Chapter 3: Set Up
The lingering warmth of their shared bed, the scent of Ankoku’s skin and cheap soap clinging to Telemachus’s unmasked face, felt worlds away. The bar’s air hung thick and stale – a centuries-old cocktail of spilled beer, fried food, and the faint, acrid ghost of cigarettes long banned. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting a sickly green pallor over the scuffed linoleum and mismatched tables. A handful of patrons nursed drinks, conversations a low drone punctuated by the clink of glasses. At the far end, the empty stage yawned, a worn plank platform bathed in a single, dusty spotlight. A vintage microphone, dented and tarnished, stood sentinel beside Telemachus’s amp.
Ankoku bounced on the balls of his feet beside him, vibrating with pre-show electricity that contrasted sharply with the room’s lethargy. He’d thrown his red sweater back on, sleeves pushed up to his elbows revealing swirling ink, his piercings catching the dim light. His black hair was a chaotic halo around his intense face. "Alright, Telly," he murmured, voice pitched low for Telemachus alone, a thread of that familiar, protective warmth woven through the energy. "Usual drill. Warm 'em up easy. Then we hit 'em with the starlight." His eyes, sharp as shattered ice, scanned Telemachus’s face, lingering on the exposed scars near his jawline, a silent question: Okay?
Telemachus nodded, adjusting the strap of his beaten-up Stratocaster. He’d replaced the mask, the familiar plastic cool against his skin, the painted ":3" back in place. It felt different now. Less like a shield, more like… stage makeup. An artifact. The oversized white jacket was buttoned high, hiding his chest and arms, but beneath it, he still felt the phantom trail of Ankoku’s finger tracing his scars, the heat of his bare skin. The bar’s chill gnawed at him, seeping through his jacket despite the layers. He flexed his stiff fingers, already feeling the cold numbing the tips.
"Hey, Barney!" Ankoku called out, spotting the grizzled bartender polishing a glass. "Hit the stage light, yeah? Gotta bless these fine folks with some righteous noise!" His grin was wide, infectious, cutting through the apathy. A few heads turned.
Barney grunted, a sound like gravel shifting, and flicked a switch behind the bar. The single spotlight clicked on, a pale, dusty yellow circle illuminating the worn boards. It was their cue.
Ankoku bounded onto the stage, grabbing the mic stand with a flourish that made it shriek briefly. "Evening, survivors!" he bellowed, voice instantly commandeering the room. Raw. Powerful. Unfiltered. "We are Void Resonance! And we're here to shake the dust off your souls!" He launched straight into the opening chords of Highway to Hell, the familiar riff tearing through the low hum like a chainsaw. Loud. Aggressive. Perfect bait.
Telemachus stepped into the spotlight beside him, the chill intensifying under its focused beam. He plugged in, adjusted the volume knob with a flick of his wrist, and locked into the rhythm. His playing was different from Ankoku's firestorm. Precise. Steady. A deep, resonant bedrock beneath the vocalist's caterwauling. He wasn't just backing; he was grounding. Anchoring Ankoku’s raw power with a clean, driving pulse. His fingers danced over the frets, warmed slightly by the friction, fighting the ambient cold radiating from his core.
He watched Ankoku command the tiny space. The singer stalked the edge of the stage, leaning into the mic, veins standing out on his neck as he screamed the lyrics. He pointed at indifferent faces, made eye contact, poured every ounce of his caged fury and desperate hope into the familiar tune. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening under the light. To the sparse crowd, it was probably just another cover from another hopeful band. To Telemachus, it was pure Ankoku – a force of nature contained in cheap black sweatpants and a faded red sweater.
A couple of patrons near the stage started nodding along. An older guy at the bar tapped his fingers on the counter. A small victory. Telemachus felt a flicker of warmth that wasn't physical, a shared pulse thrumming between them through the music. He saw it in the way Ankoku glanced back at him mid-scream, a quick flash of connection, a silent "Yeah, we got this."
They tore through the song’s finale, Ankoku holding the last screeching note until his voice threatened to crack, then chopping it off with a final, ringing chord from Telemachus. The abrupt silence was startling. A smattering of applause, polite, uncertain. Ankoku was breathing hard, grinning, adrenaline buzzing off him like static. He leaned into the mic again, his voice slightly hoarse but undimmed. "Thanks, you beautiful heathens! Now, how about something... heavier?" He glanced at Telemachus, a spark igniting in his eyes. "Telemachus here's got this riff... eats through bone." He turned, stepping back slightly towards Telemachus, lowering his voice but making sure it still caught the mic. "Ready for the starlight, maestro?"
This was it. The shift. Their plan. The raw, aching melody Telemachus had crafted, the sound he felt in his silenced throat, the cold in his marrow. Ankoku wanted to scream it for the quiet. Telemachus took a slow breath behind the mask. He nodded, shifting his stance, fingers poised over the strings for the intricate, melancholic opening.
But then Ankoku moved closer, not just stepping back to his position, but brushing against Telemachus's side. Just a brief, solid contact. Arm against arm. Through the layers of jacket and shirt, the sudden, intense heat radiating from Ankoku was a shockwave. It cut through the stage chill like a physical blow, a visceral reminder of the furnace buried beneath the ink and noise. It was the same heat that had cocooned him that morning, the heat of absolute acceptance. The exhaustion of the double shift, the emotional toll of vulnerability, the constant battle against the cold inside him – it all surged back in a wave of profound weariness. The stage light felt suddenly harsh, the expectant silence heavy. He just wanted that warmth. Needed it. Needed that anchor.
As Ankoku started to pull back fully to launch into the song, Telemachus instinctively leaned into the fading point of contact. He turned his head slightly towards Ankoku, just enough for his masked profile to be visible. And then, deliberately, slowly, he shook his head. No.
Not yet.
Ankoku froze mid-motion. His eyes, wide and startled behind his messy fringe, locked onto the painted ":3" and then, Telemachus knew, onto the vulnerable reality beneath it. He saw the flicker of confusion, instantly replaced by dawning understanding. He saw the fierce protectiveness soften into something infinitely tender. The manic energy visibly banked. Telemachus didn't sign. Didn't need to. The headshake, the subtle press towards his warmth, spoke volumes in the charged silence of the stage.
Ankoku’s gaze held his for a long, suspended second. The microphone stood forgotten. The crowd murmured, confused by the sudden pause. Then, without a word, Ankoku shifted his weight. He didn't step back. Instead, he angled himself just slightly, closing the small gap entirely. His shoulder pressed firmly against Telemachus's upper arm, a solid line of heat searing through the white jacket fabric. He rested his hand briefly, heavily, on Telemachus's shoulder near the guitar strap – a grounding pressure. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked only at Telemachus, his expression fierce but soft, a silent promise radiating from the contact. I'm here. Warm. Always.
He held the contact for three heartbeats. Five. Letting the heat seep in, letting the silent affirmation settle the frantic chill inside Telemachus. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible squeeze of the shoulder, Ankoku turned back to the mic. The fire surged back into his eyes, but tempered now. Focused. He took a deep breath, the air hissing through the speakers.
"Alright," he growled, his voice rougher, deeper, charged with a new intensity. "This one's called 'Starlight Requiem'. For everyone who burns cold." He glanced back once more, meeting Telemachus's eyes through the mask. A nod. Sharp. Ready.
Telemachus drew in a breath behind the plastic. The cold was still there, deep down. But Ankoku’s heat pulsed against him, a living counterpoint. His fingers, warmed by the contact and the shared resolve, found the opening notes. They rang out, clear and haunting, the melody unfolding – a soundscape of aching beauty and hidden frost. Ankoku leaned into the mic, closed his eyes, and began to scream the quiet into existence.
The opening notes from Telemachus’s guitar weren’t loud; they were a low, resonant thrum, like ice cracking over deep water, spreading through the bar’s stale air. Each note shimmered with a crystalline melancholy, echoing the perpetual chill in his own bones, yet threaded through with an unexpected, aching beauty. Ankoku stood anchored beside him, shoulder still pressed firmly against Telemachus’s upper arm – a grounding line of heat – and listened, eyes closed, head tilted back. He wasn't just hearing the music; he was inhaling it, feeling the structure of Telemachus’s silent pain resonate in his own chest.
Then Ankoku opened his eyes, leaned into the mic, and screamed.
It wasn't fury, not this time. It was raw translation. A guttural, soaring howl that tore the quiet melody wide open, giving voice to the voiceless ache within it. He screamed the cold, the isolation, the hidden battles fought beneath oversized jackets and cheerful masks. "Stars burn cold!" he roared, the sound stripping paint, vibrating the cheap stage beneath their feet. "Silence screams loud!" His gaze locked onto Telemachus, not the crowd, his face contorted not with rage, but with fierce, desperate empathy. He screamed for him, through him, turning the intricate guitar line into a seismic wave.
Telemachus felt the sound hit him physically, a shockwave through the point of contact where Ankoku’s heat met his chill. His fingers flew across the fretboard, the starlight riff unfolding with new urgency, no longer just melancholic, but defiant. The intricate patterns mirrored the complex map of scars Ankoku had traced, the music vibrating against the hidden ridges beneath his shirt. He saw the intensity in Ankoku’s ice-blue eyes, the sweat tracing paths through the ink on his temples, the piercings glinting like frozen tears. Ankoku wasn't performing at the scattered audience; he was baring Telemachus’s soul to the indifferent room, screaming the truth they’d shared only hours before on their worn sofa. The protective fury of the dock was channeled now, amplified, transformed into pure sonic witness.
The small crowd, initially murmuring over their beers, fell utterly still. A glass clinked, the sound startlingly loud in the sudden vacuum of attention the music created. Eyes widened. Heads turned fully towards the stage. Not nodding along anymore, but watching. Absorbing. The bartender, Barney, stopped polishing his glass, his grizzled face slack with surprise. The raw, unfiltered emotion pouring off the stage was a physical force, a cold fire burning in the dingy bar.
Ankoku ripped the microphone from the stand, stalking the tiny stage’s edge, the cord snaking behind him. "Scars like constellations!" he bellowed, his voice shredding on the high notes, raw and true. He gestured wildly, not theatrically, but with a chaotic energy that mirrored the sound. "Drawn in silence, worn in ice!" He slammed his fist against his own tattooed chest near the soundwave pattern, a percussive thud echoing Telemachus’s next chord change. It was confession and battle cry rolled into one, the vulnerability of their morning intimacy weaponized, made public, made loud.
Telemachus pushed back. His playing intensified, fingers blurring, the guitar screaming alongside Ankoku, weaving complex counter-melodies beneath the vocal onslaught. The cold inside him didn't vanish; it became fuel. It flowed down his arms, into his hands, translating into notes that shivered with icy precision against Ankoku’s volcanic heat. He felt the eyes on him, on the mask, but it didn’t matter. Ankoku’s shoulder was a furnace against his arm, Ankoku’s voice was his own unleashed scream. The music was their shared breath, their shared battle cry. He wasn't hiding. He was playing the cold. He was playing the scars. He was playing the silent, frozen truth of himself, amplified by the brother raging beside him.
They hit the bridge, a sudden, aching drop in tempo. Ankoku’s scream fractured into a raw, broken rasp. "Feels like drowning... in open air..." he groaned, the vulnerability stark, terrifying. He staggered back a step, shoulders slumping, the microphone hanging loosely in his grip for a heartbeat. His eyes, when they found Telemachus’s, were wide, momentarily lost, reflecting the sheer exhaustion of bearing witness so completely.
Telemachus answered. Not with words, but with sound. He leaned into his guitar, fingers coaxing a single, sustained, shimmering note from the highest register. Pure. Resonant. Cold as starlight, yet piercing the dim bar like a beacon. It hung in the air, a fragile thread of resilience, a defiant glimmer against the darkness Ankoku had just screamed into being. It was the sound of surviving the freeze.
Ankoku sucked in a ragged breath, galvanized. The fire roared back into his eyes, hotter, brighter. He surged forward, grabbing the mic stand again, slamming it down with a metallic clang. "But we BURN!" he roared, the sheer power of it shaking the rafters. Telemachus met the energy, crashing down onto the strings, the complex starlight riff returning with ferocious, triumphant intensity. Guitar and voice intertwined, a howling blizzard meeting a raging inferno, cold and heat colliding into something entirely new, entirely theirs. The final chords rang out, a dissonant, powerful crash that lingered long after their hands stilled. Silence. Thick. Electric.
Then, a single, thunderous clap from the back. Another. Then a wave. Not polite applause. A roaring surge of sound, boots stomping, whistles erupting. "FUCK YEAH!" someone bellowed. "VOID RESONANCE!" The sparse crowd was on its feet, faces alight, transformed. Barney slammed his palm on the bar top, a rare grin splitting his weathered face.
Ankoku turned, panting, drenched in sweat, his red sweater clinging, ink gleaming. He didn't look at the crowd. His eyes found Telemachus first, blazing with shared victory, shared exhaustion, shared, breathtaking truth. He reached out, not for a handshake, but clapped a heavy, warm hand solidly on Telemachus's shoulder – the one he'd traced scars over, the one he'd pressed against for warmth. The contact jolted through Telemachus, chasing the lingering stage chill. Ankoku’s grin was wild, triumphant, utterly genuine. He leaned close, his voice a rough, intimate rasp lost in the noise, meant only for Telemachus. "We did it, Telly."
The walk home was charged, the frigid night air biting but unable to touch the furnace glowing inside them. Streetlights cast long, jagged shadows as they navigated cracked sidewalks, worn guitar cases bumping against their legs. Ankoku vibrated, practically bouncing despite the exhaustion deepening the lines around his eyes. He looped an arm loosely around Telemachus’s shoulders, radiating heat like a sun-warmed stone. "That riff, Telly! Felt it in my teeth!" he exclaimed, breath misting in the cold. "Saw Barney’s face? Looked like he swallowed his toothpick!" He laughed, a loud, unrestrained bark that echoed off the brick buildings. "And that ending…" He shook his head, still buzzing. "They felt it. They really felt it."
Telemachus walked close beside him, shoulder pressed firmly into Ankoku’s side, soaking in the radiating warmth. The mask felt light on his face now, almost forgotten. He nodded vigorously, a rare, wide smile stretching beneath the plastic ":3", his eyes bright despite the late hour and bone-deep weariness from the double shift. He lifted his free hand, signing swiftly, his movements fluid with shared excitement: Your voice. It was… everything. The cold air stung his fingertips, but the memory of Ankoku’s scream – for him, of him – was a brand against his soul.
Ankoku squeezed his shoulder, the grip firm and reassuring. "Nah, man. Wasn't just me. That sound you pull outta that axe…" He bumped him playfully. "It’s the heart. The cold heart." He grinned, teasing but utterly sincere. "Gotta record that starlight thing properly. Tomorrow. Early. Before the warehouse calls." His energy was infectious, the near-empty bar’s visceral reaction fueling plans like rocket fuel. "Gotta capture that… that thing we just did. That raw, frozen-fire thing." They turned the corner onto their familiar, dimly lit street, the outline of their brick apartment building a welcome sight. The shared triumph thrummed between them, a tangible warmth pushing back the night. Ankoku fumbled for his keys, the jingle loud in the sudden quiet of their street. "Home," he declared, shoving the heavy door open, the familiar scent of old books, dust, and faint mothballs washing over them like a warm blanket.
THEY RETURNED HOME, REJUVENATED FROM THE SHOW.
The familiar chaos of their apartment enveloped them, the scent of old paper, guitar polish, and lingering takeout a grounding counterpoint to the bar’s stale air. Triumph still thrummed in Telemachus’s veins, a fragile warmth fighting his usual deep chill, amplified by Ankoku’s near-constant proximity. Ankoku kicked off his worn boots, the thud echoing in the small space. "Man, I'm crusted in sweat and bar grime," he announced, already pulling the red sweater over his head, revealing the sprawling tattooed landscape of his torso – the dragon rippling as his muscles moved. He dropped the sweater carelessly onto a pile of sheet music. "Shower. Now. Or I'll start growing mold." He flashed Telemachus a grin, the piercings in his nipples and sternum catching the dim overhead bulb’s light as he headed towards the narrow bathroom door off the kitchenette. "Be recharged in five. Then we plot world domination. Or at least recording domination."
Telemachus nodded, sinking onto the lumpy sofa, the worn fabric cool through his jeans. He carefully unstrapped his guitar case, placing it beside Ankoku’s discarded sweater. The shared energy of the performance, the visceral connection forged on that tiny stage, still resonated. He could almost feel the phantom pressure of Ankoku’s shoulder against his arm, the radiating heat that had become his anchor. He rubbed his stiff fingers, the cold creeping back despite the apartment’s slightly warmer air. The discarded mask felt heavy in his jacket pocket, a reminder of the exposure both given and received. He reached for the acoustic guitar leaning against a precarious stack of philosophy books, needing the familiar weight, the vibration under his chilled fingertips. His mind drifted to the starlight riff, the intricate patterns echoing the map of scars beneath his own layered clothing, the ones Ankoku had traced with such devastating tenderness just hours before.
The sudden, sharp percussion of water hitting tile erupted from the bathroom. Steam began to curl from beneath the ill-fitting door, carrying the faint, clean scent of cheap soap. Ankoku’s off-key bellowing followed a moment later – a mangled rendition of their final song, stripped of its ferocity, replaced by exuberant, tuneless joy. "Scars like constellAAAAAtions!" he roared, his voice echoing off the tiles, amplified by the small space. The sheer, unadulterated life of it made Telemachus smile faintly behind his hand. It was pure Ankoku, naked in his enthusiasm if not yet physically. The melody, even mangled, pulled at him. He needed water, the persistent dryness in his throat a constant companion. The kitchen tap beckoned just past the bathroom door.
He pushed himself up, the cold making his joints stiff. The steam thickened in the cramped hallway, misting the air. Ankoku’s singing grew louder, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of water. "Drawn in silence! Worn in... hey, is this soap supposed to smell like pine disinfectant?" Telemachus moved towards the sink, his focus inward, rehearsing finger placements for the starlight intro. He reached for the bathroom door handle, his mind still half-entangled with the music, the shared triumph, the lingering echo of heat against his arm. He pushed the door open.
Steam billowed out, thick and warm, momentarily blinding. The roar of the shower filled his ears. Then, details resolved through the swirling mist. Ankoku stood directly under the spray, head thrown back, eyes closed, water sluicing over his powerful frame. Utterly, completely naked. Rivulets traced paths through the intricate ink covering his chest, back, and arms – the snarling dragon seemed alive in the steam, the dates on his collarbone gleamed, the soundwave pattern pulsed like a heartbeat. Water streamed over the defined muscles of his abdomen, over the silver rings piercing his nipples, the small gold barbell on his sternum, catching light and droplets. It cascaded down his thighs, over strong calves dusted with dark hair. Every tattoo, every scar from a forgotten scrape, every defined line was laid bare in the warm, wet light.
Time fractured. Telemachus froze in the doorway, the cold inside him instantly replaced by a different kind of paralysis. His breath hitched, trapped behind his unmasked lips. He saw the curve of Ankoku’s hip, the water-darkened trail leading lower, the absolute vulnerability of his stance. It wasn't erotic; it was a sudden, overwhelming intimacy, a violation of an unspoken boundary he hadn't known existed. This was beyond the shared warmth, beyond the tracing of scars. This was total exposure. Ankoku’s singing cut off abruptly. His eyes snapped open, ice-blue and wide with startled shock, locking onto Telemachus framed in the steam-filled doorway. Water dripped from his messy black hair plastered to his forehead, ran into his eyes. He didn't move, didn't cover himself. He just stared, the raw surprise on his face mirroring Telemachus’s own frozen horror. The only sound was the relentless drumming of water on skin and tile.