"This is stupid, Iwa-chan," Oikawa scoffed to Iwaizumi. "Of course I got in. Any decent player would."
Iwaizumi would have gladly given Oikawa a good clobbering for feeling so superior, but decided to sort it into his mental list of "stupid things Oikawa says but then regrets it later."
"I mean, weren't they broke last year? It's not like their musicians are any better than that," the trumpet player laughed. "They definitely couldn't say no to me!" He stuck his tongue out. Iwaizumi scowled. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Tooru. If it didn't matter that much to you in the first place, why did you even bother auditioning?"
Oikawa reached over and ruffled Iwaizumi's hair. "C'mon, Iwa-chan! They're obviously a bunch of kids. I heard that even the scrawny little percussionist got in. Quit being so egotistical, you're like a trumpet player!"
Iwaizumi sighed. The irony is tangible. He just insulted himself without realizing it.
"Oikawa-san," Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. "You're a trumpet player."
Oikawa almost dropped his trumpet case when he walked into the rehearsal hall without Iwaizumi, who was parking the car. Instead, he set it on the ground so he could raise his arm and point it directly at the man who was busy rosining his bow.
"Y-you! What the hell are you doing here?"
Kageyama Tobio looked up from his rosin, and blinked nonchalantly.
He destroyed us at nationals last year.
It wasn't a direct battle, like a game of volleyball, but it was that last cello concerto that really did it in. Oikawa's dreams with the Fukushima University Symphony Orchestra flew out the window along with his Haydn trumpet concerto. His last year in university was a year of bitter loss, suffering at the bow of a particularly talented cellist.
"They're obviously a bunch of kids." Oikawa had never felt so wrong.
"Everyone's staring." Iwaizumi lumbered into the rehearsal hall with his baritone sax, punching Oikawa's arm to lower it. That was true. All fifty-seven pairs of eyes were on Oikawa. Mashing his palm into his forehead, he picked up his trumpet and headed to his seat.
"Hey, hey, hey!" A hand reached out and slapped him on the back. Hard. Coughing, Oikawa turned to meet the large, owl-like eyes of his fellow trumpet player. Brandishing his golden instrument, Bokuto Koutarou proceeded to introduce himself in a grand manner. Oikawa smiled and nodded the best he could, and was glad when Maestro Ukai Keishin finally stepped onto the conductor's podium. Dressed in a black t-shirt and ripped jeans, he didn't seem threatening, but Oikawa knew better. He was the grandson of the great Maestro Ukai Ikkei, who did a world tour with the Tokyo Symphony Orchestra. Ukai Keishin inherited his brutality.
Oikawa didn't blink when the sheet music was passed around. The Anvil Chorus. Verdi. He knew this one well.
"Aah?! I've never seen this before," Bokuto hooted on Oikawa's left, his nose an inch away from the music. "Sight reading time!"
Seriously? He's never played the Anvil Chorus?
Swallowing disdain, Oikawa raised his instrument to his lips and braced himself for the worst.