AN: A little backstory on this fic; I found it written on six sheets of notebook paper while I was cleaning off my desk, and although I don't remember writing it, it was undeniably in my handwriting, so I must have. I must have been about 16 when I wrote it, but somehow I have so little shame that I felt like revising it and posting it. It takes place in a marching band AU where the reds and blues are freshmen members of the band. The reds are all woodwinds, and the blues are all brass. For the purpose of this fic in particular, Simmons plays clarinet, Grif plays saxophone, Donut plays flute, Sarge is a woodwind instructor, and Carolina is the drum major. Also I apologize if Grif seems a little ooc, I wrote this with the belief that he has a soft spot for Simmons. Enjoy!

"Alright, pack it up, we're done folks," Director Flowers announced to the band.

Another lengthy rehearsal was finally over, much to everyone's relief; but no one was more relieved than Dick Simmons, who had just spent the last five minutes of class trying his hardest to demonstrate the run that the second clarinets were being tested on. Try as he might, he kept squeaking each time he started to play, in front of the whole class.

He avoided making eye contact with anyone as he started to put his clarinet away, but he could hear the other second clarinets whispering amongst themselves, throwing the occasional glare his direction. That didn't bode well, but he pretended not to notice as he started toward the lockers.

Simmons took as much time as physically possible putting his clarinet in his locker and gathering his things. He even stopped to have a chat with Donut, but that ended shortly after Caboose came up and challenged Donut to a race to the top of the hill outside of the band room in the name of section glory.

"Stupid brass-hole," Simmons muttered as he left the band room alone.

He soon gave up after a couple more fruitless attempts at conversation with some of the other woodwinds. No one wanted to be seen with the worst second clarinet in the band, so he couldn't find an excuse to prolong his journey back home, where his mother would be waiting for him, fresh sheet music and violin case in hand. Having a private violin instructor for a mother had its perks, for Simmons' trained ear was unrivalled by even some of the more talented upperclassmen in the band. But he had never really been interested in playing any stringed instrument, and recently picked up clarinet in order to join marching band on the condition that he would continue to play violin on the side.

As he stepped out of the band room, he spotted the rest of the second clarinets leaned against the wall of the room.
"Hey Squeak-ins, get over here," one of them hollered, despite Simmons fruitless attempts to shuffle past the second clarinet squad unnoticed. He glanced over to see them leaning against the wall, and they snickered condescendingly as he trudged over to them. To the rest of the section, Simmons was the black sheep, and his scrawny stature and unassured demeanor made him ripe for picking on. He was greeted with a punch on the shoulder from the one who had spoken, followed by several snorts and chuckles from the others.

"What's your deal Squeak-ins," the first one started. "Why couldn't you play that run?"

"You made us all look and sound bad in front of Flowers," called another.

"That tone quality is atrocious!"

"Even a mouse can't squeak like that!"

"Why don't you just practice your god-damned part?"

Emboldened by the effects their insults were having on a now shaking Simmons, they switched tactics to threats.

"Really now, Squeak-ins," one of them began. "It's not that hard. Tell you what, if you can't get the part down by tomorrow, we might have to give you some private lessons of our own."

"Yeah, and if that doesn't work, we could always 'fix' your clarinet."

They all laughed at this, and Simmons could feel the corners of his eyes start to dampen as he struggled to maintain his composure. He wanted to scream at them about how he really does practice as often as he can, when he isn't forced to play violin instead, and that he can't help that he doesn't have a single friend that plays clarinet to help him make up for the time he didn't spend playing clarinet in middle school. But upon further thought, he began to wonder if they might be right; he'd been trying to learn clarinet for months, and while he could get by playing in class, he didn't think he was improving much.

Suddenly the other second clarinets circled around him, and the first one shoved him against the wall.

"Look Squeak-ins, I don't know how you landed second clarinet when you clearly belong with the rest of the freshmen as a third clarinet. After that little display in ensemble today, it's clear you don't deserve to be one of us. You might as well switch to brass, I'm sure the trumpets would appreciate your screeching more than any of us do."

They all started to laugh at this, but Simmons had reached his limit.

"Oh yeah? Well there's a reason why none of you made first clarinet! And none of you can march better than me, so why don't you go practice that?!" he retorted, before he could think twice.

The tension in the air spiked as the second clarinets bore down on him with their glares, and he began to regret his outburst.

"Well then, it looks like Mr. Perfect-Marcher Squeak-ins here just earned himself a beating."

Five minutes and several bruises later, Simmons was once again left alone to wallow in anguish behind the band room. Struggling to get up, he turned around in the hopes that no one would see the tears rolling down his face, and wondered how he was going to explain his current state to his mother; she would certainly pull him out of marching band if she knew her son was being bullied by inferior musicians.

"Maybe I should switch to brass," he sobbed. "At least no one cares if you suck there."

As he stumbled across the courtyard towards the front gates, Simmons reached up to assess the damage done to his face. He brushed his fingers along his bottom lip and was met with a swollen, throbbing mess. The delicate pressure of his fingertips alone drew out pain, and he groaned as he retreated his hand.

"Great, even if I wanted to practice, I can't now with this busted lip," he sighed. Closing his eyes for a moment, he contemplated stopping by the nurse's office to ice it; but in his temporary lack of awareness, Simmons failed to notice someone ahead of him crossing his path.

"Hey, watch where you're going dumba— Simmons?!"

Oh god, anyone but him, Simmons thought as he jumped back, shocked to see his best(only) friend Dexter Grif peering up at him with mild irritation, which quickly morphed into concern after observing the blemishes upon Simmons' face. Simmons tried to look away, embarrassed that Grif had seen him in this state, but Grif grabbed his shoulder before he could turn any further.

"Shit Simmons, what the hell happened to you? You look like you ran through a blind beginner color guard rehearsal!"

Struggling against Grif's vice-like grip, he mumbled, "It's nothing, Dexter; I just need to get home before my mom gets mad."

"Are you kidding me? First off, your mom is gonna be livid if she sees your face like that, and I don't want her to ban me from coming over again because she thinks it's my fault. And second of all, Dexter? You only call me that when you're trying to avoid me, and you know that doesn't work. You're stuck with me," Grif harped, partially in attempts to cheer his friend up.

While Simmons did appreciate the gesture, maybe a little more than he would openly admit, he hated that his best friend had to see him like this. He didn't want to seem weak and cowardly; he wanted to be able to fend for himself as much as Grif had fended for him in the past. He wanted to be someone Grif could look up to in more than a literal sense. He wanted to be someone Grif might even fall for…

Simmons shook his head at that thought, hoping it hadn't made his face flush even more.
Grif and I are just friends. He would never see me as anything else. He probably doesn't even get crushes on guys like I do.

"Uh, Sim? Simmons? You there?" Grif's voice snapped Simmons back into reality. "Are you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?"

Simmons covered his mouth with his hand and glanced away, suddenly nervous about what Grif might think if he knew the truth.

"Fine, guess we're doin' this the hard way. Was it the brass players?" Grif began.
Simmons shook his head.

"Was it one of those damn rich kids from the charter school?"
Again, Simmons shook his head, but Grif was done guessing.

"Then who, Simmons? Who would have the balls to beat up my best friend, and expect to get away with it?"

Simmons almost smiled at 'best friend', but his voice cracked as he gave in and choked out, "m-my section mates."

The few seconds before Grif responded were deadening.

"Why?" he finally asked, the shift from anger to shock evident in his tone.

As soon as the word left Grif's mouth, Simmons started breathing heavier. He finally gave up on clinging to whatever shreds of dignity he had left, and cried,
"Because I'M NO GOOD! I can't play clarinet for shit, and everyone knows it, especially them. It's not like I don't try Grif, I do! I practice whenever I can, but it's never enough! I won't ever be good enough…"

When Simmons was finished spilling his guts, Grif closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, and sighed.

"Simmons, geez, get ahold of yourself," he chided. "You of all people think you're not good enough? You're the best marcher the school's ever seen, and everyone knows it!"

Simmons looked up in surprise, and Grif blushed at the intensity of his gaze but he continued,

"… Yeah, I said it. You heard me. Look, just because I hate marching doesn't mean I don't see you. Hell, it'd be impossible for me not to see you, what with Sarge showing you off like you're god's gift to marching every two seconds."

Grif was being unusually generous with compliments, and it made Simmons uncomfortable enough to argue, "What good is that gonna do me next semester? My marching technique won't save me from concert season!"

"Who cares?! You're gonna get better by then, and all your stupid section mates'll get super jealous when you get bumped to first clarinet and they don't!" Grif bit back, slightly bothered that Simmons refused to listen to reason.

"How can you know that?" Simmons countered.

"Because I know you! You do try Simmons, I see that! Sarge sees that! Flowers sees that! Even Carolina sees that, and anyone with a brain could see it too! You're so persistent, and hardworking, and encouraging, and perfect, and—why am I telling you, you should already know!"

Simmons finally gave in and cracked a smile as he looked away again, thoroughly flustered. He sniffed and rubbed his nose before mumbling,

"Thanks Grif. I really should get going though—"

"Hang on, y'know what, I was on a roll there," Grif cut him off. "You're also funny, caring, tactful, brave, and nicer than anyone deserves. You mean a lot to me, and I hate it when other guys do stuff like this, or even look at you twice."

Simmons couldn't believe what he was hearing. Grif had never said anything this nice about him, at least not to his face.

Grif looked as if he wanted to say more, and Simmons' piercing, awe-filled eyes fixed on his own urged him to continue.

"That's… why… I also…" Grif stopped, unable to get another syllable past his lips.

"You… also? You also what, Grif?" Simmons prompted, uncertain of Grif's intentions but interested in what his stuttering might imply.

It was Grif's turn to break their eye contact out of embarrassment, and was silent for a record half-minute.

"… Aw fuck it dude, come here so I can spell it out for you," he stammered, beckoning Simmons to lean down.

Does… he want to whisper it or something? Is he afraid someone will hear him? Simmons worried a bit but did as Grif wanted, unsuspecting of what was to come. His eyes closed as he waited for Grif to finish his statement, but he heard nothing else except Grif's breathing, which he noticed had sped up significantly since he spoke.

Simmons nearly opened his eyes as he grew even more confused, but suddenly he felt Grif's lips touch his own, and his heart nearly stopped when he realized that Grif had kissed him. It had only lasted a couple of seconds, but it had sparked what he realized could only the beginning of the end of what their friendship had been up to this point.

Scared to open his eyes in case it was all just some crazy daydream, Simmons remained unmoving as Grif finally pulled away. Simmons heard Grif take a breath as if to say something, but then heard a sigh of defeat and felt a pair of hands reach for the back of his neck. Grif pulled his head down even more and kissed him again. His lips moved against Simmons' surprisingly gently, coaxing his friend to respond in kind. Simmons had never kissed another person before, yet he found that as he began to move his own lips against Grif's, it was simpler and easier than he had ever imagined, despite the ache he felt as Grif pressed on his bruise. He supposed he could finally admit to daydreaming about this moment now that it was happening.

Although he was struggling to breath, Simmons nearly gasped as he felt Grif move a hand up to cup his cheek and brush away a lingering tear. He couldn't believe Grif was doing this, making his brain melt and his heartbeat skyrocket. Finally, Simmons had to break the kiss to breathe.

But Grif, seeing this a sign of discomfort, immediately started to apologize, "Simmons oh god wait, that was your first kiss, wasn't it? I didn't even think to ask, I just, I'm so sorry I—"

Simmons interrupted by clumsily pushing his lips right back where they'd been a few seconds ago. Disregarding the throbbing of his now even more swollen lip, he wrapped his arms around Grif's back, and began to kiss him harder than before. Grif responded quickly with just as much pressure, and ran the hand not on Simmons neck through his hair. Tugging his red curls, Grif parted his lips to deepen the kiss, and Simmons quickly obliged. Upon hearing a sigh (that might have even been a moan), Simmons clutched Grif tighter. He wondered if the way he was moving his mouth on his friend was conveying how he really felt about him, how he had wanted this for a long time. Evidently Grif was getting the message, and he picked up the pace, kissing Simmons in rapid succession.

The kisses grew less anxious and desperate, and became like honeysuckle in sweetness as they slowed down. Grif broke the connection at last and muttered,

"If you keep this up you're gonna pass out."

Simmons just stared for a second, worried that Grif was serious, but broke into a grin of relief when Grif started to chuckle at his concern. As Grif pulled Simmons into the tightest hug they had ever shared, Simmons spoke, his voice a bit huskier than it had been, even after crying.

"Hey Grif?"

"Yeah Sim?"

"In case you weren't sure, I think I like you."

"Well no shit, Captain Obvious. But y'know what? I like you too."

They eventually let go of one another, and Grif smirked at the hazy look on Simmons face. His grin was soon replaced with an expression of horror when he saw that Simmons lip was now purple and even more raw than it had been before he kissed it, and the consequences of his actions began to hit home.

"You IDIOT!" Grif began, and Simmons eyes widened at Grif's rage.

"Didn't that hurt? How the hell are you gonna eat, let alone play with that lip?"

Realizing the cause of Grif's concern, Simmons giggled.

"Worth it," he shrugged, and Grif's expression let up a little.

"Well c'mon then, let's get you fixed up before you go home. We can stop at my place for some ice, and you can tell your mom it was my fault for making you late," Grif suggested, reaching for Simmons hand.

"O-oh, ok," Simmons sputtered in response, barely grasping the fact that he was now holding hands with his (reciprocated) crush as they stepped in the direction of Grif's home.

"Hey Simmons?"

"Yeah Grif?"

"How 'bout we hang out tomorrow, after practice?"

"Sure thing, Grif. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

After finishing up his violin lesson without his mother noticing (or maybe just mentioning) his bruised face, Simmons crawled into his room and collapsed on his bed. Squeezing his pillow close to his chest, he recounted his run-in with Grif until it made him dizzy.

I actually kissed Grif. That really happened, he kept telling himself, unsure of whether he would ever believe it.

All his worries about his section mates and being a failure had long since become irrelevant in his mind, and were replaced with the musky scent of his and Grif's mingling sweat, the warmth shared between their mouths, and the strong, reassuring grip of Grif's hands on him. It had all surpassed any of Simmons' fantasies, yet left him wanting.

I hope I can do that again soon, Simmons sighed to himself, before falling into the best sleep he would have for a while, and falling further into whatever it was he shared with Grif.

AN: Thanks for reading! I would love to hear what you think in comments, but please don't ask for a continuation, this is just a oneshot. "orz