Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The hiss of the steam wand was Elliott Foster’s favourite kind of percussion—steady, controlled, just enough rhythm to keep his hands in sync with his head.
He leaned into it, his wrist tilting the pitcher, coaxing silk out of oat milk.
Behind the counter of Haven, Shoreditch’s most unapologetically queer café/art space, Elliott was part barista, part stage manager.
The mass of fairy lights across the ceiling twinkled above mismatched chairs, a crooked bookshelf sagged under zines and second-hand poetry collections, and in the corner stood the upright piano.
Elliott’s upright piano, and no one touched it but him.
Not unless they wanted to lose a finger.
“Large, triple shot?” he teased before looking up.
The regular on the other side of the bar rolled his eyes. “You memorise everyone’s orders just so you can be smug, don’t you?”
“Guilty.” Elliott slid the cup across with a flourish that stopped short of being theatrical. His smile was practiced: crooked, charming, and slightly dangerous.
The kind of smile that let people think they’d won something by earning it.
When the customer drifted away, Elliott wiped down the counter, humming softly under his breath. A scrap of melody, unfinished, caught and held in his throat. He shoved it back down where it belonged.
No one here got the real songs anymore, the ones that spoke from his heart.
A flyer tacked onto the local information board snagged his attention. It stood out against a sea of business cards, LGBTQ+ events, and a poster sharing hotlines. Elliott wandered over to get a better look. Blood red letters on a black background that looked like leather.
Auditions: Hot Leather Guys.
All-gay leather a cappella. Vocals only. Voices welcome. Leather mandatory.
Contacts: Theo Sinclair it was sleek, polished, with soundproofing that swallowed stray noise and mirrors that reflected every angle. Elliott felt the hum of it in his bones. Serious people used this space.
Serious men are going to be judging me.
Theo Sinclair definitely belonged in that category. His gaze was steady, analytical, the kind of look that could slice straight through the gloss. Max Rivers leaned back in his chair, booted legs stretched out, leather jacket creaking softly as he shifted, his smirk almost a challenge.
Elliott adjusted his harness under his jacket and let his smile bloom slow. “Where do you want me?”
“Front and centre,” Theo replied crisply.
He stepped into the circle of light and inhaled.
When he opened his mouth, it wasn’t the edgy rock or club anthem he’d instinctively felt they’d expect from someone dressed like him.
It was a stripped-down ballad—old Broadway, lyrics that bent like a prayer when sung right.
His tenor cut through the quiet, clear and sharp, but he didn’t just sing.
He played with phrasing, slipping in jazz edges, holding back just enough to make every swell ache, until the song became bigger than one man.
The words dripped subtext, heat simmering below the surface, but his body stayed still. No seduction, no begging, only him in total command of his voice.
When the last note faded, the silence held.
Max was the first to speak, his voice low, nearly purring. “You sing like you’ve got secrets.”
Elliott flashed him an intentionally knowing grin. “That’s the point.”
Theo’s jaw tightened as he scribbled a note.
Then he tapped his pen against the margin of his notes, his eyes still on Elliott.
“Your tone’s pure,” he said at last. “Controlled. You know exactly what you’re doing.
But…” His brow furrowed slightly. “I want to hear you fall apart on a high note. Just once. Let the edge crack.”
Elliott’s grin didn’t waver. “Cracks aren’t flattering.”
“They’re human,” Theo replied in a soft voice.
Across the table, Max hadn’t written a single word. He was watching Elliott with a slow, deliberate focus that felt as though it stripped him bare.
Finally, Max leaned forward. His voice was blunt, cutting through the quiet. “Are you good at taking direction?”
Elliott tilted his head, sharpening his smile like a blade. “When it’s worth following.”
Theo’s mouth twitched, caught between amusement and caution. Max, however, sat back again, his expression unreadable.
“Thanks for coming.” Theo rose. “We’ll be in touch.”
It seemed they were done.
Elliott didn’t shake hands but nodded before leaving the room.
And now we wait.
Back in his flat, Elliott flicked on the single lamp by the bed.
The room smelled faintly of espresso and leather, the day still clinging to him.
He reached up and unbuckled his harness, one strap at a time, a ritual he knew by heart.
The weight slid off his shoulders, leaving him lighter but not freer.
He tossed it onto the chair, then opened his battered notebook. The pen hovered for a beat before the words spilled out:
You held my voice / then dropped it mid-song.
He leaned back, notebook still open on his lap, staring at the ceiling.
Why do I want to be in this group?
The music, yes—always the music. The edge, maybe. Or maybe he just wanted a stage where he could set his past alight and let harmony burn it clean.
Fuck, I don’t know what I want. But for the first time in years, in that studio, he’d felt something cut through the barriers he’d put up around himself.
I was seen, if only for a second.
When Elliott closed his notebook, the image of Max’s face still lingered—serious, controlled, a man holding something in tight fists and pretending it didn’t cost him. Elliott recognised that discipline too well.
And God, did he want in.
But on my terms.
He let the old ache stir in his chest, the ghost of Nico’s abandonment curling like smoke. He pressed his palm flat against it, as though he could pin it down, contain it.
Not again. Not this time.
He whispered it into the quiet room, convincing himself it was a vow.
Theo set his pen down tapping his fingers against the notebook.
“He’s good,” he said simply. “More than good, if I’m honest. His tone is clean, balanced, almost effortless.
But there’s something… elusive. He keeps you out.
I’d like to hear what happens if the polish slips—if he lets himself crack, even for a moment. I want to peel back the layers.”
Max didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the empty spot Elliott had left on the studio floor, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled. “He’s strong. Too strong, maybe.
Those walls aren’t just defence—they’re deliberate.
I’ve seen it before.” His voice dropped, thoughtful. “And I know who built some of them.”
Theo looked up sharply. “Meaning?”
Max shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just history.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “But I’ll tell you this—if he ever lets go, even a little, I think his voice could level a room.”
Theo arched a brow. “So you’re saying yes.”
Max’s mouth curved into a half-smile, half-warning. “I’m saying he intrigues me. And intrigue can be dangerous.”
Theo flipped his notebook shut. “We’ll need to balance the lineup. Another tenor or baritone could tip the sound, so I’ll keep that in mind when we confirm him.” His tone was brisk. Max knew the signs. Theo was already moving toward logistics, rehearsal schedules, practicalities.
Max didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on the stage as if Elliott were standing there, all smirk and armour. He gave a low, thoughtful hum. “Balance is fine. But I’m telling you—if he ever lets that guard slip, it won’t just be about blend. It’ll be about fire.”
Theo shot him a wary glance, but Max only smirked and leaned back in his chair.
For Theo, Elliott was simply another voice to fold into harmony.
For Max, he was a spark—and sparks could scorch if you weren’t careful.