Evan adjusted the phone against his ear and frowned at his laptop, finger gliding over the trackpad as he scrolled back through the Word doc, hunting for a missing reference. He was sure he’d added it.
“—and he pure looks like he’s about tae deck me right there, fuckin’ huge, ken? A beast o’ a man. Thought I wis done for. But then the lad clocks Sirius, and next thing he’s aw ‘you’re Sirius Black!’ And Sirius, dead calm, goes Aye, that’s me. This here’s ma pal. Would you mind no’ bashin’ his heid in? And suddenly the guy’s apologisin’ and askin’ for an autograph.”
Evan’s eyes caught on the stray citation—two pages adrift from where it was meant to be. Meanwhile, the story rambled on: something about a warehouse rave and someone’s dirty laundry. He half-listened, dragging the rogue reference back into place. The shift knocked one of his figures straight into the middle of a block of text. He muttered a sharp “fuck’s sake” under his breath.
“—Honestly though, I tell ye wit—feel like I’ve been colonised by the fuckin’ English.”
Evan blinked. He’d completely lost the thread of the conversation. “You and half the modern world.”
“Posh twat, but aw that said, he’s no’ a bad guy.”
“Who?” Evan asked. “Sirius?” He was fairly sure Barty had been talking about Sirius a minute ago.
“You’re no’ even listenin’, are you? I was talkin’ about James.”
“James?” Evan paused, giving Barty his full attention for the first time since he’d picked up. “I thought you hated James?”
A pause. “I never said that.”
“The last time we spoke you called him, and I quote: ‘an attention-seeking posh wanker,’ so I’d say it was implied.”
“Naw. I said he wis a ‘try-hard-lead-singer-syndrome-having posh wanker.’ It’s no the same thing at all.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Right, my mistake.”
“Besides. He is aw o’ those things. I stand by that.” A beat. Longer this time. Evan could practically hear the shrug through the phone. “Got tae know him a bit better, is aw. Realised I might’ve been a wee bit quick tae judge. Also helps that he’s payin’ me a fuckton for this tour. Might’ve made me a bit more... amenable.”
Evan snorted. “Money’ll do that.” Then, Barty’s words landed and he frowned. “Wait,” he said. “James is paying you personally? Not the band?”
“Assume so. Told me tae invoice him direct. Somethin’ about havin’ creative control over the band’s image. Apparently he did marketing or PR or some shite at uni. They’ve got a publicist, but he still handles a lot of the promo himself. All the admin, all the organising. Works like fuckin’ mad, ken. Treats it like a full-time job. Cares a lot—about everybody. Always doin’ wit’s best for them.” A pause. “Didn’t want tae admit it at first. Wanted tae hate him—since he had the hots for my boyfriend an’ aw. But I cannae. No really. Not when he’s constantly lookin’ out for everyone. Payin’ me more than he probably should too.”
Evan knew this about James. Knew he was the one keeping it all together—the heart of the band in every sense. It wasn’t just the work ethic, though that was there in spades; it was how James cared. The way he gave. Looked out for people like it was instinct. It was what Evan liked most about him. What made him different. What made him good. Better than anyone else Evan had ever met, really. Still—he hadn’t expected Barty of all people to recognise it. Let alone say it out loud. Barty, who judged fast and forgave slow, who had every right to hold a grudge against James. Hearing him give James any credit at all was unexpected—what had changed? What wasn’t Barty saying? What exactly had shifted him from James Potter is a tosser to this new, reluctant admiration? And then Barty spoke again.
“He’s a good person, like. Might be a posh twat, but he still does the right thing when it counts.”
Evan snorted. “If James is a posh twat, what does that make me?”
Barty clicked his tongue. “Aye, I ken. Seen your folks’ house. Seen our flat, fae that matter. I know where you come from. Still doesn’t change that you’re the best person I know.”
Evan rolled his eyes, even though Barty couldn’t see it. “Fuck off—”
“Shut the fuck up and listen a minute, yeah?” Barty cut in. Not angry. Just firm. Steady.
“You gave me somewhere tae live when ye barely even knew me. Me and the cat. Did it ’cause you knew I had nowhere else tae go. Stuck by me through all the Reggie shite—through every messy, fucked-up breakup I dragged you through. Never let me get away wi’ bein’ a dick. Always called me out. Always set me straight.”
He exhaled—sharp and tight, like it cost him something. Like the words were splintered on the way out.
“You’re my fuckin’ moral compass. When I dinnae know what the fuck I’m doin’, when I think I’ve fucked it—you’re the one I ask myself about. What would Rosie do? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. The one who’s done the most for me. And I’ve realised lately... I’ve no always been the best friend back.”
“Fuck off—”
“It’s true. I leaned on you too hard when Reggie wisnae there. Took you for granted. Didn’t mean to. Just got caught up in my own shite. Never really clocked how much you were carryin’. How you were always lookin’ out for me. How much you went out of your way tae fix things between me and Reggie every time one of us fucked it.”
A long silence stretched between them. Dense. Loaded. Full of things Evan didn’t have words for, not yet. His throat felt tight. He cleared it.
“Where’s this coming from?” he asked, though he already had a feeling he knew.
It wasn’t like Barty to volunteer self-reflection. He was many things—brilliant, magnetic, razor-sharp, loyal to a fault—but introspective? Not often. And almost never while sober. This had James written all over it.
A sigh on the other end. “Look. I ken you’re pals wi’ him. James, I mean. Figured out it was him you’d been talkin’ tae all this time. Figured you hadn’t told me ’cause you thought I’d be a wanker about it. And you’re probably right—I would’ve been. That’s fair.” A pause. “Honestly? When I put it together I didn’t take it well. Might’ve accused him of bein’ underhanded. Thought I was bein’ protective. Thought maybe he was usin’ you tae get tae Reggie. He set me straight pretty quick.”
Evan leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Right,” he said, slow and flat. Two worlds colliding.
“Aye, well. He made it clear he cares about you. Properly. And then he basically told me I’d been a shite friend to you. Treated you like an emotional support boyfriend whenever it suited me. Said I didn’t have much of a leg tae stand on—and he was right.”
Barty’s voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it. Like it cost him something to admit.
“He was nice about it, mind. Said it in a way that made it land. Made me realise I’d been a pure wanker—tae him, and tae you. Wanted tae say I’m sorry. I love you, mair than I do just about anyone. You’re my family. And I dinnae say that enough. Or how grateful I am tae have you.”
Evan didn’t speak for a long time. He couldn’t. There was too much knotted up in his chest—complicated, uncomfortable feelings he didn’t quite want to examine yet. Especially not the part about James. About James telling Barty he cared. That would have to wait. For now, he focused on Barty.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said, rougher than intended.
“I know. But wanted tae say it all the same.”
Evan ran a hand through his hair. “Appreciate it. But it’s not necessary. You and Reg were a right fucking headache—should’ve got your shit together years ago. But look, it was worth it to see you both happy. You’ve got something, something people don’t find often.” He paused. “Honestly? Sometimes I’m a bit jealous.”
It was as close to the truth as Evan was willing to get. And—he realised as he said it—it was more true now than it would’ve been a year ago. Sure, there was still a trace of the other kind of jealousy. The kind that wasn’t really about Barty and Reg together, but about Barty himself. But it had faded. Worn thin. More memory than real feeling now. A ghost of an old injury—ached a bit, but didn’t really hurt. Not anymore. He wondered when that had happened. When it had stopped hurting. Thought maybe it had been ebbing for a while, receding slowly, like a wound healing so gradually you didn’t notice it closing until one day you looked down and found a scar where the skin used to be open. He didn’t know exactly when the change had come. But he was pretty damn sure he knew who had brought it on.
James.
It had probably started that night on the couch—messy flat, too-hot Thai food—when he’d turned up planning to warn James off Reg and somehow ended up showing him more of himself than he’d meant to. More than he had to anyone in years. Maybe ever. Had told him about Barty, not in name but told him nonetheless. First time he’d ever said it out loud. And he’d done it completely by accident.
A laugh from Barty—soft, familiar—pulled him back. Dragged his thoughts away from James and back to the conversation at hand.
“Dinnae go gettin’ all sentimental on me, Rosie. Ken what you’re like wi’ emotions—might fuckin’ implode if you’re no careful.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”
“Aye, there’s the emotionally stunted prick I know an’ love.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m hanging up before you start writing me a goddamn love letter, you sappy fuck. Go direct all that at Reg, yeah?”
“Aye, aye—oh, wait. Before you go. You comin’ tae Barca?”
“Think so.”
“Be good tae have ye there. Everyone’s pure dying tae see you.”
There was something in Barty’s voice—light, offhand, but edged with something else. Something a little too deliberate. And Evan thought Barty probably knew, or at least suspected, more than he was letting on. About Evan. About James. About how Evan felt about James.
Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”
“All right. Bye, Rosie.”
“Bye.”
Barcelona. Evan had been thinking about it for days—since James had asked him, again, if he wanted to fly out for the last show of the tour. It wasn’t the first time. Amsterdam, Prague, Rome—James had asked, and every time Evan had found an excuse. Thesis, he’d said. Deadline looming like a guillotine. And sure, that was true. But it wasn’t the whole truth. James hadn’t mentioned missing him since New Year’s. Hadn’t brought up the call. Hadn’t asked him to speak filthy French again. And Evan had wanted him to. Really, really fucking wanted him to.
The last show was two weeks away. In a week, his thesis would be done. Submitted. Gone. No more excuses. No more hiding behind his laptop. No reason not to book a flight. No reason not to show up. No reason not to see James. And that should have been fine. That should have been great. Except for one thing. One really fucking big thing. He’d made himself a promise after Edinburgh—after the call on New Year’s. Sworn that the next time he saw James he’d act. Wouldn’t chicken out again. Would do what he hadn’t had the guts to do before, not with Barty, not with anyone. Because this wasn’t just want. This was deeper. Heavier. Messier. There were feelings. Real fucking feelings.
The thing was, Evan was terrified. Terrified James didn’t feel the same. But maybe even more terrified that he did. Because what then? He’d never gotten this far before. Never let himself. Not after watching Barty fall in love with someone else. He didn’t know how to do this—didn’t know if he’d be any good at it. The last actual relationship he’d been in had been in his teens. He didn’t know how to do the adult thing. Didn’t know how to do anything that wasn’t casual, wasn’t just sex. What if he fucked it up and lost James completely?
He didn’t think he could handle that.
But he also knew he couldn’t keep going like this. He had to take the plunge. Put it all on the line and hope for the best. So yeah. He was going to Barcelona. And that scared the shit out of him. Every time he thought about it, he felt it—that moment just after you jump, suspended before the fall. Caught between hope and absolute fucking terror. Standing on a precipice with no idea whether what waited below was solid ground or a thousand-foot drop.
Evan submitted his thesis on a Friday. Master’s done. Gone. PhD application sitting half-finished, waiting on results.
It felt strange. Anticlimactic.
Months of work, weeks of late nights, of feeling like he was bashing his head against a wall—sent off with the click of a mouse.
Done. Gone. Finished.
No fanfare. No catharsis. He went out with a few people from his MA, got wrecked, let the whisky burn and blur and bury the night. It was a blessing his phone died while he was out—because there was a Marauders song playing in the bar. One of the big ones. The kind people shouted along to, hands in the air, drinks sloshing. And if his phone hadn’t been dead, he might’ve called James. Might’ve told him too much—drunk, desperate, wanting. Might’ve fucked it completely.
But his phone did die. And when he stumbled home, too far gone to do anything but collapse onto his bed fully clothed, he thanked whatever god was out there for small mercies. Because the next morning, dragging himself upright—head splitting, stomach churning—he plugged in his phone. Scrolled mindlessly through socials while waiting for the kettle to boil.
And that’s when he saw it.
Not one of Barty’s photos. This one was attached to a Daily Mirror article—complete with a trashy headline. James. Takeaway coffee in hand, scowling straight into the camera. The harsh flash caught the edge of his cheekbones, the crease between his brows, the tight line of his jaw. But it was the other hand—the one not holding the coffee—that made Evan’s stomach lurch because it was holding someone else’s. She was beautiful. Long red hair spilling in waves, Ray-Bans pushed up into it, jeans and a plain t-shirt worn like a statement. Cool. Effortless. Perfect. Like she belonged there, next to him. Evan clicked the link. Calling it an article was generous. Gossip, barely disguised speculation—but it gave him what he hadn’t wanted. A name.
Lily Evans.
His stomach dropped. Dropped right through the floor. Because he knew who Lily Evans was. Knew exactly who she was. The first person James had ever loved. The first person to break his heart. His ex-girlfriend. Only from the look of the photo, there was nothing ex about it. He did a quick Google. It was everywhere—half the gossip columns in the country shouting in capitals about James Potter spotted out with a stunning redhead. Twelve different shots of what looked like a morning coffee date. James visibly pissed off, Lily looking perfect.
Evan gave in to the hangover then. Took a Xanax. Crawled back into bed, dragging Plato with him. The cat purred against his chest—warm, grounding—but did nothing to quiet the hollow weight in his stomach. He made the decision then. He wasn’t going to Barcelona. Fuck that. He wasn’t telling James how he felt—not if Lily Evans was in the picture. He didn’t stand a chance against her. And he wasn’t sitting through James being happy with someone else. Not again. So he turned his phone off. Completely. No texts, no calls, nothing.
He knew he was being dramatic. Knew he was being a dick. Knew James had almost definitely tried to reach him—probably wondering where he was, why he hadn’t shown up. But every time he thought about turning his phone back on, about hearing James’s voice while Lily fucking Evans was seared into his brain, it just felt too raw. Too painful. He felt so fucking stupid. Stupid for thinking maybe this time it would work out. Stupid for thinking the universe might give him a break. Of course it wouldn’t. Because Evan Rosier had shit luck when it came to love. And because—of course—they had to share a name. In more ways than one. Roses and lilies. Evan and Evans. He tried to laugh about it. The way he usually did. Tried to find some bitter amusement in the cosmic cruelty of it. But he couldn’t. There was nothing funny about this. He couldn’t laugh. Not even in that grim, twisted way he usually managed.
This just fucking hurt. So he didn’t go to Barcelona.
When he finally turned his phone back on several days later, it lit up like a Christmas tree. Five missed calls from James, texts too. Three from Barty. One each from Sirius and Reg. He ignored them all in favour of an older text from Alice—a girl from his MA. Must have messaged him after the night out, the one Evan barely remembered.
“Hey, it was really cool talking to you last night. Hope you got home all right.”
He frowned, trying to place the conversation they’d apparently had. Alice was nice. Quiet. Wore Docs and heavy eyeliner. Didn’t say much in seminars, but had a dry sort of humour in the group chat. He vaguely remembered standing outside with her, both of them smoking. She’d asked him what kind of music he liked. That was it. They’d talked about music.
“Sorry, just seen this. Yeah, you too.”
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Vanished. Came back.
“Haha no worries. Was actually wondering if you’d maybe want to go for a drink sometime?”
Evan rubbed a hand down his face.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
The dots blinked. Disappeared. Blinked again.
“Maybe. Depends on if you say yes or not.”
Three laughing emojis.
Evan grimaced. He’d always hated emojis. There was something inherently cringeworthy about them. He was going to say no. Emoji abuse aside, she was dangerously close to his real type—a bit punk, a bit edgy, a bit too much like the people he actually wanted. He had a rule: never date anyone he might actually end up liking. Not while he knew he wanted someone else. First Barty. Now James.
He was going to say no.
But then—Lily fucking Evans popped into his mind. And something in him just snapped.
Fuck it.
He was sad. He was lonely. And right now, he felt pretty fucking sorry for himself. So instead, he said yes. They went for a drink. For once Evan didn’t suggest anything difficult—no experimental theatre, no museum of questionable content. There was a slam poetry night on at The City Cafe, something he’d usually have gone for, but he didn’t. Instead he met Alice at some industrial-looking bar in Leith. One of those microbrewery places that smelled like burnt toast. They talked about school, about what came next. Alice was applying for a doctorate too, so they commiserated over research proposals, funding, the bureaucratic hell of the application process. It was all fine—until a Marauders song came on over the speakers. He was fairly sure he actually flinched.
Alice noticed. Tilted her head, curious. “You don’t like them?”
Evan shrugged, eyes on his drink. “Bad associations.”
A knowing smile.
“Remind you of someone you’re trying not to think about?”
“Exactly that.”
She was surprisingly cool with it. Didn’t push—just nodded, said she’d been through a bad breakup the year before, she got it. He didn’t correct her, just changed the subject. She was easy to talk to. And Evan thought maybe he could like her. Thought maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this was what he should have done years ago. Maybe he didn’t need to want someone so intensely it hurt. Maybe that kind of love—the epic, all-consuming kind—just wasn’t for him. Maybe it could just be nice. Comfortable. Maybe that was simply what life had in store. They drank too much and ended up back at his flat. The sex was fine. Alice was more into it than he was, but he liked the feeling of having someone want him. Of having someone say his name, even in the wrong voice. Even when he wished it was someone else.
The next day he called Barty back. Muttered a half-hearted apology for missing his calls, asked if everything was all right. There was a pause. Too long. Then Barty—careful, too careful—his voice softer than usual, the edges of his Scottish lilt smoothed with something that sounded a lot like concern.
“Aye, fine. Was worried. Thought you were coming out a couple days ago and then you never showed up. And no one could get hold of you.”
Evan exhaled, didn’t like how gentle Barty sounded. Like he knew. Like he was trying to break something unpleasant softly. He forced an excuse.
“Hey, look—tell the boys I’m sorry, would you? I was absolutely shattered after handing in the thesis. Couldn’t hack the flight. Just needed to crash out for a bit. Tell them all good luck for tonight, though, yeah? I’ll see them all in London sometime soon.”
“You headed back with Reg after, or are you coming home?” Evan asked.
“Neither. Everyone’s going their separate ways for a bit. Me and Reggie are off tae Greece—beach, sun, doin’ fuck all. Sirius and Rem are staying in Barca. Pete’s headed back tae London, says he’s tired of being a third wheel.”
A third wheel.
Evan’s stomach dipped. Right. Because Pete and James had been the only single ones. Except James wasn’t single anymore if the newspapers were to be believed. Evan didn’t ask what James was doing. Where he was going, or who he was going with. Barty didn’t mention him. Didn’t bring up Lily. Didn’t touch on any of it—which only made Evan more certain Barty was avoiding it on purpose. Avoiding it because he knew Evan didn’t want to hear it. So instead Evan told Barty about his date. Tried to sound casual, offhand, like it didn’t matter. Said it had been good. Said he might even go on a second one. Maybe.
Barty went quiet. Too quiet.
And that was when Evan knew for certain that he knew. Knew the real reason Evan hadn’t shown up in Barcelona. Knew being tired was just an excuse. Something to save face. But Barty didn’t call him out on it.
And Evan was grateful.
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