James hadn’t expected to hear from Evan after the night with the Thai food. Had figured he’d disappear back to Edinburgh, slipping out of James’s orbit—only to reappear alongside Regulus or Sirius at some distant, undefined point in time. Summer, maybe. Next Christmas. Maybe never. But then, late one evening at the very end of January, while James was drowning in the mind-numbing purgatory of band admin—social media logistics, promo strategies, a never-ending to-do list—he saw it: a request in the band’s Instagram inbox. Someone with the handle @ninthinlineforthethrone wanted to send them a message. He clicked on it out of boredom. It was a photograph. A silver-grey sky over a city, sunset or sunrise—James wasn’t sure. Spires and rooftops drenched in faint streaks of pink and gold bleeding onto the jagged silhouette of a castle. Underneath, a single line of text.
What’s not to like?
James stared at the message, thrown. The text read like the middle of a conversation, not the start of one. A mistake? He clicked on the profile—it was private. The profile picture was a close-up of a grumpy-looking grey cat. James shrugged it off, went back to the email he’d been drafting, let it sit. It wasn’t until a few days later, lying in bed, that the thought crept back in—seemingly out of nowhere. Maybe the message was the continuation of a conversation. Or at least, a response—however late—to a question he’d asked nearly a month ago. A question he’d asked when he was fumbling for small talk. He rolled over, grabbed his glasses off the bedside table, shoved them onto his face. Five minutes on Google Images confirmed his suspicion: it was a photo of Edinburgh, taken from some high vantage point.
James grinned and typed out a reply. It was late, and he didn’t get a response until the next day. The message, when it came, was dry and mildly insulting. It was also the first of many.
A month later and the conversation hadn’t stopped. It just shifted—fluid, effortless, drifting from one topic to the next, never about anything in particular. Just a steady, unspoken back-and-forth, a quiet presence that settled into the background of James’s day-to-day life. One that had moved from Instagram to WhatsApp at some point—James wasn’t sure when exactly, just that it had.
Evan texted exactly the way he talked—blunt, straightforward. No abbreviations. No emojis. Just perfect grammar, brutal efficiency, and an ungodly amount of profanity.
Learn to appreciate art. Uncultured Fuck.
The “art” in question? A video of some bloke wrapped in tinfoil, writhing on a gallery floor while violins screeched in the background like an exorcism gone wrong. Sent with no context, of course. James had no clue if Evan actually rated it or if he was taking the piss. They argued about it for the better part of two days, and James still couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. It was confusing at first. But after a few weeks, James started to get it. Started to understand why Sirius laughed so much whenever Evan opened his mouth. Because the guy was pretty funny—once you got used to his particular brand of humour, and just how dry he was, there was real wit underneath the nonchalance.
And so, without design, without effort—quite by accident—a friendship was born. Rising out of the ashes of his friendship with Regulus. And they were ashes, because whatever he and Regulus had now could hardly be called friendship. They hadn’t really been friends in a while—not since Regulus came back from Edinburgh after summer, sharp-edged and closed off in a way James hadn’t quite known what to do with. But they’d still been friendly. Still had the easy kind of understanding that comes with long hours spent in the studio together. But since New Year, even that had withered into nothing. Whatever had existed between them before was gone, eroded by that night. And it hurt.
Sirius was no help. James couldn’t talk to him about it—he was Regulus’s brother. He didn’t want to put him in the middle of whatever strange, bitter no man’s land now existed between him and Regulus. Remus listened, but he didn’t know Regulus well enough to say anything useful. He could offer sympathy, but nothing more. Marlene was too far away—too removed from his life. She was wrapped up in her new life, and James had no idea how to shape any of this into words over FaceTime. The distance made it feel both smaller and bigger all at once. Besides, she’d never even met Regulus. She didn’t understand the pull of him. Didn’t understand how special he was. Didn’t understand what it felt like to lose him, piece by piece. And Pete—well, Pete was drowning. Wading through his own grief: the slow wreckage of a relationship that had taken the better part of a year to finally fall apart, and then, before he’d had time to breathe, the loss of his mum. James wasn’t about to pile his own shit on top of that. It was enough that Pete even turned up to band practice, that he still cracked those strained, ghosted-over smiles, still dragged himself to the pub afterwards—even if he spent most of the time staring blankly at nothing. No way was James going to lean on him. Not when Pete needed someone to talk to more than James did.
But James still needed someone.
Someone to say it all out loud to, before it ate him alive. So one Thursday in March, in a moment of late-night, wine-fuelled impulse, he called the only person left he could think of. The only one who might actually understand. Evan picked up on the second ring. No surprise in his voice, no hesitation. Like it was normal. Like they did this all the time.
James talked. Evan listened.
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t crack a joke, didn’t try to rush him along or reframe it or make it smaller than it was. Just let James spill it all out—the frustration, the hurt, the gnawing ache of something that felt lost but refused to be quite dead. And when James was finally done, wrung out and raw and really hoping Evan couldn’t tell over the phone that his eyes were wet, Evan spoke.
“Should talk to him.”
James let out a short, humourless laugh. “And say what, exactly?”
“Tell him to get over himself. Can’t ignore you forever, fucking idiot. My guess? He feels guilty. Knows putting moves on you was a scumbag thing to do and is hiding from it—and from you. Might be wrong, but I doubt it.”
James blinked. “How the hell am I meant to do that? He doesn’t even answer my texts.”
There was a pause. A long, weighted silence in which James could practically hear Evan shrug.
“Know where he lives, don’t you? Go see him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
James opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried to think of an answer, something other than because it terrifies me—some legitimate reason why he couldn’t just go and say all of this to Regulus’s face.
But he couldn’t.
In the end, he sighed. “You really don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you?”
A low chuckle. “Fuck no.”
James fought off a smile. He was about to respond when something in the background caught his attention—raised voices over the muffled pulse of music, a low thrum of bass vibrating through the call.
“Are you at a party?”
“I fucking wish.”
“Where, then?”
“Smoking area. Technically just the street, but they’ve thrown up a bit of rope to make it look official.”
“You’re at a bar?”
“Club.”
James frowned. “And you picked up the phone—” He glanced down at his screen. “—and let me talk your ear off for like half an hour? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Honestly? Hearing you complain about Reg still beats being inside.”
“That bad?”
“There’s a fucking pole on the way to the loo. Nearly lost an eye going for a slash.”
James snorted, and then the weight of what Evan had said landed. “Wait,” he said, amused. “Are you at a strip club?”
“Worse. Eighties club.” Evan’s voice was flat, bone-dry. “Club Tropicana. And before you ask, no, the drinks are not free.”
James started laughing, helplessly. And it felt good. Really good.
“Oh, fuck off,” came Evan’s annoyed response.
“Nothing wrong with a bit of Wham!” managed James.
“Nothing fucking right about it either.”
“I’ve always been more of a Madonna guy myself. Partial to a bit of ABBA too when the mood is right…”
A pause. Then, Evan, utterly deadpan: “See if I ever pick up the phone to you again with music taste like that.”
“What, you’re too good for ‘Dancing Queen’?”
“I’m honestly surprised Sirius agreed to be in a band with you.”
James was still grinning when he hung up twenty minutes later. He sank back into the couch, phone warm in his hand.
It took a few days to work up the courage, but in the end, he did it. He turned up at Regulus’s flat. When the door opened, James barely recognised him. He looked like hell. Pale, drawn, dark circles smeared under his eyes like bruises. His cheekbones were sharper, the lines of him cut-thin and hollowed out, and James wondered—had he been eating? Sleeping? Didn’t look like it. And yet, somehow, he was still beautiful in that effortless, unfair way he always had been. Storm-grey eyes, shadowed but razor-sharp. Arms folded tight across his chest like a barrier. James hadn’t known what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t Regulus stepping back, wordlessly letting him in. Wasn’t the silence that followed, thick and heavy, stretching between them like a fault line. Regulus offered him tea. James accepted. He didn’t really want it, but it gave him something to do with his hands.
They stood in the kitchen, silent, surrounded by the wreckage of something that had never even happened. James didn’t know how to start, what to say. He set his mug down, rubbed the back of his neck, felt the words sitting thick and useless in his throat. Regulus wasn’t looking at him. Just staring into his tea with that same blank, closed-off expression, like if he kept his eyes down long enough James might simply cease to exist.
They couldn’t just stand here.
His mind went to Evan—briefly, unbidden. He’d know what to say. Wouldn’t stand here drowning in it, picking at the edges, waiting for the right moment. He’d just say the thing. And maybe that was what did it. Maybe it was thinking about Evan, about the particular brand of brutal clarity he dealt in, that made something in James finally snap loose.
“You’re being a fucking idiot.”
Regulus looked up. Startled—actually startled, grey eyes flicking to his like he hadn’t expected James to have a voice at all.
“We’re in a band,” James continued. “You’re going to have to talk to me at some point. Unless you’re planning on leaving?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“All right, then.”
Regulus opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, biting off whatever he’d been about to say. His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t mean to—” He stopped, looked away.
“Ignore me for two months?” James offered.
Regulus winced but met his gaze again. Those storm-grey eyes—the same ones that had been stealing the breath from James’s lungs since the first time Regulus had really looked at him.
“I’m sorry for that too,” Regulus said quietly. “But that’s not all I’m sorry for. It wasn’t my intention to lead you on. Or to hurt you.”
“Then why did you?”
Regulus dragged a hand through his hair, let out a sharp breath. “It’s just what I do.” His mouth twisted. “I ruin things.”
James studied him. “Are you talking about me or him?”
He didn’t need to specify who he meant—he could see from the way Regulus flinched that he knew. Knew that James knew.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“Yeah,” James said. “It does. Because you and me—nothing is ruined between us. Not unless you want it to be.” He exhaled, softer. “I got my feelings hurt. That’s all.”
Regulus looked at him, wary. “That’s all?”
“Look,” James said. “It’s not like I didn’t know you were with someone. That’s on me. I’m not angry at you for that.”
“You’re not?”
“Can’t say it doesn’t sting. That New Year didn’t royally suck, because it did. But you shutting me out afterwards? That hurt a hell of a lot more. That’s what I’m pissed about.” He held Regulus’s gaze. “I thought we were friends.”
Regulus swallowed hard. “We were. We are.” His fingers tightened around his mug. “I care about you. That’s the problem.” His voice dropped. “I’m weak. And I’m fucked up. And I like you—more than I should. I always have.”
Oh fuck.
James didn’t want to hear this. It was one thing to accept that Regulus didn’t want him. It hurt, but it was clean—a wound he could let scar over. But this? Knowing that some part of Regulus did want him but still wouldn’t have him? That made it worse. That made it impossible. How the fuck was he supposed to walk away now? Something heavy settled in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a fist. But Regulus wasn’t done. He was looking at James like he was already breaking apart, like James was the only thing holding the pieces together.
“I don’t trust myself not to do something stupid when I’m around you,” he said, his voice scraping its way up like it cost him something.
A silence. Then, quieter still—
“I don’t want to be alone.” He said it like he hated the admission. Like he hated himself for it. “But I deserve to be. Because I already fucked up the best thing I’ve ever had. And I can’t just pretend that doesn’t matter.”
There was a long pause. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry, James. I was trying to do the right thing.”
He sounded broken. And James felt something crack open in his own chest in response. He moved before he even realised what he was doing—arms coming up, pulling Regulus in, tucking him close against his chest. For a second Regulus stayed stiff, breath catching like he might pull away.
But he didn’t.
His arms came up slowly, hands gripping at James’s back, and then he melted against him—and it felt so good. But God, it hurt too. A whole new kind of hurt, something that burrowed deep and took hold. Because standing there with Regulus in his arms, James knew. Knew in a way he’d been avoiding for months, refusing to name, shoving down and disguising as something simpler than it was.
This wasn’t friendship. It never had been.
Too much of him wanted more. Wanted Regulus in a way he had no right to. Wanted the heat of him, the weight of him, even as James felt the damp sting of tears against his neck. Tears he knew weren’t for him. It was a joke. A farce. A sick fucking trick he’d been playing on himself by calling it friendship. James stood there and let it wash over him. Stood there until Regulus’s shoulders stopped shaking. Then he closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and pressed his lips to Regulus’s hair—not quite a kiss, not quite nothing. Something like a goodbye. Then he let go. Stepped back. Forced himself to put space between them, even as every instinct, every raw and desperate part of him, screamed not to.
Walking away was the hardest thing James had ever done. Every step felt wrong, like he was peeling something vital out of himself and leaving it behind on the kitchen floor. But he knew—down to his marrow—that it was the right thing. Even if he almost turned back. Once at the door. Again on the stairs, his heart hammering at him to stop, to turn around, to fix it.
But there was nothing to fix. Nothing he could have.
James pulled out his phone and dialled Evan before he’d consciously decided to, barely aware of what he was doing—just knowing he had to do something. His hands were shaking, his breath coming too fast. He thanked every god he’d ever heard of when Evan picked up on the first ring.
“I need you to tell me to keep walking.”
“Keep walking, James.”
No hesitation. No questions. Just the words, sharp and solid, cutting through the noise in his head like a hand grabbing him by the collar.
“Keep fucking walking.”
James swallowed, gripped the phone tighter—but he did. Down the stairs. Out the close. Onto the street. Evan stayed on the line, not filling the silence with anything unnecessary, just there, and by the time James reached the pavement and the cold air hit his skin, he wasn’t thinking about turning back anymore.
He kept walking.