Chapter Text
The late August heat was merciless—it felt like you were baking in it. The wind that was supposed to be the saving grace was scarce, nowhere to be seen or felt.
Moisquitos? Definitely. Multiple. Consistent and very much relentless. It felt like they were having a buffet with the humans as the main course, and they were constantly going back for seconds.
The stadium lights blaring alongside the sun, sweat dripping down the onlookers' heads consistently, non-stop. The heat was intolerable, and the bleachers were packed—way too tight. Shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin, too close for strangers, especially while your clothes are stuck to your skin.
It should have been unbearable.
It was unbearable.
So why were the victims screaming? Not out of fear, anger, or sadness. But pleasure? Excitement? Enjoyment? Screaming for who?
A single tall figure stood at the center of the field, elevated above it all.
One man dressed in a decorated blue uniform adorned with golden frills that caught the sun. Long dreads, beautiful ebony skin, and brown eyes were all it took for a crowd to endure the unbearable.
Devon Jackson. The head drum major of DaggersTown University.
Behind him, was the DaggersTown band. A marching band with only the most talented individuals with promising futures as musicians. From the drumline to the dance line, every part of the band was impenetrable.
With a silver baton in his hand and a serious look on his beautiful face, he conducted the band through 'Flight of the Bumblebee,' his hands moving in an explosive 2/4.
The band followed the tempo of his hands perfectly. Flags moving in sync, dancers moving in rhythm, and the band moving in harmony.
Watching him made the heat feel irrelevant.
.
.
.
"Incredible"
Brayden Smith leaned slightly forward, a huge smile spread across his face as he watched in awe as Davon performed.
He heard about Devon, the head drum major for DaggersTown University, known for his unique conducting style and how effortlessly he led the band no matter the circumstances.
But now that he'd seen it in person, they weren't lying.
Every moment was precise, controlled, and perfect. Like Devon himself was the epitome of perfection.
But something didn't sit right with him; it wasn't the majorette team—they were amazing! Nor was it the music.
It was Devon himself.
Brayden narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to get a closer view.
The look in Devon's eyes... they were pretty, yes, no doubt about that. But also distant. Like he wasn't even there performing in front of all these people.
"Passion," Brayden said out loud, abrupt and out of nowhere.
"What?"
Trey turned to face his best friend, averting his gaze from the phone in his lap.
"He's good, but it doesn't look like he wants it. Like he wants to be up there."
Trey looked at Brayden incredulously and then scoffed.
"You're reaching."
"I'm so serious! Just look at him!"
"That's called focus and being locked in."
"No..." Brayden muttered, "That's something else entirely."
Trey sighed, clearly tired of his best friend's detective shenanigans.
"Ever since Cierra called you observant that one time, everything's a government conspiracy."
Brayden's cheeks flushed a light shade of red in embarrassment.
"You're not listen—"
He stopped.
Instinctively, he turned to face Devon.
And for a second, Devon returned the look.
Brayden's breath was caught in his throat as he felt those golden brown eyes stare into his soul. Something tightened in his chest, his hand moving to grip his own shirt.
The look wasn't even long, it ended with Davon blinking his long lashes and looking away
It was barely even a look. He wasn't even sure if Davon had been looking at him at all.
'No way.' He thought to himself. The small interaction—heck! Could that even be considered an interaction? The look wasn't dramatic, yet it incited something in Brayden.
Something sparkled in those eyes, just for a second, but then it was gone the moment it showed itself. Devon turned away, but Brayden's gaze remained on the small of Devon's back.
"Yo."
Brayden jumped when Trey put his hand on his shoulder.
"Damn, are you good? Cierra over there or something." Trey asked in a questioning tone, inquiring what had Brayden so deep in his thoughts.
"No, Cierra was not over there."
"Ok, whatever. I'm going back to the dorm. This heat is kicking my ass. Record the rest for me, k?"
Brayden barely gets a chance to nod before Trey is already striding away. Brayden's gaze lingers on Devon for a moment before focusing on the task at hand.
With both hands, he lifts the phone into the air as Trey disappears into the sea of sweaty bodies and hungry mosquitoes itching for their next meal.
As the band reached the frantic climax of 'Flight of the Bumblebee,' Devon's movements became sharper, more aggressive. Until the final cutoff rings throughout the stadium
A pause of silence... s t r e t c h i n g.
Then
The crowd erupted in applause. Devon doesn't even smile, only lowering his baton and bowing from obligation.
As the marching band filed out, Devon sent Brayden one more brief glance. A quick flicker of eye contact was enough to send a bolt of electricity down Brayden's spine.
He scrambled to make sense of the moment, 'Devon could very well be looking behind me.'
But Brayden knew for a fact that those dazzling golden brown eyes were indeed on him.
Just like time, easy come, easy go. Devon's attention was already off him. He was already descending from the platform as if the 'interaction' were just a casual glance.
Brayden furrowed his thick brows, knitting them together in his own frustration.
'Well... it was, but that's beside the point!'
He tilted his head up, facing the warm, golden hue the sky radiated, tinted crimson and amber. He stared up at the sky aimlessly, his mind shifting back to the elusive interaction they shared not even that long ago.
Brayden placed two fingers to his wrist and muted his thoughts momentarily to listen to his heartbeat.
Badump, Badump, Badump
Erratic sounds of his heart filled his ear. Confirmation that he was DEFINITELY still affected by the 'thing' with Devon.
He wondered how exactly he was supposed to move on from that, how he was supposed to forget. It wasn't exactly forgettable—far from it, actually.
"Yeah... that can't be a good sign. Fuck."
With a long sigh and much hesitance, he pulled himself up from the bleachers. Migrating with the crowd out of the football arena and back into the cool facilities.
.