Chapter Text
Zoey had a bounce to her step, bopping down the hall to the little alcove where they squirreled the cymbals away.
She didn't mind much that they were made to get away from it all–it all being the rest of the corps–because those goofballs couldn't handle a little noise. Or awesome visuals. Or also Zoey's super funny jokes, which was the real crime here.
What's a girl to do in these trying times but lift the spirits of her fellow musicians and performers with one or two really good jokes about pee and pianissimo?
It was a public service.
And yet.
Zoey skipped gamely down the hall anyways, chin held high. Her cymbal bag bumped her hip, slung over her shoulder as it was; sheet music rustled in the binder in her hand.
So maybe she wasn't… Exactly focused on where she was going. Her head was on a swivel, eyes peeled in case she had to skedaddle out of sight; she hadn't talked to–or even seen–Rumi since... Well, since they'd both made some pretty terrible decisions a few weeks past. Best that they keep that distance for as long as Zoey could manage, she thought. No telling what she'd do if she got Rumi alone again.
Hopefully not cry, though, which was the main concern–
And it was with this thought that she rounded the corner of the hallway, right into one hell of a brightly colored obstruction.
An honest mistake, really!
The totally-not-there-a-second-ago obstruction that knocked Zoey almost off of her feet stumbled to a halt as well–and okay, it–they–were definitely not there a second ago, because stationary objects don't stumble and also Zoey hadn't walked into a wall or door or locker on accident since that time the rest of the drumline busted out the blindfolds. By the time Zoey caught herself, wobbling with her cymbal bag pulling her off balance, the obstruction–the girl–had come to a stop as well.
And.
Jeez.
Wow–that was new, she was new; Zoey would have zeroed in on this girl from a mile away. She would've had to fight to keep her eyeballs in her head and her tongue in her mouth if she'd ever seen her before. Miles and miles of leg and a lithe, graceful frame beneath her sleeveless tee and tiny gym shorts–different from any of the section shorts already in rotation amongst the corps–and strong arms cradling a rifle and a saber. Pink hair in a high ponytail was held off of her face with a light purple bandana; Zoey quailed a little at the look pouring from beneath it.
She was… In the guard?
Well. Obviously this girl was in the colorguard; nobody was handing the tubas or the trumpets sabers, after all, but Zoey knew all the guard girls. Tall, pink, and scary wasn't one of them. Her eyes were pretty dark (and pretty pretty, not that Zoey was thinking about how pretty she was, but she wasn't not thinking about that, actually, and she was really pretty–)
"Are you okay?"
Whoops. She'd zoned out thinking about pretty girls again.
A not uncommon occurrence.
"Uh."
Okay, no–that wasn't a real answer.
"I mean," Zoey giggled, straightening up and looking anywhere but this pretty girl's pretty, dark eyes.
Unfortunately, that meant her attention dropped to the pretty girl's lips. "Um."
Which quirked. Just a little.
Oh hell.
"I don't think you hit your head, but we can go find the medic if…?"
Zoey snapped out of it–finally–at the mention of the corps' medic. The last time she'd had to go to him was for that gnarly cut she got over her hip when her old rehearsal cymbals had cracked last season, and she still hadn't recovered from the embarrassment of having to take her pants off in front of a guy who was practically her big brother.
"No! No, wait, hold on, no, I'm–I'm good! We're good! No head wounds, no cymbal wounds, no pants necessary!"
Ah hell, that wasn't what she meant to–
But the girl only laughed at that, and Zoey exhaled her relief when the girl's chuckles trailed off and her grin stayed firmly in place.
"No pants, huh?"
"Okay well hold on–" It was way too early in the rehearsal weekend for Zoey to be fumbling a pretty girl this hard–she hadn't even seen Rumi yet–so she held up her hands as she wagged her head from side to side. "Yes pants, I dunno what kinda operation you think we're running here, but we definitely wear pants–I'm wearing pants right now! So, pants!"
"So, pants."
"Yep!" She nodded once–peeked down at her own sweats, and the tight tanktop she wore that she didn't mind getting a little cymbal scuzz on–and wrapped her hand around the strap of her bag. "Pants."
The pants-wearing-guard-girl hummed with a nod of her own–and her eyes dipped down, too, a quick once-over that Zoey felt like sparks in her belly–before she shrugged her rifle and saber in her arms, freeing up a hand.
"Well, Pants. I'm Mira." And then, for just a second, Zoey saw a flicker of uncertainty, a tightening at the corner of her eyes. "Have we… Met? Before, I mean."
Zoey jumped, tugged her own hand free of her bag, giving it a quick wipedown on her shirt to get all the weird, clammy sweat off of it.
"Hi, Mira! Nope, not pants!" Okay, she had to tone it down. She was gonna scare the poor girl off. "I mean. I am not Pants. My name's Zoey. Not–You know. And uh–I don't think so?"
Zoey was pretty sure she'd remember a girl as hot as Mira, after all.
Even though Mira pressed her lips into a thin line at this answer, Zoey could see the corners of her lips turn up as she shook her hand. Which was also something Zoey was normal about–the little not-there-kinda-there smile, sure, it was totally chill, totally cool; but the feel of Mira's palm in hers, the rough callouses at the base of her fingers, the firm grip–
Ah, hell.
Zoey was blushing.
And staring, again.
And still shaking her hand–
"Oh-kay! Super! Love this, great–great handshake, yeah, real good and firm and hard–" Oh God. Please, please, she had to shut up now. "–and very much not like your lips, probably."
Nope. Wrong answer, Zoey. Dammit. "Not that I'd know! Not that I want to know! Not that–!"
Still. Shaking. Her. H–
Zoey yelped out a "Goodtalkgoteam!" and spun, high stepping away down the hall. Who cared that she was going the opposite direction she needed to be going to find her cymbal brethren; she could take the scenic route.
If she spent one more second looking at the pretty guard girl with her pretty, dark eyes and her nice hands and her soft lips, Zoey was gonna explode into squeaky little packing peanuts.
So instead, she lifted a hand in farewell that she really, really hoped looked cool and casual and not like she was God's most neurotic soldier.
"Bye, Mira! See ya around!"
And she definitely, definitely didn't look back.
In the middle of tugging down her hoodie's sleeves, Rumi glanced up from the sheet music and drill pages on the table before her.
She and the other drum majors pored over them in the cafeteria, where corps staff sat huddled around boxes of coffee, going over their own preparations for the evening's rehearsals. At the moment, Rumi thought (thought she admittedly hadn't been paying attention), they were discussing drum major field placement and priorities.
Or, well, the other drum majors discussed field placement and priorities; as the youngest and most junior drum major of the three, Rumi listened to Jinu and the senior drum major, Allie, and tried to learn.
But that voice–
"I think I–I need to go to the restroom," Rumi stammered. Both drum majors looked up at this, squinting from having stared at dots on a page for the last who-knew-how-long. Jinu, in particular, blinked like an owl and frowned.
"You better not be trying to skate out of work, Rumi," he grumbled–though Allie poked him in the side of the head with a laugh as she sat up too, stretching her shoulders.
"Go ahead, Rumi–don't let this guy try to police your bathroom breaks. We get that enough from the corps staff–"
From the table behind them, a staff member groused, "I heard that."
"I meant for you to!" She grinned over her shoulder at the horn caption head before turning back to Rumi. "Go ahead kid, begone. Bring me back something from the snack machine, while you're at it."
Rumi nodded, thankful to have the opportunity to slip away.
She might not be able to disappear as easily as she had when she was in the hornline, but being the most junior drum major of a corps had its perks. She made her way to the door quickly, smiling at staff and the odd corps member who came to speak to them.
Pausing at the doorway, Rumi looked right–down the locker-lined hallway stretching towards the dual set of glass doors that fronted the building–and then looked left, searching for Zoey.
Zoey, who she hadn't really talked to since everything happened just a few weeks ago–who she sought out in every crowd since last season, who she couldn't help but watch in rehearsal with a heavy, twisting regret in her chest.
Zoey, who–
Was not out here?
Another look up and down the hall, and Rumi widened the lens of her focus, blinking, to find a strange sight indeed.
It wasn't Zoey–though everyone who had at least one weapon-charm on their corps necklace knew Zoey was a font for strange sights–but it was something Rumi hadn't expected to see: an unfamiliar face.
Auditions and early rehearsals–conducted over the fall and winter months–were the time Rumi expected new names, faces, and performers. This late in the season (though Rumi scoffed at the thought; the season was literally just beginning), the rosters had been set, the early stages of field and dance choreography were being learned, and Rumi should not have been seeing any faces she didn't recognize.
"Um. Excuse me?"
The girl at the end of the hallway startled, turning an inquisitive gaze on Rumi; with her bandana holding her pink hair out of her face, Rumi could see her expression clearly as she tilted her head.
"Yes?"
Ah.
Well.
She had a nice voice. Which was fine–completely fine. Rumi had heard plenty of nice voices before. This was something she could be absolutely normal about.
"Is there something on my face? You're like, the second person to stare at me like I've got another head coming out of my shoulders."
Oh–Okay, so maybe Rumi needed to rehearse the normal part of being normal about this.
A later problem.
"Yes–" A raised eyebrow from the girl. "I–I mean, no, you–there's nothing wrong with your face–" God, why was she smirking like that? That little grin was making Rumi's stomach do somersaults. "I wasn't meaning to. To talk about that. Your face."
She sounded like Zoey fumbling a pretty girl; Rumi had to get it together.
"I mean," she said, after a four-count breath, inhaling and exhaling in slow, even half-notes. "I was just going to ask if you need help."
There.
Perfect. Absolutely normal, just like Rumi.
She was just about to internally high-five herself for her excellent behavior when the girl turned fully–and how had Rumi missed the rifle and saber in her arms? What the heck?–and paused.
And then she looked Rumi up and down in a slow, legato study.
OkaysomaybeRumicouldntactuallybenormalabout–
"It's that obvious, huh?"
"Is it?" Rumi was not panicked. She was–she was just aware. Aware of her heart racing in her chest, aware of the blush superheating her cheeks, aware of that smirk, the one the girl had yet to drop as she shrugged. Rumi was aware and that was all. "I mean, what–what is? Obvious? What's obvious?"
"That I need help?" The girl answered slowly, voice tilting up.
Ah. Yes.
That's what was obvious.
Obviously.
"Well–right. That's–that's what I'm here for." Rumi cleared her throat and the girl hummed. "I'm here to help."
They stood there in silence for a moment, Rumi staring and the girl shuffling the weapons in her arms. Even though Rumi didn't recognize her, it was clear she was a member of the guard–perhaps she'd missed earlier rehearsals due to Winter Guard? Or maybe someone in the guard had dropped out–
"So… Are you going to help me, or…?"
Rumi blinked.
"I–Yes! Yes. Um, let me–do you need me to carry–?"
The girl scoffed, tightening her grip on the weapons, but her grin was appreciative as she shook her head.
"If I ever need someone to carry my kit for me, that's the day I should quit guard," she answered easily, low and amused. "I just need directions, really. I don't know my way around here, and I'm looking for the rest of my people."
Rumi was nodding before the girl had even finished speaking.
"Right, yeah–the Vokie can be like that. It's confusing, even when you've been marching with us for a while; here," Rumi said, stepping closer, "let me just show you the way, okay? It's not much of a tour, but I can point out a few landmarks that'll help make it easier, if you'd like."
For the first time since meeting this girl–though maybe meeting was a bit of a stretch, since all Rumi had really done was stare at her awkwardly and not even get her name–the faintly amused quirk of the girl's lips fled. Both eyebrows raised, now, and Rumi thought she saw a flash of–of something–before her expression settled into polite neutrality.
"You don't have to do that," the girl replied smoothly, glancing around. "I'm sure you've got things you need to do to before rehearsals start. What section are you with, anyways? Your people are around, yeah?"
Rumi thought back to Jinu and Allie, bickering over which drum major would take backfield during the soprano solo in Act 1.
"Actually," she mumbled, scratching at the back of her neck, "I think it'll be fine. I was ordered to go get snacks for the drum majors, anyways."
Her tone was half a grumble, half a joke–but the girl huffed a laugh that was more than Rumi deserved regardless; her shoulders eased as Rumi watched, and she nodded her head in Rumi's direction.
"Drum majors: can't live with them, can't live without them, huh?"
Rumi blushed. She may have forgotten to mention–
"I guess you can show me the way, then. If you want." The girl shrugged, shuffling her weapons around in her arm. One hand came free in Rumi's periphery, the girl's expression placid as she waited for Rumi to reciprocate.
Rumi blinked down at the proffered hand, noting the calloused first knuckle between her forefinger and thumb–what she'd always thought of as a drummer's callous–and the turquoise blue nail polish on her nails. The muscles of her forearm stood out like this–not that Rumi was staring at those, either, but–
"Mira."
"Hm?" Rumi's hum was her usual tenor, not squeaky at all.
"My name?" The girl quirked one eyebrow, hand still outstretched. "I'm Mira."
"Oh! Right. Yeah." Rumi grasped it, taking note of the callouses pressed against her palm. They were pleasantly scratchy.
"Usually," Mira drawled after a moment, still gripping Rumi's hand, "people give their names in return. It's kind of like an exchange."
Rumi choked on–well, nothing, really, shoot–and winced as her eyes watered.
"No, I know how to–I mean, I was just–your hands are–" She coughed into her elbow, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. "Your hands are nice."
That little smirk grew; Rumi tried to let go of her hand, but Mira only glanced down before she brought her (very, very pretty) eyes back to Rumi's face.
"That's very kind of you to say…" A raised eyebrow as she trailed off. Rumi realized she still hadn't given her name.
"Oh, Rumi. I'm Rumi." She gave Mira's hand three firm pumps and when she tried to release this time, Mira allowed it. Thank God–it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to focus with the gentle swell of those callouses tickling her skin.
"So, Mira, let's find your people."
It was easy to take the lead; Rumi had been doing so ever since her rookie year and she settled into it now, humming as they marched through the halls of the high school. This late in the evening, the only other people they saw were corps members and staff; though this particular school hosted night classes for the local adults, it was a Friday.
Thus, the Hunters Drum and Bugle Corps had the entire building to themselves.
"So…"
Rumi glanced over at the girl–at Mira–as she pointed with her chin.
"This isn't your first rodeo, I take it?"
Glancing down–trying to, at least–Rumi caught sight of the edge of her charms, the three little swords she'd added to her corps necklace over the years. She stood a little straighter when she answered.
"Yeah, no–this is my fourth year with the Hunters. Been marching since I was sixteen."
A low whistle at that; Rumi couldn't tell if she was being teased, so she cleared her throat and shrugged.
"I mean… My mom marched here, so… Y'know. Almost like I didn't have a choice." She laughed, shoving her hands in her hoodie pocket as they rounded the corner of a t-shaped hallway. "Plus my corps fees were reduced. Who could turn that down?"
"Oh, for sure," Mira answered, breezy. "I get it–my parents donated a lot to my last corps, so my fees ended up just being waived entirely. I didn't have much of a choice in where I marched either."
Rumi glanced back at this, surprise raising her eyebrows. Mira wasn't wearing a corps necklace; Rumi had assumed this was her rookie year in general, not just with them.
"Oh?"
Another flicker in Mira's expression, there and gone again; a camera shutter, closing and opening too fast for Rumi's eye to follow. Her voice was even and casual when she shrugged.
"Yeah. I marched a few years with the Demons."
Years of keeping time with her feet and running across a field while playing complex melodies, and doing all the acrobatics a World Class Drum and Bugle Corps performance entailed–all of that was, apparently, no match for one pretty girl with a few shocking words.
Rumi tripped and sprawled, cartoon-like, flat on her face. She was pretty sure she kicked herself in the back of the head while she was at it.
"You–You marched where?!"
Mira, at least, was kind enough to help her instead of laughing immediately; she dropped to a knee before Rumi had even managed to relax out of her impromptu scorpion-pose yoga session, setting her rifle and saber aside to lift her gently by the arm. She tugged Rumi into a seated position, scanning her face before her grin broke and she chuckled at Rumi's expression.
"The Demons–and technically, Demons-B, when I was too young for the Div 1 corps." Mira let her hands fall away from Rumi–and Rumi shivered at the cool air that rushed in after the warmth of her palms–as she turned, grabbing her gear. "I've been marching in some capacity since I was… I don't know, twelve? Thirteen?"
Mira frowned in thought, and Rumi definitely didn't stare at the lip she pulled between her teeth. "So seven years, give or take."
Oh.
So she was twenty–just a year older than–
Wait. No.
Rumi wasn't thinking about Zoey right now.
She was thinking about Mira and their rival corps, the Demons Drum and Bugle Corps, whom Mira had left–who Mira had been forced to leave.
Who Mira had marched with before she'd ended up here, smirking down at Rumi.
So Mira wasn't a rook-out–not quite–but close. Marching her rookie year at the Hunters as a twenty year old when twenty-one was the upper age limit of a DCI performer was a bold move. Rumi tried to imagine going to another corps at her big age (as though she and Mira didn't have that in common) and shivered.
Rumi levered herself to standing as Mira did, brushing herself off. The restoration of her dignity was probably too much for her to ask for at this point in the game but she straightened the hem of her hoodie and tugged down her sleeves regardless.
"Well, that's–that's impressive. The Demons are a really–" She paused, sucking in a breath. "I mean, they were–I mean, um, I heard that you guys folded–er, they folded–so–"
Mira nodded, expression neutral. "They did. But I'm here now." Her eyes darted around the empty hallway, the night-dark windows lining the wall. "So if I could just get to the rest of the guard…?"
"Oh! Right! Yep. The guard. The guard, that you're marching with. The guard, with other colorguard members. For you. To march with. Yes." Was she nodding too much? Rumi was pretty sure she was nodding too much. She stopped. "This way."
No more balance mishaps occurred en route, thank goodness; Rumi pointed out the high school's trophy case (dusty and empty) at a left-turn junction, pointed out the locker rooms (clean and bright) in a recessed alcove further down in the same hallway, and hooked a right at a corner with a huge mural of what appeared to be a schnauzer in an argyle sweater. From there, the enormous gymnasium where the colorguard rehearsed came into view, doors thrown wide and dance music blasting from the speaker set in the center of the room.
Rumi planted her weight in the balls of her feet, stopping her momentum tidily just outside of the double doors.
"And here we are," she said with a nod, clasping her hands behind her back. "Your people."
Mira peered through the doors, studying the rest of the guard before returning her gaze to Rumi.
"Thanks," she nodded after a moment in which Rumi tried and failed not to blush under her scrutiny. "The welcoming committee around here is pretty…. Great." A huffed laugh, so quiet Rumi almost missed it. "Among other things."
Welcoming committee? Did she mean Rumi? That wasn't exactly Rumi's job, but given how she'd acted that wasn't too far from the mark–
Mira turned and took a single step before she paused, looking back at Rumi over her shoulder.
"By the way," she started, "what section are you with?"
"Mellos," Rumi answered automatically, mind still churning through the welcoming committee comment. Maybe she'd met someone else, too…?
Only after the word was out of her mouth did she realize what she'd said. She winced. "I mean–"
"Huh," Mira said, that secretive grin of hers curling the corners of her lips higher. "So the cutest section in the hornline. Makes sense."
Rumi's brain screeched to a halt.
The cutest–?
By the time Rumi finished bluescreening, Mira had already slipped through the gym doors, angling towards the rest of the weapons section, who were warming up with rifle tosses.
Rumi stuck around for only a few minutes more–just to watch and make sure Mira was in the right place–before she performed an about face and departed.
She needed to lock in; she had a corps to run.
Movement.
Breath, tuning to body–hard exhale through her mouth as she braced her core for the rifle toss, arms flexing, head tilted.
Projecting.
Always projecting.
Toss, two-three-four–
A pirouette, nearly; three quarters of a turn into the catch, knees bent, weight low. Head down–the hit, the guard instructors had insisted, should hurt. Project that pain. Hide your face from the box.
Even pain was a performance.
Especially pain.
Catch, two-three–
Mira inhaled with the motion of rising, letting the air inflating her lungs draw her up–diaphragm, chest, throat, head, until she was again facing an imaginary field box full of judges, hundreds of feet up and centered on a fifty yardline that she couldn't see. Projecting to the box, a warm, passionate smile.
Wooden, on her lips.
It never looked realistic this close up. A polite fiction that all performers maintained between themselves and the field judges.
That was fine.
Spin–two–extend–the rifle in her hand flashed out and away from her in a wide arc, tethered to her fingers by the strength of her grip–three–four.
Halt. The slap of wood against her forearm and hand as she caught the rifle against her chest; the twelve-count phrase they were rehearsing came to an end.
Mira breathed out slowly, grounding herself in the sensation: the warmth of her body, just shy of motion; the beating of her pulse quick but steady; weight balanced in the balls of her feet, knees slightly bent, neck only a little sore with how she still projected up, projected to an audience who rarely noticed her enough to care. The smile on her face–aching.
"Relax, weapons."
Cascading relief.
Mira let the smile drop, drawing herself upright like a puppet on a string; shoulders falling back, head tipping forward, chest up with her breath. She shook out the lingering sting in her palms and forearms as the instructor critiqued her peers. For her, apparently, there wasn't much in the way of improvement.
Not to say Mira was perfect, of course; they'd hammered it into her time and again at her last corps that perfection was something so far out of Mira's reach she may as well discard that dream altogether. The best she could hope for, according to her last colorguard caption head, was mediocrity.
Still, Mira she tried.
This guard seemed less… Stringent than Demons, at least. Maybe here her mediocrity wouldn't hurt the people around her.
The movements themselves helped with that, too. They weren't easy, not by any means–a well executed rifle toss was a well executed rifle toss, no matter where one marched–but Mira didn't fail to notice how varied the slap of the rifle catch in the second measure was, landing before and after the downbeat of the first note.
Mira's had been fairly precise–perhaps a sixteenth or an eighth ahead–but then, Demons had always pushed the guard to rush a little. Better to beat the drumline, they'd said, so the visual hits the audience at the same time as the percussion.
It made sense at the time–but then, a lot of what happened in that corps had made sense.
It made sense that the guard practiced eighteen hours a day. It made sense that they were given less to eat than the musicians. It made sense that the instructors were so hands on–
"–really well, Mira, thank you for staying on top of the beat." The instructor speaking to her–a white man with startling blue eyes who she was pretty sure was named Andy or Andrew–gave the boy next to her a pointed look. "Some people would benefit from listening a little closer to the Doctor Beat when the drum majors aren't around, Tyler."
"Thanks," she responded immediately; internally, she winced at her flat affect. Externally, her cheek itched with the sting of a palm remembered. "They were pretty strict about timing in my last guard."
Andy-or-Andrew hummed, watching her thoughtfully, then nodded.
Clapping his hands, he spun away. Mira took a deep breath, calming the spike in heart rate that the abrupt sound had caused.
"Alright, weapons! Thirty seconds. Chug water, reset, and gird your loins. We don't have long before the rest of the clowns join this circus; full ensemble in fifteen!"
Mira huffed, grabbing her rifle as she took her original position; across the gym, at the double doors where the pretty mellophone girl had dropped her off, she saw the flash of light on brass instruments.
Her heart was already beating with the quickness of movement; seeing the hornline shuffling in made no tangible difference to that.
They managed two more reps before the horns ringed the gymnasium, the shuffle of sheet music in binders and air through valves a whispering susurrus that bracketed the weapons section. Mira couldn't see them, projecting to the box as she was, but their presence pressed against her anyways, warm and comforting.
When the hornline or the drumline was around, she'd learned, she was safe.
Toss, two-three-four.
With more eyes on them, instructors knew better than to punish her too harshly.
Catch, two-three-four.
The drumline, especially; something about drummers lent them an air of protectiveness that Mira had always found comforting.
Spin, two-three-four.
The drum majors, though–
Halt–
Mira stumbled. Righted herself. Projected.
Damn it.
She couldn't quite stop the first shiver that wracked her as she held position, but she did manage to suppress any that followed; she took that as a win.
She projected, and projected, and–
The click of drum sticks filtered in, and the breath that was seized in her lungs slipped free in a sigh as her body relaxed into the pose.
She was safe.
She was safe.
"Alright, guns, relax. Good work!" Andy-or-Andrew spun and made a dramatic pose towards the brass members behind him, bowing with a flourish. "And horns, you're welcome for the show."
It was the tubas who stood near them, well away from the wall, horns balanced carefully on towels beneath the bells of their instruments. The musicians grinned and gave polite golf claps as Andy-or-Andrew stood.
The critique he provided this time was quiet, which Mira found a little odd; Demons instructors never cared who was listening when they excoriated the guard, though the more physical corrections tapered when they knew they were being watched. Mira balanced her rifle on its end and folded her hands over the butt of the weapon as she glanced around the room, keeping an eye on Andy-or-Andrew.
The tubas were nearby in the center of the gym, flanked by euphoniums and baritones, who were in turn flanked on either side by trumpets and mellophones–
But of the pretty mello girl, Mira saw no sign.
Behind the tubas, the snareline had dropped their drums, staging them with harnesses on the ground and instruments folded on top; they sat in a tight circle against the wall, matching shorts riding up pale legs as they drummed on rubber drumming pads. Even though the sound was deeply, deeply annoying, Mira listened anyways. It was a comfort, in its own way.
To their right, the quad drummers–or perhaps the general tenors would be more accurate, since they had the two little drums in the center of their four-tom-drum setup–had also dropped their carriers and were stretching in various imaginings of downward dog.
To the left of the snares the bass drummers sat in a circle as well, drumming against the hardwood gym floor with their mallets, a curious, rolling set of beats they each contributed one note to; the sound was one of the most varied in the realm of percussion, and the precision required was something Mira secretly admired. Bass drummers were, in her opinion, the best drummers in the drumline.
And then she saw them:
The cymbals.
They were to a one goofy-looking; in matching short shorts and sleeveless t-shirts, with black leather gloves on the hands that they held in front of themselves as they rehearsed quietly (and when had God ever made a quiet cymbal player, Mira couldn't begin to guess) with their titular instruments staged in a line in front of the bass drums. They were short and tall, pale and dark; aside from the matching shorts, the only feature they all shared was a set of impressively muscled shoulders.
Despite that, Mira found one particular cymbal player with ease.
Not-Pants-I'm-Zoey stood slightly apart from her fellow cymbals, facing the huddled group of four. Her gloves were fingerless, the tips of those fingers flashing with each soft clap of her movement. Her biceps–which were criminally defined, frankly–flexed with each note, with each flourish of her hands as she moved through what Mira assumed were cymbal positions.
Her brow was furrowed in concentration, mouth moving with vocal cues as they worked through whatever piece they practiced.
She was gorgeous, objectively speaking. Even when she was stumbling and stuttering–especially then–Mira was hard pressed not to stare; with her focus on her music and the muscles of her arms flexing in the here and now, Mira was essentially helpless not to–
"–ra? Helloooo?"
She snapped to attention like she'd been poked with a cattle prod, muscle memory jerking her rifle up into her hands at port arms.
"Yes, sir!"
Andy-or-Andrew startled and took a step back before he barked a confused laugh.
"Um? Okay, down girl, this ain't the Marines. You okay?"
There was adrenaline crackling like electricity through Mira's veins and her grip on her rifle had gone clammy with sweat, but she couldn't let that show. Never let that show.
So instead, she projected.
Like always.
"Yes," she answered, aiming the full power of her 500-watt-for-the-box smile at him. "I was thinking through the movements again, sorry."
Andy-or-Andrew narrowed his eyes, though the suspicion in his gaze felt–soft, somehow. Not dangerous, not something Mira needed to allay in order to survive. He cocked his head, crossing his arms over his chest before bringing a hand up to tap his chin.
"Riiiight. Well–I just wanted to go over that last rep with you."
A leaden pit opened in Mira's stomach. She swallowed.
"I know I messed up the halt," she said quickly, "my foot placement was off. I'll fix it before the next rep–or, if you want, I can stay a little later and keep repping it. I think the schedule board said snack is at eleven so I can just skip it and get an extra half hour of reps in before lights–"
"Ma'am," Andy-or-Andrew interrupted, aghast. "You think I'm gonna make you rep that again? You did good, girl, please chill."
Mira's breath caught. Good? He thought that was good?
"I was actually gonna say that you're crushing it," he went on, slower now that Mira had fallen silent, "and that when we break for sectionals tomorrow, I was kind of hoping to use you as an example for the others?"
The statement ended on an upward tilt, like Mira actually had a choice in the matter. She blinked.
"Sure. That's–I'm fine with that."
"Okay, perf," Andy-or-Andrew sighed. "One other thing–aht, relax those shoulders, this is not bad. You're not in trouble."
Mira was a little miffed that he was reading her so easily–she was usually the one who was good at reading people, damn it–but he only grinned back at her when she scowled. She realized she was scowling about a half second later and fixed her face.
"We're switching up the show a little," he began, watching her carefully, "and it's gonna include a solo performance from a member of the guard throughout; we hadn't decided who it was gonna be, yet, but… I'd like to put your name in the hat, if you're okay with that." At Mira's expression, he raised his hands palm up. "I know you're new here, but you've got what it takes. That's all I'm saying; give it a chance."
The horns and the drums were grabbing their instruments, taking their positions in their respective lines. Mira still didn't see the pretty girl who had helped her earlier.
"… Sure," she sighed, letting her shoulders fall. "If you think I can–"
"Oh, I know you can. Leave it to me, girlie, I got you."
And then he was gone, climbing the bleachers across the gym with the rest of the corps staff, watching as the drum majors filtered in–a tall, brown haired woman, trailed by a triangle-shaped boy with a messy fall of black hair, and–
Mira's body froze, shock locking her into place.
The pretty mello girl.
Rumi.
"Up–two, three, four, shoot–two, three, four-and-one-and-two-and–"
Sweat beaded Zoey's brow, but she didn't think about that as she repeated her vocals under her breath; couldn't think about that, not with the burn in her arms and the crack of the snares and the thumping bass drums behind her vibrating the empty space in her chest. The cymbal notes she played–sizzling hi-hat dampened in a horizontal choke against her bellybutton, sliding into an opened, inverted V–slipped in between the ascending bass run, faint as fingers tracing across skin.
Which Zoey was also not thinking about, for the record.
Not with that super pretty, super skilled guard girl moving in front of her, glimpsed between the tubas sweating beneath their horns.
Zoey definitely wasn't thinking about Mira's fingers trailing on anything at all; not on her rifle, which she moved like an extension of her own arm; not on the floor, which she danced and stepped and rolled across in a tight box of movement; and definitely, certainly, a hundo percent not on Zoey's own skin.
Zoey was a professional, dammit.
The rep came to a close with a triplet run along the five cymbals of the line, one-and-uh-two-and, right into the big sixtuple run for the tenors and snares. The hornline had the whole measure to suck wind, so it was just drums catching strays from the caption heads for this part as the last of the reverberations faded in the gym around them.
"Bass drums," their instructor groaned loudly from the back row of bleachers when the booming echoes died off. "What the hell. What the hell."
As one, the bassline raised a mallet when he spoke to them–and as one, they gave sheepish shrugs.
"Sorry, Dan."
Beside Dan, the cymbal instructor stood with her hands on her hips, scowling.
"Cymbals!"
Zoey raised one cymbal over her head with a flourish; the rest of her crew followed.
"I love you cymbals," Tessa began, "but if you drag on the triplets again, I'm going to throw you all out of an airplane and make you flap your arms to fly."
Zoey snorted–as did a good chunk of the corps–and flashed her cymbal in response.
"Yes, ma'am!"
The snares and tenors got their critique next–less interesting than cymbals–and then the staff announced a ten minute break. They'd been at full ensemble for nearly an hour and a half, and it was coming up on Zoey's favorite time of the day once they did the last full run of the show for the evening.
Snack time.
Setting down her cymbals, she shook out her hands; the rest of her gremlins sprawled out on the floor, letting their arms flop bonelessly while Zoey looked around. She'd seen Rumi at the front of the gym, facing away from the corps and towards Jinu to mirror his conducting; she considered going over there to talk, too, but–
Well.
Maybe she wasn't as over last season–or hell, last month–as she'd thought.
Instead, Zoey slipped between big, beefy tuba dudes to sidle up next to the pretty-eyed guard girl.
She was not gonna fumble this a second time.
She was ready.
Pickup line locked and loaded, she stepped into Mira's field of view with a grin and her hands behind her back.
"Hey, did it hurt when you fell from heaven? 'Cause you're an angel–"
Was what she meant to say.
Unfortunately, she did not get that far.
It wasn't her fault, though! Mira was just too pretty, like, unfairly pretty–she'd turned her face when she noticed Zoey, and she raised an eyebrow and her lips had curled a little, just at the edges, and Zoey's really awesome pickup line went up in a puff of cartoon smoke.
"Heyyyyy, wassup," Zoey giggled instead, and immediately scrambled to recover, "um, I mean–Hi?"
And she smiled a big goofy smile that probably made her look deranged, hoping for the best. It worked for Rumi–it could probably work for Zoey, too, right?
On second thought, maybe not–
But Zoey's luck was with her; Mira did that thing again, that lips-pressed-together-but-eyes-sparkling thing, and Zoey blushed a little before she straightened. She still had a chance, baybee!
"I mean–I mean, hey girl, um, do you–did you, uh–"
"Not-Pants," Mira murmured, her grin breaking free. "You don't have to do this."
God, but her voice was as pretty as her eyes, all dark and smoky; Zoey huffed a breathless laugh as she tried to regain her equilibrium.
"I don't have to do wh–wait, I have pants on?"
Mira's eyes flicked down and back. She raised a brow.
"Okay–not pants-pants, but I had them on earlier–and, and section shorts are good for unit cohesion, it's–it's a thing, trust me, and it's too hot for pants right now anyways–" She winced as the words played back in her head. God, she was absolutely fumbling this. "Um. But. That's–who cares about pants?"
She followed this up with a laugh–good redirection, she thought, nailed that one–and Mira glanced away with that smile still on her face. Zoey realized abruptly that her heart was pounding.
Because of rehearsal, probably. No biggie.
"So, um–how's your day going?"
Mira hummed before turning back; she cocked her hip and leaned on the rifle she planted muzzle-down on the gym's hardwood floor.
"Oh, it's going," she answered, studying Zoey's face. Zoey made sure she was doing something normal with it–although that kind of backfired because now she was just super aware of her face, like, was she blinking too much? Flaring her nostrils? Wait, what was she doing with her mouth– "And you? Have you been practicing your flying?"
Zoey blinked and laughed, hand coming up to scratch at the back of her neck.
"Well, look–I only gotta fly if we miss the run again. I think I'm safe."
Mira's smirk was amused; it was also making Zoey's core temperature rise by about a million degrees, so there was that. "You're confident in your section."
"Well, yeah," Zoey squeaked, "they're my guys. Trained'em myself, pretty much; I'm the section leader."
Mira's eyebrows rose at that; her gaze dropped for a moment to Zoey's corps necklace, and the five little charms hanging from it.
"Ah. So you've been here a while."
It wasn't pride that swelled Zoey's chest per se–but she did nod extra hard, and it was just a little harder to suppress her grin as she answered.
"Yup! Been marching cymbals since I was old enough to join. I've been section leader for a few years now."
Mira frown, tilting her head.
"You're not the drum captain? I mean, I'm not sure how it works since you're cymbals, but I thought seniority–"
"Oh–" Zoey cleared her throat roughly, hands up like she was being robbed. "Ah, no, I um–that's not really my bag. Never wanted the job, to be honest."
"You–you didn't want to be captain?" Mira blinked, frowning. "I mean–you've been here for what, five years? Six? You could be a drum major if you wanted–"
"Oh–kay, yep, definitely don't though," Zoey cut in, a little breathless; just thinking of that, being made to tell the corps what to do and discipline the sections when they weren't acting right and all of that–it made her itchy, it made her wanna run and hide somewhere. She got enough of that at home–why the hell would she want it here, too?
Blegh. Definitely not for her.
"Hm." This, thoughtful; Mira stared down at her and Zoey saw something like respect in her gaze, though she couldn't fathom what that might be about. Most everyone else Zoey talked to–including and especially Rumi–had had something to say about her decision.
But Mira only shrugged, glancing towards the front of the gym.
Glancing towards Rumi.
"Is it because of the other drum majors?"
Something strange in her voice there–Zoey couldn't quite put a finger on it, but she paused before answering. Around them, the other members of the ensemble were returning to their positions, stretching and preparing for the last run of the night.
"No," Zoey said finally. "It isn't that. They're all great–even Jinu."
Mira quirked an eyebrow and Zoey clarified, "The boy-band reject on the short podium. Allie is the senior drum major over on the tall podium, and in front of Jinu is–" She paused, clearing her throat; it felt a little dry all of a sudden. "In front of Jinu is Rumi. She's the newest drum major; it's her first year doing it."
"Oh."
"They're great," Zoey reiterated, "it's just–not for me. I'm here for a good time, y'know?"
Whatever weirdness was going on in Mira's voice did not translate to the look she shot Zoey–she grinned as Zoey sputtered.
"Here for a good time, huh?"
Zoey sputtered. "I mean–c'mon, you know what I meant–quit messing with me!"
"Oh, is that what you want?" Mira turned to face her fully, propping her elbows on her rifle, leaning into Zoey's personal bubble. Zoey's brain became cacophony of cymbal crashes and not much else. "You want me to leave you alone, Zoey?"
And oh, her name in Mira's mouth was–
Wow.
"Um." Nope, not a real answer. Round two:
"I mean. No?"
Progress.
"Yeah. No. I mean, keep–er, don't leave me alone," Zoey breathed, "just. Um. Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Mira straightened, sinuous; Zoey sucked air like a winded horn player.
"Okay, well–the um, the ensemble's getting back, I guess, so I'm just gonna–y'know–get to it, or whatever–"
"Alright," Mira nodded, kicking her rifle into a spin before it slapped into her waiting palm. Swoon. "I'll see you around, Zoey-Not-Pants."
Zoey ducked between the beefy horn players behind her and let her shoulders relax.
Yeah.
She'd totally nailed it.
Rumi followed the motion of Jinu's hands with her own.
One, two, three, four–legato in this section, the movements wide and flowy even as Jinu leaned slightly, hunching when he tightened his range. The decrescendo reflected in the hornline behind her, the sopranos cutting out entirely as the baris, euphs, and mellos carried the melody.
One, two, three-and-four–a twitch in Jinu's wrist to emphasize the spike–a high note that called out over the middling-to-low end of the ensemble like a light in the darkness.
One, two–the movements growing larger now, slight accel as the drums picked up–snares switching from brushes to sticks, bass running low to high, cymbals–
Rumi faltered.
One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and–
The crescendo, hornline working in layered harmony that very nearly tripped over itself, just a hair ahead of the beat as the sopranos threaded throughout, sixteenth notes building to the big hit.
One, two, three, four of silence from the hornline, an indrawn breath over the racing, pounding heartbeat of the percussion. Rumi tried to widen her stance, tried to move her arms more like Jinu who swayed on the podium, eyes glued to some distant horizon overhead. She could tell she was dragging.
She was just... Not quite good enough.
The measure of silence passed in a ripple of bass drums, the crash of cymbals; as the brassy hit of the hornline held over a final four-count chord, Rumi let the music enfold her in a buzzing, breathtaking embrace.
And then it was over.
Her ears rang with the last note of the night, and then Jinu was talking to her–coaching, probably, though Rumi's mind wandered elsewhere until he flicked her ear. She slapped his hand away, and he poked at her and then they were poking and shoving at each other until Rumi glanced to the bleachers and caught sight of Celine's frown.
Right.
She was supposed to be leading by example; supposed to be following in her mother's footsteps, no matter how impossible that felt. She should be poised and dignified and charming and approachable, even when she felt like this, like–
The sound of her name over the low murmur of conversation around her caught her attention.
The visual caption head waved over at her; she spotted him, waving back, and when she glanced down–
There was Zoey.
There was Mira.
The two of them stood around the viz, Mira looking studiously neutral but Zoey tossing her a sheepish wave; Rumi felt a flash of cold-heat-cold, a trepidation she couldn't quite shake before the blush colored her features.
But she didn't have time for that. She was a drum major now; no room for nerves.
So she marched across the gym, skirting other corps members, smiling and waving to people she hadn't caught up with yet before planting herself in front of the visual caption head with confidence she wasn't sure she actually felt.
She didn't even glance at Zoey or Mira; she was all business.
No time to get flustered over pretty girls.
Especially when one of those pretty girls was her ex, and the other she had fallen face-first in front of not four hours earlier.
"So I was just telling Mira and Zoey," Alex–the visual caption head–began, motioning at the two. "We've updated the show design a bit–we wanna try out a new storyline now that we've got a feel for how many marching members we've got on the field. Rumi, I know this is your first year as drum major, but do you think you'd be up for performing a little choreo?"
Rumi frowned, shooting a quick glance around the circle.
"Like–dance?"
The viz shrugged. "Sort of–interpretive dance. Think of it as storytelling." As Rumi went to open her mouth, the viz added, "A love story, if that makes a difference. Between you, the drumline–so, Zoey, here–and the guard, who is actually our newest member–"
"Mira," Rumi supplied with a nod. "We've met."
Strangely, Mira flinched–that expression that Rumi had seen earlier flitted across her face–but she recovered before anyone else seemed to notice. She glanced to Rumi only once, a frown pulling her brows to center, before she looked away.
"Yeah," she muttered, "we've met."
What the hell?
"Good!" If the viz noticed the chill in her voice, he certainly didn't mention it. "So, Mira and Zoey've agreed, but obviously, we need one more–it's fine if you aren't interested, of course, but my next option is to find someone in the hornline–which, ah, is not known for their… Dancing or beat-finding abilities."
Rumi blinked.
"You know I was in the hornline, right? Until last year?"
The visual caption head laughed, waving a hand.
"Yeah, sure–but you're Miyeong's daughter," he chuckled, heedless of how Rumi froze. "I know you can dance–it's never been a question with your skills."
Of course.
Yet another way she had to follow in her mother's footsteps. She didn't know why it had taken her by surprise.
"Well–yes, then," she heard herself say. "I suppose I'm fine with it."
The visual clapped his hands, delighted. Zoey and Mira nodded as well, though they both glanced at her–Zoey with a wince and Mira with a curious frown–before focusing up as the viz began explaining the concept of the new show design.
Rumi listened dully, studying her feet.
After all, what choice did she have?