it started with a dm

Anton didn't reply for over an hour.

Then:

Anton (2:41 AM):
"He does."

After that, things.......softened and shifted.

Their conversations bled into voice memos sent under covers, spotify links with cryptic captions like "this made me think of that look your Telemachus gives." Photos of sheet music scribbled with annotations. Anton sent Theo a private SoundCloud; demos and half-finished songs, his voice half-wrecked and raw and Theo replied with a voice memo of him humming into his pillow at 3 a.m. of a melody he couldn't shake.

It was playful, almost, but always charged.

Until one night, it crossed into something different. Anton sent the first real voice message. No vocals, no harmonies. Just him.

Anton (11:37 PM):
"Just wanted to hear how this sounds.....me trying that harmony you posted. Don't judge me."
[soft guitar picking, his voice weaving in slow, raw harmony; quiet and unsure]
"I think I messed up the middle part.....Anyway, yeah. That's me. Good night."

Theo listened in bed, headphones in, and blanket clutched; his heart trying to break free from his chest. He played it back; once, twice, over and over. Anton's voice wasn't perfect. It was better, honest and naked. Vulnerable in a way that made Theo ache.

And then, without thinking, because everything about this was impulsive, he hit record.

Theo (12:04 AM):
"Okay, one, that was hot. Like, criminal. You could serenade people into confessions.
Two, nah, you didn't mess up the middle. You melted it. I'm gonna try adding a layer on top...give me a sec."
[a few seconds of soft, breathy harmony, his laughter spilling in halfway through]
"Okay, this one's messy, but.....I like it. Good night, mystery man."

Anton replied with three voice notes back. And after that, it became a ritual.

Mornings meant voice memos.

Anton's voice still husky with sleep:

Anton:
"You awake, sunshine? I had a dream your Telemachus voice yelled at me for not hydrating."

Nights were chaos.

Theo yelling dramatic monologues into kitchen utensils. Theo whispering lines like "Do you even remember what love feels like?" in fake posh accents. Theo moaning "I'm not your son anymore!" into a Pringles can because the acoustics were superior.

And Anton?

He started reading poetry. Always past midnight. Always in that voice. Low, careful and reverent.

One night, he whispered:

Anton:
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."

And Theo stared at the ceiling for two straight hours, hand over his chest, trying not to combust.

Then they gave each other nicknames.

Theo:
"Alright, Greek God, hit me with your best run."

Anton:
[soft laugh]
"You've gotta stop calling me that. It's dangerous."

Theo:
"What, you afraid I'll worship you?"

Anton:
"No. I'm afraid I'll like it."