James stood with his arms locked tight across his chest, fingers digging into his own biceps like they were the only thing keeping his insides from spilling out across the floor. Regulus, covering Tina Turner. If you’d told him a year ago, he would have laughed. But there was nothing remotely funny about this. Because Reg never did anything by halves. Not when it mattered. This wasn’t just a cover—it was a goddamn confession, a blade drawn across his own ribs, a song torn from his lungs and set on fire, and James knew exactly who it was for. Had known for a long while. The new album—the one Reg had barely let anyone touch—had been what did it. The lyrics James had sung over and over until he knew them like his own skin. It was an odd thing, to be jealous of someone, to want to hate them, but find yourself unable to because of the way someone else had painted them in words. And now, standing here, watching it unfold, knowing who it was for—James wished he didn’t know. Because knowing meant he understood how big this was. How important. How much it meant to Reg.
A shift at the periphery of his vision yanked his attention from the stage, from Reg pouring his soul out note by aching note. And suddenly James’s world shifted about a hundred degrees towards better. Relief flooded his system like a cold pint after the longest, most soul-crushing day—or a scalding shower after being caught in a freezing downpour. It wasn’t just emotional; it was visceral, physical. He swore his muscles actually loosened, one by one, a chain reaction of release starting from his shoulders and cascading down his spine. The invisible vice that had been crushing his ribs since he stepped off stage released its grip. Air rushed back into his lungs in a way he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.
Because—fuck—it was Evan. Actually here. In the flesh. Not just a voice on the other end of the phone.
And despite the storm still raging inside him—despite the ache still pressing against his ribs, Reg’s voice still echoing in his head like a wound that wouldn’t close—James felt his face split into a grin. A real one. Not the press-trained smile he faked when cameras were watching. A proper, eye-crinkling, cheek-aching grin. Because it was Evan. Evan in a white t-shirt that caught in the light spilling back off the stage, half walking, half jogging towards him—and some small part of James’s mind clocked that this might be the first time he’d seen Evan not wearing a button-down. Maybe it was a weird thing to notice. He didn’t care. Because he’d been dying to see him since the moment he’d found out Evan was coming down for the show. Had spent the entire day checking his phone like a sad, desperate prick, swiping the screen alive every few minutes, that familiar drop of disappointment hitting his gut every time there was nothing. No text. No message saying he’d arrived.
But none of that mattered now.
What mattered was that by some cosmic mercy, Evan was here exactly when James needed him most. Like he had some preternatural sixth sense tuned specifically to James’s personal emotional disasters. Only this time he wasn’t just a voice on the phone, wasn’t just a string of dry, infuriatingly reassuring texts.
And then he saw Evan’s face.
And his blood didn’t just run cold—it froze solid. Because until that exact second, James hadn’t even considered the possibility that Evan’s face could look like that. Jaw clenched, eyes somehow both blazing and dead—like a building still smouldering long after the fire had burnt everything inside to ash. James knew that look. Had seen it in the mirror. The razor-edge pain of rejection, of loss. Every moment of unrequited, miserable wanting he’d ever felt for Reg was right there, written across Evan’s face in raw, unfiltered heartbreak. Except it wasn’t for Reg. It couldn’t be—James had asked, and Evan had laughed at him for it. But it was for someone. Someone had caused that look. Time slowed to a trickle, molasses-thick and suffocating, as James remembered who the song was for. Who had come down from Edinburgh with Evan.
Time snapped back into action with force. James called Evan’s name, made a grab for him—too late. Evan ducked past security, vaulted the waist-high metal fence dividing VIP from the rest of the crowd, swinging his legs over in one fluid motion. It would have been impressive if it hadn’t been so fucking desperate. If it hadn’t been so obviously the act of a man running from something he couldn’t bear. James called out again, finally jolting into motion and shoving his way through bodies that seemed to solidify just to block his path. But Evan was gone. Swallowed by the crowd. The white t-shirt—the one that had caught the light so perfectly moments ago—flashed once more in the distance before disappearing completely, like a lighthouse beam giving one final warning before going dark for good.
The song ended. The stage went dark. James hardly noticed. He was reeling under the weight of his own ignorance, his own fucking selfishness. How he’d never put it together. Never clocked who that friend Evan had told him about all those months ago actually was. The pieces slammed together like a jigsaw completed too roughly, edges cutting into his palms. How much he’d monopolised the friendship with his own heartbreak, never once questioning why Evan had understood so perfectly what it felt like to want someone you couldn’t have but couldn’t walk away from either. He’d never asked about it. Never pushed. And he should have. Because he’d known there was someone—had known it for months—and it had been right there, staring him in the fucking face the entire time.
Sirius materialised beside James—craning his neck as he searched the crowd. “Where’s the birthday boy at?” he asked, his voice cutting through James’s spiralling thoughts.
James turned to stare at Sirius, the words hitting him like another physical blow. Birthday boy. Another thing he hadn’t known. A hollow nausea settled in his gut, spreading outward until his fingertips felt numb. Then Barty and Reg were there—that was when reality truly sank in. James watched Sirius ask Barty if he knew where Evan was. Watched Barty look around and realise Evan wasn’t there. Watched him try calling, watched Sirius and Reg start to look worried.
Only then did James pull himself together enough to say something. Because he knew with bone-deep certainty that Evan wouldn’t pick up his phone. That he wasn’t going to be found tonight. Didn’t want to be.
James felt a sick, burning fury roar to life inside him. At Barty, for being so blind to what was right in front of him. At Reg, for being so cruel. Because how could they not know? How could they not see? He wanted to grab Barty by the front of his leather jacket and shake him, demand to know how he’d missed the fact that his best mate was in love with him. Wanted to tell Reg exactly how much Evan had sacrificed, wanted to watch the realisation register in those grey eyes. Wanted to turn on Sirius and tell him to take a long hard look at his oldest friend, because no one else was looking. But he didn’t. Because he knew with damning clarity that he hadn’t seen it either. Hadn’t recognised what was happening during all those calls, all those rambling late-night texts. And because stronger than his anger—stronger than anything else—was the overwhelming urge to protect Evan.
So James did the only thing he could think to do. The thing Evan would want him to do. He lied.
“He’s taken off,” James said. “Saw him on the way out. Said he was feeling a bit rough—told him to head home and I’d pass along the message.”
He watched Barty’s shoulders relax, tension draining like water. Watched Reg smile with uncomplicated relief. Watched Sirius look momentarily put out—disappointed—but then he shrugged and the expression passed like a cloud on a windy day. And no one said anything else. No one questioned him or tried to call Evan again. And James hated them for it. Hated them with a ferocity that startled him. Hated Reg in a way he’d never thought possible. Hated Barty more thoroughly than he ever had before, even in his most bitter and jealous moments.
James went home. He wasn’t in the mood to celebrate, to drink, to laugh. He knew that if he stayed, Sirius would catch on, would realise something was wrong—and James had never been good at lying to Sirius. He claimed exhaustion and begged off the after-party, ignoring the disappointed protests.
But once home he didn’t sleep. He lay in bed and thought about Evan.
Thought about how, this whole time, Evan had been right there in the same hellish boat and had still been the one bailing out the water. Evan’s words from the first real conversation they’d ever had came back to him with startling clarity, cutting through the dark like a blade:
“I know a bit about wanting someone you can’t have.”
James hadn’t understood then. Hadn’t grasped the bone-deep resolve behind Evan’s flat “no” when James had asked if he thought things might ever change. But he did now. Because Evan would never allow himself to hope for it. Not at the cost of his friends’ happiness. He’d never put his own wants first, wouldn’t even let himself daydream about it—because for Evan, that would be as good as betraying Reg outright. So instead he’d gritted his teeth and dealt with it. For years. Had been Reg’s friend. Barty’s friend. And somehow, impossibly, James’s friend too—listening to James’s endless pining.
James had no idea how Evan was still standing. Still cracking sardonic jokes. Still laughing with that low, smooth laugh that made James want to join in no matter how shit he was feeling. Evan fucking Rosier might just be the best man James had ever met—better than all the rest, himself included—and he hadn’t even realised it until tonight.
James didn’t see Evan again. Heard from Sirius three days later, casual as anything, that he’d left. Gone back to Edinburgh. James wanted to text. To call. His thumb hovered over Evan’s name in his contacts a dozen times a day, but he never pressed down. What would he even say? Sorry I didn’t notice you were breaking? Sorry I made it about me? Sorry I let you leave? Sorry the man you’re in love with chose your friend over you? Nothing felt like enough. Each potential message dissolved before it reached his fingertips. So he said nothing at all, the silence between them growing more solid with each passing day.
Barty stuck around for a week or so, and every time James saw him he was staring at Reg like he was some kind of miracle. James thought that was probably how he used to look—and that made him hate himself a little, because he realised he’d never really known Reg. Not like this. Because Reg shone. There was no other word for it. He glowed like a supernova. The version of him James had met—had fallen in love with—that quiet, closed-off, composed and untouchable man—that wasn’t who he was. That was just who he was when he was incomplete. Unhappy. A fraction of a person, holding his breath, waiting. James had never seen him truly happy. Not until now. It stung. Not like he’d expected—not the sharp, piercing ache of jealousy—but something duller, more contemplative. The pain of recognising a fundamental error in perception. The pain of having been a fucking idiot.
Sirius and Barty got along like a house on fire—two reckless forces colliding in a way that somehow, inexplicably, worked. They shared the same sharp sense of humour, the same appetite for chaos, the same ringing laugh. And James knew that in time, he’d probably like Barty too. Would probably come to see what Evan saw in him, what Reg burned for.
Just not yet. Not now.
Not when the memory of that white t-shirt disappearing into the crowd still felt like a personal failure.
Barty left and things ticked back to normal. The tour loomed on their doorstep—the culmination of everything they’d been working towards, their chance to finally break through properly. James could almost taste it, the potential, the momentum. Then Pete’s dad got sick. Sudden and fast. The kind of diagnosis that came with a warning to prepare for the worst. James didn’t even ask the others, didn’t call a band meeting. Didn’t wait for Pete to tell him he wanted to stay—didn’t put the weight of that conversation on him. He wouldn’t do that to Pete, who was barely a year out from losing his mum, who still sometimes stopped mid-sentence when something reminded him of her, whose grief was still so close to the surface you could see it in the hollow places beneath his eyes. James told Minnie they weren’t going. That the tour would have to be next summer, or the one after. That it wasn’t up for discussion. He cancelled everything, made the necessary calls, absorbed the frustration from promoters and venue owners without complaint.
It was relentless. A constant grind that ate up the following weeks. Sorting out the fallout from the cancelled tour—the financial mess, the disappointed fans, the rescheduling nightmare. Managing press, putting out fires, keeping everything from falling apart. And then there was Pete. Checking in, making sure he was coping, making sure he had what he needed.
It was draining. Exhausting. And through it all, James felt profoundly alone. Not just in the work, not just in the weight of it—but in the quiet moments too. And still, he didn’t call Evan. And Evan didn’t text. The silence between them stretched taut, like a guitar string tuned too tight, threatening to snap. James stared at his phone sometimes, willing it to light up with Evan’s name. It never did. So without Evan to talk to, to bleed his thoughts out to during those late-night calls that had become as necessary as breathing, he started writing.
He’d never written alone before. Had always needed someone to tether the words down, to keep them from slipping through his fingers. First Marlene, with her brutal honesty and sharp ear for bullshit. Then Sirius, neither of them particularly good at writing, but pushing through it together anyway. Then Regulus, with his quiet precision and gift for finding the perfect turn of phrase. James had convinced himself that the words weren’t right without someone else’s hands on them—that he was only half a songwriter, the messy, unfiltered half that needed refining.
But now there was no one. Just him and the mess of his own thoughts, the churning tangle of everything he couldn’t say out loud. It was agony. Pages crumpled and discarded. Ink smeared and scratched out until the paper tore. Whole notebooks filled with false starts and dead ends, with phrases that died the moment they hit the air. But he kept at it. Kept forcing it out, night after night. And then something shifted. The words started landing where they should, finding their natural rhythm, their weight. And once they did, they wouldn’t stop. Napkins from coffee shops, the notes app on his phone, scraps of paper littering his floor, the back of his hand when nothing else was available—lyrics spilling out everywhere, relentless, unstoppable.
August arrived with a punishing heatwave, the city suffocating, thick and stagnant. London turned into a concrete oven, the air shimmering above the pavement, sweat becoming a permanent state of being. Windows flung open at night brought no relief—just the distant sound of sirens and other people’s arguments.
Then Sirius mentioned Edinburgh.
“Thought me and Remus might head up to see Reggie for the weekend, check out the Fringe. Get out of London for a bit.”
James cracked one eye open from his spot on the floor, stretched out in front of a fan, mind numb with heat exhaustion. He’d been lying there for hours—too hot to move, too hot to think, too hot to do anything but exist in misery.
“You’re going to Edinburgh?”
The question came out more alert than he intended, something in his voice making Sirius glance at him with mild curiosity.
“Yeah. Thought I’d treat Remus. Never been. Figured it’d be fun.”
Edinburgh.
A thought took hold and he sat up. It was probably a mistake. Probably something he’d regret. What would he even say? What if Evan didn’t want to see him? What if whatever friendship they’d built had withered and died in the silence between them?
But what if it hadn’t?
His heart kicked against his ribs—the first thing that had cut through the heat-induced lethargy in days. Before he could second-guess himself, before the rational part of his brain could muster a counterargument, he threw caution to the wind. Because fuck it. He was desperate.
“Can I come?”
Sirius shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Long as you don’t mind third-wheeling me and Remus.”
“When have I ever minded that?”
Sirius snorted. “Fair point.” He pushed off from the doorframe.
After Sirius left the room, James remained sitting on the floor, the fan whirring against the oppressive heat. But somehow, he didn’t feel it anymore. All he could think about was Edinburgh.
Barty and Reg met them off the train on Friday afternoon. The city was pure chaos. James had expected something grey, something quiet and brooding. Instead it was wild. Loud. Sun-bleached streets teeming with people, performers at every turn, his hands full of flyers before they’d even made it five minutes past the station. Barty grinned from behind vintage sunglasses, one tattooed arm slung over Regulus’s shoulders. A flash of white teeth as he looked back at James. It wasn’t quite a friendly smile—something a little too predatory in it, dangerous, like a warning. James didn’t blame him. Didn’t think he’d be too happy to see him either, if the situation were reversed. So he did his best to smooth things over, made a point of directing his questions to Barty, of acknowledging him.
“Is it always this crazy?” he asked.
Barty seemed to relax a little—enough for the smile to turn a little more sly. “Trick is tae look straight through ’em like they dinnae exist. It’s eye contact that gets ye fucked.”
Reg laughed, the sound clear and bright. “Barty takes avoiding leaflets very seriously. Whatever you do, don’t let him challenge you to Walking the Royal. You won’t make it.”
“Walking the Royal?” Sirius asked.
“Aye, right so basically ye’ve got tae get down the Royal Mile from the Castle tae Teviot without takin’ a single flyer. Loser buys everyone’s drinks.”
“It’s harder than it sounds,” Reg added, throwing a warning look towards his brother.
James trailed a few steps behind, watching them. Barty and Reg, a unit. Sirius and Remus another—the four of them orbiting each other, easy, comfortable. And James in their wake, a ghostly fifth wheel. He was starting to seriously doubt his sanity in coming. But it was too late to do anything about it now—he was here, for better or worse. Barty and Evan’s flat was fifteen minutes’ walk from the station. Georgian, sandstone, imposing. A modest plaque near the door marked 1787. The kind of place that cost more than James wanted to think about—and reminded him that Evan was rich. Really rich.
James had expected a flat that reflected Barty’s energy—all sharp edges and dark moody colours—probably because he couldn’t seem to picture what kind of flat Evan would have. Not until he stepped into it. Then he understood immediately. Pure, radiant light streaming through south-facing windows fitted into the slanted roof. Wooden floors—the kind of rich, honey-coloured oak that only looked better with age—warm and clean beneath his feet. Plants everywhere: hanging from macramé holders, sprawling across bookshelves, clustered on windowsills. Ferns and vines and things with broad, glossy leaves that James couldn’t have named if his life depended on it.
A cat appeared from nowhere—fat, grey, and spectacularly unimpressed by their presence.
One wall was lined with shelves. Another with cameras—vintage and modern, lined up with quiet intention. And photos too, covering every available space. Candid shots of Evan, expression softer than James had ever seen it, caught in golden hour light. Of Reg, not looking at the camera but at something beyond the frame, a small private smile at his lips. Of people James didn’t know—friends, perhaps, or family. And professional prints too, crisp and deliberate, the kind that stopped you mid-step.
James learned then that Barty was a photographer. And a good one, if what was on these walls was anything to go by.
It was a big flat. Bigger than their place in London, bright and airy, comfortable in a way that made you want to sink into the sofa and stay awhile. It was a home. Not a temporary one—a proper home, built with intention and care. The kind of place you’d want to come back to. Maybe the kind you’d never want to leave.
The question was there from the minute James walked in the door, pressing against his teeth, threatening to escape every time there was a lull in conversation. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask where Evan was. Couldn’t make his mouth form the words without giving too much away. Sirius did it for him. He only had to wait twenty long, agonising minutes, pretending to be interested in Reg’s stories about the festival—the American tourist who’d asked where the castle was while standing directly beneath it, the one who’d complained on the bus that Arthur’s Seat lacked a gift shop.
“Where’s Ev?” Sirius asked, and James could’ve kissed him.
Reg poured wine without looking up. The kind of practised ease that said this place belonged to him too. That he fit here. His movements were fluid, comfortable—a man who knew exactly where everything was kept.
“He’s at a show.”
Barty smirked. “Aye, and God help the poor bastard he’s dragged with him.”
Reg tilted his head, thinking for a second, the wine bottle suspended mid-pour. “Mark, I think.”
Barty nodded, then frowned at Reg. “That the lawyer or the real estate agent?”
“Neither. I think Mark has a podcast.” Reg handed Remus a glass. “The real estate agent was Adam, the lawyer was Mary.”
“He’s on a date?” James didn’t mean to ask, didn’t mean to sound so interested, but the words slipped out before he could catch them.
Barty laughed—a knowing sound that made James’s skin prickle. Like there was a joke he wasn’t in on.
Reg’s lips twitched, grey eyes amused. “You could call it that. Though perhaps an experiment in human endurance would be a more accurate description.”
James looked between them, trying to work out what he was missing, what subtext was going over his head. “What d’you mean?”
“Evan has a somewhat unusual concept of what constitutes a fun date,” Reg said after a moment, settling onto the sofa beside Sirius.
Barty grinned. “He’s got an unusual sense ae what constitutes fun full stop.”
“Unusual how?” Remus asked.
Sirius waved a hand. “He likes weird stuff. Gross museums, really aggressive slam poetry, controversial theatre—if it’s off-putting in any way, Ev will probably love it.”
“Remember when he made you, me and Clare go to that gallery opening?” Reg asked, throwing a half-amused look at Sirius. “The one in Soho where the audience had to crawl through dark tunnels while people’s whispered childhood hopes and dreams were broadcast at them?”
Sirius grinned. “That was fucking great.”
“Maybe for you,” said Reg. “You were both legally allowed to drink and got pissed on the free wine. For the younger and sober ones amongst us, it was nightmarish.”
Something clicked in James’s mind. A memory surfaced—sombre violins, a man writhing across a gallery floor wrapped in tinfoil. “So he actually likes all that weird performance art stuff? I genuinely thought he was taking the piss.”
Reg tilted his head, considering. “Whether he actually enjoys it or just enjoys the spectacle is hard to say…” He paused, something privately amused flickering across his face. “We’ve all got our own theories.”
“He likes watching people suffer,” said Barty decisively. “It’s no even about the show—it’s all about the reaction. That’s the bit he actually enjoys.” He reached down to scratch the unimpressed-looking cat behind its ears. “That’s why he dates the people he dates. Can spot his type a mile off. It’s always some pure borin’, steady job, conventional as fuck type—lookin’ for the kinda guy Rosie likes tae cosplay as. Lets them ask him on a date, then hauls them aff tae watch experimental theatre featurin’ the existential crisis o’ dairy products or some pish. It’s a wind-up. He thinks it’s funny.”
Sirius chuckled. “How he ever gets laid is beyond me.”
“Takes a brave soul tae end up in bed wi’ Rosie,” agreed Barty.
Sirius snorted into his wine. But James didn’t laugh. Didn’t think it was funny. Because he didn’t believe for a second that Evan—brilliant, handsome, sharp-witted, impossibly self-possessed Evan—didn’t know exactly what he was doing. He knew people would fall for him in a heartbeat if given half a chance. So he didn’t give them the chance. He made it a joke instead. A dark, sarcastic, self-deprecating joke that kept his best friend from looking too closely, from questioning why he was hell-bent on making sure no one lasted too long. Brilliant. And fucking tragic. Evan in a nutshell.
Another bottle of wine was opened. A show suggested. Every bar a venue, every venue a bar. They left, stepping into the electric hum of the night, fireworks cracking overhead, streets still thick with movement. The basement bar was dimly lit—all shadows and warm light, bodies packed tight. Strangers pressed in close, the scent of alcohol and perfume and something electric in the air. James lost track of time. Lost track of the way he’d started to blend into the night, of the way he’d let himself forget why he was here. A comedian on stage, chatter filling the space between jokes. The air thick with heat and bodies and laughter, with the effortless happiness radiating off Barty and Reg. James let it blur. Didn’t notice that it didn’t bother him—how easily he’d adjusted to the rhythm of them, to the simple fact of them together. For the first hour, there’d been a tightness in his chest, pressing against his ribs. But then it was fine. Not great, but fine. The pain was gone.
And then Evan arrived.
Just like that. No fanfare, no warning. One moment he wasn’t there, and the next he was—materialising from the crowd with a nod and a dry comment about the venue that made Barty snort and Reg smile. Without missing a beat he slid into the empty chair next to Sirius, snagged his pint and took a sip with a smirk and an eye roll at Sirius’s half-hearted protest. It was the kind of entrance James wished he could make. Understated, cool, undeniably smooth.
And fuck. He looked good. He looked really bloody good.
No—that was underselling it.
He looked fucking obscene. Like he should be lounging on a yacht in the South of France, drink in hand, some ridiculously expensive designer sunglasses pushed up into his hair—not leaning back in a rickety chair in a sticky basement bar with lighting so bad it made everyone else look vaguely ill.
A pale blue linen shirt clung to his shoulders, just loose enough to be effortless, just fitted enough to be unfair. Open collar, a tease of golden skin, that perpetual tan a shade or two deeper than James remembered—making his eyes burn impossibly bright in contrast. Impossibly blue. One hand pushed through his hair absently, and James watched, transfixed, as it fell right back into place. Perfect.
Evan glanced across the table at him. Their eyes met.
And just like that—it hit him the way the important things always did—all at once. James understood in that minute what the thing that had been building for months was. Understood why seeing Barty and Reg didn’t hurt as much as it should. The reason was sitting right in front of him, patient and quiet, waiting for him to stop being such a spectacular idiot long enough to see it. And like usual, James had been an absolute, monumental, fucking idiot.
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