Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Sound Bath
David Rose had attended exactly seven of Jake's parties, and not once had he been required to keep his clothes on for the entire evening.
"This feels incorrect," he muttered to Stevie as they pulled into the driveway.
The house looked the same as always, soundproofed and welcoming in that casual way Jake had, with his truck parked out front and a few other vehicles scattered around. But tonight's email invitation had been unusually specific: Comfortable clothing. Open mind. Nothing else required.
Stevie killed the engine.
"You're complaining that you don't have to get naked?"
"I'm saying it's suspicious." David adjusted his black cashmere sweater—the one with the subtle geometric pattern that made his shoulders look good without trying too hard. "Jake's parties have a rhythm. Cocktails, negotiation, scenes, aftercare, and awkward small talk by the snack table. This—" He gestured vaguely at the house. "—meditation disrupts the entire ecosystem."
"You're afraid of sitting still."
"I'm cautious of anything that requires me to be alone with my thoughts for two hours."
David grabbed his phone, then checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, running his fingers through his dark, almost black pompadour with the obsessive precision he reserved for moments of anxiety. He adjusted it once, then again, then once more, as if the angle of his hair might somehow change the outcome of the evening. He immediately regretted both actions.
"That's just good mental health boundaries."
Stevie was already halfway to the door.
Inside, Jake's living room had been transformed. The usual furniture—leather, chrome, vaguely Scandinavian—had been pushed to the walls. The floor was covered in yoga mats, meditation cushions, and what appeared to be an alarming number of weighted blankets. Soft amber light pooled in the corners. The air smelled like sandalwood and something else David couldn't identify. Something green and clean and faintly medicinal.
"Eucalyptus," Stevie said, reading his mind.
"I didn't ask."
"You were doing the face."
"What face?"
"The 'I'm mentally cataloging this for later judgment' face."
David was saved from responding by Jake himself, who materialized with his usual combination of enthusiasm and alarming competence.
Jake was in his early thirties, perpetually barefoot, wearing a low-cut tank top that showed off his collarbones and an easy confidence that suggested he'd kissed half the people in this room and would probably kiss the other half before the night was over. He was the kind of person who could say "sacred space" while being completely high and somehow make it sound genuine rather than ridiculous.
"David, Stevie." Jake pulled them both into brief, firm hugs. "I'm so glad you came. Tonight's going to be special."
"That's what you said about the suspension workshop," David said. "I couldn't sit properly for three days."
Jake laughed. "Tonight's gentler. I promise. We're doing a sound bath with micro-dosing. Very low dose, just enough to soften the edges. The goal is meditation, not a trip. I've brought in a professional to conduct it, a woman named Iris. She has this voice that just... it's perfect for this kind of work. You'll see what I mean. The whole session runs two to four hours depending on how people are responding."
David found himself already curious about this Iris person. The idea of someone that deeply versed in their craft and that committed to the precision of sound and meditation was genuinely appealing. He'd always been drawn to people who knew their work inside and out, who moved through their expertise with quiet confidence. Gender was irrelevant to that attraction. It was the competence itself that intrigued him.
The thought passed almost as quickly as it arrived, replaced by the more immediate concern of whether he could actually sit still for four hours without his mind spiraling into worst-case scenarios.
"Then we have two DMs on-site, a physician's assistant in the next room, and my personal cell phone number written on everyone's wrist in Sharpie." Jake's smile was warm but his eyes were serious. "You know my rules, David. Safety first. Consent always. Red light stops everything."
David did know.
For all of Jake's faults (and there were many, starting with his collection of Tibetan singing bowls), he ran the tightest ship in the community. No one had ever left one of Jake's parties feeling unsafe. Uncomfortable, maybe. Overstimulated, definitely. But never unsafe.
"Okay," David said. "Where do we—"
"Anywhere you'd like. Find a spot, get comfortable. We'll start in about ten minutes."
Jake squeezed David's shoulder and moved on to greet the next arrivals.
David surveyed the room. About twenty people, most of whom he recognized from previous parties. There was the woman who only did rope work. The couple who brought their own furniture. The man who always wore too much cologne and talked too loudly about his "journey." David made a mental note to position himself far away from that one.
He chose a spot near the back corner—close enough to participate, far enough to observe.
Stevie settled beside him with the ease of someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of being present without being involved.
"You good?" she asked.
"Define good."
"Not spiraling."
"I'm always spiraling. It's my resting state."
David sat cross-legged on the mat and immediately regretted it. His knees were not designed for this.
"How long did Jake say this was?"
"Two to four hours, depending."
"Jesus Christ."
"You can leave whenever you want."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
David didn't answer.
He was watching Jake move through the room, checking in with each guest, explaining the process, and answering questions with infinite patience. This was the thing about Jake that David grudgingly respected: he never rushed. He never assumed. He treated every person like they were the only person in the room, even when there were twenty others waiting.
The lights dimmed.
Soft instrumental music began—something with strings and bells and long, resonant tones that seemed to vibrate in David's chest.
Jake's voice, low and steady, guided them through the opening meditation.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Notice your body. Notice your thoughts. Let them pass like clouds.
David's thoughts were not passing like clouds.
David's thoughts were more like a freight train with failing brakes.
This is stupid. My knee hurts. Why does my knee hurt? I'm thirty-four; my knee shouldn't hurt. Is that man breathing too loudly? He's definitely breathing too loudly. Should I say something? No, that would be rude. But it's distracting. Everything is distracting. I'm bad at this. I'm bad at sitting still. I'm bad at—
"Here."
David's eyes flew open.
A man was crouching beside him, holding a small ceramic cup.
The man was—David's brain stuttered—handsome in a way that didn't announce itself. Lighter brown hair, curly where it was growing out, falling slightly across his forehead. Warm eyes. A face that looked like it smiled often but wasn't smiling now. Just present. Just there.
His shoulders were broad, the kind of build that came from actual care rather than performance, and there was something about the way he held himself that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Tea," the man said quietly. "It'll help."
David stared at the cup.
"What's in it?"
"Chamomile. Lavender. A little honey." The man's voice was low, careful not to disturb the others. "Nothing else. I promise."
"I didn't..."
David stopped.
He'd been about to say I didn't ask for this, but that felt unnecessarily hostile toward someone who was just offering tea.
"Thank you."
The man's expression softened.
Not quite a smile. Just a slight relaxation around the eyes that suggested he understood exactly how difficult it was for David to accept help.
"Take as long as you need to recover. There's no rush."
He stood and moved to the next person, and David watched him go.
The man moved through the room like he belonged there.
Not in the way Jake belonged—Jake was the host, the center, the sun around which everything orbited. This man was different.
He was the person who noticed when someone's blanket had slipped. Who brought water to the woman whose hands were shaking. Who crouched beside the nervous-looking guy near the door and asked, in a voice too low for David to hear, what looked like, "How's your headspace?"
David sipped the tea.
It was perfect.
Not too hot. Not too sweet. Just warm and calming and exactly what he needed without knowing he needed it.
Suspicious, David thought. Men who are this nice always want something.
But the man didn't come back.
He just kept moving through the room, checking on people, adjusting lights, and replacing someone's cushion with a softer one.
He was wearing dark jeans and a simple grey henley, and David noticed—because of course he noticed—that the man's sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.
Forearms.
David had always been a forearms person.
Stop it, he told himself. You're here to meditate, not to objectify the help.
Except the man wasn't the help.
He moved with too much authority for that. Too much familiarity. He knew where everything was. He anticipated needs before people voiced them.
He was—
"Everyone comfortable?" Jake's voice pulled David back. "Good. We're going to go a little deeper now. I'm going to come around with the micro-dose. If you'd prefer not to participate, just shake your head. No judgment. No pressure."
David had done mushrooms before.
Twice.
Once in art school, which had been a disaster involving too many feelings about a Rothko painting.
Once at a party in the Hamptons, which had been fine until someone started talking about their chakras and David had to leave.
But this was different.
This was controlled.
This was Jake, who'd probably measured everything with a jeweler's scale and consulted three different mycologists.
When Jake reached him, David nodded.
The dose was tiny. A small square of dark chocolate that dissolved on his tongue, bitter and earthy and gone.
"Breathe," Jake said. "Let it come."
David lay back.
The ceiling above him was draped in sheer fabric that moved slightly in the air from the heating vents, creating patterns of light and shadow.
The music shifted deeper now, with long resonant tones that David could feel in his bones.
Singing bowls.
A gong.
Something that sounded like a cello being played underwater.
Time did something strange.
David couldn't tell if five minutes had passed or fifty.
His body felt heavy and light at the same time.
His thoughts, which had been racing earlier, began to slow.
Not stop—David's thoughts never stopped—but slow enough that he could watch them drift by without grabbing onto each one.
I'm okay, he thought, surprised. I'm actually okay.
Someone was placing something over his feet.
David lifted his head slightly and saw the man from earlier, draping a heated blanket over David's legs with careful precision.
"You looked cold," the man said softly.
David hadn't realized he was cold.
But now that the warmth was spreading up from his feet, he understood that he'd been shivering.
"Thank you," David whispered.
The man nodded and moved on.
The meditation deepened.
Jake's voice guided them through a body scan—notice your toes, your feet, your ankles, your calves.
David noticed everything.
The weight of his body against the mat.
The slight ache in his lower back.
The way his breath moved in and out, in and out, like waves.
"Now," Jake said, "I'm going to invite you to connect with the person next to you. If you're comfortable, you can hold hands. If not, that's fine too. Just be present with another person. Feel their energy. Their breath. Their humanity."
David's heart rate spiked.
He didn't do hand-holding.
Hand-holding was intimate.
Hand-holding was—
"May I?"
David turned his head.
The man from earlier was lying on the mat beside him.
When had that happened?
David hadn't noticed him arrive.
But there he was, close enough that David could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes were steady and calm and asking a question.
"May I hold your hand?" the man repeated. "You can say no."
David's mouth was dry.
"Why?"
"Because Jake suggested it. And because I think you might need it." The man's voice was gentle. "But only if you want to."
David looked at the man's hand.
It was resting on the mat between them, palm up, fingers slightly curled.
An offering.
Not a demand.
"Okay," David heard himself say.
The man's hand closed around his.
Warm.
Steady.
Not squeezing, just holding.
Just there.
David's breath caught.
He didn't know why this felt so significant.
It was just a hand.
Just skin against skin.
But something about it—the way the man's thumb rested against David's wrist, the way he could feel the other man's pulse, slow and even—made David's chest tighten.
Safe, David thought. This feels safe.
He didn't understand it.
He'd known this man for less than an hour.
Hadn't even learned his name.
But lying there in the dim light with the music washing over them and this stranger's hand in his, David felt something he hadn't felt in years.
He felt held.
The meditation continued.
Jake's voice faded into the background. The music swelled and receded.
David closed his eyes and let himself drift, anchored only by the warm hand in his and the steady rhythm of his own breath.
At some point—David had no idea when—someone placed a hot towel over his feet. Someone else draped a soft cloth over his face, and the scent of lavender and jasmine bloomed in the darkness.
David inhaled deeply and felt something in his chest unclench.
I could stay here forever, he thought.
But of course, nothing lasted forever.
The music gradually softened.
Jake's voice returned, guiding them back.
"Slowly. Gently. Wiggle your fingers and toes. Take your time. There's no rush."
David opened his eyes.
The room was brighter now—not harsh, just present. Real.
The man beside him was already sitting up, and David realized with a strange pang of loss that their hands were no longer touching.
"How do you feel?" the man asked.
David sat up slowly.
His body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Someone calmer.
Someone less defended.
"I don't know."
The man smiled—a real smile this time, small and genuine.
"That's a good answer."
"Is it?"
"Better than pretending you have it all figured out."
David wanted to ask the man's name. Wanted to ask why he'd chosen to lie next to David, why he'd held his hand, why he'd looked at David like he was worth taking care of.
But before he could form the words, someone else called out, and the man stood.
"I should..." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Tea. People will want tea."
"Right. Of course."
David tried to stand, and his legs betrayed him.
The man caught his elbow, steadying him with the same careful competence he'd shown all evening.
"Easy. The micro-dose can make you wobbly."
"I'm fine."
"I know. But you're also wobbly."
David wanted to argue, but the man was already gone, moving through the room with that same quiet purpose, checking on people, offering water, asking questions.
Stevie appeared at David's side.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I think so."
David watched the man disappear into the kitchen.
"Who is that?"
"Who?"
"The guy. The one who—" David gestured helplessly. "The tea guy."
Stevie followed his gaze.
"Oh. That's Patrick."
"Patrick."
"Yeah. He's been coming to Jake's parties for a while. He's a Dom, I think. Or maybe a switch? I don't know. He's quiet."
"He held my hand."
Stevie raised an eyebrow.
"Did he ask first?"
"Yes."
"Then what's the problem?"
David didn't have an answer.
There wasn't a problem.
That was the problem.
Men didn't just—they didn't just care like that. Not without wanting something. Not without expecting something in return.
But Patrick had asked for nothing.
He'd offered tea and warmth and his hand, and when the meditation ended, he'd simply let go.
David looked toward the kitchen, where he could see Patrick moving between the counter and the stove, preparing tea with the same methodical care he'd shown all evening.
Patrick, David thought.
His name is Patrick.
And for reasons David couldn't explain, that felt like the beginning of something.
In the parking lot later, after they'd said their goodbyes and David had successfully avoided making eye contact with Patrick again, Stevie started the car and said, "So."
"So what?"
"You're doing the face again."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing the 'I'm pretending I'm not thinking about something but I'm definitely thinking about something' face."
David stared out the window.
The night was clear and cold, and he could still smell lavender on his clothes.
"He asked permission."
"What?"
"Patrick. Before he held my hand. He asked permission." David's voice was quiet. "Most people don't do that."
Stevie was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "No. They don't."
David didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
They drove back to the motel in comfortable silence, and David spent the entire drive thinking about warm hands and careful questions and the way Patrick had looked at him—not like he wanted something from David, but like he wanted something for him.
It was the strangest thing David had felt in years.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.