Big Book of Hatsome One Shots

Of Triplets and Polyrhythms (S)

TW: public displays of affection, awkwardness, embarrassment, making out, and heavy petting/grinding. High School!AU, American Football, Pining, Jealousy, Angst, Polyamory Negotiations

Alex Smith and Chris Trott are dating. And to Ross Hornby, it is the weirdest fucking thing on the planet. The two spent all of Junior year yelling insults at each other, but all it took was one summer. They came to band camp hand in hand one day, and ever since they'd been seen being very PDA-friendly. To the point where the band directors had to yell at them when they made out during breaks.

Smith and Trott never got along before in band or in school. The unspoken rivalry between the saxophones and trumpets only extended their annoyance at each other. But now, the two former-rivals are laughing; they're talking a few feet from their spots on the football field where the trumpets and the woodwinds meet. The band is charting the third song in their halftime show after school today. Instead of just cursing and throwing shade, Smith and Trott joke loudly with cheerful grins on their faces and their hands loosely intertwined.

"You're staring again, Ross."

"No, I'm not." Ross contests. He taps his thumbs on the rim of the snare drum holstered on his shoulders, chewing his lip.

"Yes you are, because if you weren't, you wouldn't even know what I said. You would be staring off into space, distracted, instead of trying to prove your innocence."

Fucking Will Strife. The young man is too smart and observant for his own good. Or maybe Ross is just too obvious. Strife is a straight-A student, president of the engineering club, and probable candidate for valedictorian. He already has his college planned with a full ride scholarship in his pocket. He's sharp as knife, quick-witted, and notices everything.

Ross turns to his blonde second-in-command and scowls. "Eat shit, Will."

Will glances up from the dirt-smudged packet of charts in his hands and smirks. "Hey, no need to be mad at me, man." He adjusts his sunglasses on his head and folds the charts in half again. "I was just saying, I don't get why you're staring. It's like you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous." Ross huffs. He folds his snare drum up to his chest and crosses his arms over the top. His drum sticks clack together in his hands and he sighs. "It's just weird, is all."

"Alright..." Will says skeptically. He turns from Ross to yell at the quads, who are air humping and thrusting their heavy, expensive drums dangerously close to each other.

Up at the front of the stadium, the band directors stand. The drum majors are retaking their places atop the ladders at the thirty and fifty yard lines. The band obediently shuffles into position and winces when the megaphone turns on with an ear-grating screech.

"Everyone back in position, please," Mr. Xephos commands, voice shrill as it projects across the field. "We're going to run through that section two or three times more, and then run the whole third song from beginning to end."

"Remember!" Mr. Honeydew shouts, voice loud enough without a megaphone. "Flutes, keep those chins up. Everyone should keep your bodies straight, your feet pointed in the direction you are moving, and your instrument pointed towards the audience."

The megaphone crackles as Mr. Xephos adds in, "Except drums."

When marching left or right, the drumline doesn't turn their feet. If you tilt your hips, your drum moves with you, and it looks bad if your drum isn't flat. The drumline crab-walks instead, which is basically doing the grapevine across the field on your toes.

"You got it, Mr. Xeph!" One of the bass drum players yells to the sidelines, giving a thumbs up.

Ross rolls his eyes. Fucking crab-walking. What a pain. His ankles don't operate like that.