Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Track 1: “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” (Roberta Flack)

The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the endless skies

August is a shitty time for busking.

Too damn hot, for one. And then there’s New England, where the sun doesn’t even set until eight in mid-August. Sunset is fine, timing-wise—find just the right corner, where the lazy pouring of syrupy golden light hits him juuust right, play something slow and soulful, and he’s got a goldmine—but there’s a big difference between daytime and darkness when it comes to earning power. At night he’s brooding and mysterious, slouching dramatically beneath a streetlamp, the air itself suffused with color all around him: the purples and blues of evening dancing with the yellows and oranges of the city lights over the curves and lines of the horn, glittering as the keys flutter. At night there’s not much sexier than a guy with a saxophone…if he’s good at it. (Which he is.)

In the broad daylight, though, a guy with a saxophone just looks desperate.

But there are worse things to be. Broke, for example.

So he sets up anyway, even though it’s still an hour till sunset. Gets off the bus several blocks away just for the entertainment value of carrying the case around in public—massive thing, looks like he’s toting a bazooka or something, and he pretends to ignore the askance looks shot his way while secretly enjoying them. Busking isn’t illegal in New Hampshire but some cops in Silverton are more open to the idea than others, and the others will cheerfully tell him to fuck off. Gotta choose the corner just right: no major businesses, plenty of sidewalk space so he’s not blocking crosswalks, keep well away from mailboxes and fire hydrants. He’s gotten pretty good at sniffing out ideal locations…places that fit the bill and aren’t anywhere near the usual SMU haunts. (Say it like smoo, everyone does.)

He sets up tonight in front of a drug store. Good foot traffic but nice and boring, and a few blocks outside the radius of the city center. A couple waiting for the crosswalk watches with interest as he swings the case around, braced against his knee, and settles it—brown leather, webbed a little here and there but still in good shape—gently onto the concrete beside the street sign. And when he flips the latches he has to resist the urge to twiddle his fingers like a cheap magician before the big reveal, because a reveal is exactly what it feels like: lifting the lid is like opening a treasure chest, and the contents shine just as bright. Just as precious too. A thing’s only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, and if he were knocked into traffic he’d fling the horn to safety before himself. …Which might be a bad example of value, come to think of it, since his own stupid life ain’t worth a hill of beans, as his toothless old Grampa likes to say.

But if it came to a ranking of the contents of his own heart, the number-one spot would be held by this tube of metal. No contest.

“Hell is that thing, man?” asks the lady at the crosswalk, who’s probably never made magic with her own breath.

“Bazooka,” he replies shortly, and slides his fingers along the lining of crushed red velvet to scoop the horn from her sculpted bed.

She’s more than half as tall as he is, and he ain’t short. She even feels sort of like a bazooka might, when he swings her upright to rest the bow on the toe of his sneaker—huge, heavy, complex, deadly. From afar any saxophone is just a mess of lines and circles and it doesn’t get better when you move in close; it’s a friggin’ labyrinth of rods and keys, and looks like way more than ten fingers ought to be able to handle. A clarinet is elegant, brass horns are clean and simple, and a flute is just a straight line, but a sax? A sax is a weapon.

That’s why he’d chosen it in the first place. But that had been an alto, a beat-up old thing that had belonged to the junior high and had pissed out gallons of spit and condensed breath from god-alone-knew how many kids before him by the time he’d held it. It had taught him how to make magic, had awakened this deep and greedy hunger in his soul, and for that he will always hold it sacred. But a wheezy old school horn is no fitting companion for someone who lives, breathes, eats, and drinks music…and especially such a someone who wants to get into the music program at SMU.

He had worked himself to the bone for three years—his mom matching every cent, bless her, so supportive—to buy this beauty brand-new: a baritone sax, silver from neck to bell, and you don’t even wanna know what she cost. He honestly would have preferred something vintage, possibly black-lacquered, but SMU is particular and he’s wanted to be a part of that since the ninth grade. So he’d gone for the silver, and she—is—a—dream. A Selmer, made in Paris, pure elegance in every inch, and you can bet your ass he keeps her polished up mirror-bright. Not a smudge. Corks are greased, joints are oiled, all those dozens of itty-bitty screws are tightened juuuust so. He knows every nook and cranny of her like the back of his hand—better, even, because how much time do you really spend staring at the back of your hand? He spends hours with q-tips and polish making sure everything on her body is perfect, and sometimes he even dreams about the gleaming lines and curves and ridges of her.

It’s true love, all right. He knows it, his roommate knows it, his toothless old Grampa knows it…hell, he’s pretty sure the horn herself knows it too. She sure knows how to give it right back to him, when he handles her just so.

Even the mouthpiece and ligature are stainless steel—SMU is very particular, and would probably require nickel-plated reeds if such a thing were possible. Some people go for the synthetic reeds but he still uses cane, that pale gold the only deviation from the silver palette, but it ends up mostly hidden by the ligature and his mouth anyway so SMU just has to deal with it. Cane reed, size four—he needs the power that you really only get from the thicker reeds, if you can handle ‘em (and he can)—and he holds it in his lips, lying full on his tongue, as he shrugs into his harness. After all a bari sax weighs a good fifteen pounds, so just a regular neckstrap won’t cut it for standing or marching for any length of time. This strap is plushly padded over the shoulders and crosses between his scapulae, adjustable at the front and sides; in uniform the hook peeks through an opening at the front of the jacket, but he’s not in uniform tonight and therefore doesn’t care. And the harness looks kinda sexy with a tank top. He thinks so, at least. Sorta Die-Hard-ish, if you squint.

He clips the hook through the loop on the horn and climbs carefully to his feet, shuffling the reed around in his mouth to get it good and soaked. Lot of spit involved with wind instruments—there are actual valves on curved horns for the emptying of the moisture that collects, technically water keys but everyone just calls them spit valves. (Just don’t take a black light into a band room, okay? You don’t want to know how many generations of saliva are soaked into that carpet.)

By now several people have stopped to watch with mild interest but he ignores them, holding up the mouthpiece to lay the moistened reed along the opening on the underside. This part can’t be rushed: he slips the ligature over and snugs it down onto the thicker base of the reed and squints through his sunglasses to align it just right, just the finest hair of silver visible above the perfectly-parallel curve of the top of the reed, then tightens the screws on the ligature and attaches the mouthpiece to the graceful neck. The bass clarinet wins in terms of the best neck on a wind instrument—looks like a swan, gorgeous sigmoid curve of smooth silver—but the bari sax runs a close second, in his humble opinion. Tough to beat that loop.

They’re waiting. He loves this feeling, when they don’t know just what to expect but are hoping for something spectacular from this alien-looking jumble of metal, because he knows something they don’t know: he knows that he has the power to rock their world. But he doesn’t rush this either. He closes his eyes behind the dark lenses as he settles the reed onto his lower lip. A mouthpiece of ebonite or resin or grenadilla wood would require a pad on the top to keep his incisors from eventually leaving dents, but that’s not a concern with the steel. Horn’s already warm—it’s a hot evening, and sweat has been prickling along his spine since he got off the bus—but he loves this moment too.

He takes a deep deep breath, sipping air to fill his lungs completely, feeling his chest expand…and then siiiiiiiiighs into the mouthpiece, picturing his breath—his goddamn life-force—pouring through the loop of the neck, down down down the entire length of the body, gushing around the bow at the very bottom by his knees, and eventually hissing out through that big beautiful bell that’s level with the bottom of the neck-loop. Once…twice…three times, three big breaths until he can feel the heat of it, gifted from his own body, trickling outward to his fingers as they rest on the keys.

Then, and only then, it’s time. He cracks his neck and grins—more for himself than for the others, but he can actually feel the shift in the air around him as the anticipation of his little audience sharpens.

He tucks his bottom lip to cushion the reed there and seals his lips around the breath-warmed steel. In sectionals or ensemble there would be an extensive warmup and for good reason, but out here nobody’s gonna know shit from shit and if he’s slightly flat at first, only he’ll notice, and he’ll be able to fix it. No one wants to stand around and listen to a guy honk a few ponderous scales or peer frowningly at the little needle on the tuning app on his phone. They want a show…and he can give them a show.

One more big breath, and this time all of the muscles in his core tense up, poised, waiting. He’s got killer abs and he doesn’t even have to spend any time in the gym to keep them. It’s alllll this, the weight of the horn and the clench of control, control, control—control of his body and control of his breath, knowing where every cell of him is at any given instant and where it has to be the next instant… But he’s on a street corner, not the field, so he relaxes his shoulders and starts the show.

Middle C, just blasting it out, and more than one of the spectators jump. Quick fluttering up-and-down chromatic runs, fingers flying, keys clicking brightly, down and down and down until he hits that low B and then he holds there, ramping up the pressure and the volume until he can feel his very bones resonating, the marrow rattling, the fuckin’ mitochondria themselves jiving along to that note so loud and deep and full that it feels almost subsonic… And then he drops that half-step to the B♭, which the spectators hadn’t known was waiting in the wings. This alone gets him a smattering of applause, which bodes well for tonight’s haul.

He swings upward without warning, hop-skip-jumping into something light and breezy, which can be difficult to achieve on a bassline horn if you don’t know your stuff. But he knows his stuff, and he can make this sax talk. Possibly his favorite thing about all saxophones is their unparalleled ability to mimic the timbre of a human voice; in his hands, powered by his lungs, the silver Selmer gasps and giggles, belts with flawless vibrato, smiles and wails and sighs and growls, she’s got flair, she’s got personality, and he can hear the patter of coins on the crushed velvet but he doesn’t even look. He’s just having fun now.

He decorates these moments of time on this street corner in Silverton, New Hampshire. He paints them gold and sets them ringing with the throaty purr of the voice of his horn, playing some pieces from memory and some that he makes up on the spot, toying with key changes like a cat with yarn: idle enjoyment masking deeply-ingrained knowledge and instinct.

He keeps going until the light mellows and the high screaming blue of a clear sky in August starts to quiet, dreaming of purple. He’s already made more than enough to qualify this session as worth the effort, but he keeps going just because he loves this—the soft weighted thumps of the leather pads; the snickety-snack of the keys; the vibration that starts to make his fingers go a little numb after a while; the sense of freedom, of flying, that comes from following his own internal score. It’s gonna be a lonnnnng week of doing exactly what he’s told, exactly the same as everyone else around him, so he revels in this while it lasts—like a pig in a puddle, as his toothless old Grampa likes to say.

When he pauses to catch his breath—and man oh man does it take a lot of wind-power to make this horn go—and to empty the spit-valve into the gutter (which is about as polite as he can get under the circumstances), he doesn’t even acknowledge the applause, nor does he do more than glance at the contents of the case. More than one five-dollar bill in there among the rest, which is a damn fine way to start the season.

“Hello.”

Shit. Always annoying when one of the faces tries to strike up a conversation. He’s vaguely aware—with a quick glance—that this specific face has been hanging around a while, but he doesn’t usually pay much attention to particulars. He grunts, hoping that’ll be enough to discourage any further chatter.

But— “That was amazing,” the voice goes on, apparently mistaking acknowledgment for encouragement. “And that’s a beautiful instrument.”

He gives the sax a little jiggle—she always wants a little help with the last few drops, and he’s always amused by the parallels to shaking off after a piss—and straightens slowly, pulling a square of felty cloth from his pocket to dab at the residue below the spit-valve as he turns to face this interloper.

Double shit—he’s young. SMU-age, though not anyone he recognizes…and upon closer inspection, he’s pretty sure he would recognize this guy if he were a student, if only for the hair: buzzed close at the sides but up top is a tumble of soft blond curls so pale they’re almost white, glowing in the light of the sunset. Cute face, all smooth and smiley, and a chest you could practically play tennis on, broad and firm beneath the plain white tee.

“I heard you playing,” goes on the new guy. “Followed the music all the way from the park.”

Another grunt. Young and cute the guy may be, but that’s no free pass to a conversation. He polishes an imaginary smudge on the side of the Selmer’s body.

“…You don’t happen to be a student out at Sandalphon Memorial, do you?”

Nope, not gonna be an easy escape. This one’s a Stage-Five Clinger. He slowwwly lets his head flop to one side, making his exasperation abundantly clear, and is silent for another long minute…but the guy doesn’t look abashed. He just stands there calmly, waiting.

So— “What’s it t’you?”

That smiley face warms. “Oh, well, so am I! New this year. Just transferred. From West Virginia.”

Well, that explains that. “You don’t sound like you’re from West Virginia.”

A tiny quirk of one pale eyebrow. “Thank you.”

Of all possible responses, that one’s at least interesting. “Sophomore?”

“No, a Junior. I’ve been down at WVU.”

“Ah.”

“I take it you’re in the music program, uhhmm…?” A little lift at the end, both eyebrows climbing, asking.

Well, why not? Cute guy, no bumbling freshie, complimented the sax. Might be worth an actual answer. “Ant,” says Ant, and braces himself—because the guy’ll ask. Everyone always asks. What, like the bug? or is that your real name? or what’s it short for?

But the guy doesn’t ask. He keeps smiling, bobs his pale head, and says, “Ant. Nice to meet you.”

“Whatever.” Ant scrunches his nose to nudge the sunglasses up a little higher. “Look, I’m busy.”

“Right right, sure.” But the guy eyes him with an appraising kind of air that makes Ant suspicious. “Know any Adderley?”

Ant snorts, one hand on his hip. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“Only when the bear wears the funny hat,” the guy shoots back, and Ant smirks a little before he can stop himself. Emboldened by that small victory, the guy folds his arms across that mile-wide chest—strong-looking arms, nothing lean or toned about him but in spite of the rolling curves he just sorta looks like he could bench-press a moose—and jerks his chin. “Come on, show me.”

Ant scowls and sucks on his teeth for a minute. “…Adderley’ll cost you.”

Immediately the guy pulls a wallet from his khaki cargo shorts and flicks a ten-dollar bill into the Selmer’s case. “That about do it?”

In lieu of a reply, Ant starts right into Things Are Getting Better. Bit different on a bari instead of Adderley’s alto, but if the alto’s got more pep, the bari’s got the soul, and that’s one hill this Ant will happily die on. More people stop to listen, so he keeps going—Walk Tall and then Clouds, which is a little less fun without the bossa-nova backup, but when he taps his toe to the beat he can see heads nodding along.

Not the cute guy, though. He’s just watching, sometimes following Ant’s flickering fingers but just as often studying his face, like he’s sizing Ant up, which is…not unwelcome, actually. It’s kind of hard to get lost in the music when Ant finds himself trying to suss out just what color the guy’s eyes might be—impossible to say, through the sunglasses and when the light is warming from gold to blood. Whatever the color, Ant doesn’t mind those eyes watching him. For ten bucks, he’ll take the extra scrutiny. He even throws in a little hip-sway every now and then, or a head-toss, ostensibly to get the hair out of his face but he also knows how those bright strands must look in the bloody sunset light.

It’s even better once the streetlights turn on. He doesn’t take off the sunglasses, of course, but there’s not much nicer than slow jazz on a summer evening with a cute guy watching his every move with such bright interest. WVU, he’d said, and maybe pickings are slim down there; Silverton ain’t New York or San Fran but it’s gotta be better than Morgantown, West Virginia. Or maybe it’s a purely academic interest and the guy’s actually straight as a yard line. Lord knows Ant’s gaydar isn’t the best. Still, the guy doesn’t seem put off by the show in addition to the music.

Ooooh, maybe he’s a repressed little Christian boy indulging in some sinful thoughts for the very first time. Ant doesn’t mind a little temptation, but…nah, he’s gotta dismiss that option as unlikely. The guy’s way too chill for someone consumed by illicit fantasies. He looks…like he’s having a nice time. Straight, then. Just a jazz hound, and nothing wrong with that.

Little disappointing, though.

Ant finally quits around nine because the last bus out to Beaufort leaves at 9:15; he’s gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn anyway, so he doesn’t mind an early night. The other faces have come and gone but the cute guy’s been standing there for more than an hour, looking neither tired nor bored nor impatient, just watching. Ant ignores both him and the applause from the rest, though he does give a grudging nod to the people who toss final coins and bills into the case—including a very pretty girl around eighteen or nineteen who is not at all subtle about making sure Ant sees the phone number scribbled on a scrap of notebook paper, dropped into the case with a few bills. For her he deigns a brief but saucy grin, gratified by her blush as she scurries off.

Maybe August isn’t so bad for busking after all.

The case has a little inset box in one front corner above where the bell lies, for stowing the mouthpiece and the reeds and the harness; Ant opens it and holds the Selmer braced on the toe of his sneaker again to scoop his earnings with his free hand, piling everything into the box and squashing down the bills. Then he carefully unhooks the harness and plops his butt down to the sidewalk—still warm from the heat of the day—to lay the horn across his lap. He unscrews the ligature, replaces the reed in the little plastic case next to its buddies, and then drops a weighted string through the mouthpiece and pulls the swatch of microfiber cloth through to clean out the moisture. The horn herself will need more TLC, but he can take care of that on the bus. For now he lifts her with care and settles her into her crushed velvet bed, then flips the lid of the little box closed and shuts the case itself, clacking the clasps.

It’s only when he climbs to his feet that he sees he’s not alone. The cute guy is still there, smiling like he’s just watched something rare and special.

Ant hefts the case and sits it up longways to lean an elbow on it. “What.”

“Oh—nothing. Sorry. I just wanted to say that you’re phenomenally talented. Really.”

“Oooookay.”

“And I suppose maybe I’ll see you around campus.”

“Maybe.”

“…Are you heading that way now?”

“Yup.” Ant tips the case to lift it by the handle. “Bus.”

“Oh!” The guy looks startled. “Well, I…I was just about to drive out to Beaufort. Do you need a ride?”

“What? No.” The refusal is just a reflex, same as the cheek-scrunch of vague distaste that he can feel his face performing along with the words. Stupid to turn down the offer—a free ride’s a free ride—but Ant also hates owing people shit so it’s probably for the best. “Gotta catch the bus. Bye.”

“Suit yourself,” says the cute guy as Ant turns away. “Guess I’ll just listen to Wayne Marsh all on my own.”

Ant stops. Scowls. Turns his face up to the sky—fuzzy and starless in the city-glow—and heaves a long sigh of eloquent irritation. Without turning around, he asks: “Car?”

“Prius.”

“Back seat?”

“It’s got a few of my bags in it, but they could be moved.”

“Far?”

“Five or six blocks. Just on the other side of the park.”

“Album?”

“With Lee Konitz, ‘55.”

“…Fine.” Ant spins on a heel—the weight of the case almost overbalances him but he manages to recover—and strides straight past the guy, letting him jog to catch up.

“Can I help with the saxophone?”

Ant pointedly jerks the case around to hold it in his other hand, away from the guy. “Touch it and die.”

The guy holds up his hands in a placating way but doesn’t look offended. “Understood.”

They walk for a while in silence, but the guy still doesn’t seem uncomfortable. He looks downright cheerful, as far as Ant can tell from the occasional glances he shoots that way…but he finds himself distracted by the guy’s feet, and smirks to himself.

It’s a little silver Prius and Ant sighs again, annoyed, because even when the two suitcases are moved to the hatchback trunk there’s no way both he and the Selmer could fit on the back bench with room to maneuver. Buuuut he’s also missed the bus. So he sits down in the grass at the edge of the park and takes his time about detaching the neck to clean and oil everything that’s gotten wet, but even that doesn’t seem to bother the guy; he just settles onto a nearby bench and hums quietly—one of the songs Ant had played earlier.

“Are you in the marching band, by any chance?” he asks eventually. “Out at SMU?”

But he says it like ess-em-you which proves he’s wet behind the ears, Junior or not. “Smoo,” Ant corrects, with scathing enunciation. “No one says the acronym.”

“Oh! Smoo. Thank you.”

“And yes. I am. And so are you.”

The guy looks surprised, which is satisfying. “How did you know?”

“Even a transfer wouldn’t get to school a week before move-in. Also, feet.” Ant boops out his lips in a quarter-second pout to point, since his hands are occupied: another thing he’d learned from his toothless old Grampa. “Walked in step with me the whole way.”

“Did I really?” The guy laughs, which makes the gently-convex wall of his stomach jiggle through the t-shirt in a way that’s really hard to classify as anything other than grade-A adorable. Damn. “Well, brilliant deduction, Holmes.”

“Thanks, Watson.” Ant gently replaces the Selmer in her case and stands, stretching. “So whaddaya play?”

The guy gives Ant another sizing-up sort of look. Still can’t tell what color the eyes are, though, not in the orangey streetlight glare. “Guess,” he says.

Ant rolls his eyes, but he’s still wearing the sunglasses so the effect is probably ruined. He stands by the rear door of the Prius until the guy hops to his feet and hurries to open it; then Ant lays the Selmer’s case across the seat and crawls to fasten both seatbelts over it. When he climbs out he dusts his hands and gives the guy a long thoughtful look.

“Not sax,” he says, crowding past the guy to open the passenger door.

“Noooo,” the guy admits—Ant had known he was right, but it’s kind of a shame anyway—and then closes Ant’s door for him and walks around. Ant watches. Funny, the way this guy moves. He’s all curves, not heavy but far from spare, and very light on his feet. Moves with confidence, like he’d had a week to plan every step and motion. If he’d said he was a Dance major Ant would’ve believed it. He opens the door and lowers himself gracefully into the driver’s seat. “And how did you know that one, Holmes?”

“Well, Watson,” says Ant, as the guy starts up this ridiculous little car with its push-button ignition, “you offered to carry the Selmer. If you played sax you’d have at least some idea of what she’s worth, and you’d never have presumed to lay a finger on her.”

The guy laughs again. “Fair enough. No, not sax.”

“Right. Prolly not a woodwind at all.”

“Also correct.” The guy checks his mirrors and pulls into traffic.

Ant settles in. Nice to have a ride, honestly. The bus takes about forty-five minutes to get out to Beaufort but by car, without the stops, it’s only about twenty. “Yeah, can’t see you holdin’ a piccolo.”

The guy laughs. Doesn’t take much to get him laughing, but Ant doesn’t actually mind. “No indeed.”

“You look like a tuba, but you’re not.”

“And why not?”

“No way you’re percussion, either.”

“Hey, I’d be great on the quads.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Rude.”

“Honestly my first guess was euphonium, but nahhh.”

“Says who?”

“Says the trumpet case between my feet.”

“Oh.” The guy laughs yet again, heartily, actually slapping his knee. “Forgot about that.”

“Apparently. …Wouldn’t’ve figured you for a trumpet.”

“No?”

“Nope. They’re dicks.”

“Maybe I’m a dick.”

Ant snorts. “Yeah, maybe.”

“What?”

“You’re like, the least dickish person in the history of people.”

“Oh, you don’t even know me.”

“Are you trying to convince me you’re an asshole?”

“Just stating a fact.”

“Sure, sure. They make you audition?”

“Yes, with the director.”

“But not with your section leader?”

“No, not yet.”

“Woof, brace yourself. He really is a dick.”

“Is that so?”

The guy doesn’t look or sound worried at all, which suddenly feels concerning. “No, I mean it. God puts up with him because he’s good—like, really good, and if you tell anyone I said so I’ll skin you alive—but he’s an arrogant douche. You may be a Junior but you’re new, and he’ll make you eat shit.”

“God?” The guy sounds amused.

“Doc Necessary, but no one calls her that. We’re the Seraphim, and she’s God. Get it?”

“Ha, I like that. Is she a worthy deity?”

He says the word day-uh-tee, which ought to sound pretentious but coming from him just seems natural. Really doesn’t sound like he’s from West Virginia…but then, maybe he’d just gone to school there. People travel for school. Ant would know. “She’s great. Again, don’t ever tell her I said so. Not that you’ll talk to her much. She and Jesus—not her kid, just the assistant director, Josh Holt but we all call him Jesus—they’re super busy. Do all the drills themselves, and original arrangements for the score. They sent the music, right? Shit, you’d better have it down by now.”

“Yes, I was given the music, and I’ve been practicing. It sounds lovely.”

“Big trumpet solo in the slow medley. Gonna go for it?”

But he’s smirking, and the guy gives him a dubious look. “I was thinking about it. Why, is that stupid?”

“Yeeeeah. Sorry, it really is. Ain’t noooo way that solo’s going to anyone but Tyler. Becca’ll give him a run for it, but he’ll get it in the end.”

“Tyler’s the section leader, then.”

“Bingo.”

“And he’ll try to make me eat shit.”

“Not what I said. Said he’ll make you eat shit. Will.”

The guy shrugs a little. “Never cared for shit.”

Ant laughs. “Big talk, Watson. But you’ve been warned.”

“Noted. …Azlan Fell, by the way. Not that you’ve asked.”

“Aslan?”

“Yes, but with an A-z. My dad apparently worried it might be blasphemous, otherwise.”

And when he looks over at Ant, it’s a look that Ant recognizes immediately because he’s worn it himself so often that if he had a nickel for every time, he sure wouldn’t have to bus out to Silverton to play on street corners. It’s the go-on, say-it look, the go-ahead-and-ask, everyone-does look.

What, like the lion?

Is that your real name?

Parents must be mega-nerds, huh?

“Azlan,” says Ant. “Gotcha.”

And the surprise and relief on the guy’s face—Azlan’s face—makes Ant feel weirdly proud, like he’s passed some important test. That name won’t help the shit-eating phase, that’s for sure, but Ant can’t do anything about that.

He snaps his fingers suddenly. “That’s why you look familiar.”

“…Oh?” And why does Azlan look disappointed, all of a sudden? Does he already sense the joke?

Ant barrels on anyway. “Anyone ever tell you you look exactly like our mascot?”

Azlan blinks. “The Seraph?”

“Yup. Check it.”

Ant points—they happen to be passing a big billboard advertising SMU, five miles out. BE NOT AFRAID, says the caption, in big obnoxious lettering. SANDALPHON MEMORIAL UNIVERSITY, EXIT 81. HOME OF THE SERAPHIM HOST!!!

There’s a cutout photo of the ‘12 trumpet line during a performance, full uniform, horns angled perfectly. But up above by the lettering is the official SMU mascot art: a Seraph in flight. Long flowing robes, small sets of wings covering his feet and eyes and one big pair outspread, one hand holding up a lightning bolt as though about to smite some poor idiot…and his hair is a pale cloud around his head. Can’t see the whole face, but the nose is even a bit upturned, like Azlan’s.

They can only see it for a couple of seconds, but that’s plenty. “Oh,” says Azlan.

“Yyyyup.”

“That won’t help.”

“Nooo it will not.”

“Still.” Azlan rolls back those yummy shoulders—they are, no harm in admitting it—and sticks out his chin. Grade-A adorable, all right. “I don’t plan on eating any shit whatsoever.”

“Well best of luck, Watson. …Or should I just call you angel?”

“Oh, don’t you start.” But he’s smiling, which is nice.

“Actually, if Watson were an angel, that would explain how Holmes survived all the crazy shit he pulled.”

“History’s busiest guardian angel. Retired after that gig.”

“Wonder if there’s therapy in heaven.”

“They had to institute it just for Watson.”

“Hey, take 80—I’m off campus this year.”

“Oh, so am I. Someplace called Parkview Terrace.”

“Ew.”

“Is that an ew for the neighborhood itself, or the generic, soulless name?”

“Both, and that’s a great way to describe it. Soulless. Hang a right here. ‘Fraid I’m not up in Parkview with the bougie crowd, I’m down in Alphabet City.”

“What’s that?”

“Where the north-south streets are in alphabetical order. Stupid shit. Ash, Birch, Cedar, Douglas.”

“All the way to Z?”

“Nah, Beaufort’s not that big. Left at this light. See, there’s Ash. I’m down on Filbert. 1804.”

“Hey…Ant?”

“Yeah?” As the Prius pulls up to the curb Ant pauses, his hand on the door.

Azlan is frowning with something like trepidation but then purses his lips in a determined little pout. “Could I give you my number? Just, well, to have someone to talk to? This has been fun.”

“…Oh.”

“It’s fine if you’d rather not. Got your own stuff going on, I suppose.”

“No, it’s—fine. Yeah. Whatever.”

“Oh, okay. Good.”

Glad for his sunglasses and scowling down at his phone, Ant opens up his Messaging app and hits new message. “Shoot, then.”

“It’s five-four-one—”

“Fuck is that?”

“Eastern Oregon.”

“See, I knew you weren’t from West Virginia.”

“Yes, Holmes, you’re a wonder. Want the number or not?”

“Fine, yeah, go on.”

When he has the number, Ant sends a little 👋 emoji. “There, that’s me.”

Azlan immediately goes to input a new contact, in Ant’s full view, naming it Holmes 🎷. Amused—and weirdly touched—Ant retaliates by naming Azlan’s contact in his own phone watson 😇.

“You want my advice,” he says as he climbs out of the car and opens the rear door to unbuckle the Selmer, “you’ll shut down the angel stuff quick, if anyone starts up.”

Azlan leans on the center console, chin in his hand. “Pretty sure fighting a nickname is the best way to get it to stick.”

“Just saying. If I noticed it, so will everyone else.”

“Duly noted. See you tomorrow?”

“No you won’t. Sectionals tomorrow and Sunday.” Ant props the Selmer’s case on the sidewalk and stoops to talk through the open passenger window. “See you Monday. That’s the first time we’ve got ensemble.”

“Oh, okay. Monday, then.”

“Good luck with Tyler.”

“And the solo audition? No luck for that?”

Ant shrugs. “No point. Trust me. But give it a shot anyway, if you’ve got the guts.”

“I do. Actually.”

Ant snorts, but he’s grinning, too. “Night, Watson.”

“Night, Holmes.”

He heads for the door, and doesn’t watch the Prius drive off.

His housemate Simon won’t be around this week—he’s a Philosophy major, never sets foot in Sellwood (the Music building) unless he has to. He and Ant had been random roommates as Freshman and had ended up getting along so well that they’d roomed together on purpose as Sophomores and have gone in together on this rental for their Junior year. The house isn’t much—the linoleum’s cracked and the closets smell like mold, but the neighborhood’s pretty quiet and it’s an easy bike ride to campus, which is all they can really ask for.

Ant munches some of the leftover pizza he’d gotten that afternoon, sprawled on the couch and flipping idly through the free cable channels. When he’s done eating he washes his hands and brings out the Selmer again, checking all of the rods and screws and testing the keypads for stickiness. On the coffee table—crappy little thing, missing a leg so he’d propped it up with several of his thickest novels, but it’s still slightly off-kilter—his phone buzzes.

Ant grins.

Ant is still grinning, taking breaks from polishing the Selmer to type with one poking finger as his phone lies on the table.

Ant actually laughs aloud. It feels good, both the laughing and the sort-of flirting with this cute, smart, funny guy. Maybe Azlan is gay, after all, or at least bi or pan or whatever. But then again, maybe he’s just funny.

When the money has been counted and stowed, the phone number of the pretty girl has been tossed into the recycling bin, and the Selmer shines like the moon itself, Ant puts the horn to bed and turns on the window-unit in his room to get some AC going while he showers. It isn’t great but something’s better than nothing, especially after long sweaty band camp days like tomorrow is guaranteed to be. Highs in the mid-eighties all week, a huge portion of which they’ll be spending outside.

God always demands to have the full show on the field by the first game, which is only fifteen days away; that’s why the music is sent out during the summer, so they can show up to band camp with everything memorized and have one fewer thing to worry about. Two days of sectionals to practice the music and marching basics and to break in the Freshmen, and then six consecutive days of intense drills where a single stumble or letting the angle of your horn droop by two degrees will get you screamed at. Band camp is difficult, demanding beyond all reason, exhausting to the point of heatstroke and heart palpitations…

…and it’s Ant’s third-favorite thing in all the world.

He’d put clean sheets on the bed earlier and they’re nice and cool in the combined force of the AC unit and the ceiling fan. He plugs in his phone and sets the alarm…but hesitates before putting it aside. Would it be weird to text again? Azlan might be asleep, or hanging out with his new trumpet buddies.

But no, he’d been the one to offer his number and the one to start their earlier conversation. It’s probably fine.

And Azlan replies immediately, which is kind of a relief.

Ant cackles, alone in his shitty little rental house.

(But then Ant has to wonder if he has, in a weird roundabout way, just told Azlan he’s single.)

…And is that sorta kinda maybe a date, or something like it? Damn would it be nice to know what Azlan’s deal is. For the moment Ant makes up his mind to just roll with whatever this might be. At the very least he seems to be well on his way to having a new actual friend—which is pretty rare for him. Finding someone who can tolerate Ant’s company is one thing, but someone whose company Ant can also tolerate? Yeah. Rare.

Ant puts down the phone with a big stupid grin on his face, thinking of strong arms and a tennis-court chest and a round but taut belly that jiggles with laughter. Too damn bad the guy’s a trumpet, really; he’s unlikely to see much of that cute smile all season. But Azlan is here, and that’s something. And he’s got Ant’s number, so that’s something else. And he’s smart, and he’s sharp, and he’s interesting, and is neither put off by Ant’s snark nor intimidated by the idea of Tyler.

Ant really really hopes Azlan can hold his own against that shithead. Not that there’s much anyone could do about it if he can’t. Ant sure wouldn’t jeopardize his own place in the band, not even for a cute new friend.

…A really cute new friend.

What color would those eyes be in the daylight? …or in the light of the gooseneck lamp on Ant’s little bedside cabinet? Tennis isn’t the only game Ant could play on that chest.

Nope, it’s late, no time for getting all worked up. Not when his alarm will go off in six hours.

He goes to sleep smiling anyway.

Up at the asscrack of dawn, quick bowl of cereal, tank top and loose athletic shorts that’ll allow a lot of airflow. Ant ties his hair—just past shoulder-length and red as sin, and how’s that for a parallel with the devil thing from last night—up into a floppy bun on the crown of his head and stuffs an old duffel bag with a fresh tank, flip-flops, sunscreen, snacks, and a giant water bottle half-filled with solid ice and topped off with water.

He’s rigging up his bike trailer and thinking of sending Azlan some kind of have-a-good-first-day text—not exactly that, obviously, it’s stupid and corny, but something that would give that general effect—when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He laughs.

And it really does feel kinda like he’s got a guardian angel, which is a pretty nice feeling.

With the duffel hanging across his chest and the Selmer firmly strapped into the bike trailer, he heads for campus and his third round of the worst/best week ever.