The schedule glowed in high-contrast black and white.
MONDAY: Alfie. Focus: High-Output Expression / Praise. (Gain Staging)
WEDNESDAY: Euan. Focus: Structural Integrity / Protocol Adherence. (Signal Flow)
FRIDAY: Kit. Focus: Resonance / Voice Modulation. (Damping)
SUNDAY: The Pack. Focus: Conductor Mode. (Full Mix)
Alfie narrowed his eyes, leaning forward until his nose was bathed in the projector’s light. He was wearing a vintage tee that had been washed until it was sheer, his chipped black nail polish drumming a frantic rhythm on his knee.
"You put me in a spreadsheet," Alfie said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, sharp and dangerous. "I think I'm offended. That is the least punk thing you have ever done, Z. Also, I'm incredibly turned on."
"You've color-coded us," Euan noted. His voice was quiet, laconic, the sound of an engineer staring noise into order. He sounded oddly reverent, staring at the hex codes. "I am Slate Grey. Alfie is Burnt Orange. Kit is Umber."
"Visual aids help with the workflow," I said, keeping my face deadpan, though the heat was creeping up my neck. "I hear the colors anyway. I just made them legible for the rest of the class."
Kit leaned back on his elbows, the heavy muscles of his forearms flexing under the sleeves of ink. That slow, wolfish grin spread across his face, the one that usually meant he was about to tape something together or take care of a problem I didn't know I had. "So you've scheduled your sex life like a tour itinerary. Load-in times, sound check, doors open. We’re sorted."
"Mock the organizational structure all you want," I said, crossing my arms over my chest, hugging the oversized hoodiecloser. "But without a schedule, you three are just noise. You’re feedback loops waiting to happen. With a schedule, you're a symphony."
Kit’s grin faltered, replaced by a darkening of his eyes, a swift shift from teasing big brother to the Alpha who swept rooms for threats. The realization hit him. "Structure allows for intensity," he rumbled, his Manchester accent thickening on the vowels. "You're building a safety rail so you can lean over the edge without falling."
"Exactly," I whispered. The admission made my skin prickle.
Alfie scrambled off the mattress, vibrating like a plucked string. "Monday. It is Monday right now. Technically."
I checked my watch. 12:05 AM.
"Technically," I agreed. I looked at Euan and Kit. "Clear the room. Monday slot is active. I need distinct separation."
They didn't argue. The schedule was law. As they left, Euan paused to touch my elbow, a quick, grounding check-in, his scent of toasted tea and sesame brittle washing over me for a brief second. Kit winked, the gesture warm and conspiratorial, before dragging the heavy soundproof curtain shut behind them.
Monday: The Praise Slot
Alfie didn't need a script. He didn't need complex negotiations. He needed to be shattered. He needed to be taken apart so he didn't have to hold the persona ofRiot Theorytogether for an hour.
I sat on the edge of the bunk, watching him pace the narrow strip of floor. He was a chaotic swirl of black skinnies and nervous energy, the air in the room turning sugary and sharp, blackberries and burnt crème brûlée crust.
"Come here," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but in the small space, it cut through the static. Before he made it to me I managed to whip off the t-shirt I was wearing.
He didn't just come; he collided with me. He dropped to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud that would bruise, resting his chin on my thigh. His eyes were wide, gold-rimmed, desperate for direction. He looked like he was waiting for the setlist to change mid-song.
"What's the track?" he asked, his voice rough, stripped of its usual cheeky cadence.
"You're too noisy," I said, threading my fingers through his messy, dyed hair. I felt the tension in his scalp. "You’re running too hot. We need to burn off the excess gain before you blow a fuse. Get naked." We both stripped in record time, though he stayed on the floor somehow.
I pulled him up by his hair, a sharp tug that elicited a whine from his throat. I pushed him back onto the mattress; he went down pliable, eager. I straddled his hips, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. He let me. Alfie Riot would fight the press, the label, and the world, but here? He would have let me cut him open if I asked, just to show me his heart was beating in time with mine.
"Thank me," I ordered, sinking down onto him, taking him in.
"Thank you," Alfie gasped, his hips snapping up to meet me, breathless and sweet. "Thank you, fox. Thank you. Fuck,thank you."
"Look at me." I ground down, finding the rhythm, a heavy four-on-the-floor beat. He was frantic beneath me, a live wire sparking against my skin. I could see the Sharpie slogans scrawled on his hands blurring as he gripped the sheets. "You want this?"
"I need it, need you," he whined, tears gathering in his eyes, spilling over to track down his cheekbones. "Please. Use me. Calibrate me. Ground it out."
"Good boy."
