Archive of Our Own ^beta

Daniel Jacobi has never felt more like he was dreaming than the moment he currently stands within.

Today was going to be emotional. He'd known that. Now, sure, it's not as if he was letting himself feel it very much, but he knew it; there's no way your last first day of highschool, your first day of senior year, isn't going to feel like you're launching yourself off a cliff.

And, in the name of the God he hadn't particularly believed in since he was, what, seven? This felt like falling.

Worse than that, even. Everything felt a little too bright and a little too loud, but not in the overstimulation kind of way- in the way that you start to notice more light in your living room when summer starts approaching, or the way a room changes when you switch the lightbulbs in the lamps.

The sky above him was all but golden, painted like something from the renaissance with golds and lilacs and oranges. To his eyes, that was a gift; for a day so damned to being painful, tiring, and full of that distinct kind of suffering only unmanaged classroom environments can bring, the world above him seemed intent on helping him through it.

It was one of those kinds of thoughts that had a way of worming into his brain, sticking themselves somewhere between his nervous system and deposits of song lyrics, seeping into everything like the way generic painkillers always seem to know where to go. It was a constant reminder that the only thing separating him from the stars and skies that brought him comfort was a thin, constructed roof and the Kármán line.

Those words always made the ground beneath him seem a little more solid, a little more steady under his footsteps. He was grateful for it.

Settling into his dad's old pickup truck- the one that'd been unofficially his since he could drive- he starts the radio, pulling out onto the road with nothing but some random classical music station to accompany him.

He knows he has everything he'd need. Wallet, emergency earplugs, backpack, headphones- his good headphones, too, the noise cancelling ones that Alana had bought him for his birthday a few years back. They'd never failed to stop him from breaking down in a pinch, and while that's not exactly what he expected to happen today, it was on the table. Better to be prepared.

Daniel was, somehow, oddly calm about the whole ordeal. If he had to guess, it's because he's been thinking so much about it the past two days that actually doing it was far better than running through scenarios and occasions in his head again.

He doesn't live too far from the campus. Swinging into the west lot as the last notes of 1812 ring out- yet another gift from the world today, that's one of the ones he actually likes- he pulls into one of the closer spots, mentally thanking himself for getting up this early.

It's not like it was hard. He'd barely slept, and he'd been awake for about an hour and a half by the time his alarm actually rang, but... hey. All's well that ends well.

The car door locks behind him as he steps out, the asphalt under his feet steady, welcoming. It's an old friend, at this point.

Leaning against the side of the car and pulling out his phone, he relies on muscle memory to open his messages and check if there's anything new. The group chat's surprisingly quiet for a big morning like this, but they've all got their own things to deal with. There is one from Alana, but it's just her telling him to make sure he drinks water today- fair enough.

It calms him, slightly. If no one else is freaking out, neither should he; and he did bring water.

All that's left is to go.

 

---

 

Renée Minkowski wakes up in something she could only really describe as a daze.

Everything's hazy around the edges. And, sure, that's not uncommon for her, especially first waking up like this, but it's odd. It's worse. She's not sure why.

What she is sure of is that's she's just had the weirdest fucking dream of her life, and she's not sure how to feel about it.

It was some kind of space opera? She had a ship? A husband? She had a harpoon, and was disgustingly talented with it, for some reason?

God almighty, it was far too early to deal with this.

She'd fallen asleep texting with Hera last night, about things she can't even remember- at least her half-awake self had had the decency to plug her phone in, judging by the way her alarm's blaring into her ears. It'd been difficult to sleep; it would be odd if it was easy, on a day like this.

Renée's routine is a simple thing, worn down from complexity by time and high waters. It's little more than necessity, ending with a step out the door and the turn of her keys in her car's ignition, a small comfort in a morning that seems to be moving both far too slow and far too fast.

The sky's pretty. She'd love to pay more attention to it, but she doesn't quite have the space, not with how this is today and she's not sure how the hell she's supposed to be feeling.

She resigns herself to getting through it and thinking later. Get through it, don't die. The usual.

The lobby of the main entrance is grandiose, if that's any way to put it. It's roof is tall, like a cathedral in the way it pours light in through windows far enough up the walls to make you wonder how they're cleaned.

Hell, even the floor beneath her contributes- their logo, that ever cerulean globe, shades of blue mosaic tile brought together in something a little too pretty to be walked over by inattentive people for hours on end.

It'd taken everyone a little while to adjust to the fact their mascot was a damn globe, of course, but it was endearing after you got used to it.

Hands digging in her pockets, she turns to the staircase beside her.

All that's left is to go.

 

---

 

Douglas Eiffel has had one hell of a morning.

He's been up since seven. He thinks. He's not sure, actually- he's most likely been up since somewhere around seven. His alarm was set for it, sure, but he's not sure quite how many times he snoozed it, just that when he did wake up, it was far too late and he had to go wake up Anne now.

The routine was easy enough to fall into after that. Two lunches, a coffee for himself, nearly spilling that coffee three separate times, a last-ditch attempt to get his hair to look right- not that he ever put effort into it, anyway, but at least making it look presentable- and starting his car, trying to balance signing and driving and dealing with his own emotions.

It's not like he minds taking care of his sister, at least most of the time. He trusts himself more than anyone else, more than their parents especially; this is just what he'd always done. They relied on eachother. It was fine. They were fine.

He's got everything he needs. Wallet, phone, earbuds, a few random screwdrivers stuck in the bottom of his bag.

"Why screwdrivers?" Anne asks him, just as she's about to leave.

"You never know when you're going to need a screwdriver," He signs back, trying to weigh whether he's got time to swing somewhere to grab a coffee better than the one he's currently drinking.

"Still. Surely there's more important stuff than screwdrivers to make sure you have."

"Like what, exactly?"

"Notebooks. Folders. Pencils, or something. Normal school supplies."

"Well, first of all, screwdrivers are on my supply list for this engineering class I'm taking, and second of all, I do have normal supplies. I have all the notebooks, folders, and-"

Oh, goddammit.

"You forgot to pack pencils."

"I packed you pencils. Don't worry about it. I have some in the glovebox, anyway."

"Who keeps pencils in their car?"

"I do." His efforts do prove valuable- surely enough, stashed behind his egregious amount of CDs and other random things, are two, well sharpened carpenter's pencils.

"...They're square."

"Yep."

"Can I have one?"

That brings a laugh out of him, and he reaches into the backseat to hold one out. "Sure. Have a good day, alright? Have someone call me if you need anything."

There's little fanfare, after that. He drives away, deciding that, sure, he does have time to grab a coffee, he's up ridiculously early anyway, and he deserves it. He pulls into a parking spot for a moment when he gets there, flicking open his contacts and debating for a moment before firing off a text.

It's nothing special. Just a gesture of good will, an outstretched hand on a tiring morning.

What surprises him is how fast Sam texts back.

 

- sam :
oh my god thank you so much. whatever you're getting is fine?
- sent 8:22 -

 

No problem to him. He pulls around, rolling his window down with a sigh, setting his phone down back in the cupholder next to him.

He orders fast. Two triple white chocolate mochas with whipped cream, extravagant yet perfect, elegant in their ostentatiousness. Hopefully Sam doesn't regret telling him what he did.

He flips his turn signal on.

All that's left is to go.

 

---

 

On the second floor, at the end of a decidedly dingy hallway- which, with how sterile the building felt sometimes, was actually quite welcome- lies Room 214, a decently sized classroom that looks as if it hasn't been updated since the 70's.

The only modern-ish amenity is the TV that sits at the from of the room, which is pretty standard for schools these days. Still, the rest is yellowed drywall and chalkboards, and the contrast is somewhere between endearing and confusing- Renée's not sure if she should be wondering if there's asbestos in the walls or not, but as previously mentioned, the lighting didn't make it feel like a hospital, and that was a perfectly fine trade off in her eyes.

Plastered on the TV- and, quite literally, on the TV, not on it's screen- is a simple cloth banner, still in the quiet, painted with gold letters.

INTRO TO AERONAUTIC ENGINEERING - ROOM 214

Doug's already here. They know eachother's schedules pretty well; the friend group had practically studied them when they first came out, and she knew that Doug got to school earlier than most, but it was still a comfort that she wasn't the first one to walk into the room.

Sam's also here, holding a nearly flamboyant cup of coffee. She's used to seeing that from Doug, but from Sam, of all people? Odd. New year, new habits, maybe.

Doug waves. She waves back. Taking a seat at their table, she sets her bag down, and looks around the room.

"No teacher yet, then?"

"Nada. What was his name? Mr... Calvin? Cooper?"

"Clarke," Renée replies. "Mr. Clarke."

"His first name's David." Sam offers, leaning back in his seat.

The silence from both of them seems to make him question the words.

"What?" Sam continues. "It's on his desk. Several times, actually. And it's on the schedule if you'd cared to look that close. It's not like I was stalking him."

"Still kind of weird you just knew that," Doug claims, taking what can only be described as a slurp out of his coffee.

Renée moves to get situated herself. Other people are starting to walk in, Mace among them- he sits down with them, Doug and him start half-arguing about god knows what, and they all quiet down when a man with the most abhorrently, comically bright tie walks in, ringing a conveniently placed bell on his lectern to get their attention.

Doug leans closer to her, raising an eyebrow. "Who invited the court jester?"

"Please do us all a favor and stop talking."

It doesn't take long for it to be too quiet for him to want to continue. The man they can only assume to be the one and only Mr. David Clarke waves his hand, adjusting his glasses as he starts to speak.

His tone is open, clear, like moving water; yet, at the same time, it's calm, like there's energy moving just beneath the surface. It's like a train on a track, fast and clear and articulate, yet certainly contained, like semantic space of an emotion in a poem.

He thanks them; introduces himself, tells his name, begins with a story.

"This class has a history- quite an interesting one," He opens, leaning heavily on the lectern before him. "You, just by being in this room today, are buying into something, keeping it alive. The budget office has been trying to get rid of us for years, but we stick around for one reason and one reason only; students keep registering for it."

"And, I'm sure you're wondering, Clarke- what is this story? What is this history? We signed up for an engineering course, not an ELA one, please stop talking. Well, I assure you, we'll be getting to the work in just a moment, but for now, let us monologue."

He reaches upward, pulling the banner tacked onto the TV down and turning on the screen at the same time. It flickers, and flashes through static, but after a moment, a picture is displayed; it's clearly incredibly old, but the classroom it shows looks just like the one they stand in now.

"This man-" Clarke points at someone standing in the same position he's in- "Is Matthew Newman. You might recognize that name, and you should- He was one of the first on our administrative staff, but before that, he was a teacher, who worked out of this very room."

He gestures to the room around them, walking to the door, the windows.

"You're standing in the oldest remaining part of Goddard High School, originally Goddard-Wright High School, constructed around 1951. That latter name still remains in places like our Wright Field, the football stadium- the school's name was changed around the 1970s, to streamline if nothing else. And, it was in 1956 that our one Matthew Newman joined the staff, aiming to create a new kind of class."

His tone darkens, becoming softer, quieter. "See, Mr. Newman wasn't quite a fan of how things were being run. The school system wasn't creative enough; it wasn't making students creative enough. He aimed to change that; banding together with a few others on the staff, they put in a request to create five new electives, one of those being this."

"Those other electives didn't stick around," Clarke continues. "It turns out that students back then weren't quite as interested in medicine or biology as he'd hoped. The only two that survived were this and the Introduction to Computing course, which has now split into several electives as modern technology advanced. But this- Intro to Aeronautic Engineering- this has stayed."

Clarke walks back to his laptop.

"When Mr. Newman retired, he left us with one statement. He left the successor to this class one memo to follow, one piece of information to carry onward, for however long this course lasted. And that message?"

He advances the slide on whatever presentation the picture was on, revealing what looks like a screened version of a handwritten letter, zoomed into the last line.

 

"Continue to build on those before you; continue to leave foundations for those who will come after. Clean your work down to the last details, leave no idea unheard and unchallenged, and we will bring a world of better people, building better places.

Good Luck, Matthew Newman."

 

"And, well-" Clarke grins. "You heard the man. Let's get to work."

 

---

 

Daniel's incredibly glad he has his headphones.

He keeps trying to calm himself with the thought that, really, this isn't actually this bad, it's just unfamiliar. The environment is unfamiliar, which means it feels bad. It's not that bad. It's not going to stay this bad.

Sure, people may never learn to walk in hallways or learn what personal space is, but he has what he needs, and he knows where this classroom is. Knows who'll be in that classroom.

He's already there, actually. Doesn't even speak when Daniel sits down next to him, just hums in acknowledgement and starts digging through his bag.

Daniel raises an eyebrow. Dmitri looks up, smiles- smiles- and hands him a pack of skittles.

"My mother has recently become fan of these. Am not fan myself. Figured you may appreciate."

Good god, does he appreciate.

Daniel takes them, murmuring in thanks. He's picky with sweet stuff, usually. He's never had much of a sweet tooth, never been too much a lover of anything that's not cheese, but he's found things over the years that are fine- these, oddly enough, are one of them. He finds himself sitting up as he tears the package open, somewhat less inclined to curl himself into a ball and hide from the world.

It's not like he ate anything this morning, either. The sugar does help.

Hera and Victoire walk in after a minute. They're laughing about something or other- he turns his music down, catching a word or two of what they're talking about, but it's not like he's actively trying to listen. He's just... tired. Trying to get through it. Which he is, thank you very much.

And as mentioned, the skittles are helping.

The bell rings. He swings his headphones down to rest on his neck. ELA's one of his better classes, usually- and he's actually got people in it this year, so the forecast is already looking clearer.

They don't do much, not really, as far as work goes. Fill out some kind of introduction worksheet, make up goals to stick on post-it notes, the usual first day activities you'd expect. He'd rather not be doing any of it, but it's helping him wake up, and he's with the people who make spaces feel safe for him, so... well. He's not going to be picky.

"I'll see you at lunch?" He offers, leaning on the table as he waits for Dmitri to be ready to walk. Daniel's only got a study hall after this- it's a weird place in the day for it, but he's grateful nevertheless.

"You will. Do you want more skittles?"

"How many skittles did you bring?"

"Many. Do you want them?"

"I'll... take a couple, yeah, sure."

He's handed what he later counts to be seven.

"At lunch," Dmitri confirms, walking out the door as Daniel tries to figure out where he's going to put seven fun size packs of skittles.

There's worse problems to have, he supposes.

 

---

 

"Are you playing solitaire right now?"

"Don't judge me and my ways to pass the time, Alana."

"Still. Solitaire? What are you, 87?"

"Maybe our grandparents had it right with the card games, 's all i'm saying." Hera sets her phone down, looking up- she sits up, attempting to wave down Renée to their table when she walks into the room.

Renée pulls out a chair. "How'd first period go for your two?"

Hera mentions that ELA was a little boring, starting to fiddle with a paperclip that was lying on the table. Alana sighs. "Same old Latin teacher."

"Didn't you say she was maybe getting fired last year?"

"I don't think it's possible to get rid of her. Andrea Nash is going to be stuck teaching AP Latin to ungrateful, undiligent highschoolers until the day she dies. How was... what was your class?

"Wasn't it some weird ass engineering elective?" Hera questions.

"Weird ass doesn't even begin to cover it," Renée answers. "It was. Something."

"Elaborate."

"The teacher- Mr. Clarke, he's- eccentric feels like an understatement. He's very into the course material. He went on this whole tirade about the guy who started the class, and then about the syllabus- I don't know. I admire the tenacity, I suppose. And Doug, Sam, and Mace are in there, so it's not too bad. It was a lot of listening."

"Well, hopefully it'll be better once we're out of the first couple weeks."

Alana's about to say something else when they're cut off by their teacher asking for their attention. She introduces herself as Ms. Zhang- she's been teaching here for forever, but she's pretty beloved by the student body, and she seems nice enough.

"-And as a thank you for listening, if you all could get your computers out- just one per table, we're in teams for this- we're gonna be playing a game, just some trivia."

A glance passes between them. Hera pulls her laptop out, in all it's beat-up, stickered glory. Renée's not sure she's ever seen Hera type so fast, but she does, logging them in to the near nostalgic presence of kahoot.it in what could only have been ten seconds.

The three of them work surprisingly well together as a team. They're not the most well versed in random facts, but there's a surprising amount of questions on musicals and scientific institutions, which Renée and Alana respectively have covered.

Seeing their name at the top of the leaderboard is just the type of academic gratification she needed this morning, and as Zhang calls out that they've got a minute left before the bell rings, she nods to the rest of them as they part ways.

This day's actually turning out okay.

 

---

 

At some point, Doug's gotten used to having no one he knows in certain classes. One of those classes is Spanish.

It's the same teacher he had last year, which isn't necessarily a good thing, but it's different people, which he decides to be happy about. It's also not first period- it's 8th, the last of the day.

There's assigned seats on the board, which he expected, but he's not exactly excited for. It looks like he's sitting next to someone named... Corey? Alright. He'll see how this goes.

This 'Corey' isn't even here yet, so he sits down on his own, following the instructions written to get something to write with.

Corey does show up, eventually. Of course, this eventually is about twenty seconds before the bell rings, so there's not much time to talk. That's made up for by the first task they're given being to learn about your partner, so Doug tries his best to make conversation.

He does learn a lot, actually. Corey'd just recently moved into the area- he was still getting used to the weather, the people, the traffic conditions, everything you wouldn't think about down to the shape of the stick butter in stores. Doug talks about his sister, his love for music, but also about band- and it's the latter that Corey's interested in.

Doug tells him more, then- about their competition this Saturday, their first upcoming football game this Friday, how he's excited but also not because it's a later night and all that. Corey mentions that he'd always kind of wanted to, but the corps at his old school were... lackluster, to say the least, and he'd never been a fan. If it wasn't his senior year, he would've loved to be here.

"Well, you're welcome to show up to a game or two," Doug offers, leaning back in his chair.

"And that wouldn't be weird? I mean- I barely know anybody."

"You know me. And, hey- what period do you have lunch?"

"...uh. Fourth?"

"Great! I'm assuming you don't currently have a group you're trying to sit with?"

"...No."

"Then you can sit with me and my friends. You'll meet them, it'll be fine, you'll have a fine excuse to come Friday if you'd like."

"...That would be wonderful."

"Cool."

"Thank you."

"It's not a problem. I'm glad I could help. You were saying something about that one band you listen to...?"

Sufficiently getting Corey started on a subject again, he lets himself sit back and listen. He's never not going to want to talk about music. It's comforting, in a way.

Today's been surprisingly okay. They've still got rehearsal after school to get through, but after that, he'll be home- and the first day's never a good representation of what anything's actually like, anyway.

He's learned things. Among them, how easy it is to forget something as simple as pencils, and how he's still got the skills to make a friend. And they'll keep moving forward, keep building, keep learning.

He just hopes it'll continue to be okay.

 

- You :
you said your mom was hosting section dinner for y'all this week, right?
- sent 8:22 -

- dmitri :) :
Correct. Why?
- sent 8:24 -

- You :
if i was to quickly appear at my own dinner and then ditch it for the flute one would that be okay
- sent 8:24 -

- dmitri :) :
My mother loves you. Would be just fine.
- sent 8:25 -

- You :
yay :3
- sent 8:25 -

"Is this your equivalent of a romantic, candle-lit date? Section dinner?"

Daniel can't say he's surprised, exactly- the voice over his shoulder is one he's used to, at least if the sigh he lets out conveys anything.

"Alana. What have I told you about reading my texts?"

"Not my fault they're interesting. Animal cracker?"

"Why do you ha-"

"Assuming that's a yes. Here."

"...Alana."

"Mhm?"

"Where did you get animal crackers with fucking ducks?"

"...Quack."

"First of all, fuck you."

She lets out a whistle, checking the time on her phone. "Harsh words, Daniel. Harsh words."

"You know I don't like them."

"It's not my fault it's fun to tease you about it. And weren't you the one who agreed to help me hide a bunch of ducks around the band room last week?"

"That was different. And traumatic."

"Well, Duckphobic Man, I'm so glad the magic of friendship let you face your fear."

"Do not call me-"

Daniel's cut off by the door to the band room opening. It's Doug; he raises an eyebrow when he sees the two of them. "You two are here early."

"So are you," Alana replies, crossing her arms.

"I'm always here early. Why are you two here?"

"Kepler asked Daniel if he could come in early and help take inventory of the performance horns. I generously offered to keep him company."

"Right. Performance horns. Some instruments just had to be all rich and shiny."

"You're just jealous there's none for the drumline."

"I don't see you getting a gold marimba!"

"I play synth, thank you very much."

"I don't see you getting a gold speaker cabinet!"

"Nice try, Doug." Daniel mutters, fishing around in the animal cracker bag he'd now stolen from Alana, trying to find the ones that weren't ducks.

"Shut it."

"They'd be silver, anyway."

"Don't you have a class to be getting to?"

"We're early, remember?"

Daniel tunes out of the rest of that conversation. Their bickering is entertaining, sure, but it's nothing he hasn't heard before- snappy half-insults and sarcastic comments about coffee orders, something about music scoring here and there. He's almost finished with this spreadsheet, anyhow. It's not like he likes having to come in early, but that's what he signed up for; it's his job, and he'll be damned if he isn't going to do it to his best ability. Now all that's left is to send it over to Kepler, and-

"Daniel, back me up on this."

"Give me a second."

"Daniel Kenneth Jacobi, put the laptop down and help your best friend win an argument."

"Wait, his middle name's Kenneth?" Doug questions, now fully inside the room, leaning on the back of a chair.

"Will you two just-" The click of Daniel hitting enter on his keyboard is nearly deafening throughout the room. "There. What?"

"Doug says I look like the type of person to drink water out of a wine glass and start talking with a transatlantic accent."

"...I mean-"

"Don't you dare."

Daniel sighs. "You can do a pretty decent French accent. It'd probably be that inst- OW- okay, okay, I get it, Alana- fine. Fine. Doug? Shut up."

Of course, he already has, because he started laughing when Alana started hitting Daniel over the head with the bag of Animal Crackers, which you wouldn't think would hurt but does. He closes his laptop, standing. Sure, they're still here way early, but he'd rather be where he needs to be sooner than later.

Bidding simple goodbyes and walking out of the band room, it's a simple trek from where he is to where he needs to be. There's few people here- still too early for that- but when he swings open the doors to his ELA classroom, Dmitri's already at their table, reading. He looks up, and Daniel smiles at him, appreciating the quiet in the room.

"You're here early," Dmitri remarks, looking back at his book.

"Had to do something for band. New book?"

"Tropical Rain Forests, Richards. Published 1957. Found in a box at home."

"Makes sense. That thing looks older than this building."

"It is older than this part of the building." He slides in a bookmark, turning to face him. "No headphones?"

"I have them, I just don't need them right now."

"I am glad."

Silence falls between them. It's like a blanket, a sheet, some lightweight mist protecting them from the world. It's soft, and kind, and ethereally fragile, settling over his shoulders like a cloak; Daniel can't help but find it something like home, a liminal space not meant to be focused on but stayed in so long that it gained meaning, gained a place, gained a niche in the ever-moving expanse that was his mind.

Dmitri reaches into his bag, sets his hand down on the table, slides it over to Daniel, and then lifts and pulls back, leaving a fun-size pack of skittles. He looks at him, then at it, then back to him, raising an eyebrow.

Daniel shakes his head, but takes it all the same.

"You're going to kill me with these. I still have, like, five in a pocket somewhere."

"At least you will eat them. Sugar will help you focus. You're not taking care of yourself as well now that we are out of bandcamp."

"And how would you know that?"

"Obvious. Less energy, more lethargic. Less enthusiasm."

"So you know I'm not taking care of myself because I lost the twinkle in my eye, or what?"

"...Give or take."

"Goddammit. I hate you sometimes."

All the same, he shifts his chair a little closer, and reaches into his bag to pull out his own book. It's an old, tattered copy of some weird old thing he'd found on their teacher's shelf; turns out she was the type to get real angry if you weren't reading during her allotted reading time, and thus, had forced him to find something.

It wasn't bad, per se. Not hard to follow, not written weirdly, and he liked the style. He'd first expected it to be some non-fiction informational book; the cover wasn't exactly screaming fiction, and the title of 'The Secret Life of Bees' seemed to suggest he'd walk out of the room knowing a few more fun facts to throw around, but no.

No. No, because of course, it had to actually be interesting, and while Dmitri was reading about trees and Hera and Victoire were doing god knows what, he was reading a story about a child, and gun violence, and bees. Fucking bees.

Not that it was horrible. Daniel kind of wished it'd just been horrible. It was just bees. Of all things.

He's growing to like the bees.

---

"You really don't have to-"

"Oh, please. It'll be fine. Just- here, and-"

The bang on the table does wonders for pulling Dmitri out of his ruminating.

He's anxious. He's good at hiding that anxiety, because he grew up with siblings and a mother who could smell it like a hawk, and despite what they insisted, it did not always help to talk about it.

Little of that was social anxiety, however- it wasn't usually. It was medical anxiety, or time anxiety, or any of the other various things, but he was rarely scared of talking to people; if there was a good enough reason to, it wasn't a problem. As a kid, he might've been scared about the way he talked, but you go through enough things in your life and some things fade.

Some things don't care if you're anxious about them. Nothing does, actually. Life just goes, and you make what you can out of it, but the time will pass anyway. Whether that's the death of a loved one or a task to be held, it's the same policy.

Here, today, it's harder. He knows what he needs to do, but that doesn't help. He has his reasons, and they don't help.

That. That is unusual. And that is what bothers him.

Still, though. What also bothers him is the fact Doug is standing at the head of their horrifyingly gray, rectangular, public school lunch table that's been their regular seat as a group for... a very long time, now. And not only is he doing that, which is odd, because he's always tearing into whatever abhorrent combination of a sandwich he's figured out next, he is instead standing next to a person who looks about as anxious as Dmitri feels.

"My associates, my comrades, my beloved companions; I would like to introduce you to my new friend."

"You made a friend? We are so proud, sweetie."

"Shut up, Renée. I was wondering if he could sit with us? Moved here this summer."

A murmur of agreement passes around the table. Mace speaks up first, raising an eyebrow. "Can we at least get his name?"

"Corey," He answers. He sounds nice, at least.

"Great! There's a seat open over by me." He softens his tone, muttering something about how he told you they'd be nice, but he doesn't listen much past that.

He needs to do this now. They're his friends. They're going to be fine. Most of them know already- at least Daniel does- maybe he should've told him he was planning this. Maybe that would've helped.

If you had told him a month ago he'd be looking to the hardass that was Daniel Jacobi for comfort, he wouldn't have believed you, and here he was.

Life goes on, and we just make things of it.

"I also have announcement," Is how he leads it, setting his hands on the table just so it's not visible that they're shaking.

After pausing for a moment, waiting to see if anyone's going to object to that- which they don't- he continues. "My mother is doing section dinner tonight. If you are to interact with my mother, you are to reference me as Dmitri. Most of you have not met her, so I have not had to have this conversation before, but is now unavoidable. I... it is surprising we have gotten this far without me saying that, but we have. Do not call me Hilbert. She is under the impression I stopped letting people call me that two years ago. Would not be fun."

"Wait, so you've just been lying to your mom about this? I figured Hilbert was a nickname, but..." Renée almost looks concerned. It does not help.

"...I may have. She is very insistent and I was not going to make her angry without needing to. I... it would be simpler to just have you all call me that anyway, I suppose. If it is not trouble."

"Why would it be trouble?"

"It is new. New things have tendency to be disliked."

"Why did you stop going by Dmitri?"

"Hard for other children to pronounce."

"Easier than Hilbert?"

"Hilbert was book character I liked at time. Do you have any more questions?"

"...No. Sorry. That's- thank you for telling us, H- Dmitri."

It's Hera who speaks up next, tilting her head while holding a half-peeled orange. "How did you manage to never get called that by a teacher? We've had classes with you."

"Easy enough to have counselor make a note. He was not happy when I asked him to, but I was able to convince him it was harmless nickname. Teachers followed that."

"So you've just been hiding this from us for years."

"Names can be very personal. Felt odd to give it away to strangers. Nickname was better."

"Kudos. Lotta effort to save other people trouble, though."

"I am aware."

It's at that point he catches Daniel's eye.

And Daniel, that bastion of chaos and care and enough insecurity to tranquilize a horse, he smiles. He smiles, and reaches into his lunchbox, and as the chaos around them in conversation resumes, he slides across a ziploc bag.

Dmitri just looks at him. "What is this?"

"That," He grins, "Is pecan pie flavored fudge. I had a hunch you'd do something today. Made some last night."

"...I like pecan pie."

"I know."

---

"I like the gloves."

"Well, sure, because you get the whole white with silver embroidery fancy gloves. I just get ones that make it harder to play."

"Surely you would get a pass."

"Sadly, no. I am but a poor, equal common man, destined to live amongst the rest of the vulgar."

"They do look nice, though. They're... snazzy."

"The gloves are snazzy."

"Yes."

"That's the best you could come up with, Daniel?"

"Also yes."

"...Y'know. That does change my mind a little. Snazzy it is."

"Snazzy it is. Snazzy uniforms. You ready?"

"Am I ever. The question is if you're ready to have to go play duffle-bag-tetris-on-the-band-trailer."

"Yeah, and we're not doing that for another hour, nearly. Let's go say hi to Dmitri."

---

"Daniel! Dmitri said you may come. I will get you food, sit, please-"

"Mrs. Volodin, I really don't-"

"First- call me Nika, boy, and second- you have friend! Have we met?"

"I, uh- I don't think so? Hi. I'm Alana."

"Alana! Dmitri has mentioned you, yes. Now- there is pie, you must have pie, let me get you-"

---

"Renée and Nika are having quite the conversation."

"Renée speaks Polish. Natural that my mother would like talking in something other than English, for once."

"Huh. God, next thing you know, she's going to be trying to start some kind of scrabble tournament with the friend group."

"Keep your voice down. You will give her ideas, Daniel."

"Shut up. God, what does she put in this pie?" He leans back against the table he's sitting at, chair turned at an angle. "What time is it?"

"4:10. Rehearsal begins at 4:25. We walk at 4:45 and are set in bleachers at 4:50, if all goes well. Pregame is at 5."

"I don't know why you always have a schedule on you, but I am incredibly grateful."

---

"We do have the salute down, right?"

"Probably. Hand me another bag." Renée shifts from where she's stood at the top of this absolutely egregious pile of duffle bags, trying to assure structural integrity while also managing to fit just under 170 bags into two of their provided wagon-trailer-wooden-platform monstrosities. They've got sides, at least- not high ones, but enough that it secures the base layer, and that helps.

"You think this'll work?"

"It should. Looks like it."

"It was nice when they switched to using these things instead of making us carry them, but goddamn are they a pain to deal with. I do not envy the drum majors past."

"Neither do I." She jumps down, standing next to him to look up at the piles they've constructed.

"...That works."

"We did it."

"How the hell did we manage that?"

"Questions for later. Kepler's gonna kill us if we're not at the head of that block, though- let's get over there."

"Well stated."

As they half-run, half-walk across asphalt, he turns to her again. "But, seriously. That salute. We have it, right? As long as the other two do as well?"

"Are you really worried about that right now?"

"My dad's an air force recruiter, I was born worrying about salutes."

"Different kind of salute."

"Same rough purpose."

Out of breath and nearly scurrying to fix their uniforms, they find themselves at the front of the line before long. The parade block is massive, as any parade block for their size of a band would be, but it's predictable and easy and at least she knows exactly what she's supposed to be doing from here on out.

Right on time, anyhow.

"And, field commanders- are we set?"

A firm nod from Renée, and Kepler turns back to the band.

"Well, then! Take us out."

A look to the side. Eye contact, between the four of them. A turn, on the heel, a perfect one-hundred and eighty degrees, putting them directly facing the front of the block.

More eye contact. A breath.

Two bursts of the whistle. A trill. A snap, the roll-off from the drums, another turn, and;

And.

And now they're off.