Written in one night. Just a simple oneshot that's based off some real events, and some made up ones.

Dedicated to my boyfriend, Randy. I love you! 3

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She stared at the beautiful brass instrument in her hands. Her small fingers ran over every inch of the smooth, polished bell, pressing experimentally on the keys and poking at the tuning slide. As she looked back up at her friend, a huge grin on her face, he smiled back, leaning over it to look with her. "Cool, ain't it? Too bad you're in the chorus..."

And that was when she knew. She knew that the sleek instrument in her hands was hers to be played. And came the end of the year, when they got to pick whether or not to stay in chorus or switch to the band, she knew what she'd pick. Trumpet, no doubt about it.

Yet when the time came and she ran home with the order form in her hands, and thrust it at her mother, she was greeted with a scowl. Written across the form line for "desired instrument", in loopy, somewhat illegible handwriting was "Trumpet". Her mother promptly erased it, to the young girls' whining protests. "Trumpet is a man's instrument," she scolded harshly. "Why don't you play the clarinet like I did? It's such a pretty instrument." Tears in her eyes, the girl ran to her room, slamming the door and sinking onto her floor. It didn't matter how pretty a clarinet was. They were too small, too squeaky. There were too many of them in the band. She wanted to be a trumpet, and she wouldn't settle for anything else.

Yet that week she found herself sitting in her dad's truck, en route to the instrument shop where she'd rent her clarinet. She choked back a sob as she entered the store to the soft chiming of a bell and looked at the brass instruments, prominently displayed on the walls. And with a glare she turned to the woodwinds. They all looked cheap and flimsy, except maybe saxophone. But her mother had also warned that saxophone was a man's instrument as well. Flute, clarinet, and possibly french horn were her only options. With a heavy heart she sighed and trudged to the counter behind her father, who seemed more interested in the guitars under the case than he did with his daughter's musical dilemma.

The apathetic man behind the counter asked her in a gruff voice which instrument she was playing. He'd seen too many elementary bands and figured she'd be back in a month anyway, declaring she was just positively sick of band and would quit music forever. She shyly looked up, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her voice faltered for a second and for a second, the one word hinged on the tip of her tongue; trumpet, trumpet, trumpet. It seemed so simple. Yet she knew if she came home dragging the large case her mother would have a conniption. So with a weary mind and a broken heart, she looked the man in the eye and firmly said, "The flute."

As he pulled out the miniscule case and the oh-so-shiny instrument that laid within, her eyes sparkled. Maybe this wasn't so bad.

Better than a stupid, squeaky clarinet, at any rate.

And so began a love affair with the flute that would last years. Every day she faithfully took it out of its small case (which, as she bragged, was the only one which could fit into a backpack), polished it until she could see her reflection, and tried valiantly to make beautiful music. Except with the skill level she possessed, she sounded less like Jean-Pierre and more like... well, a sixth grade band geek. Yet when she got her first solo her heart soared, even if the rest of the band snicked. "They can't even hear you!" they'd tease. "Give the trumpets a solo! At least the audience knows we're here!" Each comment they made pained her heart. She was still bitter about the choice she'd had to make, but she was determined to make her voice heard... no matter how quiet and high pitched it was.

Years passed and the girl entered high school, with her own flute, no less. Without a doubt she signed up for the marching band, and quickly learned what a horrible mistake that was. Suddenly her flute had to be at an angle that would break the backs of less experienced players. Her arms ached. She practiced holding her friend's trumpet and wondered if marching with it was any easier. It probably wouldn't accidentally impale color guard as they ran by, at least. And it probably wouldn't fall through the stands at every game, prompting the entire flute section to go into a panic and speed down the steps to rescue it. (More than one flute funeral that took place that season.) Sure, it was heavier, and sure, there were more of them. She'd have to fight to be heard. But a proud, determined part of herself wanted desperately to play the beautiful horn, instead of the instrument more commonly referred to as "the band's dog whistle".

And yet she made it through three years without ever learning to play more than a note. She'd risen to flute section leader and nailed a spot as drum major her senior year. She was elated, ecstatic, exultant, all sorts of synonyms for happy that begin with the letter "e". But she still felt like a part of her soul was missing every time she looked at the trumpet section. She knew her fellow seniors well; everything else was a mystery. And yet she even found herself envious of freshmen, simply because while they played an instrument they egotistically referred to as "God's gift to the band", she was stuck with her friendly dog whistle. Not to say she didn't love it, of course. But she wondered if there was something missing.

One night after a game she was in the band room, packing up her things, making sure her uniform was folded and her flute was carefully cleaned. She sighed quietly as she clicked the lock on her locker, figuring she was the only one left at school. At least she could just drive home. No more waiting for rides from her semi-attentive parents. As she walked down the band hallway, still wearing gym shorts and the band shirt, she looked up online to find herself almost colliding with someone. She gasped as she realized who it was. It was one of last year's drum majors, an outspoken trumpet player with sheepdog hair and aquamarine eyes. She remembered him for two things; one, his passionate love affair with tie-dye and two, the fact that she'd had a crush on him ever since she was a lowly freshman. She hardly had time to think before he reeled back, blinking in surprise. "Hey, what are you doing here?" he said, tilting his head slightly.

She bit her lip. "I could ask what you're doing here. I don't recall you being drum major anymore, big shot," she teased. Good God, his eyes were still gorgeous. She blushed and tried not to stare.

He grinned. "Past DMs have full rights to invade the band room," he retorted, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She squeaked and pulled away, and as she did, her leg hit something hard. It was his trumpet case, mercifully, and she blinked curiously at it. Sensing her confusion, he laughed. "I practice in here sometimes. The director's cool with it-- probably because he can't hear anything half the time-- and I get some peace and quiet. Turns out college dorms don't like trumpet solos at eleven o'clock." He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. He hadn't played anything decent since he left the band.

She nodded shyly, clutching her bag to her side. "I should, um..." He nodded. "You should..." They both stepped to the right at the same time, then to the left, before she quickly pushed past him and started walking towards the door again. He smiled bemusedly and waved behind her. "See ya later, chickadee," he chucked, before turning the opposite direction.

The girl stopped at the mention of her old nickname, and whirled around. "Hey," she called down the hall in a sudden flash of bravery, and he slowly turned, cocking his head. Blushing harder than ever, she scurried back down towards him, slowing as she got closer, hardly daring to look him in the eye.

"What is it, chickadee?" he mumbled, looking down at her. In an act of willfulness she raised her head and forced herself to look him in the eye. It took several seconds of awkward silence for her to breathe out one word; "Trumpet."

He furrowed his eyebrows, obviously confused. As he opened his mouth to speak, the words poured out in one breath.

"I never got to learn how to play the trumpet and I've always wanted to learn but I wasn't allowed so could you please please please teach me if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

He blinked.

She turned a rather interesting shade of red and stared at the floor.

With a laugh, he took her wrist gently. "Of course, darlin'," he said, the remnants of his southern drawl showing through. She almost had a heart attack right there in the middle of the hallway. Sensing her obvious discomfort, he blushed as well, turning to the band room. "Right this way, or did you forget where it was again?"

She scowled in protest. "That was the first day of band camp, my freshman year, and it is so not my fault the choir room looks just like ours." He just smiled.

"Sure, darlin', sure."

He set up two chairs and a single stand. She looked at him and as he nodded, took the seat next to him, smoothing her hair and wondering if it would be too obvious if she ran to the bathroom to redo her mascara. He seemed to take no notice, lifting the case into his lamp and expertly assembling the trumpet, running his fingers over a small scratch and frowning. She watched, trying not to make it too obvious, yet wondering how a boy who was so utterly random in all other areas of life could make such a dedicated drum major, and such an expert musician. She wondered how long it had taken him to learn. A wave of skepticism clouded her mind, and for a moment she thought she was an absolute idiot for even asking. Yet before she could react, he'd set the trumpet in her lap and was looking at her. "You know how to hold it, right?" he murmured.

She gulped and picked it up, fumbling with the keys a bit before looking over and nodding slightly. He laughed. "Awful horn angle, but you're a new member, so I'll let it slide. Although..." He reached over and gently repositioned a few of her fingers. "Perfect," he muttered, drawing back, leaving the poor girl feeling as if she would faint.

He ruffled through the sheet music in his case, muttering before he pulled out a fingering chart and the music to the show from her freshman year. "Remember this?" he chuckled, setting it on the stand. Memories came flooding back. The lead trumpet's solo, the tendency of that year's section (actually, every year's section...) to fly five measures ahead of the rest of the band and not realize it until the end, how half the third trumpets eventually just stopped playing, protesting how they couldn't be heard. She smiled softly. The flutes could never be heard either, but they played their hearts out, trying in vain to make that last note beautiful.

Her former DM laughed, and pointed to a circled section on her music. "That, my dear, is what I hope you'll be able to play by the time I'm done with you." Her mouth ran dry. The trumpet solo! She'd envied the section leader every time he played it, thinking how well she could have done it if only she'd just been allowed to try... His voice, sharp and insistent, snapped her back to reality. "Unless, of course, you're too scared to try." She blushed again-- how many times had she done that tonight anyway??-- and took a deep breath, picking up the trumpet. She knew most of the notes, aside from some accidentals, simply by fingering along to the stand tunes instead of actually playing throughout her sophomore year. With a soft sigh, she brought it to her lips, thinking just for a second how his lips had touched the very same mouthpiece, and blew.

It came out squeaky, off-key and horrendously loud; something like a Mack truck mating with a dying donkey.

He tried not to wince as he looked back at her. "Tuning," he mumbled, grabbing it back from her and idly fiddling with the tuning slide. "Remember," he said, louder so she could hear, "it's not the same as playing flute. Buzz your lips." She stared at the music, trying not to look at him. That had been simply awful. She silently bet that he hadn't been that bad the first time.

As if he could read her mind, he handed her back the trumpet. "Not everyone gets it right off. It took me months to squeak out a note, and even longer to be able to play a good song." He sighed, shifting his attention to the music. "I'll tap out the rhythm. It's not as hard as it looks, just break it down."

And so began the culmination of seven long years wanting to play the very instrument she held now. For an hour she practiced, stumbling over notes, hardly breathing whenever he reached over to correct her fingers, inwardly smiling every time she mastered a phrase. And without realizing it, after an hour and a half she finally piece it together. It was short, choppy, and slow, not at all like how she'd heard the soloist play. But when she stopped at the end, lips numb, her teacher broke out in a wide grin.

"Very good," he murmured. "I didn't expect you to get it that quickly... but then again, part of me knew you could." She sighed happily, setting the trumpet in her lap.

"My lips feel like they're going to bleed," she muttered. No amount of embrochure studies and endless hours of screaming at freshmen could have prepared her lips and her breath for that intense of a workout. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

He stared at the girl for a moment. He'd known from the start that she'd had talent, he just didn't realize she was that good. Sure, she was no David, but then again, if you compared her to him you'd only earn a swift kick to the shin. He let out a small sigh before he spoke up.

"I know a way to make them feel better," he said softly. Her eyes snapped open and her heart pounded. Was he implying what she thought he was implying?

He sighed. "Well... two ways. One is completely boring and one is... unorthodox... which one do you want to try?"

She looked over at him, pulse thumping in her ears. "Knowing you? The weird one," she whispered.

He didn't need any more invitation. He leaned over and gently kissed her, his lips soft but insistent against hers, feeling the blood rush to his head. She fought the urge to gasp and instead kissed him back, thinking every second that she was going to faint. After what seemed like hours but couldn't have been more than half a minute, he pulled back, blinking down at her, the oddest mix of confusion and... was it love she saw in his eyes? She bit her lip, face crimson, eyes flickering from the floor, to the wall, to the coveted trumpet, back up to him.

With a soft sigh, he let out the Southern accent he used to well. "You do realize that you're one of us now, chickadee? There's no goin' back."

She merely smiled. "What do you think I've wanted all along?"

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