe Band! I’m the color guard instructor here, but you can just call me Squiddo.”
Dean hummed in response, even though he had no idea what a color guard was or what their instructor did. But it sounded important, and he didn’t want to make her mad by asking stupid questions. The thought of calling an adult by their name felt off to him as well, but he didn’t say anything about it.
“Say, what instrument do you play?”
“Bass clarinet.”
“Oh, that’s cool! What about during marching?”
“What?”
The adult—Squiddo—glanced at him. “During marching season, what—” Maybe she saw the look on Dean’s face, because she paused before switching her approach. “Have you ever marched before?”
Dean shook his head, a sinking feeling forming in his chest. “My old school didn’t have a marching band.”
“Huh.” Squiddo pushed open a door, which opened what Dean recognized as the band room. It was a large room, with a high ceiling. There weren’t any chairs in the center though; they were all stacked in piles near the walls along with music stands. A whiteboard laid untouched in the center of the room behind a podium, with dates neatly written on it. “How much do you know about it?”
“Uh. You guys do parades, right?”
“I mean, yeah, sometimes, but I’m mostly talking about field marching.”
“What’s that?”
“You know how football games have halftimes? Yeah, that’s when we usually perform. Actually, I’ll let Ash explain.” Squiddo reached a door, pausing for a moment to drop the bags near the wall before turning and knocking on the door. She didn’t wait for a response before she opened it, and Dean heard a voice float out.
“Horace, bro, I swear to god—Wait, hold on a second.” The person set down his phone, and smiled brightly at Squiddo’s entrance. His desk was littered with pieces of music, as well as papers with dots on what seemed to be a football field. Dean saw a few posters on the wall behind him, and a photo frame that had both him and Squiddo on his desk. A cup of coffee sat on the table, having long gone cold.
“Hi honey!” Squiddo chirped, and Dean noticed her voice jumped up an octave at the greeting.
“Hey, sorry, I was in the middle of a phone call—” the man’s eyes settled on Dean, and his face morphed from cheerfulness to confusion before settling on recognition.
“Yeah, so, I just found Dean wandering in the halls.” She nodded to him. “You’re supposed to meet with him today, no?”
“Yeah, hang on a second.” He lifted his phone. “Horace, I’ll call you back later.”
The person on the other end sputtered about something, but he ended the call anyway.
“Also, he’s never marched before, he doesn’t know what marching band is at all. Thought I’d let you explain it, I have to grab the rest of the flags.”
“What? What do you mean he doesn’t—”
“Bye honey!” The door clicked shut, and Dean stared at the door where Squiddo had just left.
“Okay.” The band director sighed, spinning his chair over to face him. “What do you play.”
Dean glanced at his case. Then back at him. “Bass clarinet.”
“And what about—oh. Yeah, you haven’t marched before, have you?”
At Dean’s head shake, the band director sighed, straightening in his chair. “I don’t really feel like explaining this,” he muttered under his breath. “Basically, what marching band is, you guys go onto the field and march in shapes while playing music. Does that make sense?”
“...No?”
“Whatever. Go search it up on Youtube, you’ll get it.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “You do know that you can’t march bass clarinet, right?”
Dean’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“You can still play it during concert season, don’t get me wrong. Just not during marching season. Yes, I know some schools march bass clarient, but we don’t here.”
“Then what do I play?”
He hummed, lifting up his cup of coffee to take a sip. “Do you know how to play normal clarinet?”
“Yes, but it’s been a while… Mr… Swag…?”
The man choked on his coffee, slamming the cup down on his desk with enough force that Dean jumped. “What did you just call me?”
Dean bit his lip. “Is that not what your name is?”
Ash sputtered before groaning, moving the papers away from the now spilled coffee. “It is, unfortunately. I lost a bet.”
...? “You. You what—”
“Call me Ash. That’s what everyone calls me. Please don’t call me Mr… Swag… again.” Ash frowned in disgust. “My god, I think I just grew white hairs from that.”
“Okay… uh… Ash. Sorry.”
“Whatever. Do you think you learn fast?”
“I can try,” Dean muttered.
Ash turned back to his computer, clicking through several documents. Then he paused on a spreadsheet and made a “Hmm” sound. “Actually… how open are you to learning new instruments?”
Dean blinked in surprise. “...I mean, I think that’s fine?” It was not fine. “Depends on what it is, I think.” It did not depend on what it was, Dean did not want to learn a new instrument. His grip unconsciously tightened around the handle of his bass clarinet.
In the future, Dean would often think back to this moment. What would have happened if he had said no? What would have happened if he actually had the courage to voice his reluctance in front of an authority figure? If he hadn’t agreed?
No amount of reminiscing can change the past though, no matter how much Dean would find himself thinking about it weeks, months, even years later. The past is the past, after all, and nothing can change that.
For now, as Dean stood in Ash’s office, Ash only smiled as he turned to him. “How much do you know about playing mallet percussion?”
⸺ ♪ ⸺
As it turns out, Dean knew nothing about mallet percussion.
Sure, he had seen others playing in the back of the band countless times, yarn mallets bobbing up and down on the keyboards, but that didn’t equate to any actual knowledge. He’s never had a friend in percussion (or in general), so it’s not like he was ever taught by his fellow band members. (He remembers even in middle school, watching kids crowd around keyboards, giddy about showing off their skills. Dean pretended he wasn’t interested.)
Ash had assigned him to a vibraphone. Dean hadn’t even recognized the name until Ash pulled him out of the office to one of the said instruments in the band room, taking off the black fabric cover to reveal a golden keyboard. Dean had stared at it before calling it a big metal xylophone, to which Ash simply laughed in response. He didn’t correct him, but instead started pointing out parts of the vibraphone.
Dean merely nodded along, though he was freaking out internally. When Ash had asked whether he was fine with learning a new instrument, Dean had assumed that he meant an instrument in the same instrument family. He was expecting any other woodwind, maybe clarinet or flute or saxophone—but a completely different instrument family? That he doesn’t have any experience in?
He had thought that Ash was joking at first. But as more and more words came out of Ash’s mouth, the realization slowly dawned on Dean. Maybe if he had the courage, he would’ve asked to be changed. To be moved to clarinet, or at least something that he could at least pick up on quicker. Learning a new instrument was already hard enough, maybe it could’ve at least been more manageable if it was similar to bass clarinet.
But Dean had frozen, and now he was back in the car with his father, holding old mallets that Ash had given him for practice, as well as music sheets to parts of a show that he doesn’t even know, which was apparently called “The Invisible Mafia.” Dean wasn’t really sure why it was called that, but he didn’t ask.
His father glanced at him weird as Dean came out with a small bag, but didn’t say anything as he climbed into the backseat. And when he was back home, he just stared at the mallets like they were some foreign thing that he had never seen before.
Eventually, Dean started searching up marching band shows, as Ash had recommended. There was a part of him that was relieved, to say the least, that it wasn’t what he had been expecting. It wasn’t anything like the military parades that he was expecting, no; rather, it was just people playing on a field. Playing music. Having fun. He found some stuff about what was apparently called “DCI,” and as he watched clips of them, he couldn't help but notice the excitement that shone through their faces and music, despite all the physical work they were putting in. He listened to impressive solos, watched as marchers form different shapes on the field, admired the uniformity of the performers.
And maybe, that was when he began to understand marching band.
He also searched up tutorial videos for mallets. Of course, he doesn’t know how reliable Youtube was, he’s never had to rely on it before, but there really wasn’t much of a choice. It’s not like Ash taught him, after all. Just handed him mallets and sent him off. He only learned the basics: mallet grip, what each key on the keyboard was (which, he noticed, was basically a piano. Not that he plays the piano, but he had learned the notes on it a while back.) But he didn’t have an actual vibraphone—or any keyboards in his house for the matter. All he could do was practice his grip, look over his music, and hope for the best in the future.