Author's Notes: To anyone who doesn't know marching terms I will explain them in the author's notes at the bottom. I will also enclose a picture of a quad/quint in case no one has ever seen those either. The picture you see here is actually what the charts I use look like.
Dyem broke from the line as the hot and sweaty mass of bodies filtered out onto the field, drifting listlessly into position designated by charts. He scrambled out the packet of wrinkled, worn papers scanning the grid for his rightful place amongst the mass of dots. The yard lines were broken streaks of white across the muddy grass, finding one's spot would be blind faith of relying on those who would actually see theirs. Dyem, never one known for his prowess in deciphering charts, ambled aimlessly from endzone to endzone in pathetic attempt to find where he belonged. A slender hand clapped down on his shoulder, rounding the blonde to face the deep emerald gaze of his section leader: a cocky quint playing redhead by the name of Ale. Dyem's face burned a soft shade of red, gingerly holding up his chart.
"I'm lost..." Dyem whispered, almost ashamed to admit by his sophomore year he still failed at reading and setting the charts when so many had mastered this skill by the end of their freshman season. Ale offered him a smile and took his packet, disarming the blonde's fear with a look of understanding.
"What number are you?"
"Nine."
Ale nodded, guiding him over to the fifty yard line and pointing to his corresponding dot. "I'm eight, so you're right by me. Stick close to me and the squad, you'll be okay. I'm eight off the sideline and it looks like you're two in front of me." Dyem blindly obeyed Ale's command, watching the redhead's hips sway as he ctounted off the appropriate distance. He scuttled into place, toying with the long ponytail spilling off the mullhawk nervously.
It was no secret to many that Ale was the major reason for Dyem's audtioning, and in turn joining, the drumline. The sole male flutist turned snare drummer was ruthlessly enamored by Ale. The two had been inseperable for years, sticking with each other through the drama and bullshit one inevitably encounters throughout a grade school career. To Dyem, this was yet one more method to keep him close to Ale's side. One more thing to share. One more chance to uncover how Ale truly felt about him.
Rehearsal dragged on for the next three hours, a merciless eternity to the eighty-something baking under the blazing sun. It was easily the hottest weekend of an already brutal summer and Dyem had to resist the urge to dive headfirst into the lake bordering the practice field. The soft slapping of sprakling waves against rocks and shore grew more and more inticing with each bead of sweat that rolled off his face. When they paused for a water break Dyem gave a great sigh of relief as he heaved the burdening harness off his shoulders, his instrument thumping onto the ground.
Getting himself a cup of water he retreated with sluggish haste to the nearby shade of a tree, his throat running dry at the sight of Ale occupying the very same spot. He settled down in the grass beside his section leader and sipped the water, none-too-tactfully drooling over the tanned, sweaty muscle mapping his chest. It took strength to support the weight of quints and excellent hand-eye coordination to play them, inciting numerous dirty rumors about the Ale's fabled prowess in a bedroom.
"Hey." Ale looked up, his tired eyes alight with newfound life.
"Hey Dyem!" he downed the remainder of his water, "You wanna hang out during free time?" Dyem's heart fluttered at Ale's proposal, praying he wasn't blushing.
"Sure." he answered almost too eagerly. "What do you have in mind?" Ale toyed with the styrofoam cup, his voice when he spoke laced with an innuendo.
"I was thinking about checking out the nbature observatory." Dyem swallowed hard, gathering his composure before returning to position. There was something within the redhead's voice that belied ulterior motivation. Something more than simply observing the native flora. Something absolutely irresistable.
"Sounds good to me."
The pair disappeared back into the wood along a carved dirt path overgrown with gnarled roots, the tightly knit canopy above shielding them sun. Dyem tailed Ale up to the buliding, vacant in the current state of remodeling but Ale's curiosity was not sated. Tugging Dyem alongside the building they plunged through a far less traveled path, batting away tree branches as they trudged along.
"Where are we going?" Dyem asked, staying close to Ale lest he be swallowed by the undergrowth.
"There's an observation platform up ahead with a killer view, or so I heard." he knocked aside another branch from Dyem's way, "It should be just through these trees."
"Wow!" Dyem ran to the edge of the platform as they reached their destination. Far below the sunlight danced off the rippling lake and wind rustled the acres of untamed forest. Heads bobbed up and down in the water and somewhere there was a shriek as a canoe tipped. Ale softly smiled, coiling his arms around Dyem's waist, pressing his face into the other's back.
"It's beautiful." he whispered.
Dyem nodded his agreement, a light burn working into his face as Ale's warm arms wrapped tighter around him. "It is... Ale...?"
"Yeah?" Ale turned Dyem to face him. "What's up?" A soft noise left Dyem as soft, full lips pushed up into his, the blonde's arms snaking around the shoulders of the man he had sought after for years. He was finally here in his embrace after all this time. It felt wonderful.
"You accept?" the redhead threaded his fingers throught the silky blonde tresses. Dyem smiled and held him tighter, inhaling the rich, husky scent of his best friend, mentor, and now lover.
"Yeah... I do."
The thunderous booms of the bass drums shuddered through them as they marched in uniform stride down the lines. The glare of the stadium lights, the chatter of the crowd, and the smell of fresh grilled hot dogs could not compare to the greatest excitement of the evening. The knowledge that right behind him was his heart beating strong and proud with him in perfect harmony.
Eight off the sideline.