Tobias & Stuart: The Day the Music Died: Ballad of the Stars: An MM Fantasy Romance Trilogy, #1

By Jern Tonkoi

Two hearts. One unforgettable love song.

"Echoes of Love" is a haunting, genre-bending tale of identity, memory, and the enduring power of human connection. Professor Tobias Staghorn has shaped his life around the pursuit of an impossible goal - piecing together the world's lost musical heritage. But when his research leads him to a chimerical figure known as Music, Tobias finds himself drawn into a mystery that upends everything he thought he knew about history, love, and his own past.

Help comes from an unlikely quarter in the form of Stuart Murray, a reserved doctor wrestling with demons of his own. As the two men embark on a treacherous quest for answers, they find themselves forging a profound connection, one that blossoms into a deep, passionate bond that neither man expected. With the world as they know it threatening to unravel, Tobias and Stuart must confront not only the forces arrayed against them, but the echoes of their own unresolved pasts.

By turns whimsical and poignant, dreamlike and dazzlingly authentic, this immersive novel is a sensual exploration of identity, memory, and the enduring power of love. Author Jern Tonkoi's lyrical prose and vividly drawn characters make for an unforgettable MM romance that will linger long after the final page. Discover what happens when two souls make their own music in this captivating series starter.

Content Advisory: Mature Themes

Content Advisory: "Echoes of Love" is an MM romance novel that contains scenes of a sexual nature, including detailed descriptions of intimate acts between two adult men. The novel also explores topics such as sexuality, identity, and mental health, and includes fantastical and supernatural elements. Recommended for mature audiences only.

About the author

Jern Tonkoi writes cross-genre contemporary fantasy romance featuring somewhat loveable casts of characters with a strong theme of friendships and emotional growth. Her LGBTQ+ based story attempts to connect with readers along the whole line of the gender spectrum because she intensely believes that deep down, we all share the same thirst for life.

Jern is a manga and movie enthusiast, a part-time researcher and engineer, and a full-time observer of the world. She mostly lives and works in Thailand and in the UK with her partner and some visiting cats and dogs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jern Tonkoi
• Release date: Mar 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224643547

Book preview

Prologue

It is quite a work of art in itself. With Brazilian rosewood body and intricate wood inlays around the sound hole. It’s as if these decorative vines had been planted here and slowly grown over a long period, creeping up onto the blackest ebony neck, and would likely continue to flourish in its environment. The coating has long worn out. The previous owner never got it refinished, which is a good thing. The guitar has been through time, good and bad, and it shows. That’s how he likes it. He reaches his left hand towards it, feeling a slight resistance in the fourth finger, so he pulls back. The overall look of the guitar is a quiet exotic. If that is even a thing.

Today, the auction house is holding a fundraising silent auction. Many of the pieces here are not necessarily rare or of immense value, but they are vintage items offered to the house to auction off to raise money for various charities. Still, with an auction, the price can inflate out of his range. But it’s worth a try.

‘Excuse me. Umm, hola. Hi.’ He is unsure which language to use at the assistant’s desk.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Do you want to register for a bid?’

‘Yes, yes please. I’m interested in the guitar over there.’ He points over in the direction of the beautiful instrument. There is a figure standing in front of it, the long suede jacket and a pair of cowboy boots are conspicuous in the warm weather of Barcelona.

‘Item number 139, acoustic guitar. Is this the correct one?’ The assistant shows him the number on the catalogue and the bidding sheets.

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘Can I have your name and address, please?’

‘Is work address ok?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s Tobias Staghorn, Faculty of Arts, Birmingham University, Birmingham, UK.’

‘Are you a professor at the university?’

‘Associate professor.’

Someone bumps into him from the back. He turns around to apologise like an English gentleman even when it’s definitely not him doing the bumping. The suede jacket and cowboy boots spins around on their feet. The snappy movement with a precise interval must be governed by some silent rhythm that he cannot hear.

‘Lo siento, profesor,’ the person says with a smile on their face.

‘I’m sorry. I mean, it’s ok.’ Tobias stares at the face, something oddly familiar, not the face, though. He would not easily forget a face like this. An androgynous face that has been sculpted by life until it reaches some level of fleeting perfection. A face with some make-up and adornments that seem more like organic features. A face that has been through time … Maybe it’s the eyes, golden-brown eyes on a honey skin that lock onto his. He can’t take his eyes off them without being released by their owner. The overall look is, well, a quiet exotic. This is becoming a trend.

No! It’s the voice! He’s sure of it. Not the tone of the voice, but the feeling that comes with it. Memory from a time he has forgotten. Memory that he himself buried away. A tremble breaks out on his fourth finger, so he clenches his left hand into a loose fist to still it.

‘No. Please say that again.’ Tobias reaches out and grabs their arm.

The person steps back towards him until they stand just a foot away. They smile, placing their left hand behind his neck and pulling him closer. Then they lean in to whisper into his left ear,

‘Lo siento mucho, profesor, pero es mio.’

The voice echoes in his head, losing some clarity. However, its intention is as clear as those golden eyes, if he could just understand even a single word. His Spanish is only on level three in Duolingo. He can’t make out if it is ‘pero es mio’ (but it is mine) or ‘pero eres mio’ (but you are mine). Or if it was a ‘mio’ at all.

‘Sir! Here is the bidding sheet for you. Sorry about the wait.’ The assistant is calling him back to the desk.

‘Ah, yes. Thank you. Gracias.’

When he turns back around, the person has gone. So level three is not going to get him very far on this trip then.

CHAPTER 1

How’s Life in Putney?

After the long, rainy summer, the holly bushes that form part of the garden wall have been growing as if they plan to take over the world by tomorrow. Marion is out on the pavement with a hand shear, trimming them back to allow pedestrians to walk past without drawing blood from their faces. This morning, she had already checked on the unit gas meter, which was indeed faulty as per the resident’s complaint. The gas company will send someone out to change it, one of these days. Well, the lady on the phone actually said ‘as soon as possible,’ and that’s code for ‘one of these days’, right? The sun is edging higher overhead and getting stronger, which is always welcome in England, of course. But she is getting a little heady from it. She is not as fit as she used to be.

The Diamond-Ankle Residence is an old, well-loved, well-maintained building nestling between trees that must have been there for centuries. The Sycamore stands proudly by the driveway as if it is in fact the rightful owner of this place. It would have cast more shade for Marion if not for the fact that it is dropping leaves everywhere. This is normal life under the passing of seasons. Marion had swept the driveway yesterday. She would say the leaf sweeping in autumn is like meditation: calming, relaxing, and at the end, it’s as if you have done nothing at all.

A gust of warm breeze brushes over her and the holly bushes, totally from the wrong direction for this time of year. Marion’s lips break into a gentle smile. She puts the shear away in the garage-turned-shed and walks into her apartment on the ground floor.

On the narrow shelf under the hanging cupboards above her kitchen counter, a set consisting of a teapot, three cups and three saucers sits in a prime spot; that is, being low enough for a small lady to get to. The tea set is made from white porcelain with a single line of silver trim that is so faint the only way to know if it exists is to put a cup in a microwave and wait to hear a tiny spark. Motifs of blue leaves, noticeably more faded on the top two cups, decorate the sides of these vessels, lending a subtle softness to the cool white porcelain. Marion puts on the kettle and gets down the top two cups and saucers and the teapot, a small jug for the milk and a large pot of Demerara sugar. They can be annoyingly particular sometimes. No, a lot of the time. Two bags of Whatever Tea, at least they are not fussy about that. The kettle gives out a gentle wheeze, which is getting louder by the second. As soon as the kettle reaches its top breath, the front door of the apartment, Number 1 Diamond-Ankle Live Here, bursts open. No polite knocking, just a loud bang and,

‘How’s life in Putney?!’ belts out a cheerful voice that has been a constant in her life.

Marion pours boiling water carefully into the teapot and carries the tray into her living room. She gently sets the tray down on the side table next to a three-seater sofa. Music dances around her, getting in the way. This, too, is a constant in her life. She pulls them down to sit next to her on the sofa and starts to tell them about her days in the last two weeks that they have been away when Music cuts in.

‘It was amazingly beautiful in Barcelona this time of year, you know? I wish you had agreed to come with!’

Marion reminds herself that Music is so endearingly full of themself. ‘How’s life in Putney’ actually means ‘I bet it’s boring and mundane here and you’d rather listen to me.’ Anyhow, it is one of her favourite things in the world, to listen to them. And there is no sarcasm there either. Music conveys stories in such vivid colours and forms. The surprises and the excitements were so realistically painted. It was as if she was there in person with them. She hasn’t told them though. The real reason she hasn’t been travelling with them in the last few years is her ailing health. She will be seventy-four this year and it has been harder to travel a long distance without pain and discomfort. And she didn’t tell them because they will probably try to fix it. There is nothing to fix. It’s just normal life under the passing of seasons.

Marion studies Music closely as they go on talking, which could last for another two hours easily. While time moves for all of us, it does not move in the same way for them. It is not that there is no change. On the contrary, Music changes all the time. Sometimes, while she was talking to them, the atmosphere changed. Music is in flux and has always been this way in the fifty-odd years that she has been together with them. They just do not age the same way as her.

‘Oh, I brought you a present from Barcelona,’ Music chimes happily, reaching down to the floor and pulling up a hard leather case. It is an old scuffed case with tarnished brass studs and clasps. They click open with the crystal clear snap of a well-loved tool. Music lifts out of it an old parlour guitar. They place the instrument on their lap and draw out an intimate melody that sounds as if it has been written just for this very instrument. Like this guitar, Marion thinks to herself, they have aged through the lives they lived, the experiences they encountered and the challenges they endured. But if one can only hear from a distance, it is a beautiful, perfectly rendered piece of music. Nothing gives away the battered state it is in.

All of a sudden, the air changes mood. Music remembers something while playing the guitar.

‘This guitar has been through a lot, you know? I just had to rescue it from an ignorant hand,’ Music says.

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘An auction house in Barcelona, something this divine and they put it on the same line-up as jars, … can you believe that?’ Music says in disgust, getting more worked up with every word.

‘What else did they have at the auction?’

‘Uh, …’ Music didn’t pay attention to things that didn’t interest them. ‘Lots of jars. The Spaniards must’ve liked jars. They even placed bids on them!’

‘Of course.’

‘But then I heard it, amongst the dusty and bone-dry jars, this guitar calling me for help! I really, really wanted to, but this one guy was looking at it so intensely, like he wanted to rip it apart. He then went to place a bid for it. My heart sank! I had to do something!’

‘So you competed in the bidding war?’

‘Well, no. I didn’t have enough money, not even for the reserve price. I tried to get him to back off, like in a cold, mafia kind of way, you know what I mean? But this guy had a nerve of steel. He didn’t even flinch. He just swanned in and placed his bid anyway.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘But I refused to go quietly. I went to see the consignor and persuaded her to withdraw the guitar and give it to me.’

‘You cheated, you mean.’

‘Ah, the look on his face!’

‘You are quite terrible, Music. This guitar could have been something important to him. What you did was unfair!’ Marion reprimands them but she isn’t surprised by what they did.

‘It was unfair that he even looked at my guitar!’

‘Ohhh, you are rotten.’

‘OK, maybe I’m a little bit sorry. Hey! Maybe you can give him the guitar. I think he was a professor of something in some university, somewhere.’

‘I don’t think that information is enough for me to act on.’ Marion is bemused. She pours out some tea for the both of them while Music quietly observes her delicate movement.

‘Do you think Love would have liked it? The guitar, I mean,’ Music says after a period of silence.

‘You know he would. He loved everything you brought back for him. Apart from that one time when you gave him a sun-dried piranha from your Amazon trip. Oh! The smell! Bobby spent days shampooing the carpet. He banned you from going to the Amazon ever again, didn’t he?’ Marion laughs at the past. ‘You can go now if you’d like.’

‘Nah, I don’t think I can face the piranha without cracking up.’

Music looks up at a cabinet in front of them with a saxophone sitting on the middle shelf. Their expression is strangely empty, as if they are pressing down their unwelcome emotion. This alto sax is an old object that looks as though it was, at one time in its life, in constant use. The body is still in superb shape, but the surface is dull with a patina formed over the years. The owner did not worry about polishing it, ever. Some of the key hinges are brighter than others; at least it was maintained in good condition. Next to the sax, in a wooden frame, is a photograph of Marion in her twenties in the middle, Music on one side looking about the same as they do now, and on the other side is a man, clutching the very same sax. This is Bobby, or Love, as Music would call him. They were all smiling a good old-day smile that would last forever in their memories.

‘Yes, he would have loved the guitar.’ Marion says this with a happy, nostalgic voice.

Music doesn’t know how to read the atmosphere. Their strategy in life is to confront anything head-on. And they innately believe that their timing is always perfect. They grab Marion’s shoulders, spin her towards them and say flatly,

‘Marion, Love, I am about to die.’

Marion’s lips are still forming a half smile from her retro-visit to the jazz club earlier. Music is always full of surprises, but this one doesn’t sit well with her. She says,

‘When?’

‘Possibly this evening, I’m not really sure. But very soon.’

‘Why?’

‘I think I might have been poisoned. Again, not sure.’

After a brief silence in which Music takes a sip of sugary tea from their favourite cup, they continue,

‘Anyway, that’s not the point that I rushed back here.’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘No. Well, yes, a bit. I want to ask you to not let out my room next door. If you still remember me, that is,’ Music says, unsure if they are making a reasonable request.

‘Of course I will remember you.’ Marion snaps out of her daze, offended by their remark.

‘You might not have a choice with that, though.’

‘I couldn’t see why you would die so young. But you are not young, are you? Even with that glossy curly hair and smooth, supple skin.’ Marion cups one side of their face with her hand. Her smile is loving, but is tinged with doubt.

‘No, I’m not. I really am not.’

Music leans across to kiss her before wrapping their arms around her petite frame and resting their head on her shoulder.

Marion is tidying the tea set away. Music has gone over to their room to put the guitar away. It has been a strange conversation. She is sure that they were not joking around. They generally avoid the subject of death or try to steer any potential discussion away from it. When Bobby died, they went quiet for almost a year. They would not talk about him, to her or anyone else. Often, they disappeared for a day or two and came back without saying anything. No stories, no silly presents, no songs. That was the only time that she knew them not to sing and dance around. Bobby and she were not the only people they had fallen in love with. Throughout their endless past, there have been many lovers. Each one would come to the end of their lifetime and each one would break their heart, as Bobby did. And that’s what bothers her. That kiss earlier, it didn’t feel like a heart-breaking goodbye kiss.

Lights come on in room number 1.2.1234, right next to Marion’s. On the outside, this room looks exactly like any other room in this building. On the inside, the first thing one might notice is that there is no bed. Music never sleeps. Or it might be because the room is packed full of objects that a bed would not find a space even for one leg. There are many musical instruments from all ages, concert posters, walking stick, fish net, clay sculpture, rocks, treasure chest, totem poles, UFO miniature. Incoherent objects that make up Music’s memory, which can be rather incoherent. In the middle of the room is an antique free-standing mirror with a mottled surface showing extensive signs of de-silvering. The gilded frame studded with sparkling gemstones attempts to add vitality to the subject. It’s failing. Music takes a long, slow look at themself in the reflection; the image of a person heavy with years looks back at them. Personally, they would describe their look as possessing a vintage charm. They have been in the world for … like, forever. Love the food, love the places, love the people! People are so full of possibilities. Their subconsciousness can be so vast one can fit a whole world in it. Yet their lifespans are tiny. Suppose that’s why they seem to be in a rush all the time. There is so much energy in people.

Music closely inspects their own face in the mirror. It has started. The atoms and molecules that make up this physical body are tearing themselves away. They are leaving slowly at first in specks of golden light, floating away from them. And after a while, the light dims and disappears. But they have a plan. It will take cunning and patience, neither of which is their forte. Never mind that, they love their life on Earth too much to go quietly. More and more lights are leaving, it’s now an exodus. Some of the specks settle on the various objects in the room, but most have died off in mid-flight. In the end, the matter has all gone, leaving only a tiny amount of life force that used to bind their atoms together as a reminder of a life that was, a ghostly remnant. The non-existent Music walks towards the back of the room where a clay sculpture sits on a table and says in a voice that sounds as if it comes from a distant star,

-I’ll be back soon.-

They kiss the sculpture and stroll back towards the door, where they slip through the gap between the solid atoms and walk off into the night, searching for someone.

That night, people forget who lived in room number 1.2.1234. Any knowledge of music as a concept is filtered out of everyone’s head and out of history. The memory of Music, for the very first time, gets some sleep.

CHAPTER 2

Head as Big as the Universe

Daisy, a five-year-old girl in a white dress and fluffy light brown cardigan, is sitting on the lawn in the small backyard of her home. Her mum has convinced her that it is so much fun to dig out the dahlia bulbs from the flower bed next to the patio that is attached to the back door of the house. All the white linens that have been washed and hung up billow in the early autumn breeze. It is not that her mum loves white or wants to create a French cottage feel on the outskirts of Birmingham. Mr And Mrs Lang run a Chinese takeaway in the city, with only one table for desperately hungry customers. So she takes the tablecloths home for a weekly laundry.

Music has walked around this suburban area since this morning looking for a particular person. They don’t yet know the person. But here’s the plan: 1) get to know one another, 2) convince this person of the utmost importance of Music, and 3) this person will call them back and Bob’s your uncle. That is a weird expression.

Music overlooked Daisy the first and second time they went past, mistaking her for some cuddly little creature burying its treasure in the ground. Third time’s the charm. They retrace their steps, absolutely convinced that there is a person here, head as big as the universe, with potential as bright as a supernova. And that massive head is currently full of ‘Bob, Bob, Bob, ...’ Straight to Point 3 on their plan then, great!

There, sitting on the patio digging mud all over her dress and face, is the owner of that head. They had imagined the person to be bigger, like eight times bigger. But at least they have found her.

-Hello, small child.- Music crouches down next to Daisy. -What are you doing?-

‘Save Bob.’

-Why?-

‘I need to save Bob from Winter.’ Daisy provides details of her heroic quest.

Music’s eyes light up. They have found their champion!

-Great, how long will you take to save Bob? Can you perhaps save me first?-

Daisy looks up at Music and asks, ‘Are you a goat?’

-I don’t think so. Oh, unless you mean ghost. But I’m not that either. I’m Music.-

‘Moosey..y….’ Daisy’s eyes grow twice the size they were.

-Moosey? Yeah, well. Can you …?-

‘Is Moosey a boy or a girl?’

Music considers Daisy’s question carefully. It’s not that the question hasn’t come up before in the hundreds of years they have been here. There also have been many different answers, varied with the level of alcohol intake. But it has never before been from a five-year-old who is about to save their arse.

Daisy is still looking at them, wide-eyed. They had better give an answer quickly before those eyes bulge out. While Music is reluctantly thinking of what to say, the fluttering white linens are parted by a small hand. A young boy with the confident face of someone being a few months older walks out from between the sheets.

‘Moosey is a non-canary, Daisy. They are most likely a moose.’

Daisy turns around to look in awe at the owner of the voice that speaks of wisdom. She has been enlightened. Daisy decides that she should consult the sage.

‘Moosey here wants to be saved too, Stevie. What do we do?’ she says, her grubby hands waving wildly in their direction.

Music feels Stevie’s suspicious eyes fall on them hard and gives what they think is a friendly smile.

‘Well, Moosey should tell us how we can save a moose,’ Stevie responds.

Music is overjoyed to have found themself enthusiastic champions. They may be a bit small, but there are two of them. They say,

-Ok, little children.-

‘It’s Daisy!’

‘Yes, Daisy, like the little flower. And I’m Stevie. Nice to meet you, Moosey.’

-Great! And I’m Moosey. Uh… Music! It’s Music. I want you, little ch…, Daisy and Stevie, to sing loudly, with your most angelic voic…- Music pauses to look at the two blank faces, one covered in dirt, and finishes their sentence, -… with your voices! Yes! And that should be good enough,- they say, a little unsure. There is, of course, no reason why cute children singing cute songs would be a catalyst for them returning to the earth.

‘What is a sing?’ asks Daisy.

‘A sink? In the kitchen?’ says Stevie.

‘No, Moosey said sing-g-g.’ Daisy exaggerates the word.

-It’s like this. Repeat after me. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb!-

‘You have funny accent, Moosey,’ Daisy giggles.

-Now you try!-

Daisy strains her face trying to remember the words and the funny accent. She sort of sings,

‘Daisy and her little ham, little ham, …’

Stevie bursts out laughing while Daisy giggles part way through the sentence and cannot finish it because Stevie’s laugh is so contagious. Their unstoppable laughter is much more musical than Daisy’s recital. Music hangs their head to one side. This will need more time and a lot more patience than they have planned.

It was a long time ago that Music visited the city centre of Birmingham. Back then, there was just a market in the town centre. Now, New Street is packed full of shops and restaurants, stretching past Bull Ring Market and spilling out into the surrounding areas. They walk into the alley opposite a large mall. Boutique shops and charming little cafes line the crisscrossing little network of alleyways. A shiny, golden French horn catches their eyes. Music’s hope is inflated for a moment, and deflated immediately when they see an artful arrangement of flowers and small branches protruding out of the horn. Some apples are scattered at the base as if to imply that apples grow out of French horns.

People have forgotten about Music since that evening they died in their room. Songs are turned into stories with awkward grammar and musical instruments are just some yesterday’s relics that no one needs anymore. No one even knows, or cares, what they were once for. Words like singing, song or music are unheard of.

Music carries on walking aimlessly, a little dejected that the world still spins around as per usual, unconcerned whether they have Music or not. They turn off to the right at the end of a street and walk along the canal. Music often dresses a little flamboyantly. Detailed tribal top with ornate Egyptian laced hip scarf over a pair of skinny black jeans. Tame it down with a long suede jacket in a rich tan and a pair of cowboy boots to match. This look, together with their rhythmic steps that say they are ready to break out into a dance any minute now, would often draw a lot of attention. Mostly admiration and a little bit of something else. But today, no one, not even the boat people who moor along the canal, can see them. They could be dancing a flamenco with clappers on their boats, and no one would notice.

As Music walks on, a trendy-looking bar and restaurant comes into sight. Gold letters on a crimson background state the name ‘The Other Orleans’ over the front door. It is so big one can read it from the opposite bank of the canal. Funny and suggestive names of cocktails are written underneath in smaller type font. This is the sort of place where one should also expect to see ‘Live Music Every Evening’ written proudly somewhere. It really was a little over-claimed though, Music thinks to themself. They couldn’t possibly be at every ‘Live Music’ venue, even if they wanted to be. But there is no such claim here. Nevertheless, they open the door and enter the bar, in case they are needed here live, or dead, as the case may be.

A small area on the side of the counter bar is being set up as a stage. Music decides to take a seat at the counter, waiting for the live performance. Maybe today, the Universe might surprise them. The bartender invites a band of four performers to take to the stage. She calls for a big round of applause for ‘The Improper Improv Troop’, and the crowd gives it. People are sincerely excited and cheer for them. Music, with an unanimated facial expression, gets off the bar stool and decides it is time to call it a day.

Two years have passed. Music has been intermittently hanging around Daisy and Stevie, the only two people in this ungrateful world who can see and hear them.

Daisy sits up at the dining table, red crayon in one hand, while the other is holding down a piece of paper against the table, preventing it from escaping. The red crayon stabs angrily on the helpless paper. Her eyes are red and moist with the rage of a seven-year-old. She will be starting her new school term soon. And she has it all planned. That she will walk to school with Stevie, and walk back home together. That is the extent of her plan. But it was all planned out, nonetheless.

Earlier that day, Mrs Tomkins dropped off Stevie at Daisy’s house like usual. Stevie brought with him his kaleidoscopes that he got for Christmas. They were his prized possessions, but he always let Daisy and Moosey look at the stars inside the scopes.

‘Why do you have two of the same one?’ asks Daisy.

‘Granny gave me two, one for each eye, I think.’

‘Do you see more stars like that?’

‘No, you just get a headache.’

Today Daisy had her eye on the stars as they turned and spun in a little slow-motion explosion. She suggested to Stevie and Moosey that one day they should go to the stars. Moosey said they came from the stars, but they don’t want to go back there yet. Stevie went quiet and looked down at his hands, fidgeting with his socks. This was his reaction when he was upset because boys don’t cry, right? They just sulk in the manliest way possible. Detecting his manly sulk, Daisy stopped playing with the kaleidoscope and looked at him. Stevie clenched his hands on his ankles. He