Theo forced his gaze back to mug of steaming tea. “Static fades.”
“Sometimes it does,” Max said, heading for bed. Then he called back, “And sometimes it just builds.”
Theo lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Structure is supposed to protect you. So are systems, order, distance.
Tonight had reminded him of something vital. Sparks didn’t ask for permission—they landed, they smouldered.
And Cameron was a spark withwaytoo much history.
Theo closed his eyes, trying to pin his thoughts into silence.
I agreed to form this group because I needed control.
But maybe what he really needed was a place to let go.
As he drifted toward uneasy sleep, one thought hovered close by, sharp as glass:
What if Camerondoesn’tstay on the periphery?
Chapter Ten
Finnley Pierce’sbedroom looked as if a drag dressing room had exploded inside a disco ball. Sequins glittered from every hanger, leather skirts and jackets dangled like trophies, and more than one pair of platform boots stared him down with silent judgment.
He stood in front of the mirror, an eyeliner wand trembling slightly in his grip.
“Okay,” he muttered to his reflection. “Audition chic, not Pride parade chic. There’s a difference.”
He tried on a sequined bomber but dismissed it as too Vegas.
A floral mesh shirt? Too sweet.
A shredded tank? Too desperate.
Each outfit lasted sixty seconds before being flung onto the ever-growing mountain at the foot of his bed.
“Too femme? Too loud? Too… me?” His laugh came out brittle.
He snapped a mirror selfie, posing with a wink, then immediately deleted it. If they saw that before he even sang a note, would they roll their eyes?
Would they decide I’m a joke?
He pressed glitter along his eyelids anyway, the familiar burn grounding him. Then he pulled on a cropped vinyl jacket, tight black jeans, and the highest platform boots he could walk in without breaking an ankle.
I’ve chosen a shield.So what if it was shiny, dangerous, and unapologetic?
“Distract, don’t unravel,” he told the boy in the mirror. He pasted on his brightest grin. It looked convincing enough.
But behind the glitter, a memory surged.
He was eleven again, standing in a drafty school hall, his hands clasped tight as he tried to keep his voice from shaking. He’d practiced for weeks, humming falsetto under his breath while his mum worked double shifts.
One verse in, Mr. Harrington had stopped him. “Too strange,” he’d said, his eyebrows knitted. “Too high. It doesn’t sound natural. You’d be better on percussion.” He cocked his head to one side. “Have you thought about playing the triangle?”
The boys behind him had snickered, one of them letting out a falsetto shriek so exaggerated it bounced off the walls. Laughter ricocheted through the hall. Finnley had stood there, small and burning, swallowing his tears because he refused to give them the satisfaction.
“Your voice is unnatural,” the teacher said again.
