James was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his face as he drowned in the weight of his own sorry existence. His phone buzzed weakly on the floor, pulsing against a carpet that could use a good hoover. It was probably Sirius, sending some smug, daylight-drenched proof of life from beyond these four walls. Or Remus, that ever-patient saint, checking to see if James had been entirely consumed by his own self-inflicted tragedy.
He had not, in fact, perished. More’s the pity. He had, however, descended into something resembling a post-romantic exile—a kingdom of discarded crisp packets and neglected marmalade toast. The air smelled faintly of salt and citrus, a quiet testament to his suffering. The television murmured some aimless nonsense in the background—static voices, moving shapes. It was all just noise, an attempt to drown out the ever-looping film reel in his mind, set permanently to the final frames of New Year’s Eve.
He hadn’t seen Regulus since that night. Almost a week ago. Hadn’t spoken to him. Not a word. Just an image of him slipping out into the night with a stranger, burned into James’s mind. Pathetic, he thought, shifting so he could drape his arm across his face with even more cinematic misery. He was the living embodiment of a heartbreak ballad, some forlorn protagonist staring out a rain-streaked window. He was insufferable.
And he was alone.
Sirius and Remus had made their escape hours ago—Brighton for the weekend, apparently. Something about sea air. Neither had extended the invitation to him. They’d left with the unmistakable energy of men fleeing a sinking ship, and honestly, James couldn’t blame them. If he’d had to endure one more of his own mournful sighs, he’d have jumped overboard too.
Dire. Absolutely, irredeemably dire.
His phone buzzed again. He stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, then picked it up. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Minnie, their manager, something about a talk show appearance the following month. He ignored it, flicked open Deliveroo, checked the status of his order—tragically still thirty-five minutes away—then, with the grim, compulsive energy of a man who knew exactly what he was about to do and hated himself for it, he opened every social media app he owned. One after the other. All for the same purpose.
Regulus Black.
A travesty, really—his utter lack of social media presence. There was probably some philosophical statement to be made about love in the modern age, but what did James care? The point was he couldn’t even supplement his own misery by stalking the elusive subject of his affection. Not when the guy only had seven bloody pictures across all of his social media accounts combined. Downright inconsiderate, really.
James drifted, neither entirely awake nor asleep, half-conscious of the television murmuring in the background and time sliding past unnoticed. When the buzzer finally cut through his haze, it took him a moment to place the sound. He groaned, stretched, bones protesting with the dull ache of hours of inactivity, and heaved himself upright. Trudged to the door. The Thai food: the undisputed pinnacle of his evening. He didn’t bother grabbing a shirt. What was the point? What, really, was the point of any of it?
Except it wasn’t Deliveroo at his door.
It was Evan Rosier.
James stared, trying to fit the pieces together. Evan, here. On his doorstep. For a long, baffling moment he wondered how he even knew where James lived—until the obvious dawned on him. Sirius. Of course. Evan was Sirius’s friend—Sirius who also lived here. Evan was probably here for Sirius. That would make sense.
“Sirius isn’t here,” James said.
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Good to know. Can I come in?”
James frowned—well, there went that explanation. Realising too late that he was probably being rude, James stepped aside to let Evan past. And then, all at once, he became excruciatingly aware of everything: his joggers, with that morning’s breakfast burrito betrayal smeared on the thigh, the no doubt shocking state of his hair, and the graveyard of crisp packets in the living room just visible through the doorway. He steered Evan firmly towards the kitchen, which was in a comparatively less sorry state, and tried not to think about the distinct absence of a shirt and the fact he hadn’t stepped foot in a gym for well over two weeks.
Evan shrugged off his coat, draped it over a stool, and sat—posture too easy, too comfortable, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he was a regular. It threw James off balance in a way he couldn’t quite name, made him suddenly, acutely conscious of his own hands, his own feet, the awkward geometry of just standing there. Heat crept up the back of his neck. He shifted his weight, fumbled for small talk, reached for anything that might fill the space between them.
“So, er—you like being up in Scotland, then?”
Evan ignored the question completely. His gaze was steady, considering. Blue eyes, not grey, not stormy—just blue. Almost too blue. The look was direct, like he was sizing James up, weighing something. Weighing him. It took everything in James’s power not to squirm. It didn’t help that Evan looked painfully put together—pristine grey trousers, a navy jumper that was almost certainly cashmere, an expensive-looking woollen coat. James swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. Self-consciousness rose in him like an unpleasant tide.
Then, finally, Evan spoke.
“I wanted to talk to you before I headed home. Should’ve called or texted first—asked Sirius, and he said you’d be in, so figured I’d just turn up. Get it over with.” His voice was matter-of-fact, an acknowledgement that turning up on James’s doorstep was unexpected, that this was a bit weird. It wasn’t an apology, though. Nor was there any awkwardness or embarrassment. James wondered if Evan had ever felt awkward or embarrassed about anything at all. It didn’t seem like it.
“Besides,” he continued, “not really the kind of conversation I wanted to have over text. Got a hunch you might not like what I have to say. Thought it might go down easier in person.”
Evan ran a hand through his blond hair, which—unlike James’s hair, which never cooperated no matter how much product he piled onto it—fell back into place effortlessly, like something out of a shampoo commercial.
“Look, I know it’s none of my business, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want. Reg would fucking kill me if he knew I was here—hates other people in his business.”
Evan paused, then frowned—and then, almost as if the thought had only just occurred to him, asked, “Have you ever met their parents?”
“Regulus and Sirius’s parents?” James asked, still trying and failing to follow where this was going.
Evan inclined his head. “Yeah.”
“Er, no. I haven’t.”
Evan let out a low chuckle. “Good. Don’t.” His smile faded. “They really did a number on both of them. But Reg more so. He fucking hates himself. Hides it well, but it’s there. Doesn’t think he deserves love, so he’s not great at accepting it. Can’t see it, even when it’s staring him in the fucking face. More than that, though, he’s too caught up in his own inner bullshit to realise that his actions have consequences for other people, that it’s not just him who gets hurt.”
“Okay,” James managed. More to show he was listening than anything else. Because what could he possibly say to that? He wasn’t sure where Evan was headed, but there was a slow, growing apprehension building in his gut—one that said Evan was right, and that James wasn’t going to like whatever came next.
“Not great at accepting himself, either,” Evan added. “You know he’s gay, right? I mean, before the other night—you knew?”
James hesitated, then shrugged. “Kissed him a couple months after he joined the band. Seemed into it. So yeah. I figured he liked men to some degree.”
Evan’s expression darkened. “Didn’t know that,” he said. “I’m sorry. That’s fucked.”
“What do you mean?” James asked.
Blue eyes met his, and there was pity in them—plain as day. “Pretty obvious how you feel about him.”
James winced, rubbing the back of his neck. So much for subtlety.
“I take it he never mentioned a boyfriend?” Evan’s voice was tight. “When you kissed him, I mean. Or ever, actually?”
“No,” said James. And then added, a little reluctantly, “Not a boyfriend. But he did say he was seeing someone.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Evan with a sigh. “Bare fucking minimum, but better than I expected.” Evan paused, considering his next words carefully. “Look, Reg is private—you know that. But it’s not just that. He’s never been okay with being who he is. Never really been okay with being gay. And that’s a hard thing to deal with in a relationship. For him, yeah, but also for the poor bastard who’s with him. No one wants to feel like they’re someone’s secret.”
James had never considered that Regulus might be the one hiding his relationship. In his mind it had always been the other person’s fault—their choice, their doing. Not Regulus’s. The ache in his chest deepened. He hated that he’d got it wrong, but more than that, he hated that he hadn’t known this about Regulus. That he couldn’t see it. It felt like salt in an open wound, sharp and stinging, and James didn’t know why it unsettled him so much—only that it made Regulus feel even further away. More distant. More unknowable.
“I thought… with the way he’d been these last few months. And then on New Year’s, I thought…” James trailed off. He wanted to say that if he’d known Regulus had someone, he wouldn’t have wanted him to kiss him. That he wouldn’t have leaned in closer, wouldn’t have wanted to be the one leaving with him, wouldn’t have followed him out into the night—if Evan hadn’t stepped in and stopped it from being James that Regulus left with. He wanted to say it. But he couldn’t. Because the truth was, he’d wanted Regulus from the start. Wanted him despite knowing there was someone else. Hadn’t he been hoping—hoping all this time—that Regulus would turn around and choose him instead?
James cleared his throat. “I guess I assumed he was single,” he finished, the words sounding weak even to his own ears. There was a quiet, gnawing urge to justify himself—to Evan, to himself. Justify his feelings. Justify his part in something that never even happened. Justify what Evan had stopped from happening.
The corner of Evan’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting off a smirk, and James got the unsettling feeling that Evan saw right through him. “He’s single. Least for now. Relax, Potter. I’m not here to have a go at you for trying to be the other woman.”
“Right. Okay.”
A pause. Evan watched him, unreadable, and James—unsure whether he felt relieved or just more awkward—asked, “Not to be rude, but er, why are you here?”
The amusement vanished.
“He knows how you feel—it might as well be written across your fucking forehead in Sharpie. Not fair of him to let you think you’ve got a chance when you don’t.”
The words hit like knives, one after another. James bristled instinctively, the urge to push back rising fast—but before he could get a word out, Evan snorted, clearly catching his thoughts in his expression.
Evan shook his head, smiled. “Fuck’s sake. Didn’t mean it like that.” He gave James a once-over. “You have seen yourself, right? Reckon you’ve got a chance with most people. Just not Reg—not because of you. Because of him. No one stands a chance with Reg—Reg has only ever wanted one person.”
“But you said he was single,” James said.
“Doesn’t matter. Might be broken up now, but Reg is never going to love anyone else the way he loves him.”
James swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “You know his—” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say boyfriend, even with the prefix ex- in front of it. “—the guy?”
“Yeah. I do. Fucking great guy. Loves Reg more than he deserves.”
James didn’t miss the present tense. Loves, not loved.
Evan’s brows knitted together, something unreadable flickering across his expression before he shook his head. “They’ve got it, you know? The real thing. The shit from films—the kind wars get fought over and books written about. The sort the rest of us can only hope for.”
James looked at him, a little taken aback—the words were oddly poetic, which was about the last thing he’d expected from Evan Rosier, a guy who used the word fuck as a noun, verb and adjective.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
Evan considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be you. Figured I’d try to save you the heartache. Better you know where you stand.”
That wasn’t what James had been expecting. He let out a slow breath, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, asked, “You’re not in love with Regulus too, are you?” He aimed for levity. Missed.
Evan’s frown dissolved and he laughed. “Fuck no.” He cleared his throat, flashed a grin, the kind that belonged in a toothpaste advert. “No offence. He’s one of my best mates, but he’s a fucking headache at the best of times.”
James decided, privately, that it was unfair—really, deeply unfair—that people like Evan Rosier existed. If you were going to be rich and good-looking, you should at least have the decency to be utterly insufferable. That would make things simpler. It would be easier if Evan were being an arsehole. Easier to dismiss his words, to ignore his warning, to pretend none of this mattered—but he wasn’t. He was being decent. And James found himself believing that he really was here because he cared.
The buzzer went off, making James jump. He exhaled sharply, and then, on a whim he didn’t really understand, asked, “Do you like Thai food?”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”
“Cool. Stay for food if you want.” James turned, and then added over his shoulder, “There’s beer in the fridge.”
He strode out of the kitchen, stopping off at his room on the way to find a shirt—he didn’t have a clean one; his laundry situation was dire. He tried Sirius’s room instead, grabbed the first black T-shirt he saw. A bit tight across the shoulders, but better than nothing.
On his way back down the hall, he found himself hoping—more than he should—that Evan stayed. He wasn’t ready to be alone again. There was something about Evan’s bluntness that made his emotions feel less suffocating, less like a trap he was circling without escape. It was oddly comforting. Maybe that was the appeal of Evan Rosier—he said the thing, and then it was said, and somehow the world didn’t end.
When he returned with the food, Evan had plates and beers out.
“Come on, we’ll eat in the living room,” James said, then immediately winced, remembering the state of it. “Just—don’t judge. Been wallowing.”
Evan didn’t comment, just made himself at home on the couch while James hurriedly swept the evidence of his misery off the coffee table. It was a quiet mercy, and James appreciated it more than he’d admit. New Year’s flashed through his mind, sudden and vivid. The press of lips against his, the brief shock—he’d been too caught up in Regulus to really think. But now, with some distance, the realisation of what Evan had done landed heavier.
James cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Evan took a swig of his beer, then glanced at him—eyebrow raised. “For what?”
James shifted, suddenly regretting bringing it up. “For coming here, I guess—for the heads-up. And for New Year too. That was, uh, decent of you.”
Evan shot him a sideways look. “You’re not seriously thanking me for cockblocking you, are you?”
James shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, yeah, I guess so.”
Evan chuckled. “That’s got to be a fucking first.”
James felt himself smile back. “Yeah, well. I appreciate the intent. I realise you were trying to do me a favour.”
“Anytime, Potter,” Evan said around a mouthful of Phanaeng, then coughed. “Fuck, that’s spicy.”
James took a mouthful of his own food. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I like heat.”
“Not bad, just wasn’t expecting it.” Evan took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “I know what Reg looks like when he’s about to self-destruct. Didn’t want you to wake up and realise you’d been a stand-in for someone else. Figured you could probably live without that.”
James knew Evan was right. As much as it had hurt watching Regulus leave with someone else, the rational part of him understood that going home with him would have been worse. The irrational part, of course, insisted it would have been worth it—but deep down, he knew that being a rebound, being just someone—anyone—being meaningless to Regulus would have hurt far more than watching him walk away with a stranger.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. I could definitely live without that.”
Evan nodded.
James found himself studying Evan, curiosity rising. After a beat, he set his beer down and leaned back. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“You said before that you knew what it was like to be me?”
Evan stilled—just for a second. Barely noticeable, but James caught it. For a long moment he thought Evan wasn’t going to answer. But then he did.
“Yeah, I know a bit about wanting someone you can’t have.” Evan exhaled, rolling his beer bottle between his hands. There was something in his voice—not bitterness exactly, but a tired resignation, the kind of weariness that came from having had time to make peace with disappointment. “First real friend I made at university. Known Reg and Sirius practically since birth—but this was different. Didn’t know who I was, didn’t give a shit about my family—just wanted to be friends because we got on. Clever. Talented. Funny. And hot as hell.”
“What happened?”
Evan gave him a wry smile. “Didn’t want me like that.”
James felt the weight of it—quiet, inevitable hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Meant it with everything he had.
Evan shrugged. “It happens.”
“Yeah,” James agreed. “But that doesn’t make it any less shit.”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t.”
A pause. Then, “Are you still friends?”
“We are.”
“And you don’t think there’s a chance? Maybe one day something will change?” James wasn’t sure if he was asking about Evan or himself, and from the way Evan looked at him—sharp and knowing—he suspected Evan could tell.
“No.”
No hesitation. Final. Definite.
James couldn’t imagine that—couldn’t imagine giving up on hope completely. He didn’t want to be some meaningless rebound to Regulus, didn’t want to get caught in whatever destructive spiral he was in. But still. The future was uncertain. People changed.
“Why?” James asked.
Evan’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away. “It just can’t.”
James didn’t understand. Couldn’t. “Were you in love?”
Evan exhaled. “Yeah. Still am.”
James stared at him, waiting for more. An explanation, a reason that made sense. Because for James, love was something you fought for. Something you held onto. The idea of wanting someone and not trying, of giving up, was unfathomable—you had to have hope. Hope was part of the magic of love. He waited for Evan to elaborate. But he didn’t. He just took another bite of his curry. And James was left to wonder—not just at why, but at who. Who wouldn’t want Evan Rosier? The guy looked like he belonged in a cologne advert, all effortless quiet luxury and easy confidence. It was hard to imagine anyone passing him over. Sure, he wasn’t exactly James’s type—he’d never really seen the appeal of the whole tanned, blue-eyed, blond thing—but objectively speaking, the guy was attractive. The kind of attractive you expected to see on a movie screen or a Calvin Klein billboard, not sitting in your living room eating Thai food.