“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered, tilting the magazine, squinting at the glossy page like it had personally insulted him. “Maybe I should start hitting the gym.”
James snorted from his position on the other couch. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw you drink water. The gym might be a stretch.”
Sirius scowled and snapped the magazine shut. “Next to you, I look like a pipe cleaner.”
“You look fine.”
“Yeah, and you look like a fucking ad for sex. Did they digitally enhance your abs? Be honest.”
James rolled his eyes and yanked the copy of NME from Sirius. “Still don’t get why I was the only one shirtless.”
Pete, slouched so low in the armchair he was basically horizontal, grunted. “That’s ’cause the rest of us look better with clothes on. No one’s crying out for more me, Sirius or Baby Black over there than they already get, mate, trust me.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Barty. “Ah’d pay good money for more of Reggie.”
Reg, cross-legged between Barty’s knees with a bass in his lap, didn’t look up. But the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. Pete pulled a face and then jabbed a finger in James’s direction.
“I swear to God, if you get a fucking girlfriend before tour, I’m leaving the band. I’m not even kidding. I refuse to be the last man standing. I need a proper wingman. Not a housewife in leather trousers—or a lovesick twink with commitment issues. Someone who’s invested. Someone who’s not going to skip out early to go shag their boyfriend.”
James laid a hand on his heart. “Till death or domesticity do us part, Pete, I swear.”
Pete sniffed. “Good. ’Cause it’s bad enough with those two—” he gestured towards Sirius and Remus, tangled together on the opposite sofa like a romcom cliché—“and now Oxford Barbie is bringing his boyfriend on tour as well? What are we? Fucking ABBA? Bloody hell.”
Barty coming on tour had actually been James’s idea. A peace offering. An attempt at friendship—for real this time. No ulterior motives. Well. None aimed at Reg, anyway. James had ulterior motives, all right. He wanted Barty to stop looking at him like he was one wrong word away from being a threat. Wanted him onside—because it never hurt if the best mate of the guy you were into didn’t think you were a complete tosser.
And James was into Evan. Big time.
Edinburgh had been a revelation. Or maybe lots of little ones, one after another. Either way—he was in trouble. Big fucking trouble. Worse than Reg—because with Evan, he actually knew him. Knew that despite looking like he’d been assembled on Savile Row, if you got him drunk, he’d talk at length about dismantling capitalism and the redistribution of wealth. Knew he was the kind of guy who, when dragged into karaoke, chose Buzzcocks’ “Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)”. A choice so on the nose it was almost painful. And yet—perfect. James had laughed so hard he nearly dropped his pint, leaning against the wall, breathless, because he knew. Knew it was directed at him. A piss-take. A mockery of everything they’d been through—twisted into something darkly hilarious. A nod to shared pain. A nod to them, one no one else would catch. And then Evan, when he was finished, flipped off the crowd and sauntered offstage. And James had—well. It had been hot. Hot as fuck. Evan was hot as fuck. Sarcastic. Sharp. Devastatingly attractive.
The guy was a walking contradiction—dry wit and profanity laced with high-minded politics, a fuck-you attitude wrapped in a package that looked like it should’ve come with a country estate. A man who, by all appearances, should have been insufferable. But wasn’t. Not even close. And of course Evan was a cat person. Of course he’d want the furry embodiment of “fuck off” as a pet. James was gone. Utterly and truly gone. He knew that. The problem was he didn’t know what to do about it. Edinburgh had felt like something. Weighted looks. Tension. An undercurrent of maybe. He’d left feeling good—nervous, sure, but hopeful. Excited. Like the beginning of something inevitable.
Then December came and went. Evan didn’t come to London. New Year’s rolled around, and James spent the entire night thinking about him. Thinking about last New Year’s. Wishing he’d kissed Evan back. Naturally, James made an utter tit of himself and drunk-called him. It was all a blur—the details of the conversation lost to the haze—well, apart from a slightly unfortunate half-memory of telling Evan he sounded hot speaking French. Still, from what he did remember, it had been flirty. It felt like something. Like a continuation of Edinburgh. A spark.
But then—nothing.
James was stuck. Evan was busy with his master’s. And James was once again buried in tour prep. Pete’s dad had made somewhat of a miraculous recovery, cancer in remission for the time being, and so they were back to business as usual. Tour set to start in May. Minnie had insisted on adding three more cities, and another ten days to the schedule. And James was deep in the midst of pulling the whole thing together. He’d thought about going back to Edinburgh but couldn’t think of a decent excuse. Not one that didn’t reek of desperation anyway. And Evan wasn’t likely to come to London before they left.
James didn’t know what to do. He wanted to move things forward. Thought that if they were just in the right situation, together, something might happen. Something real. Something more. He just had no idea how to engineer that situation. It was driving him mad.
Reg had been distant. An idea. A fantasy. Cool, aloof, unattainable. But Evan? Evan was real. Too real. And that scared the hell out of him. Because James knew—knew—from the way Evan was the first person he wanted to tell when something weird or brilliant or soul-crushing happened. Knew from the way his name hovered at the edge of every good and bad moment. From the way he made everything sharper, funnier, more alive. James knew Evan was it. The thing James had wanted Reg to be. The thing he’d wanted Lily to be. Evan could be that. And more, because he was fast becoming James’s best friend too. And that terrified James.
Because as much as he wanted Evan—as much as he wanted more—he didn’t want to lose what they already had. He wasn’t sure he could bear it if he did. And so James had taken an opportunity when he saw it and asked Barty if he wanted to come on tour. Made a point of joining Barty, Reg, and Sirius for drinks one weekend when Barty was down.
“You got plans for the summer?” he asked with a grin that he hoped said: I come in peace.
Barty eyed him with sharp scrutiny. “Not as of yet.”
“You know we’re going on tour?”
“Aye. Might’ve heard a thing or two.”
“Could use a photographer.”
A flicker of surprise. Not what Barty had been expecting, clearly.
“Saw your prints when I was at your flat. Looked you up after, checked out your events. I think it’d be great to have you along. Doesn’t have to be the whole tour, if you’ve got other commitments—but I wanted to float the idea.”
Barty watched him. Measured. As if weighing the angles, testing for traps. James held steady. Then—
“I’ll think about it.”
James grinned. “That’s all I ask.”
A week later, Reg told James Barty was in. James grinned into the phone. Evan’s three closest mates in one place—plus James? Surely the guy couldn’t say no to that. He’d have to come to at least one show. And James couldn’t help thinking that maybe—just maybe—that would be enough. Enough to tip things forward. Enough to turn almost into something.
They hit the road in May. London to Paris. Amsterdam. Lisbon. Berlin. Every city a blur of soundchecks, late nights, and sweat-drenched sets. Barty was there through all of it—sharp-edged, camera always in hand, never far from Reg, like something unseen tethered them together. James tried to chip away at him. Sometimes he thought he caught a flicker of something—almost-friendship—but the suspicion in Barty’s eyes never fully faded. James was starting to think it never would. What Barty lacked in warmth, he made up for behind the lens. Ruthless, instinctive, always ready before anyone asked. He made even their worst performances look transcendent—like mythology in motion. In Rome, James found him backstage at a battered table, sorting memory cards with surgical focus.
“Got more shots of Pete’s nose hair?” James asked, sliding a coffee across.
Barty didn’t look up. “Aye. Got a whole folder dedicated tae the Pettigrew Nasal Forest.”
And for a second, it was easy between them. In Amsterdam, after their best set yet, they all got spectacularly drunk. Pete tried to convince them both that Red Bull mixed with red wine was the next big thing.
“That might be the most horrifyin’ thing Ah’ve ever witnessed,” Barty muttered, shaking his head.
“After Sirius’s laundry basket,” James agreed.
Barty snorted, and for a minute it felt like maybe they could be friends—but then Reg appeared. And just like that—the shift. Again. Barty’s smile thinned. His body recalibrated. Like he’d remembered who James was. Watching. Measuring. Ready to intervene. The subtle positioning. The glances. The quiet calculations behind Barty’s eyes when James and Reg laughed a little too easily. And James began to think Barty would never be able to get over the fact that James had wanted Reg. Would never not view him as a potential threat, never quite fully believe that James wasn’t trying to nab his boyfriend.
The work? Impeccable. He was a great photographer and he nailed the vibe of the band perfectly. James was happy with that. It was just that he’d been hoping for more—the potential for some sort of friendship was there. Or it would’ve been if Barty didn’t so obviously trust James about as far as he could throw him. And it was bloody inconvenient, because James had rather been hoping for something. A crack in the armour. Hoping if he got to know the guy he might be able to glean some subtle insight into how to win Evan over, get some sideways tips from his best mate. But it didn’t look like that was in the cards. Probably ever. Barty kept him at arm’s length, always. Civil, professional, even occasionally funny—but guarded.
In Vienna, James wrote Call Me Tonight. He played it a week later for the others—guitar in his lap, voice low and rough from too many gigs, too many late nights. He was nervous. Felt exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. But he played it anyway. After, when James could muster the courage to look up—half embarrassed, half proud—he knew instantly that he’d done it. Finally written something good. Really good. He could tell from the way Sirius and Reg were looking at him.
And he’d done it alone, just him. No one else there to smooth his words over. And that felt important. There was a silence. Then Pete—
“Absolutely not, mate. Fuck right off with that.” He jabbed his beer can in James’s direction. “You promised: no girls on tour. Fucksake. You’re meant to be slagging it up with me. Jesus, mate. You fucking suck.”
“There’s no girl, Pete, I promise,” said James, trying not to laugh at the annoyed look on his drummer’s face.
“Yeah, but you clearly fucking wish there was. Begging some bird to call you back like a fucking sap. And that’s just as bad. Might even be worse because you’re not even getting any and you’re still letting me down.”
Sirius snorted. “Don’t think it’s a girl he’s got in mind, Pete.” He waggled his eyebrows at James. “Go on, James, who’s the lucky bloke?”
Pete frowned, sceptical. “There’s no way you know that’s about a bloke. You just see gay everywhere.”
Reg cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with Sirius on this one. The bit about being on his knees?” He raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly the most heterosexual imagery he could’ve gone for, Pete.”
Pete mulled that over for a minute. “Okay, yeah. Put like that, I can see the gay.” Reg laughed and Pete flipped him off. “Excuse me for not being fluent in homosexual.”
Later that night, there was a knock at James’s hotel door. It was Barty—four-pack in hand, sauntering in like he owned the place. Like it had always been his. Once, James had hated that about him. That unbothered confidence. The way he could take up space without asking. Now? He sort of admired it. Barty cracked open a beer and handed it over.
“Think it’s past time you and I had a wee heart-tae-heart, don’t you?”
“This something I walk away from with all my limbs?” James joked, because Barty had a worryingly serious expression on his face and James wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Barty shrugged. “From what I gather”—he lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke in blatant defiance of the hotel’s no-smoking policy—“you’ve got your eye on my best friend. So, naturally, if you hurt him in any way, I’ll fuckin’ end you. But apart from that, aye. You can keep your limbs. Probably.”
James sank down onto the bed and took a long swallow of beer. Right. That kind of talk.
“I’ve got no intention of hurting him.”
Barty’s stare pinned him in place, sharp, dissecting. “He’s no a stand-in for Reggie.”
A flare of defensiveness in James’s chest, hot and immediate. “Bit fucking hypocritical, coming from you.”
Barty cocked his head. “Not sure where you get off calling me hypocritical. I’m just lookin’ out for him.”
“Yeah, ’cause you’ve never treated him as a stand-in. What about all the times Reg wasn’t there and he was?”
A flicker of something raw crossed Barty’s face. A quick glance away. Guilt, maybe. James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look,” said James. “I’m sorry. Sorry I had a thing for your boyfriend. Sorry Reg couldn’t get his shit together sooner, and he hurt you. He hurt me too. But I’m past it. Honestly. I know Evan’s not Reg. I don’t want him to be. I’m not trying to pull anything dodgy here. I like him. A lot. Have done for a while.”
A long silence. One that stretched uncomfortably. Then Barty spoke:
“I’ve been a bit of a twat tae you. Although in my defence I thought you were playin’ the long game. Reg kept telling me no, you weren’t like that. Dinnae really believe him tae be honest. Thought you were trying tae make nice with me tae look better tae Reg. Realised earlier I might have been a bit unfair tae you, that I hadn’t really given you a proper chance. Realised that about the same time I realised it wisnae Reg you were trying to impress by being pals wi’ me. So aye, sorry about that.”
James didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything. Just took a swig of his beer. Barty watched him with those dark, calculating eyes, and then he asked, “You think he feels the same?”
James exhaled. Then rubbed the back of his neck. “I honestly don’t know. Half the time I think yeah, maybe he does, but the other half? I can’t even tell when he’s taking the piss.”
“Aye, sounds ’bout right. He’s a headfuck of a human bein’ if ever there were one. Dinnae envy you that.” Another pause as Barty stubbed out his cigarette in one of the characterless white hotel mugs, the type every hotel seemed to have. Then, his voice gentler, he said, “Heard him on the phone. Couldn’t figure out who he was talkin’ to—doesn’t call his family, not even his sister, and he actually likes her. Think I’ve seen him call Reggie a grand total of once, and that was just tae ask him tae buy milk. He’s not really a talk-late-into-the-night kind of guy, or at least he’s no wi’ anyone else. Is wi’ you though. Think that probably means somethin’.”
Warmth spread through James, and he ducked his head, fighting off a smile. “To be fair, it’s usually me who calls him. He mainly just tells me I’m an idiot.”
“Wouldn’t pick up if he didn’t want tae talk to you.” Barty shrugged. “Gonna take a wee bit o’ adjusting. No thinkin’ of you as a would-be boyfriend-nicking bastard. But willing tae try. Tae be pals if you are. Reckon if he likes you, Reg likes you—you’re probably worth it.”
“Thanks, I think,” said James. And then he asked what he’d wanted to ask for weeks. “What do you think I should do?”
Barty shot him a sly look. “Well, I can tell you from personal experience there’s nothing quite like being serenaded by a beautiful man on a stage.”
James laughed, shook his head. “Now I know you’re trying to sabotage me. Think we both know he’d tell me to fuck off if I tried to pull something like that.”
“Oh, he’s goin’ tae tell you to fuck off regardless.”
“Fair point. How’d you know it was about him? The song, I mean.”
Barty raised an eyebrow. “A record collection that brings dead songs back? It wisnae about Reg, that’s for sure. And he’s a Camel Blue man if given the choice. Marlboro and modern art? Had tae be about Rosie.”
“Think he’ll hate it?”
Barty’s grin was sharp, wicked. “Naw, he’ll call you a fuckin’ idiot but I think he’ll like it just fine.”
James grinned, then gave a half shrug. “Kind of like it when he does that.”
Barty’s laugh was full and unrestrained, and for the first time since James had known him he saw no suspicion, no hard edge, nothing but amusement—and he thought maybe, just maybe, he’d finally won him over.
← Previous chapter . Contents . Next chapter →