VELVET CHAINS REVIVE

Luca's voice trembled.

"I signed it... months ago."

Ayden stood still, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not betrayed.

Just... blank.

Luca hated that more than anything.

Ayden had always been a firestorm—loud in love, even louder in pain. But now, he was glass: sharp, still, dangerously transparent.

"You weren't going to tell me," Ayden finally said, voice soft.

"I was," Luca insisted. "I just… I didn't want to break what we had. We just found our rhythm again."

"And you were afraid that telling the truth would stop the music?"

Luca swallowed. "Yes."

Ayden turned, walking slowly to the worktable. He ran his fingers over a half-pinned design from Unwritten. The one Luca had helped hand-dye with crushed roses and ash.

"This entire project was born from honesty," Ayden said. "You told me to show the parts of myself I kept hidden. You told me imperfection was worth something. You—"

"I know."

Ayden looked up. "Then why lie?"

Luca had no answer that wouldn't sound selfish.

So he just said, "Because I'm still learning how to believe I deserve you."

And Ayden flinched like it physically hurt.

The next two days passed in quiet choreography.

They moved around the studio like strangers. There were no more shared playlists. No late-night tea. No half-finished sketches passed between them.

Just work.

The exhibit was still happening.

The world would still watch.

But now? They weren't creating from love.

They were creating from damage.

The night of the show arrived with rain.

Brooklyn's Galerie Solstice was hidden behind an old record shop, with fogged glass windows and walls covered in peeling poetry posters. Inside, candlelight flickered in old sconces, and the scent of lavender oil filled the air.

People filtered in quietly — artists, photographers, stylists in thrift couture and experimental makeup. No press. No influencers. Just people who felt too much.

Ayden and Luca arrived separately.

They didn't plan it that way.

But neither had the strength to break the silence.

Camille stood by the display wall, watching them both with careful eyes.

"You don't have to hold hands," they said to Ayden as he approached. "But you do have to breathe."

Ayden smiled weakly. "I'm trying."

The gallery grew louder as the night went on.

People stopped and stared at their three pieces.

A woman cried in front of the twisted corset piece titled with a single red X.

A couple whispered about the jacket stitched from shredded protest flyers.

A teenager asked if Unwritten was going to be a full line.

Ayden just nodded.

He didn't know how to say maybe when the only thing that felt real right now was the growing hollow in his chest.

Luca stood alone near the punch bowl when someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned.

And his heart dropped.

"Marco?"

The man smiled, perfectly styled, dressed like he'd walked out of a Milan catalog.

"Didn't think I'd find you here," Marco said smoothly. "But Camille tipped me off."

Luca blinked. "Why?"

"I told them I was scouting for a story on emerging queer designers who disrupt the intimacy-performance gap."

Luca narrowed his eyes. "That's a lot of words for 'I wanted to see if you're still chasing Ayden's shadow.'"

Marco smirked. "You know me so well."

They had history.

Not romantic — but complicated.

Marco had once tried to sign Luca solo, years ago, when Ayden and Luca were barely speaking.

And now, here he was again. With a drink in his hand and opportunity in his eyes.

Ayden saw them from across the room.

Saw Marco leaning in.

Saw Luca laugh—tired, yes, but genuine.

Something in Ayden's stomach twisted.

Camille appeared beside him like smoke.

"That's Marco Delane," they murmured.

"I know."

"You're jealous."

"No," Ayden lied.

Camille glanced sideways. "You don't have to lose him, Ayden. But if you want to keep him, you'll need to fight for him. And not with silence this time."

Ayden turned back to the exhibit.

To the piece they made together.

The one with the lined seams and scorched shoulders and frayed ends.

The one that still stood.

Despite everything.

Later that night, the exhibit closed.

People trickled out, leaving only the artists, the curator, Camille, and Marco.

Luca lingered by the glass door, arms folded.

He didn't want to go home.

Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

Ayden approached him slowly.

"You going with him?" he asked.

Luca turned. "What?"

"Marco."

Luca scoffed. "Is that what you think I am now? Opportunistic?"

Ayden shook his head. "No. I think you're scared. Same as me."

They stared at each other.

Unspoken words coiled between them like thread waiting for a needle.

Then Ayden reached into his pocket.

Pulled out a small pin — silver, shaped like a cracked heart stitched with gold wire.

He handed it to Luca.

"I was going to sew this into the last piece," Ayden said. "But I didn't want to lie on the fabric."

Luca took it slowly.

"What is it?"

"A symbol. That I still want to try. Even if it means failing. Even if it means learning to trust you again. Even if it hurts."

Luca clutched it tightly.

His voice was small. "I'm sorry."

Ayden nodded.

"I am too."

They didn't kiss.

Not that night.

Not in that gallery.

But they left together.

And in the soft, rainy dark of Brooklyn, the air between them finally felt like it could hold them both again.

Even if the seams were frayed.

Even if the stitches weren't perfect.

They still held.