Crush Imagines

The Music We Make

(In this imagine, you are in band, and you are on your way to go to Festival with your high school band, and y/c/n is also in your section)

4:30 AM is a terrible time to wake up to, regardless of who you are. What's even worse is driving the twenty miles to your high school just to get on a bus to go three more additional hours. It was all worth it though, whenever you played (your instrument), a rush of adrenaline would run through you and  remind you why you did it, every single time. You grumble out of your bed and walk to your family's refrigerator to get (your favorite drink), and pop it open happily. 

After you get dressed in your sweatpants and sweatshirt, you slide on your slides. Nobody actually wears their band uniform when they're riding the bus, they always put them on at the venue once you get there. Stumbling around a bit and wiping the sleepiness from your eyes, you grab your car keys and your overnight bag. Yes, when the band got their budget for the year, it was decided that they could stay overnight for Festival, which was hundreds of miles away from your town. You take a couple of small sips from your drink, and start your car, then push play on your driving playlist. It was going to be a long day. 

About twenty minutes later, you pull up to the back of your high school where the band room was. Turning your ignition off and grabbing your suitcase from the backseat, you realize that you are actually very excited to be there. You may complain a lot about the band program, but there's a happiness that spreads through you and a smile that you can't seem to contain. Grabbing your instrument, you walk up the stairs to the metal door and bang on it to notify whoever was inside that you needed to get in. Your director opens the door, and you put down your instrument and suitcase. 

"The bus should be here in a few minutes, (Y/N)." They say, and they go back to tracking down where they put their music. As you sit there by the door and let more people into the band room, you wonder where (Y/C/N) is. Granted, you weren't a stalker by any means, you were just making sure that he hadn't skipped out on the band or forget what day it was. Another knock on the door throws you out of your thoughts, then you push on the bar to let whoever it was in. It was (Y/C)'s best friend. 

"Mornin'," he says, not carrying anything in his arms, which throws you off for a moment. 

"Howdy," You reply back, only slightly confused. 

Three knocks in quick succession tell you that someone else is at the door, so you can't sit and ponder as to what (Y/C)'s friend was doing with his life. You open the door, and there stands (Y/C), holding his friend's instrument, along with his own, with two folders alongside a duffel bag and drawstring bag. To say that he was struggling would be an understatement, to the maximum. "Would you like some help with that, (Y/C)?" You ask, a slight smile tugging at your lips. 

"Uh, that would actually be great. That stupid goose left me with carrying all of his stuff, mainly because he locked me in my car." He said this with a toothy grin, so you knew that it was all in good fun. God, that grin made your heart ache and your insides turn into mush. Weird how that works, isn't it? 

You grab the two instrument cases that dangled from his hands, which were dangerously close to falling, that could end badly. The sun is rising slowly from in front of the mountains, and it casts a lovely glow over the area, and you look at him. The light makes his eyes look like pools of life, and you notice details to them that you typically wouldn't. As much as you could look into his eyes forever, it was still socially unacceptable to just maintain eye contact for as long as you just had. 

He lets out a small giggle, and says, "I win!" Oh, he thought you were having a staring contest. 

You reciprocate, a small giggle leaving your lungs, and everything just feels right, and you're not sure as to why. 

"We should bring these inside," You say suddenly, and you feel extremely awkward after the moment that you just had. He holds open the door for you while you haul in the two instruments, feeling the low ache in your arms. 

Faced with the lifeless eyes of your peers, you set down the instruments and pretend to check your phone for messages. There were none, so you stood there for about fifteen more minutes, while the remainder of the band kids showed up, groggy, sleepy, and ready to fight the sun for a Red-bull. The low rumble of a bus behind the door reminds everyone that, sadly, they have to leave for two days for another band excursion. 

You sigh, and put your phone in the back pocket of your sweat pants. You grab your music, your instrument, and your bags. You held the door open for everyone else, and you were the last to leave the band room. That also happened to mean that you'd be the last to get on the bus, which could be either a really good thing or a really bad thing. 

Walking the metal steps of the bus, you realize that everyone has already buddied up, except for one person. You're breathing stops for a second, then you exhale to calm yourself. No more embarrassing yourself, you set your stuff up on the overhead racks. You sit down next to him, and shyly say, "Hey (Y/C/N/N)."