VELVET CHAINS REVIVE

Milan was opulence on speed.

Velvet gallery seats, antique chandeliers, people speaking in six languages about art that barely made sense when translated. Ayden had grown up believing Europe was the final stop for anyone who wanted to be taken seriously.

Now that he was here, it felt like a test he didn't remember signing up for.

He sat at a roundtable of designers on the fourth evening of the symposium, trying to smile politely as everyone spoke over one another. The discussion topic was "Emotional Patternmaking in Post-Modernism."

Ayden had no idea what that meant.

He'd designed with emotion, yes. But it was never a theory — it was survival. It was bleeding until the thread closed the wound.

Beside him, a woman in her fifties with gray hair and blue nails spoke softly in French. Ayden didn't catch all of it, only fragments. Something about skin. Truth. Silence.

He nodded anyway.

Across the table, a translator leaned in and whispered, "She said your last collection made her cry. That she saw herself in it."

Ayden's throat tightened.

"Oh," he said.

"She said you gave grief a voice she didn't know it had."

The words sank in slowly.

Ayden turned back to the woman and whispered, "Merci."

She smiled, eyes bright.

And in that moment, the noise of the room faded — and all that remained was the thread between them.

Not language.

Not theory.

But honesty.

Back in New York, Luca was curled up on the floor of their shared apartment, surrounded by sketchbooks and sample swatches.

He hadn't slept much since Ayden left.

The show was demanding. The producers kept asking him to be "more dramatic," to "stir the pot." He didn't want drama. He wanted meaning.

And he wanted Ayden to come home.

He was half-asleep when the knock came.

A delivery man stood in the doorway, holding a medium-sized box wrapped in thick brown paper.

Luca blinked, confused. "I didn't order anything."

"It's from Milan," the man said.

Luca's heart thudded once, sharply.

He signed for it. Closed the door.

The box was labeled in Ayden's handwriting.

LUCA – OPEN THIS WHEN IT'S QUIET.

Luca sat on the floor and peeled the paper slowly.

Inside was a folded piece of black fabric, one of Ayden's first muslin samples from Ruinlace — the one that had torn mid-design, left abandoned on a hanger.

And now, it had been mended.

Clumsily, but lovingly.

Blood-red thread stitched across the rip in a zigzag pattern — bold, angry, alive.

There was a note tucked inside.

You always said I hated imperfection. But here it is. Torn. Unfixed. Loud. And now it's art because you reminded me it could be. I miss you. Not the way you look on camera. The way you feel when you fall asleep on my chest. Please don't let the spotlight make you think you have to shine for strangers. I'd rather you be real with me — even if you're flickering.

– A.

Luca's hands trembled.

He clutched the fabric to his chest and closed his eyes.

Suddenly the world felt quieter.

That same night, Ayden sat on his hotel balcony in Milan, a blanket around his shoulders, staring at the sky.

He didn't know if Luca had opened the box.

He didn't know if they were drifting apart or just moving at different speeds.

But for the first time in days, his hands didn't shake.

A notification buzzed on his phone.

LUCA: "I opened it. I'm still flickering. But I'm here."

Ayden stared at the screen, heart thudding.

He typed back slowly.

AYDEN: "Then flicker with me. We'll figure out how to burn together later."

The next morning, Ayden was late to the symposium's closing panel.

But he didn't rush.

He was walking steadier now — not because the crowd was any kinder or the lights less blinding — but because he remembered who he was walking for.

Not just the industry.

Not just the press.

But the boy who believed in ruined seams and angry colors.

Across the ocean, Luca stood on set, mic in place, lights hot on his skin.

A producer whispered, "Say something shocking."

Luca looked straight at the camera and said:

"I'm not here to perform for attention. I'm here to be honest. And if the world can't handle a boy who loves too loudly, then it's the world that's wrong — not me."

They cut the feed.

But the audio leaked online.

And within hours, #LoveTooLoud trended across platforms.

Not scandal.

Not drama.

Just truth.

Just Luca.