Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(January 20, 2001)

Sweat clung to his hands, trickling down in sticky lines.

Hands he felt coiled around his neck, merciless, strangling the last second of his life, robbing him of the final breath his nostrils could draw in.

Breath that once rustled through the pines of Vermont, echoing with a sound like the whistle he used to hear back in school. The difference was that this wasn’t Welton Academy anymore, nor was it ’89. He was here now, in the place that pursued him no matter how far he tried to run.

His eyes were shut, yet he knew those hands—old, calloused—as if they had been carved into his memory. And no matter how tightly he fought to keep his vision sealed, light broke through, forcing him to see with terrifying clarity. Sweat poured down his brow, his palms, his heart threatening to burst. He didn’t want to see. He wanted it gone. He wanted to summon every ounce of strength and wrench it off him, no matter the weight.

You will live in this house forever, Neil.
I love you. Everything I do, I do because I love you.

The hands around his throat pressed harder. 3... 2... 1.

The air left his lungs.

The whistle swelled louder, rattling now against the window.

It must have been...

• • •

“Neil, wake up.” Warm fingers threaded through the brown locks of his hair. Todd’s voice, soft but urgent. “You’re pale. Did you sleep all right?”

Neil blinked sluggishly. The weathered wooden ceiling seemed to lean toward him, oppressive, threatening. It took a few seconds before he remembered where he was, when he was—and who was with him.

His gaze found Todd’s face, flushed from the stove and the fire, a faint blue glimmer caught in his eyes. It anchored him. Todd hovered over him, tender yet worried. That familiar furrow in his brow Neil had known for years.

“Bad dream?” the blond whispered, as though afraid to disturb whatever still lingered inside him.

Neil swallowed. He didn’t answer at once.
Instead, he turned his head to the window. Outside, the pines slept beneath an uneven quilt of snow. The wind howled, dragging branches across the glass in a rhythm that almost seemed alive.

“It doesn’t matter,” he rasped at last.

Todd didn’t press. He knew better than to pry so early. Instead, he brushed a quick kiss against Neil’s lips and rose to his feet.

“Breakfast is ready. Coffee too,” he said, forcing a smile. “And you’ve got rehearsal at ten, remember?”

Neil nodded quietly, sitting up, covering his eyes with both hands. The dream still clung to his ribs, heavy as stone.

They went down to the kitchen together. The house groaned with each step. It had been a gift from the Andersons after their civil union last November. Vermont was one of the few places where they could put their ten-year bond into writing, at least legally.

The house was spacious, welcoming in its way, though at times unbearably silent.
Silent enough to let loose thoughts that ought to remain unspoken.

As Neil stirred his coffee and toyed with his breakfast, Todd leaned back against the counter, still in his neat pajamas, watching him in quiet study.

“You could take the day off, if you need it. You’ve seemed… different.”

“No, rehearsal will do me good.” Neil forced a smile. “Being someone else for a while doesn’t sound so bad.” He tried to make it sound like a joke.

Todd raised an eyebrow, returning a small smile. “As long as you remember to come back to yourself afterward.”

• • •

At 9:15, Neil wrapped himself in his gray wool scarf and stepped outside, script tucked beneath his arm. The wind struck him head-on as he walked down the narrow path toward the garage, and for a moment he could have sworn he heard Mr. Keating’s whistle threading through the trees. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Before climbing into the car, he stopped.
On the mailbox, half-buried in snow, lay a beige envelope, unsealed, unstamped.

Just his name, written in neat, familiar letters: NEIL.

He frowned, tore it open.

Inside, a single crumpled sheet. One line, written in black ink.

“Remember, everything I do, I do because I love you.”

Chapter Text

There are wounds that don’t bleed, yet still smell like death.

Neil lived with one of them. Slept with it. Had breakfast with it.

But only that afternoon did he hear its voice again.

Neil and Todd had been together for more than a decade—formally or not. They knew each other like the backs of their hands, and their relationship had gone through countless stages and changes. Ever since they met in their penultimate year at Welton Academy, when fate had paired them as roommates, something between them had clicked—as if neither had ever connected with another soul on such a psychic and spiritual level before. It was a force that transcended their own understanding.

At the start of that semester, the rest of Neil’s friends couldn’t figure out why he was so interested in the blue-eyed boy. They recognized this “savior complex” he could fall into; they’d seen it before with Cameron—Neil always tried to include the outcast. Charlie liked to tease him for it, but even he eventually noticed when all of Neil’s attention shifted entirely toward Anderson.
He knew Neil well enough to recognize when admiration began to teeter toward obsession.

When they formed The Dead Poets Society, that didn’t change—it only grew stronger. The others exchanged discreet glances and whispered comments about them, though of course, no one dared to say anything aloud. Yet, it never became a problem for the group dynamic; quite the opposite. Anderson slowly proved he could be just as peculiar as anyone else in that candlelit cave. In truth, it gave him a rare sense of belonging—to feel, for the first time in his life, part of something real. That was one of the reasons he longed for Neil so deeply… one of the reasons he needed him.

Each had something that filled the other’s emptiness. And neither of them knew it.
Not yet.

Everything changed once that adolescent flirtation became tangible—when they dared to let their hidden desires take flight. One day, for the first time, the poets saw them walking toward the cave hand in hand. They said nothing. At that point, they didn’t want to assume anything anymore.

The real problem began one November afternoon, when Cameron entered their room unannounced and couldn’t rationalize the feeling that struck his chest:
There they were. His two classmates. His two friends. Sitting on Todd’s bed. Hands over one another’s. Bound by the heat of a kiss.

But it wasn’t just any kiss—it was that kind of kiss. The kind he’d only ever overheard in Charlie and Knox’s cruder conversations. A kiss, of course, that he would never have.
But one he secretly wished he could.

That was the first fracture in the group.

It was shameful to be friends with a queer.

Yet, they weren’t entirely alone. Fortunately, the horror they once felt when they saw their friends turn away began to fade when four of them started speaking to them again. Neil’s big night was coming up the following weekend, and none of them could miss it. They couldn’t abandon their friend. Their friends.

Neil and Todd felt immense relief knowing that the only one who would have a problem with them was Cameron. They never heard from him again.

After graduation, they decided to leave their homes and live together in secret. They spent years in obscurity, avoiding contact with their families under the perfect excuse of university life. At least Todd did—Neil had cut all ties with his parents completely.

In time, they learned to protect themselves from the world. To protect each other. The 90s weren’t a kind decade for two young men trying to live quietly together.

The day they celebrated their civil union, that December of 2000, everyone was there—or at least, that’s how Neil remembered it. It had been a small, cozy ceremony… or was it larger? He often struggled to recall certain details, but nothing could stop him from calling it the happiest day of his life. One of the few moments when he’d felt genuine tranquility. Silence. Peace.

Todd hadn’t told his family about the union—not until he received the property that was meant for him: that colonial house he’d been promised. The third largest of the Anderson estates.

His father had decided long ago that the youngest son would inherit that house, ever since Todd was a child, since each family property had its destined heir. Upon learning of his son’s orientation, however, the man nearly revoked the decision—but Todd wasn’t one to yield so easily. After a heated argument, he won the house that was, in the end, already legally his. Besides—when had his family ever truly cared what he did?

It was a colonial house on the outskirts of Montpelier, Vermont. High ceilings, creaking wood, history in the walls. Ancient as an oak, yet it offered them the freedom they both deserved.

And so they did. They began what would be their new life together. As partners. Owing nothing to anyone. Both twenty-seven, ready to greet the promising, modern year 2001. And though their civil union wasn’t exactly a marriage, they loved wearing their matching diamond rings and calling each other husband. Carpe diem.

Neil, meanwhile, had returned to acting—modestly at first, but steadily.

He’d joined the local theater a few years prior, and over time, his seniority and reputation grew until he was eventually hired full-time.

He earned a biweekly salary for his increasingly frequent roles, along with his contributions to production. The crowds adored him, and soon enough, he had gained the respect and affection of the theater’s director and several colleagues.

The pay wasn’t grand, but it was enough for him to contribute fairly to their home and fulfill his constant desire to give Todd what he deserved. He always felt he could never fully repay him for everything.

Giving him a home to live in was the very least he could do.

Sometimes, though, there was a feeling buried deep within him that never allowed him to feel satisfied—as if everything he’d endured to reach this point wasn’t truly worth it. And though he tried to make all that suffering feel redeemed, he never quite managed to.

Not entirely.

• • •

“That’s a wrap!”

Neil rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. They had just finished rehearsing for the new production of the year, and he felt a little light-headed. He stepped off the set to grab his water bottle and take a sip.

He jumped when he suddenly felt a hand on his back.

“Neil, that was incredible!”

The voice belonged to a brunette of medium height, with wavy hair and brown eyes nearly the same shade as her hair. Ginny Danburry—one of the best local actresses, who nearly always landed leading roles. She and Neil had known each other for years, ever since they’d both taken part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a school project at Henley Hall, where she used to study.

Ginny had heard about what happened that night of the play and had felt as much anguish for Neil as anyone else who’d caught wind of the scandalous rumor—even though they hadn’t been particularly close back then. Still, when they crossed paths again years later, her eyes had lit up with genuine joy. Her old classmate was alive. And he had returned to the craft he’d always loved.

They began keeping in touch after that—sharing experiences about theater—and when Neil finally felt comfortable enough around her, he took the risk of telling her about Todd.

Ginny fell silent for a few seconds. Neil was instantly reminded of those days rehearsing beneath the same theater roof. The old rumor that had followed him for months after that tragic night. The air between them tightened, and Neil feared he’d made a mistake.

“With… Todd Anderson? From your class?” she asked softly, as if the words themselves were hard to form.

He nodded, bracing himself for what he’d grown used to: disapproval, pity, disgust…
But instead, Ginny sighed and glanced around to make sure no one could hear. Then, with a subtle motion, she leaned closer and looked him straight in the eye.

“You have no idea how relieved I am you told me,” she confessed, biting her lower lip. “Because I… I am too. With girls. I’ve never told anyone.”

Neil’s eyes widened, as if her revelation had lifted a weight he hadn’t even realized he carried. Ginny smiled nervously, like someone unburdening a secret both too heavy and too old.

“It’s not easy,” she added, tapping his arm lightly. “But… at least we know we’re not alone in this. And that’s already worth a world.”

From that moment on, their connection changed. They were no longer just stage partners—they were two people who could understand the other’s quiet struggle.

“You’re going to kill it, Perry,” she said afterward, taking a long sip of water with her usual confidence. “This role is yours. It always was.”

He lowered his gaze, trying to hide the rush of emotion her words stirred in him. He only managed a small nod, holding back the heavy insecurity running through his veins, and looked again toward the empty stage.

Empty.

• • •

Todd had been working at the publishing house for a couple of years now, and although he held a good position as a copy editor for academic works, he had never quite managed to build relationships that went beyond the strictly professional.

There were colleagues with whom he exchanged trivial remarks—people he could share a coffee with or discuss a manuscript—but at the end of the day, there was always a distance he couldn’t seem to cross. The air itself carried the scent of competition; no one wanted to give too much, lest someone else snatch up their project or promotion.

And beyond that, there was something more subtly cruel.

At times, Todd had the impression that no matter how well he did his job, there were always looks, half-whispered suspicions that reduced him to what he represented outside the paper, beyond the office walls. That sense of never fully belonging grew heavier in the corridors, between the offhand jokes and awkward silences that left him on the edge of every conversation.

There was an atmosphere of false professional politeness, but Todd couldn’t honestly say that (at least most of) his coworkers inspired any real trust.

Still, the final straw came that afternoon as he waited for the copier to finish a batch of pages. Two of his colleagues walked in, talking loudly. They either hadn’t noticed Todd standing there—or simply didn’t care.

“I’m telling you, he’s one of those… rich, privileged pretty boys. Spends more time on his hair than my girlfriend does,” one of them sneered, earning a laugh from the other.

Carl Johnson. The most irritating and repulsive man Todd had ever met. Tall, blond—his hair even lighter than Todd’s—and green-eyed. He’d been at the publishing house nearly as long as Todd, but somehow always landed the best projects. Looking at him, Todd felt the same disgust as if watching a worm crawl through filth.

“Perfect clothes, perfect hair… you know what they say about guys like that,” the second one added, lowering his voice maliciously.

The first laughed louder, eager to draw attention. “No wonder he always smells like cologne. Probably thinks the office is a runway—or maybe he’s trying to impress someone in the men’s room, huh?”

This time, the laughter felt heavier. Todd stood beside the copier, his hands pressed against the metal edge. The machine’s humming matched the rhythm of his heartbeat—faster and faster—as he fought to contain his anger.

He grabbed the papers, turned slowly toward them, and replied in a calm but cutting tone.
“Maybe if everyone wore cologne, the office wouldn’t smell so much like t—...trash.”

The blond scanned them both with a look of cool disdain before walking back to his desk.

Back at his cubicle, Todd dropped the pile of copies on his table and sat down, the heat of unnecessary frustration crawling under his skin. He didn’t notice someone watching from the next cubicle over.

• • •

In their spare time, when they weren’t at the piano, they liked to explore the bookshelf that took up the biggest wall of their home. It wasn’t a huge library, but it was enough to get lost in for hours. They had theater classics Neil had read to exhaustion—Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekhov—alongside modern novels Todd often picked out of sheer curiosity.

They also kept essays on politics, philosophy, psychology, and medicine—Todd preferred to keep Neil away from the last two—which often turned into long late-night conversations on the couch, or even into quiet debates. They had a couple of poetry anthologies too, usually chosen by Todd but almost always read aloud by Neil—sometimes before bed, sometimes upon waking. Occasionally, Todd was the one who recited for Neil when he asked him to.
The romance never died between them—it simply changed shape.

They did whatever it took to keep each other happy.

Todd did whatever it took to keep Neil happy.

It had become a quiet ritual: picking a book at random and taking turns reading a passage. Between those pages, they’d learned as much about each other as through any conversation.

Up until then, everything was fine.
And that was the sweetest lie they could cling to.

• • •

That afternoon, however, the routine felt different. Neil was in the kitchen, leaning over the new computer they had bought a few weeks ago. The machine still had that fresh-out-of-the-box gleam, and Neil amused himself experimenting with it, though he was still adjusting to the mechanical sound of the keyboard.

He put on his round glasses and opened his email, scanning messages absentmindedly. Most had the same sender: Everett Theater, Everett Theater, Everett Theater…

Todd had gone to the market for a couple of hours, and without him, the house felt too quiet—or so the brunette thought. Neil missed him whenever he left, even for a short trip. And Todd disliked being away for a stretch that might leave both of them feeling uneasy.

Only the whistle of the wind slipping through the cracks filled the space. A high, constant sound that began to feel more unnatural than comforting.

When did the kettle start whistling?

A different kind of stillness. A vibration beneath the wooden floor. As if suddenly something in the house—or within himself—knew that the past had not finished with him. His breathing grew heavy.

Ring.

The phone rang.

The sharp, sudden sound made him jump in place, tearing him completely from his thoughts.

…Ring, ring.

Had he forgotten a call? News from friends?

RING.

Neil didn’t want to answer.

For an instant, his hands went cold with sweat. He didn’t know when he had started feeling anxious at such a familiar sound. A bad premonition.

He answered without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

A thick silence on the other end.

Then a voice he hadn’t heard in almost a decade.

“Neil.”

The world stopped.

The wind still struck the window.

But something inside Neil contracted like a muscle on the verge of tearing.

“F-father?”

“So it’s true…” said the voice, unhesitating. Intermittent, but unmistakable.

Neil closed his eyes. His hands began to shake violently.

“…You’re living with another man.”

“How do you have my number? You have no right to call me,” Neil snapped sharply.

“I have no right, but I have eyes. And a name. One you share. One you dragged through the mud to play the sodomite actor in an old house, pretending it has a future.”

Neil didn’t respond. But he felt a vein throb at his temple. He bit his nails.

He wanted to hang up. But he didn’t.

The voice wavered, then softened slightly.

“Running, Neil, never made you strong. You were a coward to leave, and you remain one. Do you think hiding in Vermont makes you brave?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to open your eyes. The world isn’t going to applaud you for sleeping with another sick man in an inherited house. No matter how many plays you perform, or how many lies you tell yourself, this will end. You will grow old alone. You will be forgotten.”

Neil listened to his own breathing. His chest burned, as if he were suffocating.

“I’d rather that than live trapped in your damn house under your damn rules!” His voice came out firm and furious.

“You don’t understand,” his father interrupted, lower now, colder. “I always thought you would grow. That you’d find the way. But no. You haven’t stopped being that stupid, immature child. All of this… all of this started that night, I hope you remember.” For a moment, his voice sounded distorted, unrecognizable. As if it weren’t his father speaking.

“You should have died that December 15th.”

Cling. He didn’t notice when the line went dead. Sweat poured, chest heaving erratically. Air wasn’t enough. Perry never thought about that night.

No one did. Not until after everything happened. The voices outside whispered about it, but inside Neil there was only silence that stretched for years, like a shadow. He never spoke of it with anyone except Todd, the poets, and eventually it reached Welton staff: Nolan, Keating, and years later, Ginny. People spoke of what almost happened. Neil hated remembering that event—it was no longer part of him, not since he was happy.

But now, the memory returned. With a sentence. A voice.

The hum of the dead line lingered in his ear like an electric jolt, though he had just hung up seconds before.

The silence in the house offered no relief.

The kettle had stopped whistling. The dining room, illuminated by the gray winter light, seemed dim. As if the walls had narrowed.

Neil gripped the back of the nearest chair. He was trembling. Not from cold. Not from anger.

And then he felt it.
A tug, as if his consciousness were sinking into a bottomless pit. An image. A voice. A room.

“Why can’t you just obey, Neil?”
A door slammed. His father on the threshold. His voice.

The black hat. The smell of smoke.
The crumpled script on the floor, trampled.

«A Midsummer Night’s Dream»

He blinked. He was back in the dining room of his house.
But he didn’t feel physically there.

Something kept seeping through. His ears rang.

“A play? From a school for girls? If you’re in this world, Neil, it’s to take your future seriously.”

He felt dizzy.

“What am I supposed to say? That my son goes through life acting like a fairy? When will you stop embarrassing me and your mother?”

He sank into the chair, weak.

His hand on his cheek burned. The strike still felt warm against his pale skin.

“I hope this is enough to make you come to your senses. If you step on that stage, you will forget me as a father. Did you hear me?”

A chair had just fallen to the floor. His mother’s gaze fixed on the plate.

Silence. That silence.
More cruel than any scream.

He blinked again. But now the dining room light seemed dimmer. Had the sun set so quickly? Or was it his eyes?

He moved slowly toward the window. Outside, the trees shivered in the wind, but something unnerved him.

Footprints in the snow.

A line of tracks in front of the house, stopping just short of the door.

He rubbed his eyes.

When he looked again, there was nothing.
Only fresh snow.

But in his mind, like a thread, he still heard the voice.

“You should have died that December 15th.”

An invisible hand squeezed his chest.
Tears sprang without warning. They weren’t from sadness. They were from terror. He felt frozen, vulnerable. Like he did at seventeen.

After a while, Neil remained by the window, breathing with difficulty. He didn’t remember how he got there. Didn’t remember letting go of the phone. His hands were cold.

“Neil?” Todd’s voice was warm, contrasting with the atmosphere and the storm in his mind.

The brunette turned slowly. He blinked as if awakening from a deep dream—or a memory too real.

Todd set some bags on the table. Just back from the market. He shook the snow from his hair and removed his wool gloves. “I took longer than expected. You must be hungry now, right?” He frowned slightly, but with his usual tenderness. “What are you doing staring out there? You seem so focused.”

Neil didn’t know how to respond.
He didn’t want to lie. He didn’t even understand the truth.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then scratched the back of his head, awkwardly.

“It’s nothing… I just got distracted.” He forced a smile.

The blond approached and ran a hand over his cheek.
“You’re freezing, darling.”

Neil closed his eyes for a second, leaning against his hand unintentionally. That simple gesture hurt him to his bones. It was as if he didn’t deserve that comfort.

Todd squinted, studying him. Didn’t ask more. Didn’t push.
He simply leaned in and brushed knuckles with his.

Neil shivered, but not from the cold.

“Come,” Todd said, taking his hand, “I’ll make you some tea.”

Neil nodded clumsily, letting himself be led to the table.

“By the way, you won’t believe who I ran into downtown.” Todd’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “It was Meeks. I didn’t know he was in Vermont—did you? I thought he was still in Portland for work.”

Neil shook his head slowly.

“Well, he said he’s celebrating his birthday this weekend at a cabin up north. He invited the guys. Wants us to go.”

Neil looked at him, bewildered.

“This weekend? But… Meeks’ birthday isn’t until October.”

Todd frowned briefly.

“I remembered it that way too. But he said he wanted to do it now, for some personal reason. He seemed… strange.”

“Strange how?”

Todd hesitated.

“Like he was nervous. Or rather… insistent. Like he needed us to go. Said he’d prepared something important. Something to share with everyone. Some sort of… ‘reunion’ like the old days.”

Neil felt something shift inside him, as if his stomach twisted against his will.

“Did he say who else is going?” he asked, voice dry.

“Pitts, Charlie, maybe Knox. Not entirely sure. Some already confirmed, some didn’t. But he spoke as if… it was important.”

Neil stepped away from the glass, as if fearing something might be watching from the other side.

“Where is it going to be?”

“At a cabin north of Montpelier. His parents’ place. He said it was important that we all be there. That there were… things he wanted to remember.”

Todd smiled with a forced gesture.

“You know Meeks. Always so meticulous.”

But Neil didn’t smile.
Didn’t answer.

Remember.

That word again.
Like the phrase on the envelope. Like his father’s voice.

Neil clenched his teeth.

“Are you sure it was Meeks?”

Todd looked confused. “What do you mean?”

Neil swallowed. The question had slipped out on its own, bypassing rational thought.

“Did you see him clearly? Did he talk to you like always? Did he look you in the eyes?”

Todd gave an awkward laugh. “Of course. What’s wrong, Neil?”

Neil shook his head quickly, as if waking from a dream. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

He remained silent as Todd put away the groceries, trying to appear calm. But in his head, the same things kept repeating: the voice on the phone, the footprints in the snow, and now Meeks’ impossible invitation. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to erase the images haunting him.

When Todd called from the kitchen, asking if he wanted him to play a cassette while they prepared dinner, Neil forced out a barely audible “yes.” The sound of the tape rewinding filled the house for a moment. A normal, everyday sound. But in Neil’s chest, all that remained was the certainty that nothing happening could possibly be normal.

Chapter Text

(January 21st, 2001)

Neil was still wrapped in the sheets, his hair tousled against the pillow, when he felt a tingling at the nape of his neck. A slow, damp brush.

“Mmm…” he let out a sleepy moan.

He felt a soft, familiar head of hair near his face. He smiled instinctively as kisses traveled down his neck from his ear to his collarbone, where the blond was already opening his nightshirt more and more to continue kissing.

“Is it morning already?” Neil murmured, his voice hoarse.

“Enough,” Todd whispered against his skin, letting his breath send shivers through him.

The kisses continued, climbing up to his jaw. Neil flinched when Todd gently caught his earlobe between his teeth.

“That’s not fair…” he laughed, half-awake now, turning to look at him.

“What? Can’t I wake you up like this?” Todd raised an eyebrow, amused.

“It’s not fair when we can’t stay here all day…” Neil tried to protest, but Todd silenced him, attacking his lips directly.

The kiss was long and warm; they both enjoyed this morning audacity. They started nibbling each other’s lips in a playful battle for dominance, until the blond invaded the other’s mouth with his tongue, and the brown-haired man, pleased, gave in.

It started slow, but before they knew it, they were running out of air. Neil let himself be carried away, sliding one hand down his husband’s back to press him closer while the other caressed Todd’s flushed face.

Once again, the blond lightly bit Neil’s lower lip, eliciting a soft moan in return —which only made him go deeper— until the sheets became tangled along with their legs. That was when the alarm on the nightstand broke the moment with a metallic beep.

“This damn device” Neil muttered with a laugh.

Todd sat up first. “Come on. We’ve got time for a shower before breakfast.”

He agreed, still with a smile hanging on his lips.

After the shower, they went downstairs to prepare a quick breakfast. They still had an hour before heading to their respective workplaces. However, Neil felt a mental weight about what had happened in the last two days.

Normally, he wouldn’t want to bother Todd; whatever he had been going through, he didn’t want to burden anyone he loved. His partner had already done enough for him.

But this time, he felt the need to talk. There were several unusual events that had frightened him, and he wasn’t sure he could handle it alone. Moreover, a wise piece of advice always lingered in his mind: It’s not good to keep things to yourself. Find someone you trust most and tell them. Promise me you will.
But the memory of whose voice that was had faded forever.

“Darling, I need to talk to you.” His voice came out as a thin thread, soft, feigning calm. Todd simply looked up at him while finishing spreading butter on his toast.

• • •

“So, you got a call from your father, then you dreamed he was trying to strangle you with his own hands, and after the dream you found a note with the same phrase,” Todd repeated, trying to make sense of what Neil was telling him, while holding one of Neil’s hands between his own.

Neil nodded, his gaze fixed on his now-empty plate.

The blond took a deep breath, as if seeking patience in the cold air of the dining room.

“Well, maybe you mixed things up. You were exhausted, had a terrible nightmare, and… maybe your mind just combined it all.”

Neil lifted his eyes to him, with a nearly feverish glint.

“I’m not making any of this up, Todd. It was his handwriting, telling me he did it because he loved me. And I’m sure he was referring to the call he made. He’s a damn maniac —he wished me dead!” His voice rose on the last sentence, and without realizing it, he slammed his fist on the table.

Todd wanted to respond immediately but held back. He had lived enough years with Neil to know better than to outright deny what he was saying. Even when it sounded unusual, he knew how stubborn Neil could be when defending something he believed. He had faced the consequences before and didn’t want to go through them again. Each year with him made him understand Neil even more. Love him even more.

“All right. Thank you for telling me. Listen…” Todd finally said, his voice soft, thumb stroking Neil’s hand. “…what you experienced was very strange and clearly affecting you. That’s enough for me to be concerned. What do you think your father wants to achieve with these messages?”

Neil closed his eyes for a moment, breathing with difficulty.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t like seeing me happy. He never has.”

“But now you owe him nothing, Neil,” Todd intervened quickly. “You have everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re financially independent. You’re free.”

Neil’s sad brown eyes met his partner’s, searching for comfort. Their hands reached for each other, seeking the same. A hug.

That was all Neil sometimes needed.

“Come on, love, we’re running late,” Todd said gently. “We’ll handle work, and this weekend we’ll go to Meeks’.”

Meeks

Neil had forgotten about the invitation.

• • •

“See you later. Good luck at the editorial. I love you.” Neil planted a quick kiss on the blond’s cheek before he got out of the car.

They didn’t usually show affection in public very often; in fact, they avoided it. Despite the years passing, they had unpleasant precedents with people: rude reactions, even tasteless comments. And even though Todd and Neil’s sexuality and relationship status were already well-known at their workplaces, they preferred to keep a low profile when it came to public displays of affection.

The actor waited until his husband had entered the offices before heading to the theater.

Todd Anderson would always remember fondly that it had been Gerard Pitts who helped him get the job at the editorial. After Welton, while he studied Literature and Todd studied Systems Engineering, they had stayed close. Besides, the taller man had always been one of his greatest supports when his relationship with Neil became serious.

“You two deserve to be happy,” Pitts would tell him calmly, while other Welton classmates still whispered in the hallways. “I’m so glad for both of you, and as for the others… screw them. They probably have no one who loves them.”

Now, as a digital production coordinator, Pitts had found the perfect space to combine his technical skills with his love for literature. When a vacancy appeared, he didn’t hesitate to recommend Todd.

“We need someone with your sensitivity for texts,” he insisted to his boss. “Anderson is meticulous and has an innate talent for writing that we need here.”

At the office, Pitts had become that colleague who genuinely asked how Neil was doing in his productions or managed to get tickets for premieres they wanted to see. He liked to stay in touch with his school friends, and he also reached out to others, even if work often kept him from seeing Charlie and Knox. He was grateful, at least, to have Todd nearby.

When Todd had to leave early to support Neil in a performance, Gerard covered for him without much questioning. “Go,” he’d say. “I’ve got this. Tell Neil I wish him all the best.”

That constant, natural support meant everything to Todd. In a society that still didn’t fully understand them, having a friend in his corner —not just a colleague, but one of the few who always celebrated his love for Neil and knew their struggles— made the weight easier to bear.

“Hey, I heard what those idiots were saying. I’m glad you responded. Bastards need to be shut down.” Even in the worst moments, his friend always celebrated the times Todd defended himself from colleagues like Carl.

That day, Todd had arrived early at the editorial, as usual. He went through the entry protocol and settled into his office cubicle to start his workday. Later, he prepared to speak with his boss about something important. Todd knew it was time to choose the manuscript for the first quarter, and he already had a clear idea of the topic he wanted to publish.

His blue eyes were deep, carrying the determination he only seemed to summon when a project truly mattered. He had the folder of the manuscript “Storm in the Desert: Personal Chronicles of ’91” in his hands, his fingers gripping the cardboard lightly.

“Mrs. Davies,” he began, his voice firmer than usual, “I’ve thoroughly reviewed Harrison’s manuscript, and I believe we have a unique opportunity here. This isn’t just another book about the Gulf War.”

Davies, on the other side of the desk, maintained an impassive expression but listened.

“They are diaries and letters, yes,” Todd continued, opening the folder to show some photocopied pages. “But it’s not the generals’ or politicians’ account. It’s the voice of the kids who were there.”

“Look at this excerpt.” He pointed to a paragraph. “It describes the strangeness of seeing stars in the desert, of feeling so far from home that even the sky seemed foreign. It’s not tactical analysis —it’s pure human emotion. Fear, confusion, longing. It’s universal.”

He paused, weighing his next words. “The public is tired of official versions. This has the authenticity people are looking for now. We can position it not as a history book, but as a human testimony, as a tribute to those who were there. There’s a market for this —for real stories.”

Davies sighed, intertwining her fingers on the desk. “Todd, I understand. It’s moving work, without a doubt. But ‘moving’ isn’t what the board wants to see in the quarterly report.”

“But if we publish it with the right campaign—”

“It’s not about the campaign,” she interrupted, her tone attempting to sound condescending but sounding frustrated. “It’s about timing. The political climate is delicate. Releasing a book that questions, even indirectly, a conflict with vested interests? It’s not what’s in the editorial’s best interest right now. Not strategic.”

“Strategic?” The word slipped out bitterly. “And strategy doesn’t include building a catalog with moral weight, credibility?” The blond frowned. Deep down, he knew political security was stronger, but it hurt all the same.

“Strategy is survival, Todd,” Davies replied dryly. “And to survive, we publish the senator Griffiths autobiography and safe projects. We can’t risk ‘projects of passionate interest.’” She pronounced the last words as if they were a flaw.

His blue eyes widened with immediate surprise. “This is not a project of passion for me, Mrs. Davies. It’s… a proposal that changes perspectives, makes voices visible,” Todd insisted, though he already knew the battle was lost. He could see it in her rigid shoulders.

“My decision is final,” she said, putting an end to the discussion. “File it. And please, focus on the Griffiths report. That’s what I need from you.”

Todd gathered his folder, the weight of rejection heavier than the paper itself. Exiting the cubicle, he met Pitts’ sympathetic gaze from nearby. A low, frustrated look was the only comfort his friend could offer at the moment. He had really wanted to tell that story.

• • •

Upon entering the theater, Neil noticed movement; his colleagues were bustling from one corner to another. Some carried props, others quietly rehearsed lines with coffee in hand. The air smelled of fresh varnish and curtain dust. The sounds of hammering and laughter mingled with the faint notes of a piano being practiced in the background. Neil barely managed a quick nod of greeting when he heard the director’s deep voice:

“Neil, come to the office for a moment!”

He shrugged, still wearing his jacket, and followed.

The office was as messy as ever: half-finished coffee cups, scripts piled on the desk, a couple of framed posters from past productions, and papers scattered across the floor that no one seemed to want to tidy. The director —also known as Mr. Hanks— a middle-aged man with round glasses and infectious energy, looked at him with a mix of seriousness and enthusiasm.

“I need to talk to you about something big.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

“We have the opportunity to stage The Phantom of the Opera. Not just here in Vermont —if the production takes off, we could go on a national tour.”

Neil blinked several times, as if he hadn’t heard right. The title resonated in his mind with a special weight; he had seen it performed in New York years ago, secretly dreaming of a role like this.

“I want you to be our Phantom,” the man continued without beating around the bush, eyes fixed on him. “Your work over the past months has proven it: you have the intensity, the voice, and the discipline we need. It’s a huge role, Neil. The biggest of your career so far.”

For a moment, he was breathless. His throat tightened with pure emotion, and he barely managed to whisper, “Me?”

The director smiled, as if he had expected that reaction. “That’s right. No one else can do it like you.”

Neil felt his heart pound in his chest with almost painful force. Then he smiled —wide, genuine, still incredulous.

“Yes… yes, I’ll do it. Of course I will.”

The director nodded, satisfied, extending his hand.

“Get ready, study your character, and the first rehearsals start at noon. This will be different from anything we’ve done before.”

When Neil left the office, his hands trembled with excitement. The theater buzzed around him as usual, but for him, everything felt different. He walked among his colleagues carrying the weight of the news he had just received, as if doors he had longed for his entire life had finally opened.

For the first time in a long while, all he felt was anticipation.

The first rehearsals with the cast were charged with expectation. The red curtain still smelled of dust and old velvet. The orchestra cautiously tested the notes, still rough but dark enough to make the stage vibrate beneath his feet. Yet every time Neil stepped onto the stage, silence fell.

The entire team spent the morning studying the scripts from start to finish, reading a copy of Gaston Leroux’s novel and performing preliminary theoretical research. By the lunch break, Neil had memorized half his lines and had already started rehearsing on his own.

When the rehearsals began, the cast demonstrated why this theater had earned local and national recognition. All actors, producers, musicians, and staff radiated commitment from the very start.

But Neil… he was different. Gradually, he began to stand out for his ambition and fervor. The young man inspired genuine passion in his work —to a point that even the director feared. Perry was exactly what the team needed. Expectations only grew. He couldn’t do less than he had already done.

The days passed quickly, and the week was nearly over. Neil felt exhausted after long routines of rehearsal after rehearsal, every day. Memorizing lines, vocal sessions, sound checks —already part of his routine —but with this major production looming, the responsibility increased tenfold.

And right now, Hanks was watching from the front row, arms crossed. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight. Neil couldn’t name the exact feeling he was sensing.

“Let’s start again from the mask scene,” he ordered in a dry voice.

Neil took a deep breath. The script crumpled slightly in his sweaty hand, but he set it aside. He didn’t need it. He climbed the steps to the center of the stage, and as the signal came, the orchestra attacked with deep, chaotic chords —dark enough to resonate under his feet.

Phantom: —Who sees my face never forgets it… who hears my voice obeys.

The line came out deep, guttural, unnatural. Neil had practiced that tone for hours in front of the mirror, but in that moment, with the echo bouncing across the empty auditorium, it sounded different.

He felt the mask covering half of his face, though they weren’t using it in rehearsals yet. His body tensed as he extended his arm toward Ginny, who watched him from the other end, fully immersed in her role as Christine.

It was as if the very shadows of the stage were pushing him. A second of silence followed the line. The director didn’t react immediately, and Neil felt his blood pounding in his temples. A whirlwind awoke inside him: Was that enough? Did it sound ridiculous? Don’t look at him, focus, damn it. Forget Hanks, forget the room, you are the Phantom. Not Neil. The Phantom.

The orchestra resumed softly, and Neil, almost without realizing it, continued toward the proscenium, letting the voice of the character push every word:

Phantom: —You fear me… but you need me. Without me, you are nothing.

Hanks finally uncrossed his arms, leaning slightly forward. The clenched jaw relaxed for a moment, enough for Neil to feel a pang of relief… and at the same time, an urgent need to go further.

“Well,” Hanks said when Neil finished the monologue. His voice echoed in the empty theater, severe but contained.

“What you just did is correct, but correct isn’t enough. This isn’t a school play —it’s a huge opportunity for everyone here. We have to give everything we have. I need more from you, Perry. I want to see more pain, more suffering. Erik isn’t just a masked monster —he’s a man with a wound that never heals, remember? So don’t act it. You have to live it.”

Neil nodded, determined, trying not to show the pressure tightening his chest. The director had said “correct.” Not “brilliant.” Not “unforgettable.” Just correct. A word that felt like an insult to the actor. For a moment he wondered: Has it ever been otherwise?

While the others dispersed to take notes, he stayed in the center of the stage for a few seconds, feeling the warmth of the still-on lights. His lips moved silently, repeating the last line. The echo of his inner voice rose sharply:

What you are doing is not enough.

You will be forgotten.

You will die alone.

D i                 e.

Neil closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. No. He would not let himself be dragged down. Not this time.

If Hanks wanted pain, he would give it. If he wanted truth, he would dig to the very bottom of himself and bring it to the surface, even at the cost of his sanity. He would not yield. He would not be mediocre.

When he left the stage for the dressing room, his decision was made: he would give everything, even if it meant leaving part of himself in the character.

• • •

When he reached his dressing room, Neil drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A tense calmness washed over him. Before the mirror, his reflection returned a face of furrowed brows and a severe gaze, a countenance of pure determination. Alright, Neil, you’re just getting started. You’ve only been rehearsing for a week, about eight hours a day, his inner voice repeated, making a supreme effort to keep his spirits high. But the real problem had always been the same: no one took theater more seriously than Neil himself.

Neil looked at the white mask on the table. He had left it there before rehearsal. Now, the fluorescent light of the dressing room hit it directly, highlighting the pale porcelain against the dark wood.

His fingers touched it with almost reverent curiosity. It felt cold, smooth, too perfect. As he lifted it, the dark leather inside reflected his own breath.

“Put it on,” whispered a voice that was not his, yet seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest.

He brought it to the mirror. For a moment, he saw only his own face —pale, tired— superimposed over the porcelain. But then he blinked, and for a fraction of a second, the reflection changed: the shadows beneath his eyes deepened, his gaze erased all trace of himself, leaving only a terrifying stillness. The scar crossing his temple —that physical reminder he always avoided looking at, always tried to hide beneath his hair— seemed to throb beneath the imaginary skin of the mask.

Who sees my face, never forgets it.

The voice did not come from his throat. It resonated inside his skull, grave and foreign.

He dropped the mask onto the table with a sudden movement, as if it had burned his fingers. His breath came in short bursts. This was not him. It wasn’t him. It was just fatigue, pressure, seven hours of rehearsal…

He rubbed his eyes vigorously and turned to the closet, needing to distract himself with something tangible, something real. He opened the wooden doors. Inside hung a few changes of his own clothes and those of other characters, but on a separate hook, awaited the outline of his Phantom costume: an elegant suit accompanied by the distinctive heavy black velvet cape.

Taking a step back, he felt an edge under his foot. He had stepped on something by accident.

A red rose.

He stepped back again, and before picking it up, noticed a folded note accompanying it. His brow furrowed in confusion, marking his tired face. He opened the note, unsure of what to expect.

His face fell as he read the words:

For Neil W. Perry:

People see a man who has made his life to his liking, to his own whim. Yet I can still see that small boy running through the park, happy because his mother bought him a lollipop.

What’s surprising is that you are still that boy, Neil, and I am still your father. The person who loves you most and knows best what’s good for you.

I hope you will come to visit your mother and me soon.

I’m still waiting at home for you, my son.
-Thomas Perry

A tear ran down his right cheek. What did his father intend with notes like this? Neil felt angry, sick, but couldn’t do anything about it. He would just ignore it. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

He lifted his gaze to the mirror again, now noticing his tear-filled, reddened eyes more closely.

“What exactly do you want?” he repeated aloud this time, licking his dry lips, tasting the salt left behind by his tears.

Once more, he picked up the mask to place it over the right side of his face, covering the scar on his forehead.

“No matter how hard you try, you won’t convince me to come back to you, father. This is who I am and have always been, like it or not. An actor.” He spoke directly to the mirror.

A faint itch ran across the scar, almost as a response to his words. He left the mask on the table to scratch gently, but it soon became harsher, more intense. His nails dug firmly into his temple, scratching obsessively.

But the itch wouldn’t go away. It grew more unbearable. He scratched and scratched, feeling his skin redden, inflame, until fine lines of blood inevitably appeared. It felt maddening. The skin on his forehead became unbearably itchy.

In the mirror reflected that right half, irritated by his own now-bloody fingers. His breathing quickened, but not from panic. It was something more primal.

His instinct wanted to reach the bone and erase all traces left by this pain. The burning was sharp, and Neil would not believe a single word of that damn note.

He approached the mirror, studying what he had just done. The scratches crossed the old scar, creating a new pattern of pain. He touched it with his fingertips, spreading the blood like paint.

This was real. This was the product of his freedom.

When he finally lowered his hand, his temple bled freely. Red drops ran across the bridge of his nose, his right cheek, his shirt, the white mask, and finally the dressing room floor. Neil felt a wave of satisfaction run through his entire body.

He felt calm.

That night, Todd waited for his husband a few blocks away from the publishing office. He had no desire to hear more about work once his shift ended. The blond wore his navy trench coat, as the January wind ran strong and heavy through the streets. He sat on a bench outside a café, holding a cigarette between his fingers, placing it between his lips to exhale the smoke slowly, while staring at a fixed point in the city.

Neil enjoyed watching him from the car window, he looks so fucking sexy, thought. Todd had no idea that the actor had arrived early enough to see him leave —from the editorial’s exit to the café— as Neil wore dark glasses to hide the scratches and light traces of dried blood he had inflicted on himself. Neil thought it strange that Todd was waiting in an unusual spot, but he knew the blond only skipped work when he was having a bad day.