So, not that it matters or anything, but if you're writing a fic about an RPG you created...is it still a fanfic, or is it a short story? I was just pondering this...oh well. It's raining outside. I am inspired. Scott/Kacia...let's try this again.
(For those of you that don't know of this pairing, Scott Herald and Kacia Thompson are characters in a currently running RPG on a site called Fantasize Your RPG. The RPG itself is called "This One Time, At Band Camp." Credit to…dang, whoever created Scott Herald first because it wasn't me. And Kacia is mine. Thunder Point is mine. Heck most of it is, as I started the RPG, but anyway…yeah. On with it.)
The halftime air of Thunder Point's first home game was wet. The dark clouds poured down rain like a reenactment of Noah's Flood, and the halftime show had just ended, with the band milling about near the bleachers during their usual ten-minute break. It was at games like this that freshmen learned one thing about marching: shakos don't make for very good umbrellas.
Kacia had all but given up keeping her hair pinned up; now, her long black tresses flowed down her back under the shako that was perched precariously on her head. The rain plastered her bangs to her face, making her virtually blind, and the music in her soaked flip folder was no longer readable. She held her clarinet protectively under the wool jacket, dreading the moment she would have to play it again in the stands. Gingerly, she felt the cut on her lip from where her instrument had slipped in her wet fingers, jamming the reed into her face in the middle of the performance. Her fingers came away red, and she cursed under her breath, releasing a hiss of pain as she scowled. Fighting down the urge to slam her clarinet into James O'Donnell's face, she slipped into the crowd behind the bleachers in search of a restroom.
The air behind the bleachers was dry but stuffy. She could even smell a hint of marijuana wafting from a crowd of upperclassmen gathered in a dark corner. Wrinkling her lip, she walked into an unfamiliar building, turned into a small corridor and promptly walked into a rather irritated looking, very soaked Scott Herald.
"Dammit, do the potheads have to infiltrate EVERY bathroom in this whole damn school..." he trailed off as he noticed who he had walked into.
"Oh...sorry, I thought you were...ah, nevermind..." he stammered rather awkwardly. "What happened to your lip?" He reached out and wiped a trickle of blood from her pale cheeks, poorly masked concern flooding into his dark green eyes.
Kacia shrugged it off nonchalantly. "My clarinet slipped on the field. It's just a reed cut, nothing major."
They stood there in an awkward silence for a few moments, the dim hallway lighting flickering as the few fluorescent lights that were on showered them with a fickle glow. The hall was quiet, the noise of the football crowd blocked out by white cinderblock walls that loomed over them, the peeling paint casting strange shadows on the floor. This school could have been a prison, Kacia decided in an abstract part of her brain as she removed her shako and set it on the floor, water sloshing out in a small puddle by her feet.
They say a moment of bliss can compress eternity into one brief instant.
In the blink of an eye, Kacia's back was against the cinderblocks, her arms around Scott's neck, his around her slender shoulders, his lips pressed against hers. A thousand emotions swept through her mind as her heart began to race, blood rushing in her ears in a cacaphony of chaotic thought. Then, she closed her eyes as her surprise melted away into a passion she had never before felt so deeply as now. She felt his warm, calloused hands on her icy cheeks; her fingertips found the tense muscles of his neck as she returned the kiss with one of her own.
But eternity can be a fickle thing.
Suddenly, the hallway was awash with light as the other two light switches were flipped, and an impatient voice echoed through the otherwise empty hall, "Band people! Get back in the stands; hurry up, pee, zip your jackets up, whatever, just get moving!"
Simultaneously, they pulled away from each other, the irate voice of Director James O'Donnell springing them back to reality. He smiled at her, and their eyes met once again in the exaggerated artificial lighting.
She could only somewhat distinguish what he was trying to tell her through those brilliant green eyes; intimidated by the intensity of her own emotions, she shook the feeling off, picked her clarinet off the tile floor, and donned her soaked shako once more. The eternity moment was over.