Chapter 1: Opening Image
Two friends lived in a crowded apartment. One of them had just recently graduated from high school, the other was in college.
Their dream?
Be the biggest band in the world!
It was a stretch, but it was their dream.
Telemachus, the one in college, was snuggled on the pillows and blankets and plushies that laid there. He was patiently awaiting his turn to play as Ankoku, the recent graduate, sang his heart away, banging on drums.
However, Telemachus would probably never sing again. He had an accident long before he met Ankoku. It destroyed his voice and messed with his body. He kept quiet about it though, not that he could say anything.
His voice was gone, and he was left with a whisper that sounded more like a sigh. But he didn't mind. He had Ankoku, and that was enough. He watched Ankoku, his friend, his brother-in-arms, his rock. Ankoku was a whirlwind of energy, his black hair a wild mane that seemed to have a mind of its own. It was always falling into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too busy strumming his guitar, his fingers dancing over the strings with a familiarity that spoke of countless hours of practice.
Ankoku's tattoos were a testament to their journey.
Each one a story, a memory, a gig played under the neon lights of some dive bar. They were a map of their lives, a road less traveled, but one they were determined to walk. His red sweater, black sweatpants, and the silver and gold piercings that adorned his ears and nose were a uniform of sorts, a badge of honor for the life they chose.
Telemachus, on the other hand, was a study in contrasts. His long, curly black hair was always swept to the side, his bangs falling over his eyes. He wore a white over-sized jacket, a white shirt, and blue jeans, a stark contrast to Ankoku's vibrant attire.
His scars, a silent testament to his past, were hidden beneath the fabric, a secret he kept from the world. He was a silent observer, his fingers hovering over his own guitar, waiting for his cue. His eyes, a deep shade of brown, were fixed on Ankoku, his gaze intense and focused.
The apartment was a symphony of mismatched furniture and overflowing bookcases. The walls were adorned with posters of their favorite bands, a shrine to their shared love for music and literature. The air was always filled with the hum of a guitar or the echo of a practiced melody. It was their sanctuary, their safe haven from the world outside.
The scent of old books and worn guitar strings permeated the air, a comforting aroma that was uniquely theirs. The sunlight streamed in through the large window, casting a warm glow on the cluttered floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The room was a testament to their shared history, a chronicle of their journey so far.
Ankoku's fingers danced over the strings, his eyes closed, lost in the music. His voice, raw and untamed, filled the room, a powerful instrument that demanded attention. He was a man possessed, his body swaying to the rhythm, his hair a wild halo around his face.
Telemachus watched, his heart swelling with pride and affection. Ankoku was a force of nature, a storm that swept everything in its path. He was a raw, untamed talent, a diamond in the rough, and Telemachus was determined to help him shine.
Ankoku's voice soared, a powerful baritone that seemed to shake the very foundations of the apartment. He was singing about dreams and heartache, about the struggle to make it in a world that seemed determined to keep them down. It was a song of defiance, a battle cry against the odds, and Telemachus felt every word like a punch to the gut.
Telemachus put a hand on his shoulder, signalling for them to relax and take a break.
Ankoku's eyes fluttered open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked around the room, his gaze landing on Telemachus. A slow smile spread across his face, and he gave a nod of approval.
"Damn, Telemachus," Ankoku said, his voice hoarse from the singing. "You've got a real knack for this. I'm starting to think you're the real talent here."
Telemachus shrugged, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks.
Ankoku huffed, wiping away the sweat from his body before following Telemachus to the couch. "Damn, you're kinda cute when you're up and about." He commented as Telemachus went to fetch him a drink. "Thanks, man."
Ankoku gulped down the water Telemachus handed him, condensation dripping onto his already sweat-dampened red sweater. He swiped his forearm across his brow, pushing back the messy fringe plastered to his forehead. "Felt good," he rasped, a grin splitting his face. "That new bridge? Killer. Just needs your magic touch now. Ready?"
Telemachus nodded, already settling onto the worn Persian rug, pulling his own battered acoustic guitar onto his lap. His fingers, pale and long, automatically found their starting positions. He adjusted the circular mask covering the lower half of his face, the painted ":3" expression a cheerful contrast to his quiet intensity.
Ankoku watched him. He saw the subtle tremor in Telemachus’s hands, the faint blue tint beneath the nails. The cold was setting in. Again. Without a word, Ankoku kicked off his battered sneakers, shuffled closer on the rug, and pressed his side firmly against Telemachus’s. The younger man flinched slightly at the initial contact – the heat always surprised him – then leaned into the warmth radiating from Ankoku like a furnace. A silent sigh escaped him, barely a whisper of air against the mask.
"Alright," Ankoku said, his voice softer now, close to Telemachus’s ear. "From the top of the second verse, yeah? Where it gets all… moody." He strummed a soft, dissonant chord, setting the atmosphere.
Telemachus closed his eyes. His fingers moved. Notes flowed, clean and intricate, weaving around Ankoku’s foundational chords like silver thread through rough burlap. It wasn’t flashy, not like Ankoku’s raw power. It was precise, layered, full of aching spaces and unexpected resolutions. It spoke where his voice couldn’t.
Ankoku stopped playing, just listening. He watched Telemachus’s concentration, the way his dark lashes brushed his cheekbones, the slight tension in his shoulders beneath the oversized white jacket. He saw the edge of a faded, silvery scar peeking out from under the jacket sleeve near the wrist before Telemachus subtly tugged the fabric down.
"Damn, Telly," Ankoku murmured, genuine awe softening his usually boisterous tone. "How do you do that? It’s like you’re pulling the notes straight outta the air. Makes my stuff sound like garage band noise." He nudged him gently with his elbow.
Telemachus opened his eyes, a flicker of amusement in their dark depths. He lifted his hands from the strings and signed, quick and fluid: Stop fishing. Your noise is good noise. He tapped his temple twice. Heart. You play from here. I just… arrange.
"Bullshit," Ankoku laughed, the sound rough but warm. "You got the soul too. It’s just… quieter." He reached out, hesitated for a split second, then carefully tucked a stray curl behind Telemachus’s ear, his fingers brushing against the cool skin of his temple. He felt Telemachus lean almost imperceptibly into the touch before pulling back. "Cold again?"
A small, almost imperceptible nod. Telemachus rubbed his hands together, then slid them under his thighs, seeking the minimal warmth of his own body and the rug.
"Shoulda grabbed your thermals," Ankoku grumbled, more at himself than at Telemachus. He glanced at the clock perched precariously atop a stack of dog-eared Bukowski paperbacks. "Shit. Gotta hustle. Got that double at the loading dock starting in an hour." He groaned dramatically, stretching his arms overhead, joints popping. "Gonna smell like diesel and regret by midnight."
Telemachus watched him, a frown creasing his brow above the mask. He signed: Too much. You work too much.
Ankoku shrugged, already scrambling to his feet. "Gotta pay rent. Gotta buy strings. Gotta keep the dream machine oiled, right?" He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair buried under discarded hoodies and sheet music. "What about you? Shift at the library?"
Telemachus shook his head. He mimed typing, then held up two fingers. Data entry. Double shift tonight. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as if trying to conserve what little warmth he had.
"Damn, Telly, no," Ankoku stopped, jacket half on. "Not another double. Those fluorescent lights suck the life outta you. And that chair…" He gestured vaguely at Telemachus’s hunched posture. "It’s murder on your back. On top of… you know." He gestured helplessly towards him, encompassing the chill, the fatigue, the hidden scars.
Telemachus just looked at him, his expression unreadable behind the ":3" mask, but his eyes held a stubborn glint. He signed slowly, deliberately: You work. I work. Equal. He paused, then added, fingers sharp with emphasis: My choice.
Ankoku ran a hand through his wild hair, frustration warring with understanding. He knew that look, that quiet, immovable resolve. Telemachus hated feeling like a burden. Hated seeing Ankoku shoulder everything. "Okay, okay," Ankoku sighed, giving in. "Stubborn ass." He finished pulling on his jacket. "But promise me you’ll grab that thick scarf? The grey one? And the thermos of that nasty herbal crap that actually kinda works?"
Telemachus gave a single, solemn nod. Promise.
"And text me," Ankoku added, pointing a finger. "When you get there. When you leave. Don’t make me call Mrs. Henderson downstairs for a welfare check again." He grinned, recalling the elderly neighbor’s bewildered expression when he’d asked her to peek in on Telemachus during a previous silent spell.
A faint huff of air that might have been a stifled laugh escaped Telemachus. He made a dismissive shooing motion with his hand. Go. Be late.
"Right, right." Ankoku grabbed his keys, the worn leather wallet, and a half-eaten energy bar from a pile of mail. He paused at the apartment door, cluttered with gig flyers and takeout menus. The afternoon light slanted through the grimy window, catching dust motes dancing in the air, illuminating the chaos of their shared life – guitars, amps, books, a mountain of laundry in the corner. He looked back at Telemachus, still curled small on the rug, the guitar beside him like a loyal companion. The sight tugged at something deep in Ankoku’s chest.
"Hey, Telly?" Ankoku’s voice was suddenly serious, lacking its usual bravado. Telemachus looked up. "Tonight… after the data dungeon… play that new riff again? The one that sounds like starlight? Just… just play it. Okay?"
For a long moment, Telemachus just held his gaze. Then, he raised one hand slowly, forming the sign for Yes. Clear. Certain.
"Good." Ankoku flashed a quick, genuine smile. "That riff… that’s our ticket outta the docks and the data mines, man. I can feel it." He rapped his knuckles twice on the doorframe. "Lock up behind me. Don’t freeze solid." He yanked the door open, the sudden draft making Telemachus visibly shiver. "See ya on the other side, brother!"
The door slammed shut. Silence settled back into the apartment, thick and immediate, broken only by the distant city hum through the thin walls. Telemachus remained on the rug, hugging his knees tighter, absorbing the lingering warmth from the spot where Ankoku had sat. He picked up his guitar again, his chilled fingers fumbling slightly on the strings. He started to pluck the opening notes of the starlight riff, the melody fragile and beautiful in the quiet room. A solitary figure in white against the vibrant chaos, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the strings, waiting for the heat of his brother-in-arms to return.
The melody shimmered in the silence Telemachus left behind, each note hanging like a frozen breath in the suddenly too-large emptiness of the apartment. He played until his fingers grew numb and stiff, the cold seeping deeper, past muscle, towards bone. The "starlight riff" felt different alone – less like escape, more like a plea echoing into a void. He finally set the guitar aside, the :3 mask feeling suddenly heavy, suffocating under the weight of unspoken words.
His shift at the data entry firm was a blur of flickering screens and mindless keystrokes, each click echoing the chill in his core. The company fleece they provided did little against the deep-seated cold radiating from within. He kept imagining Ankoku – the scent of diesel fuel clinging to his red sweater, the way his laugh would cut through the oppressive fluorescent hum of this place. He signed out robotically, shoulders hunched against the late-night city wind that sliced through his thin jacket on the walk home. He wore the grey scarf Ankoku demanded, wound tight, but it was a feeble barrier.
Ankoku’s return was a minor earthquake. The door banged open, preceded by the heavy thud of boots kicked off and a loud, weary groan. He smelled of sweat, diesel, stale coffee, and the greasy remnants of a late-night burger. "Holy hell, Telly," he rasped, shedding his leather jacket like a cumbersome skin and collapsing onto the worn sofa with a sigh that rattled his frame. "That dock... feels like my spine’s been used as a crowbar. Tell me you didn’t freeze into a Telly-sicle." He peered across the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the streetlight filtering through the grimy window.
Telemachus sat cross-legged on the rug, back against the sofa, his guitar resting untouched beside him. He’d been waiting. He shook his head, a small movement. Alive, he signed, the gesture tight, controlled. He pulled the grey scarf tighter.
Ankoku frowned, pushing himself up on an elbow. "You okay? You look…" He trailed off, searching Telemachus’s face, visible only above the mask. The usual quiet watchfulness was edged with something sharper, brittle. Anxiety. "What’s up? Did something happen at the data pit?" He swung his legs down, sitting fully upright, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Someone give you crap? Point ‘em out, I’ll—"
Telemachus shook his head again, more vehemently. No. Fine. Work fine. His signing was jerky, impatient. He took a deep, slow breath, the intake of air audible behind the mask. He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap, knuckles white.
The silence stretched. Ankoku waited, the only sound the distant wail of a siren and the frantic thud of his own heart. He knew this silence. It was the prelude to something Telemachus had dredged up from the deep places he never talked about.
Finally, Telemachus lifted his hands. His movements were deliberate, heavy, as if pushing against an immense weight. Need to tell you something.
"Anything, Telly," Ankoku said instantly, his voice low and serious, all traces of his usual boisterousness gone. "You know that. Always." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his full attention laser-focused on his friend.
Another agonizing pause. Telemachus seemed to gather himself. He lifted his hands again, then stopped, lowered them, then raised them once more. The indecision was painful to watch. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, his fingers flew. The cold. The scars. Why I hide. He stopped, his shoulders trembling slightly. It’s not just… accident.
Ankoku held his breath. He felt utterly still, every nerve ending tuned to his friend. He didn’t prompt, didn’t move. He just waited.
Telemachus’s hands moved again, slower this time, forming the signs with painful clarity. My body… was different. Before. He hesitated, then signed the word, the shape stark and undeniable in the dim light: Trans.
The word hung in the air. Ankoku felt a jolt, not of surprise exactly, but of a hundred tiny puzzle pieces clicking into place with sudden, brutal clarity. The scars he’d only glimpsed – not just from an accident, but surgical. The profound coldness – a consequence of hormone therapy, or something deeper? The fierce need for privacy, the way he shrank from touch unless initiated, the constant armor of oversized clothes and the mask that hid more than just his voice. The shadow that clung to him wasn't just trauma; it was a history written on flesh he hadn't chosen.
Telemachus didn’t stop. His hands moved with a desperate urgency now, as if a dam had burst. The accident… messed with it. The treatments. Made the cold worse. Permanent? Maybe. His fingers faltered. Scars… ugly. Wrong. Reminders. I hate them. He wrapped his arms around himself, a protective hunch that did nothing to stop the tremors running through him. He finally looked up at Ankoku, his eyes wide and terrified above the fixed ":3" of the mask, silently asking the only question that mattered: Do you still see me?
Ankoku didn’t hesitate. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He didn’t flinch or look away. Instead, a low, furious growl rumbled in his chest. "Who?" he demanded, his voice thick with a protective rage that momentarily eclipsed everything else. "Who made you feel like you had to hide? Who made you think those scars were anything but proof you fought like hell to be you?" He surged forward off the sofa, not touching, but kneeling on the rug directly in front of Telemachus, invading his space with fierce concern. His ice-blue eyes burned. "Tell me who hurt you, Telly. Tell me who made you feel less."
The raw fury, the immediate defense, was so quintessentially Ankoku. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t awkwardness. It was volcanic protectiveness directed outward, a shield slamming down between Telemachus and a perceived threat. It bypassed any potential shock and went straight to the heart of the pain he’d just glimpsed: the shame, the hiding.
Telemachus stared back, stunned. The fear in his eyes flickered, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer force of Ankoku’s reaction. He hadn’t expected rage. He’d expected… distance, confusion, maybe even disgust. Not this visceral, consuming need to fight for him. He shook his head mutely. Long time ago, he signed weakly. Family. Not here.
Ankoku didn’t back down. He scanned Telemachus’s face, the mask, the hunched shoulders. "Okay," he breathed, the fury banked but still smoldering beneath the surface. "Okay." He reached out, slowly, telegraphing his movement. He didn’t touch skin. Instead, his calloused fingers lightly grasped the thick cuff of Telemachus’s oversized white jacket sleeve, right where it covered his wrist. "But listen to me, brother. Right now." His voice was low, intense, each word hammered out. "You. Are. Telemachus. My guitarist. My partner in crime. The quiet genius behind the noise." He squeezed the fabric gently. "Scars? You think I don’t have a map of stupid shit etched on me?" He gestured vaguely at his own tattooed arms. "Difference is, yours tell a story of being goddamn brave. Of becoming who you are against the world’s bullshit."
He leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. "And the cold? We’ll figure it out. Heat packs. More sweaters. Hell, I’ll build you a damn furnace. But you stop hiding, you hear me? In this room? With me? You drop the shields." His eyes flickered to the mask, then back to Telemachus’s. "When you’re ready. No sooner. But know this, Telly…" His voice softened, roughened by emotion. "Seeing you? The real you, scars and cold and all? That’s not ugly. That’s just… you. And you’re my brother. Always."
The silence that followed was profound. Not empty, but filled with the echo of Ankoku’s words and the ragged sound of Telemachus’s breathing behind the mask. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Telemachus leaned forward, resting his forehead against Ankoku’s shoulder. It wasn't a hug; it was an anchor point, a surrender to the offered safety. His body trembled, not just from the cold now, but from the sheer, terrifying relief of being truly seen. Ankoku stayed perfectly still, a solid warmth against the chill, the unyielding foundation Telemachus desperately needed. The ":3" mask pressed against Ankoku’s worn red sweater, hiding the silent tears finally tracking paths down dusky gold skin beneath it.