Chapter Text
Track 45: “Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me” (Gladys Knight and the Pips)
If anyone should ever write my life story
For whatever reason there might be
You’ll be there, between each line of pain and glory
‘Cause…
(August 2016)
There are birds singing outside the window.
Ant wakes slowly, blinking gradually into consciousness to see the faint greenish haze that still hangs over the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. What are those things made of? If there were a zombie apocalypse and humans were all but wiped out, would some brave little band of survivors making their way between knots of fractured pseudo-society a hundred years from now stumble upon this half-rotted old house and lie in melancholy wakefulness as they looked up at those little plastic stars, still glowing after all that time? Would they wonder about the child who had stood precariously on a ladder to press them to the plaster one by one? Would it make them ache in the deep lonely places of their spirits, nostalgic for a world they had never known?
A little snore rouses him from this dozing reverie and he rolls his head on the pillow to look at his husband.
It’s not quite six AM and Azlan is asleep, his pale lashes lying like lace at the uppermost ridge of his cheekbones. One of Scamps’s ears has come dislodged from the cozy nook where he spends every night, just below Azlan’s chin and mostly covered by the blanket, and is now lying against the side of that sweetly upturned nose. In the deeper shadow beneath a furry ear, plush pink lips are parted…and as Ant watches they vibrate faintly with another snore.
He’s so beautiful. So Selmerdamned beautiful.
Out from the direction of the kitchen there’s a muffled thump, and Ant grins to himself. It’s just like Mom to be up at the asscrack of dawn to set up something special. He’ll give her a little more time before heading to the bathroom; the bladder situation is more in the category of soon would be good rather than right fuckin’ now.
So he lifts his butt to scoot his hips to the left and then eases himself onto his side, and beneath the blanket his hand finds Azlan’s bare skin above the waistband of his pajama pants, so warm and soft. He settles his head at the very edge of his own pillow so that he’s right up close to the face he loves best in all the world, and closes his eyes to drift just a little longer at the very edge of sleep.
Marry me, he’d said last night—again. Eight and a half months in, that schtick has lost none of its appeal; he might just keep it going even past the promised one-year mark. Be my husband and stay with me forever.
Azlan’s eyelids had fluttered in the unbearably adorable way they do when he’s completely overwhelmed by love. I will marry you, he’d whispered. I will be your husband, and we’ll be together forever.
So, safe to say that marriage is going well.
They’ve been down visiting Mom for the past week. They’ll have to leave tomorrow morning—they plan to complete the drive in a day so they’ll have all of Friday to relax before band camp begins on Saturday.
Band camp. Section leader. Ant grins even as his stomach gives a nervous shiver. He and Bran have been strategizing how to split up the section and handle the leadership stuff together, and honestly that’s made it so much easier to be excited about the whole thing rather than dread it: he won’t be alone, won’t be the only one this year’s thirty-six saxophones will look to for answers and solutions. He’s got a deputy, and a kickass one at that.
It makes him think of Des and what an insane job she’d had wrangling all of them on her own for all of band camp, and what a petty bitch he’d been when she had first deputized him. At least he’d grown out of that, enough to help ease the burden and make her time as SL a success. It won’t be the same without her there. But lots of things have changed. Seniors have graduated and gone, new freshies will need to be broken in…hell, even Tessa won’t be marching this year. She’d shocked them all—except Bran, with whom she’d apparently been practicing for months—not only by auditioning for the Sophomore Archangel position but by winning it handily. So it’ll be white gloves for their little honey badger this year, which makes Ant laugh every time he thinks of it…but he’s also incredibly proud of her.
It’s going to be a great show. A full John Williams suite, arranged as always by their ruling deity: Jaws, Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Jurassic Park, Superman, Home Alone, even Schindler’s List, and with the bari and first trumpet parts as gorgeous as they are Ant is deeply excited to hear the entire arrangement.
He’d spent quite a lot of time with God over the summer, and it had actually been awesome. The full concert band score for Falkor’s Flight is so fucking good that Ant kinda wants the entire thing chiseled onto his tombstone one day; God wants him to conduct it at the spring concert next May and he’s pretty sure he’ll blubber like a little baby when that happens, but it’ll be worth it.
Even aside from working on the score, though—which in itself had been an incredible experience; he feels like he’s learned more from God in those intense sessions than in all of his Music Theory classes put together—it had been really fun just to hang out with her. She’d shown him the drill charts for the new show and they’d talked about that process at length, both of them getting really excited about it all to the point that God had (only half-jokingly) offered to triple whatever his starting salary in Oxrib would be, if he’ll stick around after graduation and be her new Assistant Director.
Ant had just laughed. Not for all the tea in China, he’d told her (as his toothless old Grampa liked to say).
She’d chuckled. Yeah, I don’t blame you. But if you ever need help with your drill charts…
I’ll know just who to call.
Jesus is gone. No big farewell speech, no flimsy excuses; he’d helped the colorguard prepare for the event back in May and then had quietly disappeared. The new hire has been a colorguard coordinator in a DCI corps and she and God seem to get along really well, which is encouraging. Ant had asked about Jesus only once—while he and Azlan and God had been enjoying a beer on God’s back porch one long purple July evening (with Brokkenbroll happily curled up on Ant’s lap)—and God had shrugged.
No great loss, she’d said. That’s all I know.
Ant can live with that.
And as for the other great bane of his existence…
One evening in Silverton after dinner with the Goddards and the Morganthals, while Azlan had been playing with Morganthal’s young grandson (and hadn’t he looked wonderful, with a toddler on his knee? Ant had nearly swooned), Morganthal had—quietly, off to one side—mentioned to Ant that Tyler has been transferred to a high-security psychiatric detainment center after what appears to have been a total psychotic break while in prison.
Ant had pondered this for a long moment, as he’d watched his beautiful husband coo and giggle with the baby. Think they can help him? he’d asked at last.
Morganthal had sighed. Who can know? There doesn’t seem to have been any dramatic trauma in his childhood, no physical or verbal abuse, no poverty, no want. Perhaps a simple lapse in attention by those in a position to notice and act led to the blossoming of darker impulses that under happier circumstances might have been snuffed.
Fuck, Ant had said softly—with thoughts of his responsibilities as a teacher sitting heavy on his heart, along with the knowledge that he himself could have traveled a very different road without the people who have loved him through his own darkness. A very humbling feeling…but he had accepted the weight of it with a sense of calm determination. That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.
I agree. But then Morganthal had smiled at Ant with real fondness. You’re quite a singular young man, Ant. I feel truly blessed to have made your acquaintance.
Ant had blushed and bobbed his chin toward Azlan. It’s his fault.
Morganthal had chuckled. Neither of you can be credited entirely with the other’s positive attributes. But I think you make a fabulous team. A positive feedback loop, if you will.
Hard to argue with that.
It’s been a great summer, and it’s gonna be a great year, but before they head northeast to friends and family and school and home…there’s one more thing to enjoy here in Kentucky.
Ant opens his eyes as Azlan stirs and stretches. He loves waking up first, so he can bear witness to this—the sweet creases on Azlan’s cheek from the pillowcase, the smacking of a mouth gone a little dry from snoring, the little twitches and scrunches and sighs that lead to the best moment of all: the moment when Azlan squints and peeks and blinks and catches sight of Ant.
Cartoon hearts bloom in those cumulonimbus eyes. His smooth smiley face relaxes into perfect contentment and bliss. He uncurls the arm that’s been firmly tucked around Scamps and Julian and reaches across the few inches between them to touch Ant’s chin, and his fingers are warm.
“Good morning,” Ant whispers.
“Every morning I get to wake up beside you is the best morning there’s ever been.” Azlan rolls his shoulders and sits up on one elbow to lean in and kiss Ant’s cheek. “Happy birthday, beloved.”
Ant nuzzles his face against Azlan’s. “Can you believe it’s been almost a full year since we met?”
“It feels so much longer! …And yet it’s also been no time at all.”
“We’ve known each other forever, but we’re still just getting started.”
“I think I’ll still feel that way in fifty years.”
“Mmmmm, I love imagining you with wrinkles and white hair and reading glasses.”
“Weirdo.”
“Your weirdo. Now and always.” Ant scoots in even closer to pull Azlan half on top of him like a blanket. “Ahhhhh. Best birthday ever.”
Azlan’s giggle shakes them both. “It hasn’t even begun!”
“Still the best. Because it’s my first birthday with you.”
“Sweet talker.” But Azlan tucks his chin to kiss Ant’s forehead. “Come on, let’s get this birthday started.”
“I mean, I’m game if you are.” Ant waggles his eyebrows. “Get us some sexy birthday undies, didja?”
“I meant let’s get started with birthday things.”
“So did I.” Ant rubs his hands over his husband’s hips and then back around to the swell of his glorious ass through his cute plaid pajama pants. “…Wanna?”
Azlan definitely wants to, if the wood digging against Ant’s hip is any indication. “You’re a fiend,” he murmurs, as he nibbles his lips over Ant’s cheek.
“Your fiend.”
“Mmmm, yes… Yes, you are…”
They take their time. Long kisses—neither of them have ever particularly minded the other’s morning breath—neck nuzzles, slowwwwly moving around and over each other to touch and kiss and stroke every new stretch of skin that’s revealed as the blanket is gradually pushed away. Ant is a total devotee to the worship of his husband’s body and he’s pretty sure he’s covered every inch of it with his tongue by now, in bits and pieces that all add up to the single most stunning specimen humanity has ever produced. When at last they’re naked in the delicate silvery light of dawn, with Azlan’s thighs against Ant’s chest and his knees hooked over Ant’s shoulders and that ass spread over Ant’s hips, they move slowly and carefully so the bed won’t squeak (they’d already had to stuff a wadded shirt behind the little headboard to keep it from knocking against the wall) but as always the restraint is hot as hell and Ant’s head rolls helplessly with the sheer blinding sensory joy of it all.
His hair tumbles over his forehead as he shudders and gasps, holding onto those creamy thighs for dear life…and gentle hands reach up to push the hair back, to cup his cheeks, to trail down his arms and cover his hands as they move down to grip a big double handful of the rolling porcelain flesh at Azlan’s waist. And Ant smiles, and holds a deep thrust for several seconds.
“I’m so in love with you,” he whispers. “So so much.”
“Mmmmmm…” Sweaty and flushed, Azlan clenches his ass gently, which makes Ant snatch in a wheezing breath kinda like hep! “Gotcha,” murmurs that beautiful boy, and sticks out his tongue between his teeth with a big ol’ scrunched-nose grin.
“That didn’t count.”
“Did too!” They’re both whispering and giggling even as Ant’s hips start moving again, harder and faster now.
“That wasn’t an eep!”
“Close enough!”
Snorting as he tries not to laugh, Ant kisses the curve of Azlan’s inner thigh. “…Wanna change it up?”
“Of course, birthday boy.” Azlan’s condom’d cock twitches hopefully against the magnificent slope of his belly. “All for you, anything for you.”
Ant very gently withdraws and steps his knees back. “Lying down together, me behind you?”
Azlan rolls to his side at once and wiggles his butt invitingly. “Boldly come, sir.”
They’re giggling again as Ant slithers his way up that incredible body to slide his arms around his husband. He loves this feeling: Azlan’s skin against his whooole front, Azlan filling his whole embrace, their little shifts and snuggles as they practically glue themselves together. Azlan lifts one asscheek so Ant can guide himself right back where he belongs, lodged in slippery heat with the scent of Azlan’s hair all around his face.
“Miracle,” he breathes, with his lips brushing the cup of his husband’s ear. “You’re…a miracle.”
“And you’re a…a poet when your orgasm…is close.”
“Not that close…yet…”
“Liar.” Azlan finds Ant’s hand, which has been enjoying a leisurely massage of his left nipple and the beautiful swirl and squish of his pec, and guides the hand lower to tease over his dick—which nearly leaps in response to that touch. “Catch me… Oh, catch me if you can, lover, oh hard, oh now…”
There’s a lot to be said for their long luxurious sessions of holding back and edging…but a race can be awfully fun too, especially with the added challenge of keeping as quiet as possible. Within minutes they’re bucking wildly but with very small movements, hiding their faces against the pillow or against hot skin to smother their noises, hands clutching and hips jerking.
In the end they have to call it a draw.
“I meant it,” murmurs Ant as they lie in a sweaty tangle. He leans his head on one hand to watch with blissed-out pleasure as his fingers trace dimples over Azlan’s chest and belly. “You’re a miracle. Best part of my life. Center of my world. Not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Azlan’s a little teary, but he smirks too. “Yes, and you’ve already thoroughly proven that, so no more heroics for a while, if you please.”
“Told you, that guardian angel gig is a big job. We’ll tag-team it.”
“All right, no more heroics from either of us for a while. Just a nice quiet life of school and work.”
“And sex?”
“All the sex, Mister Holmson.”
“Whew, thank Selmer.”
“Says the man who just came inside me.”
“Dunno, you might decide you’ve had enough of me.”
Azlan curls a hand around the back of Ant’s neck and draws him in for a deep unhurried kiss. “Never, my love,” he whispers.
They finally have to call it quits on the heavenly post-coital cuddles only because the bladder situation on both sides has been upgraded to dire. Ant peeks, and when he’s ascertained that Mom is busy in the kitchen he and Azlan tiptoe up the hall to the bathroom in just their robes and giggle like little kids when the door is safely closed, and trade off between the shower and the toilet before brushing their teeth side by side.
“You’re my miracle, too,” says Azlan, back in the bedroom as they’re watching each other get dressed.
“All I need is a miracle,” belts Ant, so suddenly that Azlan jumps. “All I neeeee-heeeed is you!”
They’re laughing as they pull on their shirts and pull each other close, and life sure as hell doesn’t get much better than this.
“Happy birthday, baby!” cries Mom when they finally head out to the kitchen. She enfolds Ant in a great big hug.
“Thanks, Ma. Somethin’ sure smells great!”
“Made all your favorites, lovie. And good morning to my perfect son-in-law!” She scoops Azlan into a hug like she hasn’t seen him in months, and he just laughs and hugs her right back.
Breakfast is spinach and mushroom omelettes alongside waffles with peanut butter—Ant’s favorites, as promised. They eat at the table with Grampa’s chair right where it ought to be…but maybe for the last time. Mom is gearing up for a move to Oxrib in a couple of months, and after a lot of talk and more than a few tears they’ve decided not to pack the wheelchair. There are so many other mementos of a full life to bring along, and as Mom had eventually admitted, it might be nice to not always focus on how weak and frail he had been near the end. They have his college swimming trophies, the collection of cool rocks from his hiking trips, photos of him and Gramma dancing and playing with their kids and grandkids. Ant smiles at the wheelchair and knows that he’ll miss it… But being afraid of missing something isn’t a good reason to hang on, if it’s the only reason.
His toothless old Grampa is always with him. In the record collection that’s been packed into the Prius’s trunk to take home, in the little sayings that slip into his conversation without conscious thought…and in the eyes he sees in the mirror every day. Light brown—light enough to look yellowy in the right lighting. Like pools of molten honey Azlan had once said, and Ant thinks Grampa would have liked that a lot.
After breakfast they gather in the living room, which Azlan and Mom had decorated the previous evening while Ant had been made to wait in his room. He had grumped about it, but all in fun; he secretly loves a little bit of fuss over his birthday and thankfully the two people he loves most see right through his flimsy façade and smile benignly at his complaints.
There are streamers and balloons and silly paper party hats, and a small pile of prettily-wrapped presents. Ant lets Azlan put a sparkly purple hat on him and sit him down on the floor for birthday photos, which Ant also pretends to hate until Azlan’s precious cheer is just too much and he has to laugh, just because he’s happy.
There are new books and new shirts and new earrings for when his freshly-pierced ears are fully healed, a new cleaning kit for the Bentley, a neon yellow tank top with words in rainbow bubble letters: I’M NOT GAY BUT MY HUSBAND IS. (Ant nearly laughs himself sick at that.) There’s a printed email, enclosed in a card, from Nico the tattoo artist confirming their booking during NECUMB weekend—they‘ll finally be getting their couple’s tattoos, not because they can’t wear their rings but just because they want the ink.
And the last thing is a folded piece of paper that Azlan hands to Ant as they sit on the carpet among the wrapping paper.
Ant opens it, and his heart is wrenched—it’s a page printed from the website of an animal rescue up near Silverton, a pair of kittens they’d been dying to adopt, but another application had been accepted. They’re gorgeous six-month-old siblings, one yellowy tabby tom and one calico female, both with eyes of crazy vivid orange that had made Ant gasp when he’d first seen them, browsing the website in bed with his husband.
“The hell, Watson?” he asks…though already the truth is brewing somewhere behind his sternum, fizzing so hard he might pop. “What… What does…”
Azlan bites his lip. “The other family backed out. The center contacted me three days ago—they’re ours. We can pick them up on Friday.”
Ant whoops and flings his arms around Azlan and they tumble to the floor and roll around laughing for sheer joy.
Mom plucks the discarded paper and holds it up to admire the photo. “Oooh, they’re cuties! My lil grandkitties! Got names picked out?”
“Sure do,” says Ant, crossing his arms on Azlan’s chest to grin up at her. “Lyric and Melody.”
Saxophone sectionals take place out on Braeburn Field, as always. Ant still hasn’t ever parked there again, and when they walk up from Sellwood he leads his ducklings along the road instead of cutting up the grassy hill so he won’t have to cross the parking lot itself. He still isn’t okay with that, and he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing to not be okay revisiting the place where a piece of his soul had been brutally murdered.
Jérôme Selmer had been right—there is no replacing a special instrument. But he’d also been right that Ant’s heart is big enough to hold love and grief at the same time: to mourn the friend he’d lost and adore the friend he’s found.
And thank Selmer for that. (Literally.)
He watches his section assemble out on the grass while he and Bran linger in the shade of a tree. “Ready for this?” Ant asks.
“Hell yeah,” says Bran, rolling his shoulders comfortably. “I think it’s gonna be awesome. Look at them—they idolize you already. The upperclassmen watched you walk through Hell and come out swinging, and to the freshies you’re practically a legend.”
He’s right. They’re alllll watching, and there’s a tense expectancy in the section like they honestly can’t wait to see what Ant will do. Scary as shit, actually.
But…
But there’s Hatch, chatting with their new Freshman bari…whom Ant recognizes, with a start, as the kid he’d marched against back at BoA last year. Hatch is happy and relaxed, and claps the kid on the shoulder, and that confidence and cheer seems to spread to everyone around him.
And here’s Bran right beside Ant, calm as a dry lake, as Ant’s toothless old Grampa liked to say. Cool. Steady. Absolutely reliable. A deputy he can trust and lean on; a friend who will help him keep his head on straight.
And at lunch he’ll sneak up behind the trumpet section leader and give that luscious ass a squeeze. See if he can make him eep in public. (Not really, but a guy can dream.) No matter what today brings, tonight Ant can laugh and cry about it at home with the love of his life, who had appeared out of nowhere one year ago and turned his whole world inside out—in the best possible way.
Some faces are gone and some are new, but the job is the same. And since this is the last time Ant will get to sweat his guts out at band camp…he’s just gotta love what he’s got, while it’s here.
Nothing lasts forever. Not one damn thing.
But if nothing ever ended, we’d never know how special it all is.
He flips his sunglasses down onto his nose and holds up a hand, grinning a big stupid grin. “Shall we, Deputy?”
Bran slaps the offered hand. “We shall, Section Leader.”
They mosey on over, and the saxes fall silent at their approach. Bran stands respectfully behind Ant’s right elbow as Ant folds his arms and looks them over for a long solemn moment.
“I’m Ant Holmson,” he says, “and I’m your section leader. You’ll call me Section Leader or you’ll call me sir, or you’ll call me nothing at all. Yes?”
“Yes, Section Leader.” (The Freshman glance around, surprised, their amusement fading as they see the perfect seriousness on the upperclassmen’s faces.)
Ant jerks his elbow. “This is Bran Powell. He’s my deputy. Most sections have a Junior SL this year, and he’s ours. So if I’m not around, he’s in charge. On game days and for all game-day-related issues, tenor and bari saxes report to him. We operate as a section but he’s my second-in-command, and if he gives an order to any of you, that order is gospel. Got all that?”
“Yes, Section Leader,” chorus his little ducklings, one and all.
Ant nods. “Then let’s get started.”
Then one of the seraphim flew to me, having in his hand a burning coal that he had taken with tongs from the altar.
— Isaiah 6:6, ESV
the end
(September 30 2024 - August 14 2025)
…but not really.
The stories we love never REALLY end. Love transforms everything it touches, and if you have loved these boys and their friends…then they’re Real, and they live on in your heart. As they do in mine.
Write what you know, they say, so that’s what I did. Marching band was an all-consuming Presence during the most crucial formative years of my young adulthood, and then it was gone, and I miss it all the time. This fic is my love letter to that beautiful world of physical misery and emotional exaltation. The Seraphim Host is my personal golden ideal for a college marching band: unlimited budget, ironclad discipline, outrageous talent. I had such fun creating it, and I hope you learned a thing or two…and that you’ll be on the lookout for bari saxes from now on. They’re a rare and special sighting.
“I could put them in college marching band” was the extent of my concept when starting this journey. I had sketched out their personalities and histories but nothing more before plopping Ant onto a street corner and letting him take over…and for me it was love, love, love at first sight. We have lived in Ant’s headspace for the entire ride, and what an amazing place to be. It’s felt like he’s been stationed in a chair in a corner of my mind — slouching, one leg slung over the arm, messing around on his phone the whole time — as he told me his story piece by piece. And even if he’s now getting up, stretching, making his slightly awkward but heartfelt goodbyes…all he’s doing is going home.
Guess who’ll be there to greet him.
“In His Hand a Burning Coal” is dedicated, with love and gratitude, to its WIP readers. Thank you for being part of this journey.
See y’all in the next adventure! (There is SO much to look forward to.)
At ease.
— Steph
(@klikandtuna on Tumblr, Discord, BlueSky, Instagram)
A good beta-reader is absolutely priceless, and I’ve got the best in the business. If I’ve been SL here, Suzy has been my deputy — they’re smart and savvy and intuitive, put up with my bullshit, and aren’t afraid to challenge me when I need challenging. (And when she does, she’s always right.) There are aspects of ABC that were difficult for them to read, but they were patient and determined and I am immensely grateful. Working with her is a constant joy, because not only do they make everything I write better, she’s also my friend and a wonderful human being. Y’all don’t even know how lucky we all are that she’s here. If you have loved ABC, thank @suzypfonne.
And thank @sparklyshinymagpie while you’re at it. Every bit of the social media coding in this fic is her doing, because she volunteered way back during the run of “Find the Light” and keeps insisting she’s happy to do it 😄 She’s a BEAST and we’re all damn lucky she’s around, too.
Note from the Coder:
I accidentally discovered the GO fandom after season 2; the show left me wondering what the heck I just watched and I wanted to see if anyone else was positing theories as to why things in the show were so weird. I ended up on Tumblr, which (big surprise) led me to AO3.
Didn't take me long to get hooked on AO3. My life was in turmoil and I found the endlessly creative stories here quickly became bright spots in my otherwise miserable days.
One day as I was beginning a new WIP I noticed the author mentioned that they'd eventually learn how to code text messages. Huh. I started poking around online and found some tutorials ... figured I'd been hand-coding HTML for a few decades, how hard could CSS be? Maybe I could give back to the community that had sustained me when I needed some hope. I found the courage to send a message to the author offering to assist ... if they even wanted assistance. And to my surprise, they said yes. That was at the beginning of Find the Light, and I've been working with Steph for about a year and a half now.
My point is this: have the courage to ask. If you're an author and want some kind of assistance — ask. If you're a reader with a skillset that might be useful, look for opportunities to ask if you can contribute. The worst that can happen is a "no thanks" response. But maybe, if you get really lucky, you'll get to be a small part of something really cool.
— SparklyShinyMagpie