James hadn’t called.
Evan had expected him to. He’d woken up the morning after Hyde Park, hungover, tangled in a stranger’s sheets. Stumbled into a cab, switched on his phone—expecting a missed call, a text, something.
Instead: multiple messages from Barty asking where he was. A missed call from Reg. A cryptic text from Sirius: “hope you feel better, mate. Take it easy.”
Nothing from James.
He’d told himself it would come eventually. James must have been reeling after what Reg had done—that painfully public declaration, aimed straight at Barty, an emotional gut-punch for anyone who’d spent the last year wanting Reg the way James had. Of course he’d call. He always did. Evan had been ready for it. Had braced himself for two hours of James’s voice, low and wrung out, working through it on the other end of the line.
But James didn’t call.
Two days stretched to five. Five to a week. Every time Evan reached for his phone something stopped him—a tightness in his chest, a quiet, insistent warning. Don’t. Maybe James was angry. Maybe he’d decided Evan was too tangled up in Barty’s mess to be worth the trouble. Maybe he was simply done.
The silence ate at him. Restless and sharp, the kind that gets louder the longer it goes on.
Then one night, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, he saw it. James at Hyde Park. On stage. Tawny skin slick under blinding lights, muscles taut as he gripped the mic, head thrown back, mouth open in something that looked less like singing and more like release. Pure and primal and completely unself-conscious.
A fucking rock god. Something straight out of the pages of Rolling Stone.
James looked like sex. And Evan—Evan finally understood what that warning had been. What that twisting ache in his gut was. Understood exactly what he’d been feeling, watching James on stage at Hyde Park.
And fuck.
He’d gone and done it again. Same mistake, different man. For the first time since Barty, he felt something real—something consuming, intense, terrifying. And because the universe was apparently determined to take the piss, he’d gone and fallen for another man who was hopelessly in love with Regulus Fucking Black. Evan didn’t know whether to laugh or put his fist through a wall. It was almost funny.
Almost.
There was no way he was texting James after that. Not a fucking chance. He wasn’t doing this again—wasn’t setting himself up for another slow-motion heartbreak. So he didn’t text. And that should have been it. The clean break. No James, no problem. Then Sirius called—all casual, easy, completely oblivious—asking if he and Remus could crash at Evan’s flat, oh and by the way James was coming too. And Evan, unable to think of an excuse fast enough, said sure. Plenty of room, after all.
Cue the panic. Cue the dates. Pointless, useless distractions. An old trick—one he’d perfected years ago. The same thing he did when Reg was around too much. Muscle memory at this point. And now here James was, sitting across a sticky bar table, staring at him. Had been staring for the last ten minutes, ever since Evan sat down. Evan could practically feel it—that gaze drilling into the side of his face as he lifted his pint and took a sip. Flat. End of the keg. Tasted like shit. But it gave him something to do. Something to focus on besides looking back.
Barty grinned at him. “How was the date? Good show?”
Evan tried not to visibly wince. He really wished Barty hadn’t asked him that. Wished he hadn’t asked it in front of James. Evan didn’t want to talk about his date in front of James. Barty had never seen through Evan’s game of impossible dates, never understood it for what it was—a compulsion, a way of coping. A joke that wasn’t really a joke. Take someone—anyone—as far from what he actually wanted as possible. Plan the kind of date he’d want to go on, not the kind they would. Watch them falter, confused, trying to figure him out. See if they stick it out, make it through the night, end up in his bed.
Most didn’t.
He didn’t really want them to. He didn’t really want them, full stop. And they didn’t really want him. Maybe they wanted a Rosier. But not Evan. And now Barty had gone and brought it up. And even though he’d never really understood it—never seen through it—Evan had the sinking feeling that James just might.
And Evan really didn’t want him to. Didn’t want James to know just how fucked up he was. Didn’t want him to see it. He didn’t really have much of a choice now, though, so he ran with it. Did what he always did. Leaned into the joke. Owned it so it didn’t own him.
“Fucking delightful,” he said smoothly. “Woman stripped down to her underwear and started pulling raw bits of meat out of her knickers. Think I might’ve finally topped the man with the spoons as far as Fringe shows go.”
Remus choked on his beer. Sirius snorted and patted him on the back. Barty threw his head back and laughed—a full, unfiltered Barty laugh. Regulus just smiled, cool and amused. Same as always. Evan didn’t look at James. Didn’t want to see his face. Didn’t want to know if he thought it was funny or not.
“Was that Mark?” Reg asked. “Did he enjoy it?”
“Matt,” Evan corrected. “Mark was Museum of Childhood.”
Barty threw Reg a pointed look, and Reg shrugged. “I don’t know why you expect me to keep up. You see him as much as I do.”
Evan ignored Reg, directing his answer at Barty. “And no, I don’t think he did. He threw up in a bin outside the venue. Turns out he’s vegan. Probably should’ve put that in his Hinge profile. Rookie mistake.”
Sirius let out a bark of laughter. Evan looked. He couldn’t really put it off any longer. James wasn’t laughing. He was watching Evan with something unreadable in his eyes.
“Raw meat, really?” James asked, voice too even.
Interview voice.
Evan clocked it instantly—the same tone James used in press junkets. All curated charm and polished neutrality. Shuttered. Careful. Closed off. Not the real James. Not the James who laughed too loudly on the phone at 2 a.m., or the James who had once cried at an M&S advert for dog food. That James wore his heart on his sleeve—if he was happy, you’d hear it. If he was wrecked, you’d feel it. But this? This was the version he showed the world when he didn’t want to be seen.
Evan ran a hand through his hair, nodded. “Think it was meant to be a comment on the hypersexualisation of the female form.” He shrugged. “Bit obvious as far as metaphors go, but effective enough. Really put me in the mood for a steak too.”
Sirius shook his head. “You’re a fucking icon, mate.”
“I try. You got any fags?”
Sirius grinned that manic grin he did whenever he was about to make a really lame dad joke, and Evan instantly regretted asking. He knew exactly what was about to come out of his friend’s mouth.
“Just myself.”
“Funnier every fucking time. Really, we should get you up on that stage. Right comedian you are.”
Evan was reaching for Barty’s tobacco when James spoke.
“I’ve got straights, if you want.”
Evan blinked, caught off guard. He turned to look at James properly, brows lifting. It hit him—sharper than he expected—that as much time as he’d spent talking to James, he hadn’t actually spent much time with him. Not in person. Sure, they’d had long calls—hours, sometimes. A couple of nights out. That evening in James’s flat with the Thai food. But that was it.
And maybe that was why he was surprised. Maybe that was why he hadn’t known James smoked. He’d seen him steal the occasional drag off Sirius, sure—but that was different. James was a fitness guy. A serious one. Not like Evan, who stayed active because he liked being outside—liked hiking, cycling, anything that got him outside. He didn’t exercise for exercise’s sake. No gym membership. No schedule. James was the opposite. Protein shakes. Macros. Four-day split.
Evan studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Thanks.”
James stood, swiping his jacket off the back of the chair. Black leather—bomber cut, high-quality. Looked good. He looked good. Evan stood too, following him up the stairs and out into the damp night. The cobblestones were slick underfoot. Above them, a streetlamp flickered, humming faintly, casting everything in a sickly amber hue. James pulled out a cigarette without a word and offered one over. His fingers brushed Evan’s. Then the flick of a lighter—cupped against the wind—flame sputtering to life. It flared too bright, seared into Evan’s vision, then vanished with a snap. Evan stepped back, took a drag. Inhaled. Exhaled through his nose.
“Didn’t know you smoked.”
“Didn’t know you had a title, or a Marxist phase.”
James’s voice was casual, but his eyes didn’t match the tone. He was watching Evan too closely.
Evan shot him a wry look. “Second was definitely a response to the first.”
“Didn’t know you had a sister either,” James said.
“Really?” Evan flicked ash into the gutter, shrugged. He was surprised by that. Had assumed he’d have mentioned Pandora at some point, God knows they talked enough—or they had before James went quiet. “I do. You’d like her.”
A pause settled between them. Long, quiet. The kind that felt like it was waiting for something.
Then James asked, soft and low, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was something in his voice—unexpected weight, bruised and careful. Evan frowned, glancing at him. The look on James’s face didn’t match the conversation.
“I guess it never came up. She’s quite a bit younger than me—”
“Not your sister,” James cut in, gently. His eyes were steady now, unreadable. “About Barty. Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
Ah. So Evan had been right—James was pissed about Barty. That was why he hadn’t called. Evan turned, pressed the glowing end of his cigarette against the brick wall. It smouldered out with a hiss, embers catching the breeze.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes still on the wall. Then he looked at James. “I get why you’re angry. I do. But it wasn’t my place. Reg had to be the one to say it. If I’d told you—or Sirius, or anyone—it would’ve just been letting him off the hook for something he needed to face himself.”
James stared at him, jaw tight, eyes too bright in the lamplight.
“Jesus Christ, Evan—I’m not talking about them.” His voice was low, but sharp-edged. “You don’t think I figured out it was Barty ages ago? I spent months in the studio recording their fucking love story. Reg’s big on metaphor, sure, but I’m not a complete idiot.”
He stepped forward slightly—not aggressive, just close enough to be impossible to ignore.
“I’m talking about you.” A beat. “Why didn’t you tell me Reg wasn’t the only one head over heels for Barty?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yeah. That.”
“You never asked,” said Evan.
It was a lame excuse and he knew it, but it was what he had. James looked away and even in the dim light, Evan could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed.
“I know,” James said after a moment. A pause. A breath. “Felt like a right tosser once I realised I’d been moaning about my shit love life while yours was worse.”
Evan snorted. “Don’t know if it’s worse.”
James shot him a look—sharp, incredulous. The kind that said, are you having me on?
“Mate, you live with the guy. And you’re childhood mates with his boyfriend. It’d be like me pining after Remus—but worse, ’cause at least I haven’t known Sirius since I was in nappies.”
Evan huffed a laugh. It slipped out before he could stop it—light and unexpected. It felt good.
“Yeah, all right. It’s pretty fucking bad.”
“No shit, mate.”
“When’d you figure it out?”
James flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his boot.
“Hyde Park,” he said. “Saw you making a run for it.”
He paused, then added, quieter, “Spent the last year staring heartbreak in the mirror. Long enough to recognise it on someone else’s face.”
Evan shot James a sideways look. “You didn’t call. Figured you were pissed at me.”
James rubbed the back of his neck, scuffed the toe of his boot against the cobbles. When he met Evan’s eye, there was something sheepish in his expression.
“No, I wasn’t angry,” he said. “Just felt like a right idiot. Didn’t know what to say. Realised I’d been a pretty shit friend and then—well, the longer I left it, the worse it got.”
He paused—just for a beat—like he was working up to something.
“That’s kind of why I’m here,” he admitted. “Wanted to talk. Check in. Say sorry. I should’ve asked. Ages ago. You told me—back at the start—you said there was someone, that it hadn’t worked out, that you got it. And I just kept unloading on you about Reg and never once thought to ask if you were all right.”
Something unwound in Evan—slow and unexpected. A tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, slipping loose all at once. It mattered. More than he’d let himself admit. That James wasn’t angry. That he didn’t feel betrayed. That he cared. Evan leaned back against the wall, let the cold stone settle against his spine.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m all right.”
There was a silence—the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. James giving him space to add more, if he wanted to. He didn’t.
After a minute, James nudged him, raised an eyebrow. “Museum of Childhood?”
Evan snorted. “Yeah. Should check it out if you have time. Absolutely tiny. Just a few rooms. All filled with creepy old china dolls and broken toys.”
“That sounds horrendous.”
“It’s fucking great.”
James’s laugh was so much better in person—warm, smooth, like melted dark chocolate. He offered Evan another cigarette, and Evan took it without thinking. James stepped in close, lit it for him—didn’t step back after. They were close. Closer than before. Close enough that it wouldn’t take much to close the gap completely. And once the thought landed, Evan couldn’t shake it. He was staring—knew he was—but couldn’t quite stop himself. James’s mouth. Fuck. He wished he’d paid more attention on New Year’s. Wished he’d kissed him, properly—before it meant anything. Wished he remembered it better. The shape of it. The feel. The taste. He could say something. Be honest. Not make the same mistake he made with Barty. James was single. For now, at least. Maybe he should just bite the bullet. Risk it. Tell James he wanted him. And if James said no, he wasn’t interested? Well, maybe that would be a good thing. Awful, but clean at least. He could cut the friendship off at the knees, not let it get awkward enough to quietly fall apart. He didn’t want that. Not really. But if he didn’t—if they kept going, kept talking, fell back into whatever they’d been building before? Well. Knowing his luck, it really would be Barty all over again. Evan opened his mouth. The words were right there. And then the door to the venue swung open, spilling out Barty, Reg, Sirius, and Remus—voices loud and careless. James took a small step back, just enough to break the spell. The moment collapsed.
“Starting to think you two had been kidnapped,” Sirius said—cheerful, oblivious.
Barty slung an arm around Evan’s shoulders as he lit his roll-up.
“We’re goin’ dancin’.”
“Where?”
“Gonna give Sirius his first Hive tae Five. Pop his cherry.”
It was a testament to how badly Evan wanted a redo of that moment—wanted James—that he almost considered it. Considered subjecting himself to the horror show that was The Hive.
Almost.
“Fuck no.”
“Aww, come on, Rosie.”
“Absolutely not. I’m going home.”
The next few days blurred: Fringe shows, pints in basement pubs, the electric sprawl of Edinburgh’s streets. The Meadows. Bristo Square. Piña Coladas at Paradise Palms. Dancing at the Jazz Bar. Whisky in The Captain’s Bar, where the bartender abandoned his post to pull out a fiddle—much to James’s utter delight. Evan let himself be dragged along, hardly even protesting when they ended up at The Shack—only marginally better than Club Tropicana. There were stand-up shows, theatre, and—at Evan’s insistence—interpretive dance. Barty and Reg’s long-suffering expressions were far more entertaining than the performance itself. He forced them all on a hungover hike up Arthur’s Seat on Sunday morning—payback for karaoke the night before. Payback for being forced to sing in front of three professional fucking musicians.
There were quieter moments, too.
A head poking round his door one evening—James stepping into the room, looking around like it was something worth seeing. Leaning against the wall, sipping tea. A conversation about nothing, made important by the simple fact that it was him, there, in Evan’s space. A morning when no one else was up yet—James flipping through records, raising an eyebrow at the selection. Amused. Not disappointed. A walk home from the pub, the others trailing behind. Just them. Just for a moment. But the moments never lasted. Always too brief to become anything more. Always interrupted. And then it was Monday. They were gone. And Evan was left cursing himself—because he should have done something. Forced it. Made space. Got James alone. Asked him to go for a drink. A walk. Knocked on his door after the others had gone to bed. Something. Anything. Instead of letting the weekend pass, instead of chickening out and letting James leave without saying anything.
James called the next week and Evan picked up, and they fell straight back into the routine they’d had before Hyde Park. September came, and Evan started classes. The workload was brutal, the reading extensive. But he liked it. Liked the challenge. Liked doing something that mattered to him. And then Christmas. Too soon. The city turned cold. Streets silvered with frost, windows fogged. He didn’t go to London. Skipped the trip. Made an excuse about deadlines, begged off seeing his parents. Spent Christmas with Barty and Plato instead. They managed to get a bit of tinsel round the cat’s neck. It didn’t last long—Plato clawed it off within minutes—but it made for a brilliant picture.
James called him on Boxing Day. They ended up talking for ages—an obscenely long conversation about absolutely fuck all. Easy. Comfortable. The sort of aimless talk that filled whole evenings without either of them noticing. At one point, James asked what his plans were for New Year’s, and Evan had to work hard not to think about the last one. He told James Barty was working. That Pandora had started uni in September—not Edinburgh like Evan had hoped, but not Oxford or Cambridge either. Leeds. How she’d talked their mum into that was beyond him, but she seemed to be loving it. So he was taking her to Paris for New Year. Part celebration. Part apology—for missing Christmas, for leaving her alone with their mother.
Evan waited for her, grinning, in the arrivals lounge at Charles de Gaulle. She appeared through the crowd, wheeling a tiny suitcase behind her—hair chopped to her chin, slightly uneven, sort of edgy. She was rocking eyeliner and a black mini skirt that would have had even their mother’s Botoxed forehead creasing. She looked nothing like their mother. She looked like her own person. Evan thought she looked fantastic.
They spent their days in the gutters and grandeur of the city. Le Musée des Égouts, because it was a running joke between them that it was the most “authentique” thing about Paris. Deyrolle, a surrealist’s fever dream of glassy-eyed foxes and frozen birds, all posed like macabre sculptures. The winner of their game of spot the most fucked up thing? A two-headed duck, which Pandora tried to convince him to buy. He declined. Then New Year’s Eve—champagne on the rooftop with Pandora, just the two of them watching as the fireworks bled colour into the sky. The best New Year’s he’d had in a long time. It wasn’t till he went to bed that he checked his phone.
A text received at 1:03 a.m.
“Happy New Year x”
Evan checked the time. 4 a.m. London was an hour behind. James would still be up. Still be out.
“Happy New Year back.”
Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. Not a text. A call. James—drunk. Sirius too, shouting in the background. A scuffle, then James, breathless, slurring his way through the worst bastardisation of the French language Evan had ever heard. Evan shut his eyes, let his head fall back against the pillow.
“Try again, mate.”
“That’s all I can remember. Not taken it since school. Madam Pierre was a right bitch.”
“I’m sure.”
“Like you could do better.”
He was fairly sure James wasn’t going to understand anything he said, and so he said exactly what he was thinking.
“T’es con mais au moins t’es mignon quand t’as trop bu.”
A pause. A long one. Then, “Say that again.”
“Why? You’ve got no idea what I even said.”
“Doesn’t matter. I really liked it.”
“Ça compte, ouais. Parce que si tu me dis que t’as aimé, je vais pas pouvoir m’en empêcher.”
“Shit, I think I’ve got a thing for French men.”
The sharp pull of want—pure and rough—coursed through Evan’s stomach. Too much champagne not to give in to it.
“Et moi, j’ai un faible pour toi.”
A low groan. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“Sirius speaks French. Go explore your kinks with him.”
James’s laughter—low, definitely flirty. The sound curling low in Evan’s gut. “Rather do it with you.”
“Just how fucked are you?”
“Not as fucked as I’d like to be.”
Evan didn’t know if he was amused or turned on by James’s shameless flirting. Maybe a mix of both.
“Smooth.”
“Come to London and speak filthy French to me and I’ll show you just how smooth I can be.”
And yeah—no, now he was sure. Turned on, definitely more turned on than amused.
“Tu me tentes.”
A slow hum. “Remember last New Year’s?”
“Vaguely.”
“Still want to snog a rockstar?”
Fuck. Yes.
Evan should have hung up. This was crossing over from something reasonably harmless into something else. He should have stopped it then before it bled into something real—he was sober enough to realise that he didn’t want this to happen over the phone. He shut his eyes. Took a breath and made himself do the sensible thing.
“Ask me that again when you’re sober.”
“That’s not a no,” James said.
Evan smiled. “No, it’s not.”
“Wish you were here. Edinburgh was nice. I like talking to you, but it’s better when you’re actually there. I miss you.”
Evan swallowed hard. The silence stretched—thick, waiting.
Then, quiet—probably too quiet for James to hear.
“Yeah. Me too.”