it started with a dm

Anton Vale (6:01 AM):
I saw your Telemachus VA posts. You're insanely talented. Thank you for the message. That song means a lot to me too.

Theo screamed. Like, screamed. Full-body, ragged, and a pillow-clutching scream. Argos bolted off the bed. He stared at the message like it was a mirage, reread it, again and again.

Anton saw his posts. Anton called him talented. Anton thanked him.

Shaking, Theo typed back:

Theo (6:09 AM):
waitwaitwait you actually—what
are you serious right now
this isn't a prank?? like... the Anton Vale??? actually saw my posts??
i'm screaming. no. i'm whisper-screaming. my dog is judging me so hard rn
also thank you. holy shit. that's the best thing that's happened to me in a month

Ten minutes passed and no reply. He started to spiral again.

Then—

Anton Vale (6:22 AM):
I don't reply to many messages. But yours felt real.
Also: your line delivery in the "I'm not your son anymore" scene? Brutal. Beautiful. I had to pause when I first heard it.

Theo had to lie down. Again. Because Anton Vale watched him. Paused. For his line. Because his favorite actor had felt something in his voice and because "yours felt real" was now a permanent brand on Theo's ribcage.

He didn't know what any of it meant.

But he knew, deep in the center of his stormy, stupid heart, that he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about that message for a long, long time.

Maybe ever.

- - - - - - - -

The DMs didn't stop.

If anything, they bloomed; like ivy through the cracks, creeping into places neither of them expected. At first, it was easy to pretend it was just about the music. Safe and professional. Grounded in harmonies and head voice, and shared playlists. But even then, even then, it had teeth.

They bonded over everything vocal.

Breath control, vibrato versus straight tone, and the way emotion sat in the back of your throat before it ever made it to the mic. Theo would send voice notes at ungodly hours dissecting the latest arrangement; Anton would listen in bed, pillow over his face, flushed cheeks lit blue by the screen.

It was collaborative and innocent. That's what they told themselves. But deep down, it was already becoming something else.

Anton once said Theo's falsetto was "like smoke curling off the edge of something burning." Theo replied that Anton's vibrato was "like a fucking earthquake buried under silk." Anton had laughed; nervous, flattered, maybe even flustered and replied in a voice note, sleepy and low:

Anton:
"That's the weirdest compliment I've ever received. I think I love it."

They talked about the emotional beats of their characters next. How Theo's Telemachus was always one breath away from crying, how Anton's Antinous was a fortress; unshaken, unreadable, but cracked at the seams if you looked closely enough. And they did look closely. They studied each other's performances like sacred text, interpreting the subtext behind every strained line and whispered lyric.

One night, Anton asked:

Anton (1:24 AM):
"How do you make it sound like Telemachus is bleeding and still smiling?"

Theo's reply came minutes later:

Theo:
"You talk like that character haunts you."