#and that includes cleaning up the band politics. bc i thought at the start of the fake dating shebang this would be okay

[justanotherfanartist]

heeey guys little social help here? (poll at the end)

get ready for a rare real life lore dump (yippee) because I have a social scenario I’m not sure how to handle. this is your chance to have input on my life like some sort of rpg (if you’re into that kind of thing lmfao)

(I really really hate outing my age range like this but I feel like it might impact peoples choices so. just know I’m on the older end alright)

So, I went to this nearby jazz festival on Saturday. Basically, it’s an event that pulls a bunch of local highschools and their upper and lower level jazz bands together (I’m in my schools lower level group) to compete for awards and finalist placements and stuff like that (very fun very cool experience every time) and something that’s become a habit of mine is scanning each group for anyone interesting and it just happened that there was this guy from another school’s upper band that really stood out to me.

He is genuinely one of the prettiest guys I’ve ever laid eyes on, bro is GORGEOUS and also an amazing trombone player with super clean tone (and was part of a killer trombone soli) so naturally I’m pretty smitten. For real as soon as you start playing an instrument yourself “being good at an instrument” is immediately something added to your type which makes going to these things an interesting experience.

Anyways, I thought he was attractive enough to try and shoot my shot (I do this kinda thing every so often especially if I think I’ll get rejected just as a confidence booster. works like a charm btw) so I made up my mind that hey, we all stash our instruments in the same place, so after the finalists concert when everybody goes to grab their gear and pack up I’ll go up to him and ask him if he wants my number before we all have to leave for the night. Pretty non instrusive introduction that guarantees a short conversation and an excuse for him to leave if I happen to make him uncomfortable, that sort of thing. (I love planning out social interactions in my head before I have them)

(also this is fr the strat bc a) “hey do you want my number?” gives the person a choice and b) if they do say yes awkwardly in the moment but regret it they can always just decide not to text you; it puts the ball more in their court rather than you getting their number and texting them first, that sort of thing)

so that’s exactly what I did. I tapped him on the shoulder, he turned around, and the interaction went like this:

“Hey, you’re one of the trombone players from (insert local highschool’s upper band) right?”

“Yeah?”

“I was just wondering, would you want my phone number? :D”

“Oh, I’m actually not looking for anything right now.”

“Hey, no problem.”

“Thanks though. :)”

“Yeah ‘course!”

and then we split ways.

As of today I found their jazz group’s page on instagram (basically, I’m going around and following all the ones that I thought were really good, including his who placed first just ahead of my school’s upper band in second)(we were psyched btw cus their group is known for crushing everyone so being up there second only to them felt pretty good) and I realized he’s probably following them and I actually did manage to find his page, which is privated (oddly enough he happens to be followed by someone who I very loosely know) so it’s request to follow only.

My question is would it be weird to request to follow him? Based on my instagram page and what I have up he might not be able to recognize me but I’m guessing he’ll know it’s me just because of our interaction and the follow request, but I’m not sure if I’d be breaking a social boundary if I did that.

I don’t intend to hit on him or push him for romance or anything like that— I got a clear and polite “no thanks” and I’m not going to infringe on that full stop (boundaries are to be respected always). Blanket statement I think this guy is cool and an impressively good player, I’d legitimately want to see him perform again or possibly be friends (I’m starved for jazz friends) but I’m just reallllyyy worried it’s gonna come off as creepy or boundary breaking to request a follow so I’m not sure if I should or not.

(my logic is that he already rejected a request for communication so requesting to follow him is essentially doing the same thing again and might come off as creepy or pushing it and the last thing I want is to make this guy uncomfortable. on the other hand it could be seen as completely harmless or even flattering depending on the person but I’m really not sure.)

mutuals give me opinions bc I’m curious what you think (also I’d really appreciate it if you picked something other than maybe lmao or left me a comment of your thoughts or smthn like that. I may be overthinking this)

(asterisk is for extra info for the first poll option)

*regardless of your intentions, which he is unable to truly discern, but will probably assume is still romantic pursuit

[unseeliekey]

Shuichi and Kokichi getting married 💜💙 What do you think that would be like?

IM SORRY IVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS ASK FOR SO LONG I JUST. I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ON IT AND I WANTED TO DO IT JUSTICE. REST UNDER READMORE BECAUSE THIS GETS LONG.

I think! it depends a lot on the universe. i am going to ignore japan’s current stance on gay marriage for this. Post game/VR AU... I’m not sure if they would get married, but if they did, they’d go out of their way to avoid any kind of PR (maybe having learned from kaimaki’s mistakes.) It would either be very, very minimal, or... the whole class is invited (probably minus Shirogane) and it’s very big despite there being twelve guests in attendance- Angie magistrates, obviously! It’s a big affair- a little bittersweet at times, because how can it not be, and Kokichi jokes about his own death and Shuichi shoves cake in his face, and they both have people missing, but their friends are loud enough to make up for it.

It’s similar in a nondespair AU, I think, but... I like parties and I’m going to chat about them having a party! The whole class is invited (plus Shirogane this time) and so are Shuichi’s uncle, and DICE, and NO ONE ELSE. They’ve got some other friends- Shuichi through work, Kokichi through... Kokichi stuff, but not really wedding friends. I think both of them are actually quite private about it- Shuichi is shy, and the attention flusters him, and as much as Kokichi loves drama, he also. Does not like showing vulnerability and it probably gives him HIVES even thinking about it. Writing his vows takes months, (which is fine, because planning also takes months, and Shuichi has his vows down a week after they’re engaged but he spends the entire time overthinking them and ends up stammering when he actually reads them.) DICE end up having to drag Kokichi by his teeth to get out some genuine sentiments- but his still ends up filled with in-jokes and puns and on paper it’s very playful and teasing and fun, a nice contrast to Shuichi’s almost painfully earnest words.

and shuichi goes “oh. yeah. that’s fair actually.” and he ends up emailing their work emails that they never check so technically he told them. but they don’t rsvp and they don’t show up and he only thinks about them a few times.

Anyway! I don’t think the event is traditional at all. Planning is a disaster because Kokichi wants big and Shuichi wants Kokichi to have anything that makes him laugh, and Kokichi secretly wants little secret meanings everywhere. (Chess pieces on the cake, little fake detective pinboards, not-so-subtle floral language, objects that don’t mean anything to anyone but them.) Shuichi panics for a while about his friends, and his parents, and he overthinks it for a long time because he’s not sure if he wants to try and keep the event a little classier for them, or just say fuck it, because who knows if they’re even going to goddamn show up, right?

And Kokichi, who has already invited his nine people, just goes “okay, don’t invite them, then?”

And Shuichi flounders for a while because they’re his parents and it’s his wedding, and then he asks if Kokichi will be insulted if they don’t show up, to which Kokichi informs him that if they do, there’s a minor chance of a fist fight. 

Shuichi goes “you’ll fight my parents on our wedding day????”

And Kokichi goes “no, momota-chan will.”

Because his uncle is there! And Kaito is there (crying the whole way through) and Kaede! and Maki! and Himiko! and Kokichi.

I think in a post game, they walk up the aisle together, because tradition is stupid and they want to be close and they were making out two minutes before the band began to play. but in a universe where Kokichi has DICE with him? Shuichi can wait at the altar (which he is okay with, because, again, anxious) and Kokichi can walk up like the smuggest bastard you’ve ever seen. He does NOT have a veil. What he does have is the most ridiculous fucking cape you’ve ever seen. It’s white, and velvet, and furred, and bedazzled with ballet jewelery, and it takes all nine members of DICE to keep it from dragging all over the chairs around the aisle. It’s so stupid. He trips half way up. Shuichi, who is already dying of nerves, laughs so hard he almost falls over. 

A lot of things go wrong, I think. There’s only 26 people there and a photographer, and neither of them wanted to do rehearsals or anything, so the whole thing is being winged. Something gets set on fire at some point. They accidentally break open a bottle of vintage honeymoon wine from Rantaro instead of the champagne they were meant to be drinking. Kokichi’s white cape ends up stained, which he should have expected considering how stupid and big it is. Miu, weeping, calls them both whores in her speech- OH

 everyone gives a speech. Shuichi’s uncle doesn’t know many of these people that well (especially not the nine weirdos in evening gowns who no one had met prior to Kokichi disappearing to get ready), but every single one of them has something wonderful to say about his nephew. Some of the stories are ribald, or wild, or a little bit unbelievable- but every single person gets up to congratulate them, and most of them cry.

Anyway! after the speeches they all eat. and drink. there’s cake, but there’s also ice cream and pastries and a bowl of skittles that gets increasingly stick as it’s passed around, and people keep talking and keep laughing. Kokichi explicitly told DICE not to flirt with anyone, so naturally they do, with everyone, including Shuichi’s uncle, who is bemused at best. Shuichi has to run to set out a small fire at some point. 

A LIST OF GUESTS WHO CRY:

-Shuichi, choking up as soon as Kokichi reaches him and takes his hands, and then continuing to sniff for the rest of the evening and weep through all the speeches,

-Kiibo, all the way through the vows and uncontrollably,

-Kaito, pretending he isn’t, taking handkerchief after handkerchief from Kaede,

-Kaede, but politely, and she smiles the entire time

-all of DICE, at different points, but they all come up with increasingly stupid excuses for it,

-Korekiyo, who has to excuse himself after the ceremony- when Shuichi hunts him down, he expresses his apology for leaving and says he’s just too happy for them,

-Rantaro, a little, the second Kokichi looks up and wiggles his fingers to show off his ring,

-Miu, the entire way through her speech. Kokichi calls her a crybaby bitch halfway through when it looks like she might be about to break down completely, and that gives her enough strength to get through it,

-Tenko, but she won’t admit it,

-Himiko, openly, only a little bit because she wasn’t allowed to be the flower girl,

-Gonta. a lot. he is one of the happiest people there and he won’t stop crying. he’s embarrassed about it but he’s too happy to stop and he probably makes Kiibo start crying AGAIN at some point,

-Maki, oddly enough, but only when Kokichi and Shuichi move to go and dance. She tries to hide it and snaps at Kaito when he teases her, but when Kaede asks if she’s okay, because they all know she’s not the biggest fan of either Kokichi or the union, she quietly admits she’s crying about seeing Shuichi so happy.

and humiliatingly;

-Kokichi. a lot. through most of it. He gets halfway through his vows and he starts sobbing. Shuichi has to hold his hands to get him through it. He cries when DICE give their blessing and he cries when Shuichi’s uncle gruffly says he’s “a fine young man, though he doesn’t approve of his methods,” and he cries when he calls Miu a crybaby bitch and when Gonta hugs him and when Kiibo sobs into his shoulder and when Kaito musses up his hair and tells him to take care of Shuichi, and he cries through the kiss even though he’s smiling at the same time.

It’s hugely embarrassing to him and years later he refuses to admit to it ever happening despite the photographic evidence otherwise. Shuichi thinks it’s sweet- he’s proud that he managed to be that vulnerable around that many people. Kokichi has called him a slur after he expressed that sentiment.

There’s a last dance, though, after everyone has been dragged to various hotel rooms or passed out drunk, and they should clean up but instead they change the music to something slow- a waltz, maybe, with Shuichi adjusting the stupid cape and Kokichi reaching up to gently fix Shuichi’s tie (which has gotten a little rumpled by this point.) And they dance, with the lights a little lower and helium balloons sagging to the floor, and they dance. And maybe they repeat their vows- not the same words, but the same sentiments. Or maybe they don’t say anything at all.

There’s no first dance as such- music is played, and there’s wine, but Kaede is the first one to start dancing, dragging her date with her and tearing it up. Shuichi’s had a little too much attention, really, and he’s happy to sit back and chat a little more casually and hold Kokichi far too closely as they watch the others slowly migrate to the dancefloor. But after a while- when mostly everyone is dancing and his heart has stopped pounding quite so painfully, and he’s had just enough champagne to feel brave and Kokichi is looking so happy under the lights, he takes his hand and drags him over to the band and requests something- (i’m thinking the lovecats by the cure, both bc goth saihara rights and because it works very well for saiouma i think.) -and then he takes Kokichi’s hands again and they go dancing.

(and obviously everyone is staring at them now, because it’s their wedding, and with that cape how can you not- but Shuichi is too distracted to notice, or maybe too happy to feel self-conscious, and Kokichi is whispering something in his ear that makes him laugh and it’s kind of hard for everyone to look away from them, you know?)

Either way, when they get to their room they probably boink for a bit and then pass out only to be woken up late for their honeymoon two hours later by Rantaro, who knew this would happen and did warn them, and who receives a very nice postcard from France a few days later informing him that they made the flight. 

[hua-fei-hua]

[tevotbegotnaught]

“The conductor…in the power he has over others…it is in his interest as a human being, as well as that of his musical achievements, to resist the temptation to misuse it. Tyranny can never bring to fruition artistic-or for that matter human- gifts; subordination under a despot does not make for joy in one’s music-making. Intimidation deprives the musician of the full enjoyment of his talent and proficiency. Yet I should certainly not want to impugn the employment of earnest severity or even the occasional borrowing of the Bolt of Zeus; the latter if the hand knows how to wield it, can in exceptional situations bring surprisingly good results. Severity is a legitimate even indispensable means of dealing with people...”

Bruno Walter

In my Summer of 42 (years), I was a college freshman…again. With neither Mexican weed nor dormitory hijinks to distract me, I worked through the full Brooklyn College Core Curriculum and a handful of music courses. My degree plan also required an ensemble each semester. When the Assistant Dean interviewed me, he looked over my CV and immediately suggested their Jazz Band. After hearing them, I chose a contemporary music ensemble founded by a composition professor. Fall semester, she was on sabbatical and a trumpet prof, Juilliard guy and veteran freelancer, ran the class. To begin, he sat everyone in a circle and asked us to play “Happy Birthday" in hocket. Most of the class was unsure of the melody and some also thought it a stupid idea. With our nonstandard instrumentation, we massacred Second Viennese School composers for the rest of the term.

Spring term, the founder returned. She was just over five feet tall, brown-skinned, with narrow shoulders and mineshaft dark eyes. When she listened, her head nodded while bottomless eyes fixed on you. Raised in a distressed country, her life moved from prodigy to conservatory-trained professional with impeccable musicianship: piano, score reading, solfege, conducting, improvising, composing. Then, she came to the US, with zero money and English and rebuilt her career from scratch. At BC, she conducted the orchestra until politics pushed her out. Now, she gave composition lessons and led this ensemble.

Our roster still read as spare parts: three singers, three pianists, two flutes, violin, saxophone, clarinet, guitar; some highly skilled, others not. For most, English was a second or even third language. Our professor's first assignment: list your colleagues’ instruments, find pieces for a subset of our forces, select only pieces written after 1960, bring scores/parts for audition.

The following week, we presented our finds. First, someone showed her a John Cage duet. As she turned pages, Maestra’s face went blank .

“Why did you get this?”

A mumbled answer.

Maestra closed the score. “You got eet because eet looks easy. Didn't you? First of all, it’s a short duet. Three, maybe four minutes of music. Nothing to do on a real pro-GRAM. Not serious. Not serious at all.”

More mumbling.

“Get something else. Thank you.”

She jabbed the score into their hands, then addressed the class.

“Nothing about John Cage. John is extraordinary. When you choose music, don’t just take a name you theenk you know. Read the score. You are musicians …supposed to be….”

Next, one of the singers produced a folio. Its font, ornate and oversized. I winced. Maestra saw it was a Puccini aria with piano accompaniment and recoiled.

“After nineteen-sixty? Thees? You are kidding me!”

Again, she faced us.

“Thees is NOT opera work-SHOP. I know some of you did not make it there. I'm very sorry about that. Please find some other music to sing. There are so many good theengs. I hope you will find out. Music does not end with Verdi, Puccini.”

So it went. Gratefully, she anticipated our poor choices and suggested some pieces.

Meastra spoke Spanish to some students, aware of the terrain they navigated and supportive. Jorge, a Mexican pianist, was one of her projects. He was a skilled player, an enthusiastic and warm colleague. His giggle often broke up the class. In our third meeting, we rolled the piano front, Jorge sat on the bench. While he longed for mama's home cooking, he wasn’t missing any meals in Brooklyn. His midsection expanded well beyond his tight-waisted pants, straining shirt buttons. Maestra questioned him on preparation: “you’re playing the second movement, what about the third?”

Unaffected by the prodding, he began to play. A minute in, she said, “stop”.

He continued, eyes closed.

She shouted, “Stop! I’m telling you, STOP"

He looked over.

“JORGE….WHAT…ARE…YOU….DOING?”

It wasn’t meant as a question. Jorge smiled and gently shook his head.

“Why are you smiling? Look at you!”

Her voice leveled.

“This is not ready. It’s better, but it's not ready.”

She shifted.

“I am very worried about you. Look..at…your…STOMACH. You need to take better care of yourself. You know, pianists perform in pro-FILE. Theenk what you show to the audience.”

Jorge wasn't smiling. He put his hand on his belly.

“Everyone should con-see-der an exer-CISE pro-GRAM. I am forty years, Dio mio! Almost FEEFTY years older than some of you. Take care of yourselves.”

She dismissed him with a sweeping gesture.

“Ok, who is next? Anna, where is the list? Geeve it to me!”

Her assistant, a brilliant, tiny, Yankee grad student, always cleaned up.

Maestra partnered Jorge with another pianist for a Gyorgy Ligeti duo. Its ingenious architecture, a complex cycle revealed one beat at a time. In Yogi Berra's construction, half the score was ninety-nine percent rests. The players needed infallible inner time. While they played, Maestra leaned over the piano, right hand supporting her, left turning pages. She nodded her head slightly in tempo. The pianist's hits charged toward and away from each other like Pacman's gobbling goblins.

“You are late!” she slammed her left hand down. They went back. Another hammer blow. Back again. The piece never made it to the program.

At the end of the initial class, she approached me about Milhaud's “Le Creation du Monde", a chamber work for winds, including alto saxophone. We didn’t have the other winds, of course, but a young woodwind quintet, in residence for the year, would help out.

“Le Creation" story moves from brooding chorale to a raggy bolero where the winds pass around jumpy tunes, then strut them all, polyphonically, in a joyous finale.

At the first of four rehearsals, we were less than half personnel. Maestra had been enthusiastic about the quintet, encouraging us to meet, hear and study with them. But they were collaborating with major artists and appearing all over the world. Their residency, now in name only. No one in the group even bothered to return her emails. Our conductor was livid. (Later, the assistant assured us that Maestra never returned emails, either.) In rehearsal, the music just marked time. In long stretches with no tune and no landmarks, I fell into a hole and missed my entrance.

“What are you DOING! Counting! Count-ting! I can’t do everytheeng for you.”

Concert day was the first we all sat down to play. In the midst of my disciplined colleagues, I was a bellowing hippo. During the chorale, my slow descending notes were either out-of-tune, out-of-time, the wrong dynamic, or all three.

The baton came down hard “NO..NO..NO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

“How can you be late. It's jazz. Jazz! You play jazz? Right? You know who is John Col-TRANE? Play it like Col-TRANE! Why should I have to tell YOU this. Come on!”

I wore other hats that night: soprano, clarinet. Still, my mind remained fogged through the Milhaud finale.

The quintet players all demolished their solos. With a huge smile, Maestra gave each well-deserved bows. When they were done, she flashed her eyes at me, scowling. Then, jerked both her hands upwards, like she was flipping a pool toy. I stood up and stared straight down.

Next semester, a composition student brought a score. It was mostly squiggles and arrows, notation designed to move the music forward without defining functional harmony or conventional melody. She conducted a circle for each “bar”. We could gauge the length of each gesture and respond in time. Simultaneously, she sang the gestures using their pitched start/end points, conducted, turned pages and offered substantive commentary. If one of us was even a second late, her glance immolated them.

I became friends with some of her students. Waiting outside her office, they often heard shouting. When the door opened, students walked out in tears. Some planned to work closely with Maestra toward their Master's or DMA. Those plans would change...

An alumni couple created an endowed chair for Maestra, protecting her from political games. To celebrate, students accompanied her to the donors’ Connecticut home for a musicale. We loaded two vans with the usual music school suspects: waifish Asian virtuoso string players, an Eastern European sturm und drang pianist, a diffident “difficult” composer, and bit players like me.

Both donors were in their eighties and fabulously rich, earnest, lefty intellectuals. The wife wore a gas mask-like apparatus, its hoses attached to a whirring box on her back. I strained to understand her speech, but her eyes shone with love and curiosity. The couple warmly welcomed us to a large room packed with guests.

I was part of a quartet: oboe, flute, clarinet and piano, playing a student work. The composer, a young Dominican guy, rising star in the program. A Caribbean undergraduate writing skilled takes on contemporary European music. His piece used the difference-tone clusters of Gyorgy Ligeti: loud, high notes, staggered and longheld, producing acoustic anomalies: window-fan undertones and piercing oscillations. Bathing in timbral waves and madly counting beats, I couldn’t find the piano part, though we made it to the end without requiring oxygen or a conductor. The composer took a awkward bow and disappeared.

With Maestra as Maitre’d we served up a baroque cello sonata, Beethoven piano music and some Sondheim. Then, our little foursome loudly dropped a turd on the buffet table.

The donor husband was one of those ruddy-faced white guys who wear baggy corduroys and turtle necks over their barrel physiques. He sought me out, towering above me as I packed up my clarinet.

“What did he mean with that piece?"

“Sir, I…I wouldn’t want to represent the composer, he never said anything about..”

“Now, you must know something.”

He was an important man accustomed to getting answers, fast and in full.

“I know my part and how it fits with the others. The woodwinds are playing difference tones, Stravinsky used...”

“Why didn’t HE explain that to us? We go to concerts all the time. Conductors explain new music. They give examples, give context. You can’t just write something like that and expect people to automatically understand it.”

Gulp....“Of course.”

“It’s his responsibility to help the audience understand the music”

I looked over. By the buffet, the composer was holding a plate, one of the string players laughing next to him. Mrs Donor approached me, extending her hand. The box on her back hissed and clicked. Above the mask, searching eyes, below, a voice from a radio in another room. Was she talking about the quartet? It was too uncomfortable. I interrupted.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality and the opportunity to play for you. You and your husband are so generous.”

She squeezed my hand and leaned in, radio transmission drowning in static. Her husband came to her side.

“My wife is saying we've been to many, many concerts of new music. Starting way back, with Lenny Bernstein. He taught us there’s always something to learn. He introduced us to many extraordinary artists”

He put his hand lightly on her back. Over her shoulder, Maestra was listening to a guest, head level with their sternum, eyes searchlights in reverse. The radio faded and its whirring submerged in the din.

We got back very late. Our vans parked by the gatehouse and turnstile on the east side of campus. A few yellow lights glowed in the music building. Maestra thanked us. We said goodnight.

Drifting on an acoustic sea, our ancestors explored sound, harnessing the waves. Between foaming peaks and psychic undertow, they found power. From our African beginnings, to the stars, every lineage counted on those who navigated, who mastered instruments, who carried in them songs and stories. They became the music, while it lasted.

[angel-gidget]

Fire At My Feet Again (Tim/Cassie, post-Red Robin)

Title:  Fire at my Feet Again Fandom: DCU, Teen Titans, Red Robin (preboot)     Rating:  PG-13 | Words: 4.6K  | a03 link Summary: Tim and Cassie have been assigned to mentor the upcoming new version of Young Justice. Cassie isn’t drunk enough yet to process this turn of events properly. But if she has her say, with Tim’s help, she soon will be.

Set a handful of years after Red Robin. Contains miscellaneous comic references including 90’s YJ. Yet also borrows an element or two from the Young Justice cartoon. Bc I do what I want. Also unbeta’d. Bc impatience.

Note: Also using this fic to fulfill prompts/days 1-3 of Tim Drake Week (First & Lasts, Childhood & Adulthood, Dreams & Reality) bc this sucker took me long enough that I say it counts and I’d like to catch up.

The déjà vu was murder. Cassie wanted to scream at the Justice League that they had the wrong girl, she wasn't a MENTOR, if anything, she was still a MENTEE, but Tim was standing right next to her, giving his Serious Business head-nod, and Cassie realized that if she did, in fact, start screaming at the JLA, she wouldn't be screaming at strangers.

Because screaming at Aquaman and Superman and Batman was one thing, but the NEW Batman was once Nightwing and she didn't really like the idea of screaming at him. She would also be screaming at Vic, who was her friend. And--sweet Hera--she had FRIENDS in the JLA. You're a grown-up now, Cassie. You're a MENTOR now, Cassie.  So is Tim, for that matter. Hell. She didn’t want to admit out loud how familiar it was. How, in the last days before she gave up the Titans, she’d had trouble remembering the names of multiple team members; they had come and gone so quickly. So playing chaperone to a bunch of kids she didn’t know was actually way more familiar of a feeling than it ought to have been. But they weren’t asking her and Tim to be team leaders. They were asking her and Tim to play Red Tornado to their new batch of kids. Not to lead. Just to make sure they didn’t break anything. To help them with reporters.  To save their asses if things got out of hand. To be around if they wanted advice. "You start on Monday." Vick told them. "We start on Monday." Cassie repeated in a daze. When the rest had left, and it was only her and Tim, the feeling that it was real began to press on her lungs. "We start on MONDAY. Oh God." "Cassie? Are you o--Um. I can do it. You don't have to help. I--" "Do you remember what we were like?! You'll need my help. WE may need help. What if they have their own Kon? What if they have their own BART?" "Or Slo-bo." "Oh God." "It'll be okay. They're just as likely to have their own Secret, somebody they'll band around to protect. Or their own Anita, who can radiate reason. Or their own YOU, somebody smart who can represent the team and keep them in line. Ultimately, they'll be themselves and we can just give them the benefit of the doubt. It'll be okay." Maybe it was the truth of his words, or the blatant compliment, but Cassie did feel herself begin to calm down. This wasn’t history repeating itself. It was just a few parallels here and there. And the history wasn't all that bad anyway. When did she get so good at only remembering the rough parts? "I'm good. I swear I am, but I think I need a drink." Tim's smile was weird. Like he was about to be nostalgic, but it was 50/50 whether it was going to be a good idea or not. "I know just the place." She half-expected him to take her to the same zany hole-in-the-wall they went to for his 21st birthday years back, but he surprised her with a Gotham spot she had never seen before. It was kind of on the (conventional) sporty side, and kind of posh. Not really the sort of place she had expect him to go. "This was my dad's favorite place." Cassie shook her head to clear it. She could count on her hand the number of times Tim has talked about his dad with her, and four times out of five, he had been in tears while doing it. "Do you remember Klarion?" Tim asked. "Bum, bum, bum… The witch boy." She wanted to slap herself for completing the obnoxious little tune on autopilot, but decided not to be too hard on herself. It WAS catchy. "Well, when he had us stuck in adult bodies, I got the bright idea that I should go check on my dad in his natural environment." "There is no way that went well." Tim nodded, "He said I reminded him a bit of his son, and he invited me to sit down and have a beer with him." Cassie felt a smirk coming on. "And you had never had a beer in your life." "Correct. I spit it up all over him. And he never learned that the weird guy who chilled with him and wrecked his night was me.”

Cassie chuckled, “So, do you want a beer?”

“Hell, no. Can’t stand the stuff.” It might have been the funky lighting, but as Tim scratched the back of his head, she could swear he was blushing.

“Me neither. Good thing we’re old enough to admit it. Hey bartender!”

Cassie waved at the old man behind the counter. He seemed to be hard of hearing, as he kept cleaning the other end of the bar. She sighed, “Go over the new roster with me.”

“They haven’t got the official—“

“I know you know the biggest candidates for this thing, and I’d like to have a heads up, please and thanks.”

Tim nodded, as he waved his own hand in the old man’s direction to help her out, “Okay. So Lian has already said yes, and if there is a god, she will hopefully end up being team leader…”

Cassie smiled, “Roy Harper’s kid would be good at it. Though Robin will probably fight her for it…”

“Damian will be there under duress. Dick thinks it will be good for him, but the chances are that if he gets out of line…”

“He absolutely won’t listen to you, so I will have to do it. Uhgh.”

Tim gave her a pained laugh, “Thank you in advance?”

Cassie shrugged. She was already beginning to understand why the League was insisting on both of them. There had been some rosters of the Titans that were like that, some deferring only to Robin and some only to Wonder Girl. But by that time, she and Tim had mastered being in-sync to the point that it was a (mostly) doable nightmare.

“Who’s the heaviest hitter we’ll probably have to clean up after?”

Tim steepled his fingers thoughtfully, “That’s a toss-up between Damian’s friend Colin, who is actually an incredibly nice kid, and Jon Kent: our new Superboy-to-be.”

Cassie frowned, “Wait, I thought… what happened to Christopher?”

“You didn’t…?” Tim’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Um, a lot of things happened to Chris. But when he came home from the phantom zone a few months ago, he… well, it wasn’t like when a Robin gets replaced, but he told me it took a lot of adjusting to the fact that an entire time-line crisis had given him a baby brother that was already twelve years old. Last I’ve heard from him, he’s trying to decide on a new code-name and … well, he’s too old for the team.”

She felt her draw drop. “Chris Kent, who was like barely past my hip last I saw him, is TOO OLD for this team? What the hell?!”

“Cassie, the last time you saw him, I was babysitting him because he was ten. And with the phantom zone, well…”

“Well how old is he n—wait. Don’t answer that. Not until I’ve had whiskey, because this  now officially calls for whiskey. BARTENDER. WHISKEY.” The time for being polite and patient had officially passed.

Cassie cradled her head in her hands as she listened to Tim placate the offended bartender, and modify her order. Apparently whiskey wasn’t specific enough. Apparently the brown-eyed little boy she’d last seen wearing little boy shorts and a cartoon character wristwatch was now too freaking old to join Young Justice 2.0.

“So help me, Tim, if you’ve ordered something crazy-expensive, you are buying.”

Tim sighed, and Cassie felt a twinge of guilt. This wasn’t any easier for him. Hell, it might be harder. She knew Damian always made things harder for Tim.

Cassie was both boggled and somewhat grateful that she didn’t have a new Wonder Girl to contend with. Though, now that she thought about it, it did seem almost a shame for one to be missing from the roster… No.

No, she was still too young to be getting mopey over legacies. Not that she hadn’t always dug the idea of an Amazon legacy, but it was supposed to be, like, a general legacy. Not hers. Not yet. And yet…

“I am buying, and you will like it. I promise. It’s only a little expensive, but trust me that you don’t want the default of anything in this place.”

The next thing she knew, she had a strong-smelling double-shot over ice in front of her. It tasted like honey. If honey weren’t made by bees, but instead made by kangaroos kicking her in the face. She decided she liked it.

“Cassie, you’re supposed to sip that.”

She smirked at him, “I’ll sip the next one. Better hope our tab’s on your platinum card.”

He snorted, but didn’t really protest, taking a taste of his own glass.

She observed him.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head as he drank, though not with the speed of someone rushing a shot. It took the shadows off his face for a moment, so she could clearly see the tiredness around his eyes and the faint stubble around his jaw. She faintly recalled that said stubble had come very late in life to him. At the very tail-end of puberty.

She remembered that the first time she had kissed him—mourning Kon’s death in a sea of shattered glass in the Titan’s sublevel—the line from his cheek to his adam’s apple had been completely smooth.

Don’t go there, Cassie.

That was a long time ago, Cassie.

“So… um. So how’s Kon taking the whole codename thing?”

Tim shrugged, blinking his eyes open as he continued to hold the glass near his lips. “You know about as much as I do. He can’t decide what to pick. That is, he agrees that he’s years overdue to shelve “Superboy”, but replacing it is giving him conniptions.” Tim gestured the bartender back to refill her glass.

“That’s about what I know,” Cassie conceded, “But somehow, you always know a little more. So spill.”

As promised, she sipped the next glass. Sipping was like getting kicked by a baby honey-making kangeroo. It was still pretty damn good. She raised her pinky jokingly, which finally got a smile out of Tim that went up to his eyes as he spoke.

“He’s actually been trying to pick Chris’s brain on the matter. While Kon can hardly think of anything, Chris’s knowledge of Kryptonian language and mythology is giving him a ton of ideas and he just can’t choose.”

“Yeah, well. Kon’s gonna have to get used to choosing names in general. And soon.”

Tim’s puzzled expression stopped her cold.

“Oh Hera. He hasn’t told you yet.”

Tim similarly froze, “He… told me there was something he though he’d tell a lot of people in person. Said it wasn’t bad news. But with his new off-world mission, and how, um, busy we both will be… “

Cassie nodded. If Kon wanted to protest, he could blame her.

“M’gann is pregnant.”

It was always fun: managing to surprise Tim with something he’d clearly had absolutely no clue about beforehand. So fun. So rare. He was even choking a bit on his own drink.

“You’re serious. Kon’s going to be… a dad?”

“Totally.”

“Wow. He’s got to be over the moon. Both in a happy and terrified way. I’ll be an honorary uncle. Heh…”

He went serious then, totally quiet. Sometimes Cassie didn’t dig the reminder that she didn’t really have the full specs of the brain of Timothy Drake. But then again, did anyone?

She held back a tiny flinch as Tim set down his drink and put his hand over hers…

“Are you okay?” he practically whispered.

“Yes…?” she mimicked his low voice.

“Because I know you’ve never liked talking about how things ended, but it’s alright to…”

Gears clicked into place.

“Omigod. Tim. I’m fine. Kon and I are both totally over each other. Promise. Seriously, have you been worrying about that for the past five years?”

His face didn’t turn red, but his ears did.

“Hey, you wouldn’t talk about it, okay? And Kon may be my best friend, but… he’s not my only best friend. You and Bart… you can’t think I love you any less. Do you?”

Holy shit. The L-word. From TIM. In a totally platonic sense, of course.

As it should be, Cassie.

She knew Tim had been trained to resist truth serum and torture since his Robin days. Apparently, his own taste in alcohol was considerably more effective if it could get talk of actual feelings out of him.

Focus, Cassie. He asked you a question.

“I know you love me.” She squeaked.

A distinctly fraught look pulled his eyebrows together, and it occurred to Cassie that her assurance didn’t sound very believable.

So she tried again, “I’m serious. I don’t mean that in whatever placating double-meaning Bat-way you guys usually communicate in Gotham. I mean it. I know. You love me. I love you too.”

Those burning ears of his were back, but at least the distressed twist to his forehead had gone away. And that… Cassie knew she’d said enough. Her brain knew, anyway. Her tongue didn’t. “If… if a burning building had you and my mom inside and I only had time to save one, I’d save my mom because she didn’t sign up for the life we did. But I’d be every bit as devastated over losing you as if I had lost her.”

What the hell, Cassie?! Dark escalation much?

She spared a glance at her drink as though it had betrayed her. Was she on glass number two or number three?

Tim just snorted with a smirk, “Me too.”

He took another sip, which seemed to oddly sober his face again, “Though… I’d probably be more devastated if it was you. I… I sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with me considering how fast I recovered from my mom’s death. We weren't  close. I… I wanted us to be. So much. But we weren’t.”

Cassie held her breath. She… she had known that Tim’s mom was out of the picture. That when his dad died, that was it. Officially one of Batman’s orphans. But she’d never…

Apparently, it was Tim’s turn to look at his drink as though it were up to shady behavior.

“I’ve never admitted that out loud to anybody. Not in so many words, anyway.”

They both let the silence breathe a moment, before Cassie tentatively let her curiosity get the best of her.

“What was her name? Wanna tell me about her?”

Tim didn’t look her in the eye, preferring to keep his gaze pinpointed on the single oversized ice cube in his glass, but he nodded.

“Her name was Janet. She um…” A tiny strange grin quirked the side of his mouth and he finally looked up at her through messy black bangs, “Remember that time when your mom invited me and Bart to dinner with you, and she complained for half an hour about the ‘jet-set’ archaeologists who have all the money but half-assed dedication to historical findings? Who are all about the fun and polish?”

“Um, yes?”  Oh gods. Helena Sandsmark’s fifth favorite rant topic. She had hours of material on the unfairness of wealthy socialites’ interaction with the archaeology scene. Cassie always died of embarrassment anytime someone she knew was exposed to even a fraction of it.

“My mom was one of those.”

Cassie slumped in her chair, beginning to feel her own ears turn red.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry—”

And Tim giggled. Giggled. It was… stupid but nice and he kind of sounded like he hadn’t taken in quite enough oxygen at first to do it properly.

“Don’t be, Cass. Your mom didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I wasn’t mad. It was… nice remembering her. She was spoiled, but in a classy kind of way. At least, that’s what my dad would say about it. But he might have been biased. Considering.”

“Considering.” Cassie let a relieved giggle of her own slip.

The silence that followed wasn’t a bad one. She eventually realized that Tim was faintly tapping on the edge of the bar to the tune of the music softly playing over he speakers, though she didn’t recognize the song.

At some point in their conversation, he had let go of her hand, and she tried not to overthink her awareness of that. She also tried not to overthink the fact that she was mentally listing the different ways she might get him to put it back.

She was startled from carefully not contemplating these things when his finger tips continued tapping, but this time against her own fingers lingering on the bar. She saw an expectant expression on his face, and it took her a moment to realize that the music had changed.

Cassie’s eyes widened. Was that.. Mmmm Bop? It was. The one hit from that stupid band that every member of Young Justice has solemnly sworn to hate into eternity was dancing over the speakers.

Some members, however, had been lying through their teeth when taking said oath.

Cassie had been one of them. Apparently, so had Tim.

Their moment of mutually tapping to forbidden tunes was interrupted as the old bar keep slammed a giant pink drink in front of Cassie’s nose.

“From th’ gentleman.” The man muttered, tottering away.

Cassie frowned. Tim seemed to be on the case, however, as he made a subtle pointing down the bar. She looked over her shoulder and saw the guy. He was tall and broad, with a lear and patch of scruff on his chin that reminded Cassie of Tim’s old Mr. Sarcastic disguise. Just… without the sarcasm. His target of choice hadn’t accepted the drink yet, and he was already elbowing his buddies and preparing to stand.

“He looks like the pushy type to me,” Cassie muttered, “Mr. Detective?”

Tim gave a small sigh, “I’m inclined to agree. How do you want to play this?”

There were a lot of correct choices. Not the least of which was taking the drink and pretending it meant nothing. Making eye contact and firmly pushing the drink away was a fair call too. If Mr. Pushy pushed, well… It would hardly be any skin off her back to return the favor. But a hero was always supposed to avoid escalating the situation or provoking it. Such was the correct choice.

You’re going to be a mentor, Cassie.

Meaning—she replied to the voice in her head— that if she was going to do something wild and on the side of crazy, it had to be tonight. So, she grabbed Tim’s hand and whispered in his ear.

“Pretend to be my boyfriend.”

His eyes went comically wide for a fraction of a second, but the next instant, he was giving her a succinct nod of the head.

She felt his fingertips slide up to her jaw, pinpricks of cold from the condensation of his drink. She barely registered the procession from one moment to the next as his lips were suddenly touching hers.

Barely touching. Very lightly.

But staying. Not a peck.

Rather, a quick brush followed by a very slow second brush.  

Her eyes slipped closed, acknowledging that the feeling was nice, if unexpected.

She held still everywhere save her mouth, mimicking his movement until she could breathe in the honey-tang from his breath instead of her own.

She then set her icy fingernails against his cheek, as was only fair.

He gave a quick inhale that let her know she had startled him back.

“Two for flinching.” She chuckled against his mouth.

In an instant, she wanted desperately to see his expression, but he ducked his head to whisper in her ear again.

“Why go back to competing when we’ve gotten so good at teaming up?”

Tim thought he was so clever sometimes. She wanted to agree and roll her eyes at the same time. She was about to reply when something in the shift of his shoulders told her they had trouble.

“What is it?”

“Pushy Type has strolled out with his friends, but they went around the alley area of the building without grabbing a ride and none of them had car keys.”

Cassie hissed, “They wanna jump us? Are you serious? This neighborhood sucks.”

Tim pulled back far enough that could see his face. There was some uncertainty there that he was doing his utmost to hide, but Cassie was too familiar with it to be fooled by it anymore.

Goddess. He liked it. He liked it as much as I did.

And now he’s wondering if he messed up.

“Tim—“

“I know the corner they’ve picked. No cameras, no witnesses. They’d be… very surprised to not have the advantage. We could change into uniform in the restrooms and sneak out the back of the kitchen. It’ll be fun.”

And… he was off. He even left the barstool he’d been sitting on spinning.

Fine.

Stupid bat-birds and their emotional issues.

She’d let him get away with it for now.

——

Two hours later, they stumbled into Tim’s apartment dripping wet, with an unanticipated number of cuts and bruises.

“Fun, you said. We intimidate them and they’ll re-think their life-choices, you said.” Cassie scoffed.

Tim clutched his bruised rib, “I didn’t know C-listers were developing their own knock-off venom pills these days. It’s a recent development.”

His other arm was over her shoulder, keeping weight off his bruised ankle. If knock-off venom could punch her right into him, she didn’t want to think about what the original Bane could probably do.

But it probably didn’t help that they were both a little tipsy. While Tim might not have guessed that Mr. Pushy—who had wanted to be called The Dejector, of all things, yeesh—would be carrying supervillain steroids, they both would have resolved the fight a lot faster if they had both been sober and had their minds off… well.. The Thing they were avoiding talking about.

After they had the perps bagged and tied for the Gotham PD, Tim had decided to play it safe and not drive his motorcycle back. Cassie had similarly decided against flying.

So they had walked.

And then it rained.

Because Gotham.

Cassie carefully set Tim down on his couch. She then followed his directions to find the first aid kit as he began to check himself for damage.

“Just so we’re clear: I’m not actually mad, Tim. Just grumpy. I had plans for tonight. They didn’t involve this many scrapes.”

“I… Oh.” He froze, “I didn’t know I was keeping you. Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Cassie corrected, setting the kit down by his foot and she cinched up the leg of his jeans. (The nice thing about his crazy expensive wardrobe: there was some extra stretch to the denim.) “You were at the center of the plans.”

“Oh.” He tensed again, and Cassie worried for a moment that she had hurt him just by applying ice. But as she looked up, she realized his ears were red again.

Okay, Wonder Girl. Time to be brave.

“Confession time. So… you already know I love you. We got that out of the way. The big secret is that I also might… kinda like you on top of that.”

Tim snorted, but it was with a tiny hopeful smile on his face that quickly smoothed itself out to boarder-line sly.

“Oh really?”

If he was gonna be that way about it, there was no need to be delicate with the application of the ice. He flinched for real.

“Yeah,” Cassie muttered, meeting his eye, “Funny how that works.”

“Funny how it’s mutual.” He panted.

Cassie blinked. “Does this mean we…?”

“If you want.” Tim whispered.

She kissed him.

Sweat, rainwater, scrapes and all. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, and even when she bumped his foot and his leg tensed, he still clutched back.

It was hard to tell who’s idea it was to lean back into the couch. Definitely her idea to start lifting his shirt off. His hair was just long enough that damp tendrils lingered where his neck met his shoulders and she didn’t resist the temptation to run her hands through it. He rolled into the movement like a cat with his eyes closed, and something like déjà vu struck her for the second time that day.

For all that Tim’s everyday body language exuded a polite distance, actually touching him was so very different. Kind of like a sunflower desperate for a hint of light. As if no one had held him for years. Maybe no one had.

Rain still clung to her own hair as well, water droplets shaking loose from assorted strands of her blond hair. They splashed onto Tim’s chest, making him shiver.

She knew he could resist the cold, if he wanted. He could use a simple stretch of his own self control to curb his reactions, but he chose not to. Chose to let her see it, and the thought lit something warm in her chest.

She leaned in close again, feeling her own shirt slide up, enjoying the contrast of warmth where their stomaches touched and cold where their hair got in the way. Tim was the one doing the kissing then, returning to that slow brush he seemed to have perfected, only against her neck instead of her lips. His arms held tight, tighter. And she gladly returned the favor until—

“OUCH!”

His whole body tensed, but Cassie knew it was the foot.

The Achilles Heel, as mom would say.

“Guess it would be more fun to save the rest for when we’re both in one piece, huh?”

Tim sighed, “‘Rest’ implies a finite amount. Was going more for an indefinite sort of plan.”

Cassie grinned.

“I’ll remember that. Now where are your towels, Young Man Wonder?”

He scowled at her, but he gave up the location of the towels. And the location of his popcorn machine. And blankets. And spare pyjamas. And dvd collection.

I could get very used to this.

She was cuddled in his arms on the couch again, but this time calm and dry with antibiotics gently applied to her minor scratches.

“It’s different this time, you know. I can feel it.” She whispered.

Tim stirred beneath her, though he took a moment to speak.

“You mean… us?”

She nodded against his chest, “Us. The vibe of it. The… the kissing. It’s different. We’re different.”

She didn’t have the energy to lift her head, but she felt him nod all the same.

“Last time, we were in a bad place. Now we’re in a good one.”

She smiled against him and trusted that he could feel it, “Even if you have to face down the Damian squad on Monday?”

“It won’t be Damian’s squad. Not immediately, anyway. But yes. Even then. We can do this. Together.”

Cassie threaded her fingers through Tim’s as her eyes fluttered shut for the night.

She believed him.

F.I.N.

[hua-fei-hua]

Extra Notes: Music of the Moment Ch. 10

chapter can be read on ao3 or ff.net

i chose cliché by mxmtoon for this chapter’s title for reasons that i don’t really think suit the chapter as well as i thought it would?

the chapter was supposed to be mostly abt kmjr hanging out and having witty banter and being friends in the uniform room, and while the chapter is like that, i guess i wanted to have this moment where the two of them “clicked” and kaminari had like these vague thoughts that he liked her (although it wouldn’t be fully realized yet), which is why i picked the lyrics i did “it seemed to good to be true / i wanted to be with you / we clicked like legos / or the clacking of tap shoes”

although, the summary lyrics “it seemed to good to be true (it was too good to be true)” is actually a snippet of foreshadowing

like don’t panic or anything; there’s a happy kmjr ending here, but sometimes (and especially in the case of kmjr) shit kinda needs to hit the fan before a relationship can happen

this chapter ended up being more abt kmjr being friends than anything else tho

this chapter was actually inspired by this time in my senior year when i spent my ER (did i ever clarify that “ER” stands for “early release” and means you just have no classes after fourth or fifth period? i feel like i did) helping my friend and some of the uniform managers clean up this empty classroom to be used as the new uniform room, since our previous one was apparently water-damaged

this adventure happened in early november rather than early december, however

we had a separate uniform room for our rose parade uniforms (since those were different from our usual ones since they were for the district band), and i also occasionally helped clean that out when i felt lonely second semester

we actually had somewhere between four and six uniform managers for our band of ~100 kids, but mina and tooru are the only ones doing anything in this au bc we don’t really have any names for kids outside of 1-a and 1-b

when i was making the schedules for all the 1-a (and some 1-b) kids, i actually ended up making tooru the busiest, with seven classes (six normal + zero period band), choreo (a dance team), and one class of hers being drama

mina has ER 5, hence why she’s putting in the hours alone at the start of this chapter

the sophomores using whap hw as an excuse to not make good on their extracurricular duties is a very real thing 

i worked pretty hard to make sure my underclassmen didn’t use it as an excuse, and as a result, they learned to time manage for both (since the excuse was often “oh i’ll come more when i learn to manage my whap hw better” but by the time that happens, their schedule no longer includes their extracurriculars so you really do have to make them come), but it was referenced here

i also don’t know if i mentioned this in a previous extra notes post, but the seniors in this au do have some tension w/aizawa, which results in them not really giving a shit 

in terms of this being fanfiction, this can be read as a reference to the fact that aizawa expelled all his first years the year before

in terms of this being based off my life, this can be read as a reference to the major tension between my year (the seniors) and the new, shitty band director

it’s kind of a combination between the two. aizawa became ua’s new band director during 1-a’s soph year and was a lot stricter than the previous BD all might, which resulted in complex band politics drawn from what i witnessed of the power struggles in band my senior year

it’s not important to the story, though. i remember mentioning this in the notes for like, chapter three when i talked abt fuwa-senpai. it’s just smth going on in the bg

i lowkey forgot that all our marching pants were tailored to each member (hence why we had the option to keep them upon graduation), and it was the individual’s responsibility to get it washed (vs. our shirts, which got a collective wash at a laundromat like three or four times a year), hence why i ended up just tacking “which were at the very least labelled” to the bit where bakugou stepped over a stack of pants bc otherwise it would be a nightmare to figure out whose bag which pants went in

i also feel like this is a good chapter to mention that my school’s band was too large and poor to have the traditional, military-style, takes-six-months-and-$400-to-make marching band uniforms

well, we had them; we just didn’t have enough of them

anyway, our uniforms were basically concert slacks, a button-up shirt, suspenders, an itchy beret, a black tie (usually clip-on, which, speaking as a speech kid, ew), a custom jacket, and proper marching shoes. and black socks, of course.

the custom jacket had like this huge emblem of our school embroidered on the back, and our names and instrument on the front, so it was pretty cool

it also had a secret pocket that could fit a whole trumpet in it, so that was super cool

anyway, we often complained abt having ghetto uniforms, but at parades, we’d often hear other bands w/traditional uniforms go, “aww, look, their uniforms are so cute!!” so it’s really just that the grass is always greener on the other side

we actually did have the aforementioned traditional, military style, takes-six-months-and-$400-to-make marching band uniforms for the rose parade district uniforms, so i am familiar with those, but i do imagine the bnha kids in our usual uniforms for this au anyway, so the way they treat their uniforms in this chapter is different than how they’d treat traditional band uniforms

“better to be whap’d than whacked” idk why but i’m just really proud of this joke here

“[mina] smacked her palm several times for emphasis” i honestly just noticed how animated i tend to make mina in terms of hand gestures and i just wanted to say i really like that

“‘i dunno, mina. that would depend on if these clothes have been sized for--’ he cut himself off, remembering the face bakugou had made at his earlier joke”

“that would depend on if these clothes have been sized for [assholes or dicks]”

i decided i didn’t want to make that joke bc yes even though i can imagine teenage boys saying it i was just like “how about no” to myself and i won

“not my fault the drum major’s uniform is white” i actually haven’t figured out what colors the kids’ uniform is supposed to be in this au, since we don’t exactly know for sure what ua’s school colors are (although i do suspect they’re either blue and white or blue and yellow), but our drum major uniform was p much the same as everyone else’s but with a red tie and white shirt.

in my outline, jirou was apparently not supposed to realize she n kaminari had math together until chapter 11, but it honestly didn’t matter in the end

“if you couldn’t tell that celie was a lesbian until--” is a reference to the color purple, which i read junior year and was absolutely sucked in by. 

it’s one of those books where you can tell who did the reading on the first day of discussion

my friend in ap lang told me that there was this one guy on the first day who was like “whaaat? you guys can’t be serious. it can’t be that bad” when people were like “the beginning was kinda disturbing” and so then the guy opened up his copy and started reading it aloud, and like three paragraphs in or so, he realized that they were not, in fact, exaggerating, and slowly shut his book and said, “ooookay that’s enough of that for today”

this is starting to distract from the fic notes itself but anyway, one of the reasons i liked reading the color purple so much is bc i did it in a small group (bc everyone else was reading of mice and men, but some of us did that as sophs, so we got to read the color purple instead), and i got to flex those literary analysis skills i got from-- and i shit you not here-- reading and commenting on fanfiction to the other girls in my group, and it felt good 

anyway the protagonist, celie, is the biggest lesbian i’d ever seen in my life at the time, although i have met more lesbians by now

we also found a shiny, green dress when cleaning out the uniform room, and it did look exactly like princess fiona from shrek’s dress

we also joked about putting it on our head drum major, who probably would have been down had he been there

we honestly have no idea where the dress came from, but considering the fact that we had a shrek doll in our band room (until the new BD got rid of it :c), i wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually a princess fiona costume

so the bit where jirou’s like “keep your shirt on” to denki was originally followed up by something different:

“And I assume you want the pants?” Mina teased. / Jirou’s mouth shut so sharply, everyone could hear her teeth clacking together, and her face turned bright red. / “Dude!” Bakugou snapped, seemingly on her behalf. He tugged at his collar, testing out how close he was to choking in that particular size of shirt.

i changed it for personal reasons

anyway, at around this point i was kind of like, “huh. i think i’m portraying bakugou as sex-repulsed ace” which is, for reference, what i am, and so i’m quite pleased with this.

despite changing the scene for personal reasons, i do still like the snippet for the way it portrays bakugou and jirou as friends, with baku stepping in when jirou’s feelings are running too strong to not pop off if she were to speak

probs talked abt this, but smth i like abt their friendship in this au is that they tend to get mad at opposite times, and as such, are good at grounding each other when one of them is about to lose it

“watch your fucking language, bitch” we’ve been saying this phrase since middle school (possibly earlier), and it still hasn’t gotten old. stale, maybe. but old? nah

bakugou was originally going to quiz kaminari on japanese while everyone was running around this chapter (as kind of a way to distance himself from mina), but since i’ve never taken formal japanese lessons (and am not close with anyone who has), i ultimately didn’t know how that would look, so i just ended up mostly cutting that out

the word for depression is “鬱” and being made to write lines of it is often used as punishment in the same way you’d make a kid write standards

other words i considered having kaminari mention were rose (薔薇) and lemon (檸檬) bc those are also used for punishment

“i do have a pretty sweet japanese partner” and the confusion that ensues wouldn’t work in a verbal medium because the way people say things out loud would have immediately made clear her meaning, which is that this person just sits next to her and partners up w/her for projects in japanese class

who this person is will actually be revealed later, since they play their own little role in the later minor soap opera w/o realizing it

“how did you [bakugou] even catch that?” is foreshadowing for the next chapter of rhythm, if you read that, but is otherwise a throwaway line here

“let’s just get this straight” “no one in here is” is a joke based off the way every time someone complained about how the files in our parade block weren’t straight, someone would be like “but no one in band is straight” or similar

the entire part from “no one in here is” to “oh my god could you guys just shut up for a second?” where they all joke about their sexualities was actually originally going to be cut bc i wrote them as jokes that just popped into my head to get me past the miniature block i was on at that point in the chapter, since i felt like it wasn’t particularly in-character for them, but i ended up really liking it, so i kept it hahaha

anyway, since it’s not mentioned in the chapter itself, i hc mina as pan and bkg as gay. feels weird just saying it like that, but w/e

“are you saying i could have a partner? show them to me!” is a joke based off an exchange that happened in my math class junior year

teacher: [girl sitting close to the front], do you have something to share with the class?

girl sitting close to the front: ...i was just talking about [guy]’s boyfriend

the guy: i have a boyfriend?

the guy: show him to me!!

it was absolutely hilarious, and dang if i’m not gonna try to work it into rhythm at some point

smth i really like abt this fic is all the very blatant ways kaminari tries to hit on jirou (“are you saying i could have a partner? show them to me!” “right here!! this boy!!”) that just fail hilariously bc jirou just doesn’t take him seriously (“that’s cute”)

for what it’s worth, at least kaminari is trying

bakugou leaving basically as soon as the bell rings and saying he’s “got shit to do” is a reference to rhythm chapter 3, where it opens up with kirishima texting bkg before they go out to talk about the fake dating thing

because this chapter takes place in the time between rhythm 1 and 3 (i.e. the point in time when bakugou has agreed to be kiri’s fake bf, but nothing’s been explained yet other than “mina likes me but i’m gay and need to show her so in order to convince her enough to let this go”), the reason i wanted bkg to be kind of avoiding mina best he could this chapter was bc he had the fake dating thing on his mind, and since mina is part of that (but doesn’t know it), he’d rather not be around her

i ended up not being able to fit that in tho

anyway, what this means is that rhythm 1, moment 10, and rhythm 3 all take place on the same day (in that order) over the span of about four hours

yeah, that’s about all the extra notes this time. next chapter should be out in two weeks or so bc publishing R5&6~~ tell me your thoughts in my askbox!! or in an ao3 comment!!! :D :D