Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Theo
“…and cut.”
I brought down my hand in one clean, decisive arc, and the room obeyed.
Nine voices stopped together. Silence stretched, alive with the shimmer of what we’d just created. Then, from somewhere near the back, Zane let out a low whistle.
“That was hot.”
Julian grinned, sweat shining on his collarbone. “We’re officially not a disaster anymore.”
“Barely,” I said, but even I couldn’t disguise the flicker of pride that warmed my tone. “It’s cleaner, I’ll say that much. And the phrasing locked this time.”
“Because somebody,” Finnley said, jerking a thumb at me, “has been drilling us as if we’re auditioning for the bloody Royal Philharmonic.”
“That’s because I want you to sound like you deserve to,” I said evenly.
Julian coughed. “Not that I’m nit-picking, you understand, but… isn’t the Royal Philharmonic an orchestra?”
Finnley shrugged. “I don’t know about you, babe, but my voice is a freakin’ instrument.” He grinned.
Julian laughed. “So say we all.”
Max snorted. “Aha. Julian is a closet sci-fi fan.” He gave Julian a knowing glance. “And just who did you ship in Battlestar Galactica?”
He flushed. “Apollo and Baltar.”
“When you’ve quite finished?” I stared at Max and Julian. Then I looked around at the nine faces, some of them tired and flushed, everyone buzzing. “Okay. We go back to rehearsals every Tuesday and Thursday from now on. So I’ll see you on Tuesday.” I bit my lip. “Bring water, not egos.”
“Bossy,” Julian muttered under his breath, but he was smiling. They all were. The vibe in the room was miles ahead of the chaos of our first attempt.
I should’ve felt good, but I didn’t, not entirely.
I’d been off all evening and I knew it. Every time I should have been counting bars or cueing the bass line, my focus had slipped sideways to the memory of Cameron’s voice that morning, low and rough with sleep.
To the flash of bare feet on my kitchen tiles.
The way sunlight had caught in his hair when he’d said morning as if it meant something.
My own nocturnal activity that still sent a flush of shame through me.
I couldn’t even look at him this morning.
Except I’d looked plenty when Cameron had walked naked into the living room, hadn’t I? I ran a hand down the back of my neck.
Max was watching me from the piano, his arms folded, armed with a half-smirk that meant I know exactly what you’re not saying.
Max had no fucking idea.
“Good work, everyone,” I said briskly, gathering sheet music. “We’re getting there.”
The group started packing up, voices tumbling over one another, laughter echoing off the rehearsal room walls. Someone made plans for drinks. Someone else debated takeaway options. The noise filled every inch of space until, one by one, it dwindled.
Until only Max and I were left.
Max leaned against the piano. “You know, for a bunch of emotionally stunted gays, that was almost spiritual.”
I shot him a look. “You’re very proud of yourself right now, aren’t you?”
“Deeply. But more importantly…” Max’s grin turned sly as he pointed at me. “You were somewhere else tonight.”
“I was right here.”
“Liar.” He tapped the piano with one ringed finger, a rhythmic beat that echoed my own uneven pulse. “You lost the downbeat twice.”
I froze. “Once.”
Max shook his head. “Twice.” He arched his eyebrows. “I’m guessing your mind was elsewhere. Probably with your lodger.”
I exhaled. “Has anyone ever told you you’re persistent?”
“I prefer observant,” Max countered. “You’re the one walking around here as though someone replaced your metronome with a heartbeat.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying to the guy who’s sung bass under you for years. You forget I can feel your pulse through the damn harmony.”
I gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “Okay, that’s disturbing.”
“That’s friendship,” Max said simply. His voice softened. “So are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
I didn’t answer.
“Not that you need to. It’s Cameron. You like him. And you’re pretending you don’t, which—fine, I get it. Gary’s brother, straight, messy boundaries, etcetera. But you’ve been living like a monk for how long now?”
My jaw clenched. “This isn’t about sex.”
“Oh, I know.” Max’s eyes gleamed. “That’s what makes it worse.”
I didn’t rise to it. I bent to gather stray pages of notation instead, stacking them neatly, edge to edge. It gave my hands something to do.
Max sighed. “You’re terrified, you know.”
I straightened. “Of what, exactly?”
“Losing the script. You think control is safety. You forget sometimes that safety can be lonely as hell.”
My throat worked, but I didn’t reply.
“Go home,” Max said gently. “Or walk. Whatever you do when you’re trying not to think.”
I looked up. “Walk, usually.”
“Then walk. But eventually you’ll have to go back.” Max slung his bag over his shoulder. “And if I don’t see you Tuesday because you spontaneously combusted, I want your sheet music in the will.”
I huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Goodnight, Max.”
Max’s grin softened into something almost brotherly. “Night, diamond boy. Try not to polish yourself to dust.”
The door closed behind him, and the room fell still.
I lingered in the quiet long after I should’ve left. The air still held traces of sweat and warmth, but tonight the room had felt different. Less cautious, as though the edges of the group were starting to settle into place.
I closed my eyes and let the silence ring in my ears.
When it started to ache, I grabbed my coat and stepped into the night.
The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air damp and shining.
London after the rehearsal had a kind of melancholy music to it: the low hiss of tyres on wet streets, the hum of late traffic, a busker’s guitar bleeding from somewhere under an awning.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed for the underground. I stood the whole way to Hammersmith, turning the rehearsal over and over in my head, my bag held protectively against my chest. When I emerged from the station, I paused.
Home was right.
Cameron was home.
So I turned left and headed toward Furnivall Gardens, a lawned hangout where crowds often gathered to watch the boat race. I took it slowly, trying not to think too much and failing miserably. I moved by instinct, each step an act of postponement.
My brain, of course, refused to cooperate.
When I reached the river, I stood there for a while, staring into its waters, its darkness broken up by lights from the houseboats moored along the banks.
I thought of the moment that morning when Cameron had looked up from his mug, sleepy-eyed, asking, You get many guests? The way he’d smiled when I said Define many.
That smile had been a problem. So had the way Cameron’s voice had gone soft when he’d said, Thanks for this. Really.
I’d spent the rest of the day trying to file the memory somewhere safe, under Practical Favours or Social Obligations, but it refused to stay put.
Every time my mind went quiet, there it was again: that image of Cameron on my couch, his feet bare, seemingly at ease in a space I’d only just learned to inhabit.
I’d built my life on order. Predictability.
And now, somehow, a twenty-two-year-old with a maddeningly gentle smile had turned my flat into a minefield. Add to that, my own actions filled me with remorse.
I’m ashamed, that’s what it is. Not of my sexuality, but of wanting too much, being seen as ‘needy’, losing control….
Shame that Luka had cultivated in me.
Cameron’s arrival felt as if it had unleashed chaos, and I didn’t think I could survive that.
I stopped under a streetlight, blinking rain from my lashes. Max’s words circled back.
Control isn’t safety. Sometimes it’s loneliness.
I hated how true that sounded.
I stared into the swirling water of the River Thames.
I don’t know what I’m walking towards, or away from.
One thing I was certain of. I couldn’t face walking straight into whatever waited in my flat. Not yet, at any rate. So I kept moving, walking along the riverbank. Somewhere a church clock struck ten. Then half past.
By the time I finally turned towards home, my shoulders ached, and my thoughts were no clearer.
I stopped at the corner shop for no reason other than to stall.
I bought milk we didn’t need, and exchanged pleasantries with a cashier who didn’t care.
By the time I reached the house, the street was nearly empty, the streetlights sparkling through the mist. The rain decided it would have another last-minute burst, and I picked up the pace.
I stood at the gate, the key cold in my hand, and peered up at the windows where a warm glow leaked through the curtains.
Cameron was still awake.
I walked up the path, opened the door, then hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, my heart beating too fast.
It’ll be fine. Cameron would probably be sketching, or watching something quietly, earbuds in.
I could handle being near him. Of course I could.
I took a slow breath, then another, and finally, I climbed the stairs.
The door opened on the aroma of coffee. Music played quietly through the speaker he’d set on the coffee table, and the song had a pulse, a steady heartbeat that made it feel weightless and hypnotic.
The repeating pattern created an almost cosmic atmosphere, like watching stars pass slowly through a window.
Cameron sat on the sofa bed, still folded up this time, his sketchbook balanced on his knees. He glanced up when I stepped in, then reached over to turn off the sound.
“Don’t,” I protested. “What is that?”
“‘Space Song’ by Beach House.” He smiled. “I think I was about twelve or thirteen the first time I heard it. Loved it ever since.” He turned down the volume. “You’re late.”
I brushed raindrops from my lashes, then removed my now damp coat. “I went for a walk. I think I lost track of time,” I lied.
“You went for a walk—in the rain?”
“That was only the last few minutes.”
“Rough rehearsal?”
“Better than the first, actually.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “We might even survive another week.”
Cameron grinned. “Congrats, Maestro.”
It was then I noticed.
I stared at the easel sitting in front of the bay window. On either side of it were boxes stacked in piles of two or three.
“You brought the rest of your stuff, I see.”
Cameron blinked. “Is that okay? I mean, the deadline to get out of there was looming, and I didn’t want to leave it all—”
“Cameron.” I cursed myself for the tremor I heard in Cameron’s voice.
I did that. I made him nervous.
I drew in a deep breath. “It’s fine, okay? I’ll cope. A little chaos now and then is a good thing, right?”
Keep telling yourself that and you might even believe it in about a hundred years.
Thankfully, Cameron seemed to. His breathing evened out. “I’ll try to limit the chaos, I promise.”
I glanced at the mug on the table. “Do you usually drink coffee this late?”
He shrugged. “I needed something to keep me awake. I didn’t want to fall asleep before you got back.”
I froze halfway to the kitchen. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“I know.” Cameron looked down, twirling his pencil between his fingers. “I just didn’t like the idea of you walking in and feeling awkward because you were in my bedroom.”
My chest tightened in a way that felt entirely unfair.
I wanted to say something practical, to diffuse the quiet weight of the moment. Instead, I heard myself ask, “What are you drawing?”
Cameron flipped the sketchbook around. “Nothing finished. Just… you guys. Rough Harmony. Well, the ones I met in that bar.”
I moved closer before I could stop myself. The page was a blur of charcoal lines and smudges, but enough of a likeness to spot Max, Julian, Oliver, Milo…
Holy shit.
“You did all this from memory? From one night weeks ago?”
Cameron smiled. “Artists need a good visual memory.” He bit his lip. “And you all obviously made an impression.”
I could tell which one was me: the tall figure, head slightly tilted, hands mid-motion, caught halfway between command and chaos.
“It’s good,” I said, my voice low. “You captured us really well.”
Cameron smiled. “Thanks.”
I forced myself to step back, to reclaim some space. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.” Cameron’s voice was low. “You should rest too.”
I nodded, retreating toward my bedroom. But as I passed the couch, I felt Cameron’s gaze on me, a warmth between my shoulder blades that refused to fade.
I paused at the doorway. “Goodnight, Cameron.”
“Night, Theo.”
I closed my bedroom door behind me, leaned against it, and shut my eyes.
The flat was too small for this much silence.
Too small for the distance I was pretending to keep.
I dropped my head back against the door with a quiet thud, exhaled, and whispered to the dark:
“What the hell are you doing?”
No answer came, only the soft scratch of pencil on paper from the next room, and the knowledge that I was already in deeper than I meant to be.