Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Max Rivers never liked oval tables. Too round to command, too soft to hide in.
But tonight, he sat at one, along with nine men gathered in the dim back room of a Camden restaurant. The air smelled of alcohol, garlic butter, and nerves. He held a glass of neat whisky in his hand, hemmed in between a restless falsetto on one side, and a flirty tenor on the other.
Ten of us now.
Ten voices. Ten personalities.
Ten edges.
He catalogued them the way he always did, like notes in a scale.
Julian: glitter wrapped around steel, daring the world to look away.
Sebastian: fragile fire, trying not to show how breakable he was.
Finnley: young and sparkling, plated with jokes and eyeliner.
Milo: quiet, layered, the kind of pain that turned into harmony.
Elliott: charisma sharp as glass, secrets buried under the smirk.
Zane: golden boy smile, shadows flickering underneath.
Oliver: restraint and hunger in one deep note.
Liam: calm gravity, a steady hand in the storm.
Theo—
Max’s gaze flickered across the table.
Theo Sinclair, all tight lines and clipped edges. Precision in a pressed shirt. Spreadsheet king. Control addict.
Their eyes met—one beat, two—before Theo inclined his head in acknowledgment. Max mirrored it, subtle, restrained.
Agreement unspoken: We’ll keep them in line.
Danger unspoken: What if we can’t?
Theo hadn’t wanted to come. He’d told himself twice he was too busy, too tired.
But Max was relentless, and the WhatsApp thread guilt-tripped him into showing up.
Now here he was, shoe-tips brushing Zane’s under the table, cataloguing everything despite his best intentions.
Voices. Energy. The way Finnley’s laugh spiked the air.
Milo and Elliott muttering about chords already.
Oliver half-smiling into his drink. Liam grounded, Julian deliberately chaotic.
Ten men. One group. No name—yet.
Theo sipped his drink.
I hope we can make this work.
Max’s quiet gaze was unreadable, and Theo wondered if he felt the same hope.
“So,” Julian said, dragging the word out, his tone like silk, “are we really still calling ourselves Hot Leather Guys? Because that’s less like a choir and more like a PornHub channel.”
Max did his best not to laugh, but damn, Julian had nailed it.
Finnley snorted. “Accurate branding, though.”
Sebastian muttered, “I’d rather choke.”
“Careful,” Zane teased. “That could be our fan club slogan.”
Milo groaned. “What about something that doesn’t sound like a Grindr profile?”
Elliott smirked. “Don’t rule out smoke machines.”
Liam offered, deadpan, “Discipline.” Oliver’s smirk widened.
Theo tried not to laugh and failed.
Zane leaned forward. “Then what about Rough Harmony?”
The room stilled. Even Theo’s mouth curled in a faint smile. He exhaled and nodded, already writing it down.
That one had bite.
By dessert—something Elliott had ordered “just because”—the table had dissolved into a blur of overlapping voices.
Finnley belted a pop riff with way too much vibrato.
Julian harmonised badly on purpose until Milo almost threw a breadstick at him.
Sebastian snorted into his drink. Liam clapped Finnley on the shoulder and offered to buy the next round.
Oliver looked quietly amused, his smile small but real.
Zane glittered like champagne bubbles, leaning too close, sparking energy across the table.
And Max… Max said almost nothing, but Theo felt the gravity of him, a low note anchoring everything.
Theo realised he didn’t feel safe or relaxed.
But he did feel present, and that was new.
This could be so good.
Max hoped.
“Did we decide on a name?” Liam asked as he finished his last forkful of cheesecake. “Or are we still debating?”
All eyes were on Max and Theo.
Max shrugged. “I think we should go with Rough Harmony.” He glanced at Theo. “What do you think?”
Theo said nothing for a moment, but then he smiled. “I like that.”
Max grinned. “Then that’s who we are.” A chorus of whoops and cheers filled the air, although Milo protested that the name wouldn’t match their sound.
“At least, I hope it doesn’t.”
“We don’t have a sound yet,” Julian said with a grin, his eyes sparkling. “Personally, I can’t wait until the first rehearsal. I want to hear us all together.”
The bill came, chaos ensued, and Theo ended it the way he always did. Spreadsheet app, a quick calculation, an even split, rounded up.
Ten phones buzzed.
Max smirked. “Of course you did.”
When they finally spilled out onto the Camden pavement, the air was damp with London night, their laughter clattering off brick and glass. None of them wanted to leave. They lingered too long, saying goodbyes, organising Ubers, the air thick with voices that hadn’t learned to blend yet.
Theo stood beside him, his posture too rigid.
“You think we’ll survive it?” he asked.
Max’s pause was deliberate. “That isn’t the question you should be asking.”
Theo turned, his expression wary. “Then what is?”
“Whether we’ll want to stay.”
Theo didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.
The flat in Hammersmith smelled faintly of lavender polish and old books.
Theo set his laptop bag down inside the door and took it in.
The place was new enough to still feel strange.
Neat white walls, gleaming parquet floor complete with rug in front of the fireplace, a single bedroom where the morning sunlight would filter through both blinds and heavy curtains Aunt Danielle had imported from France.
It was neither big nor modern, but it was beautiful, in the way things with history always were.
She’d bought the place in the early nineties, back when council flats in West London weren’t rare gems. Now the street was lined with houses that cost more than most people would see in a lifetime.
Danielle had done the flat up after Uncle Richard died, but she never stayed long.
Grief had made her restless. Travel was her salve.
This time it was Asia, a “long loop,” she’d said breezily in her last email.
When Theo realised he’d need to relocate for rehearsals, he’d written to her almost on impulse: Does the flat have a tenant right now? If not, would you let me rent it?
Her reply had come within a day, short and warm: Take it. I’ll be gone a while yet. Besides, it’ll be good to have someone in there who won’t ruin the parquet.
Now, standing in the quiet, Theo felt the oddness of belonging to a place that wasn’t really his, but would do.
It was orderly. Efficient. Exactly what he needed.
Except—
He dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. He should have felt relief. A sanctuary in the city, away from the chaos of rehearsals. Structure. Control.
But the night at Camden lingered, voices echoing in his chest, sparking and clashing, a messy kind of harmony. His carefully measured walls felt thinner in this flat, as though Aunt Danielle’s restless spirit had seeped into the paint.
This was supposed to be safety. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something dangerous.
I wanted control. But maybe what I really wanted was to stop being alone.
At Obsidian, the air was thick with bass and candle smoke, leather and spunk. Max leaned against the wall, nursing his bottle of water, while across the room ropes pulled taut, the sound of a flogger punctuating the low hum of music.
“Rivers.”
Max turned toward the speaker. Callum was one of the old guard, broad, grey at the temples, his leather vest open to reveal a chest covered in salt-and-pepper hair. He walked over to Max.
“Haven’t seen you take anyone in months. You gone celibate on us?”
Max smirked. “Celibate’s not my style.”
“Then what? You used to have them lining up.” Callum nodded toward the scene unfolding on the floor. A Dom was coaxing his sub into perfect stillness, every line of their body saying safe. “Thought you’d be training up the next one by now.”
Max’s gaze followed the rope, the tension, the surrender. Once, it had been his oxygen. He’d believed in the clarity of rules, the calm in control. He still did. But lately…
“I’m not interested in breaking someone open just to patch them up again,” Max said finally.
“Breaking’s half the point,” Callum said with a shrug. “Done right, it builds them. Done wrong, well—” His words tailed off.
Max tipped his bottle back, draining it. He didn’t answer. Lately, the silence after a scene was louder than the scene itself.
When he looked out over the club, his mind betrayed him with echoes of ten men around a too-small table. Laughter, voices rising and falling in harmony, dissonance pulling toward something like balance. He recalled Theo’s measured calm, the glances that said more than either of them would admit.
The club had always been where Max came to reset, to quiet the chaos with rhythm and rules.
Tonight, though, the control didn’t feel like enough.
A sub leaned against the wall, his eyes downcast, waiting. For a beat, the old reflex kicked in, and Max considered it. He could step in, set the pace, offer the safety they wanted. It would be easy.
But his hand stayed around his bottle.
“Maybe I’m waiting for someone worth holding.”
Callum barked a laugh. “You’re getting sentimental, Rivers. That’s dangerous.”
Max let the corner of his mouth lift, but he didn’t contradict him.
In the hollow between whip cracks, in the silence between bass notes, something was changing.
He’d never thought he needed more than the scene. But tonight, he wondered what it would feel like if the rope wasn’t the only thing binding him.
His mind went back to the group. Some of those voices would break, and maybe some hearts would, too.
We call ourselves Rough Harmony, but the real question isn’t whether we can sing together—it’s whether we can survive the fire we’ve just lit.
Because he already had the feeling they could be more than a stage act.
We could be a brotherhood. A powder keg.
And the first spark was already burning.
The End
Now turn the page to meet Rough Harmony!