Disclaimer: Newsies belong to Disney. Story contains slash.
A/N: Last summer portions of this chapter were entered in B's Blink Week contest and posted here on FFnet under the same title. I would like to thank the people who read, reviewed, and offered assistance over the past year. This is the chapter that inspired it all! And, of course, danke schön to my beta clio21000.
Chapter 4 – Third Quarter Break
The Cougarland Marching Band stood in street marching formation on the sidewalk outside the Fine Arts building, preparing to march into the dome for their first game. When Sarah yelled, "Heels," Blink and the rest of the band shouted, "Together!" Next she yelled, "Toes," and the immediate response was, "Apart!"
Blink loved this ritual. LOVED it. Sometimes he pretended someone was filming him and couldn't help smiling for the imaginary cameraman. Each time Sarah bellowed a body part, Blink shouted the appropriate position, checking his stature as he did so to make sure he was at perfect attention. Stomach – in. Chest – out. Shoulders – back. Chin –
"Pride!" Blink lifted his chin upward and held it there. Every head in the band was tilted at the same dignified angle. A pride of cougars, Denton liked to call them.
"Chin."
"Pride!"
"Chin."
"Pride!"
Silence.
God was that cool.
Behind him, Racetrack hit four rimshots. The band began to mark time, the percussion section played a full roll off, and they were on the move, the percussionists starting into the first cadence.
The march to the dome was about four blocks, winding through campus. Blink was always a little sad there wasn't more an audience for this march, but football wasn't exactly the popular sport at Northern Midwest University – the team's record was one of the worst in the conference. Despite the lack of adoring fans, Blink marched proudly in his blue and white uniform with the gold helmet and feathered crest, his saxophone in carry position except for when Pie Eater gave the signal and the altos swung their instruments in a jazzy shoulder move to the cadence beat.
If marching band could be career, Blink would join up for life. As it was, he settled for secondary music education hoping to land a job at a high school with a marching band some day. He loved performing on his own or with smaller combos, but he didn't expect to make it as a musician. Mush always said he could, but sometimes he thought Mush had too much faith in him. Whenever he said so, though, Mush just shrugged and said, "That's what friends are for."
Friends were for a lot of things, it seemed, according to Mush. Friends washed your crusty EasyMac bowl that had been sitting on the sink counter in the suite's bathroom for a week. Friends made you do the reading for your classes even though it was only the first few weeks of the semester and you didn't really want to. Friends ate breakfast and dinner with you every day, whether or not other people from the suite or dorm wanted to come. Friends asked your opinion on everything from movies to career choices, but also told you when you're being stupid or impatient or too impulsive. Friends chucked you on the shoulder and caught your eye across rooms to share silent jokes and wore a smile every time they saw you. Friends let you sit right next to them on the futon, thighs and shoulders prickling with heat, and didn't care that you were gay.
Mush was definitely a good friend. Half the time Blink didn't think he deserved how nice Mush was because he didn't think he was as good a friend by comparison. And yet Mush was always there, without question.
The band slowed and began to mark time to Race's lone drum tap as the color guard began to cross into the avenue that separated the dome from the main campus. The girls, in their swishy blue pants and sequined vests and headbands, formed two lines with their red and gold flags held high. That it was the color guard's job to stop traffic was something of a joke. Once last year Race had made the smart remark during rehearsal that it was the color guard's duty because they were the most expendable section. Unfortunately, Medda overheard, and she'd dragged him off the field by his ear and lectured him, gesturing wildly, for nearly ten minutes. Blink smiled at the memory, keeping time with his heels.
When the several guard members were in place, the band stepped off, moving forward as the percussion section launched into their final cadence, and Blink's thoughts wandered back to his best friend.
Lately Blink was noticing a new development in his friendship with Mush. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really a development. It was more like a new perspective, or a subtle shift in . . . yeah, okay, fine.
The truth? He kept having these dreams. About Mush and making out and rubbing a palm . . . Well, every guy wakes up with morning wood, right? That's normal. What's not normal is dreaming about wrapping an arm around your best friend's naked waist, pressing against his smooth chest, and feeling warm breath as you lean in to . . . Okay, see? A morning hard-on brought to you by your hot English TA? All right, fine. But when it's brought to you by someone you have to share the bathroom with once you roll out of bed? Kind of a problem.
So far he didn't think Mush had noticed anything. Blink was always fidgety and prone to spacing out mid-conversation: two traits which conveniently covered for his current level of distraction every time Mush arched his back to stretch, or jogged across the practice field, or reached for the salt.
He'd heard other guys, like Race, talk about feeling this way before – trapped into being "just friends" with a girl who happens to be completely gorgeous. But unless the girl had a boyfriend (and sometimes even if she did), chances were she was attracted to Race, too. Or at least might be. Blink's situation was much less hopeful.
Hopeful? No way. He shouldn't even be thinking in terms of hope.
Right then, in full dress uniform at the edge of the saxophone section, he resolved to squash, stuff, deny, block, ignore, and downright decapitate all thoughts about Mush that weren't strictly friendly. He could do that. He could.
The band rounded a corner and he caught a glimpse of Mush in a row of clarinets up ahead, his black curls poking out of his helmet and shoulders squared strongly . . . no. NO. Blink winced. His best friend's shoulders weren't important. And neither was his hair. That was Mush up there. That's it. No description necessary.
By the time the band trooped in through the dome's front doors and the drums played another roll off into the fight song, Blink was almost desperately glad to have something else to occupy his mind. Bright brass and woodwind tones bounced through the dome while the percussion rumbled and clacked until the echoes were as loud as the initial hits.
After a few silent minutes spent getting into position, the band launched into its pre-game performance, marching the "N," playing the national anthem, forming a tunnel for the football team to run through on to the field. They settled into their section in the stands and first two quarters of the game were interspersed with stand cheers, both instrumental and shouted. Occasionally Denton had to signal for them to stop when the game play started up again so the team wouldn't incur a noise penalty.
During the second quarter, Blink was turned to talk to the altos seated behind him and he scanned the bleachers stretching up and away as he listened to their conversation. Up just a few rows and to his left, Blink saw the trumpet section. Jack was seated on the far end, intently watching the action on the field. David sat next to him, trumpet dangling from his fingers between his spread knees, and next to David was Lexie. A dark look shadowed David's face as Lexie leaned closer to him and tucked one of his curls behind his ear, apparently jabbering nonstop. David batted her hand away and scooted toward Jack, bumping into him with his knee. Blink smothered a smile, then glanced to the right at where the percussionists had balanced their drums in the stands. He saw Race clearly glowering in David and Lexie's direction. Maybe, Blink thought, Mush should have been a little more specific in his warning to Dave about Lexie.
The New York half time show seemed to be a hit. Blink made his mark as the point of the star and did the marching kick-line at the end well, though he noticed a spacing issue between himself and the sax player to his right, which made him wonder about what he couldn't see on his left.
By the time show was finished and the third quarter was underway, Blink was sweaty and starving. The team was losing, again, of course, and Denton had given the okay for everyone to take off their uniform jackets so they could go grab snacks without ruining the pristine white coats. Blink and Mush followed their equally sweaty fellow band members to the concession stands for PowerAde and hotdogs – they both got two and piled them high with relish and ketchup.
As they were seated at a small table around the corner from the concession stand, Blink found himself forced to agree with the flutes and clarinets: Mush was the only boy that could make their marching band uniform look hot. But, dammit, he wasn't going to think like that anymore.
"Did you hear Denton say we nailed that kick line? He was almost jumping up and down he was so pumped." Mush asked between gulps of his PowerAde.
Blink watched him swallow, then remembered to answer. Stop thinking your best friend is hot, he cautioned himself. "Yeah. I think I might have been too far forward, though. It was hard to tell."
"We'll check for it when we watch the tape next week. I bet you were fine. Hey, that Tetris thing you guys did was great. Lou almost died laughing."
Was Mush ever not supportive? Blink shifted in his chair, but smiled. He was pretty proud of transposing the Tetris theme to use as a stand cheer for the saxes – Denton didn't care what they played as long as it was upbeat. "Yeah? That's good. I'm thinking of doing Mario next."
It was nearing the end of third quarter and the other band members had trickled back to the stands. Blink had practically inhaled his hotdogs and was waiting for Mush to finish. As he watched Mush slowly stuff the butt-end of his last hotdog in his mouth, he completely abandoned his hours-old resolution. In fact, he forgot he'd made one altogether.
The mustard-yellow (which Denton insisted on calling "gold") of Mush's band t-shirt mysteriously did not clash with his mocha skin, and the poly-cotton blend had shrunk just enough for it stretch tight across his pecs and shoulders. If you only knew Mush as a clarinet player, you'd never guess his body was sweetly sculpted. The times Blink had seen Mush shirtless flashed through his mind: mornings in the suite's bathroom, cliff jumping during band camp.
Blink realized Mush had realized he was staring, and he looked a little confused about it. Blink knew that when Mush finished chewing he would open his mouth and ask what was up, and Blink didn't want to explain. He just wanted to –
Mush swallowed and cocked his head, primed to ask a question, but he never got his lips open. Before he could, Blink leaned over and pressed his mouth against Mush's.
Blink didn't fully comprehend the impact of what he was doing until after he had done it, and he froze in his moment of revelation. As a result, the kiss turned out to be much longer than just the peck Blink had intended. Wait, had he intended this? Then he remembered he was still kissing his very straight, very Christian best friend and pulled back.
Mush's brown eyes were wide. Blink flinched. Why did Mush have to look so innocent? He felt like he'd just molested a child.
Still looking stunned, Mush crumpled up the paper boats from his hotdogs and collected his PowerAde bottle. "We have to get back. Almost fourth quarter," he mumbled and stood.
Blink watched his best friend walk toward the entrance to the field and stands – his uniform looked good on him even from behind, dammit – and then sunk his head to the table top with a thud. What had he just done?
For the rest of the night, Mush didn't say a word, and Blink tried to keep his distance. Every time he looked at Mush it felt like his insides were hollowing out. But when he didn't look at Mush, he felt the same way he had the day he lost his eye patch in the lake: panicked. That day Mush had come to the rescue. This time . . . Blink couldn't think about it.
He took his time changing out of his uniform, making sure Mush would have made it back to his room before Blink even left the Fine Arts building. By the time he did get back to his room, Race was settled in for the night and watching a poker tournament on TV from the futon.
"Hey, you look like shit," Race tried to joke, but Blink just shrugged, avoiding eye contact with his roommate. He didn't bother to shower or change out of his gym shorts and band t-shirt. He climbed up into his bunk and collapsed into his pillow, hoping for dreamless sleep for a whole new set of reasons.
On Monday night after band practice, when he knew Crutchy had a night class, Blink knocked on the bathroom door entrance to Mush and Crutchy's room. He could hear the TV on, but he got no answer, so he tried turning the handle to let himself in. The door was locked. Blink's stomach slipped to his toes and he gaped at the door's thick coat of dark blue paint. That door had never been locked. Ever.
The days slogged forward. Even the weather seemed sluggish and moody – hot for September but cloudy, humid without rain. Concentrating in class was even harder than usual, and although he still went to his assigned practice room hours, Blink didn't practice. He took out his sax, stuck the reed in his mouth, and stared at the music, but never put the instrument to his lips – even when he did bother to get the ligature on. Instead he sat in the soundless room and replayed the moment in his mind. If only he hadn't been so impulsive. If only he'd told Mush about his developing crush, maybe he wouldn't have acted on it.
There were a lot of if onlys.
Race and Crutchy knew something was up – the suite had been unusually somber and silent since Saturday night – but they weren't about to ask for details. The unspoken agreement was if another guy had a problem, he'd come to you if he wanted your opinion. And Blink didn't need anyone else to tell him how badly he'd screwed up; Mush's continued silence said that loud and clear.
After five days, Mush still hadn't spoken to him. Blink was about out of his mind.
Thursday night practices were always long (6:00 to 9:00 plus sectionals for percussion and altos) but tonight was particularly hard to bear. All week Mush had been avoiding eye contact with Blink during concert formation, and every time Denton gave the band a break Mush was sure to surround himself with an impenetrable force field of adoring females. Like now.
Blink sat alone on the squishy turf in the domed stadium, his alto in his lap, while Mush was surrounded by the flute section, smiling. Nearest Blink was the percussion section. Race had kept them behind during break to lecture about the importance of actually keeping a tempo and watching the drum majors. Having listened to Race spout most of the lecture in their dorm room in the form of complaining throughout the week, Blink tuned him out until a deep clang of vibrating metal made him turn back to the percs.
Race clapped his palms to his face, and dragged them down slowly. He rolled his eyes in frustration as Dutchy scrambled to pick up his dropped cymbal. Spot stood next to and a little behind Race, detached and silent as usual. His arms were crossed intimidatingly, but Blink thought he might be smirking.
"It's not cracked!" Dutchy proclaimed, smiling until he saw Race and Spot.
"That's it," Race said, taking off his cap only to settle it once more over his black hair. "Dutch, I'm movin' you down the line. You're with Harris. Anna, you're my cymbal now."
Crestfallen, Dutchy examined the offending leather strap and mumbled, "I thought I tied it tight enough."
"What you think and what you do are two different things. Wease'll have my neck and yours if you keep droppin' stuff. And maybe I'll be able to see where I'm going now that I don't have your blond mug in the way." Shaking his head, Race walked past Blink toward the sideline where he met up with Jack.
Blink managed a half-hearted smile at his roommate's predicament, but his attention immediately traveled back to Mush.
Five days.
All Blink wanted to do was apologize and forget about it. Well, he wasn't sure he could forget it, entirely, but he wanted to try, because Mush was his best friend and Blink needed him. Race was a good guy, but his constant sarcasm sometimes irked Blink. Crutchy was . . . well, Crutchy's voice annoyed him sometimes, and his limited mobility made it impossible to dash out to the courtyard for a game of Ultimate Frisbee or skip Weasel's Music Theory class to go hiking. And when Blink was outted to the band last year, the only person who hadn't changed his behavior toward him even the slightest was Mush.
Okay then. He would apologize. Right now. Somehow he would make Mush listen. In the back of Blink's mind he knew going into this without a hard-and-fast plan wasn't smart – that's how he had ended up kissing Mush, after all – but he had to make it right.
He unclipped his sax from his neck strap, set it carefully on the turf, and trotted over to the circle of flutes. Dana had her head on Mush's shoulder and arm around his waist; Blink tried not to visibly cringe. The girls greeted him nicely enough, but Mush didn't bother to turn and look up or say hello.
"Hey Blinky!" Jenny piped. "Sit with us!"
Blink stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Uh – actually Jen, I just want to talk to Mush for minute. Um, alone."
Dana lifted her head from Mush's shoulder and took her hand off his waist, as though giving permission. Mush glared at her quickly then finally looked up to Blink. He still didn't speak.
Blink scratched his eyebrow above his eye patch. "Just give me a minute. One minute."
Mush sighed and stood easily without having to push himself up or – STOP THINKING YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOT, Blink mentally scolded himself. Hands in pockets, both boys strode to the walkway under the stands and out the other side to the far edge of the stadium. They turned right, away from where Jack and Race were taunting Morris, and stopped when they were out of earshot.
Blink avoided looking Mush straight in the eye . . . those big sad brown puppy dog eyes – STOP THINKING YOUR BEST FRIEND IS HOT.
He heaved a deep sigh. "Mush, Mikey, I'm sorry. I was stupid and I didn't think about . . . consequences. Just like you always say I don't. I'm sorry I freaked you out, I'm sorry if I made you mad, I'm sorry if—"
"Blink."
Now that he'd started, he had to keep going. "Look, maybe I'm not, you know, smart, but I'm not dumb either, and I know what I did was dumb because you're my friend and I just want us to stay frie—"
"Blink."
His stomach was full of lead. "Yeah, okay, I get it. You never want to talk to me again. Okay, I'll—"
Mush clamped his hands on Blink's shoulders. "RYAN."
Blink blinked his good eye and met Mush's big soft brown puppy dog . . . "What?"
Now Mush sighed. He dropped his hands back to his sides, and Blink felt a flicker of disappointment. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm not mad?"
"Um. No." Mush took an exasperated step backward, but Blink closed the distance between them. He knew he should have thought about this more. "Mush, you're not talking to me. You're my best friend and . . . If you're not mad why aren't you talking to me?"
"Because I had to figure things out first." Mush stabbed the toe of his sneaker against the concrete floor.
"Figure things out? Oh, well, I guess get it. If you know that I'm attracted to you then that makes being friends with the band's token gay kid, you know, awkward."
Mush pushed out a big sigh again. "No, Blink. I had to figure out . . . how I felt about . . . it."
Blink was confused. Wasn't that what he just said? "About what? Me? Yeah, I kno—"
Mush looked almost as confused at Blink felt. "No, not you." He glanced at the floor. "I know how I feel about you. I mean the kiss."
"Oh," Blink shrugged. Then the full force of Mush's words slammed into him. "OH."
"I told myself I couldn't be around you anymore because . . . I thought if I wasn't around you I would, I don't know, stop feeling—" Mush paused and looked up, straight at Blink. His brown eyes were watery. "I am scared, Blink, but not because of you. 'Cause of me. Ryan? What does it mean if, if I didn't mind that you kissed me? What does it mean if I . . . liked it?"
Blink had a pretty good idea of what it would mean if it were anyone else (himself, for instance, when he and Tim Glover kissed in tenth grade) but for Mush? He may have been tolerant of Blink's "choice," but Blink knew Mush's parents were all for that amendment banning gay marriage. Mush went to church every Sunday and was in the praise band. And he liked the girls' attention and (as far as Blink knew) liked girls, period. But Blink had never seen Mush on the verge of tears, and it was all he could do not to hug him.
"Mikey," Blink's voice was almost a whisper. "Do you really, really mean what you just said?"
Mush nodded, his bottom lip tucked into his teeth.
"Is that the first time you ever thought about kissing a boy? I mean, had you wondered what it would be like before . . . before I, um, kissed you?"
Mush nodded again.
Blink supposed that last question still left some leeway for doubt. Didn't everybody at least think about kissing a member of the same sex at least once? He tried to think of a question that would give Mush – and himself – some clear evidence.
"Mush, have you ever had a long-term interest in a boy? Like a crush, where you want to be with that person and make them laugh and get to kid around and touch them? A crush, but on a boy?" Mush nodded and this time murmured something. Blink tilted an ear closer to his friend. "What was that?"
"I said, 'on you.'"
"Oh," Blink started to shrug when for the second time Mush's words rocked him on his heels. "OH. God, Mush, I—"
Sweet, uncorrupted Michael "Mush" Meyers, had a boy-crush on him? And then Blink had kissed him.
Blink shook away the refrain of stupid stupid stupid his brain was chanting. He had to be strong for Mush, help him figure this out. "But what about anyone else? I mean, is it just me you think you might, um, like? Or think you're attracted to?" Mush mumbled and Blink winced. "I'm really sorry, Mikey, I didn't hear you."
"That freshman Dutchy is hot." Blink watched his friend think for a few seconds. "And even though he can be a complete ass, so is Spot."
Blink heard Sarah calling out orders from the field. He looked at his watch. This had definitely taken longer than a minute, and even though he wasn't crying, Mush looked so conflicted and wretched that Blink knew it wasn't something they were going to fully resolve in the next minute and a half. "Mikey, we gotta go back. Are you gonna be okay? Can you finish rehearsal or do you need to go back to the dorms? I can tell Lou and Denton you're sick."
Mush ground his palms into his eye sockets, then shook his head and jostled his body around a bit, as if shifting pieces back into their proper place. "Ryan, I'm gay. And I'm going to have to learn to live with that. Might as well start now."
Blink swung an arm over Mush's shoulders in what he hoped was a friendly, comforting way as they headed back toward the field. This wasn't going to be easy – for anyone.