Plato rubbed his small, furred face determinedly against Evan’s cheek, purring up a storm in his ear—a relentless little bulldozer demanding breakfast. Evan groaned, swatting at the cat with half-hearted annoyance before dragging a pillow over his head. It didn’t deter Plato. He kneaded at Evan’s chest with insistent paws, sharp claws digging into his ribs like tiny knives of spiteful love.
“Okay. Fuck, I’m awake,” Evan grumbled, voice cracked and hoarse.
He pushed the cat off and dragged himself upright. Immediately, his stomach lurched in warning. Nausea clawed up his throat like a second heartbeat. He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly, gripping the edge of the bed like it might anchor him. His limbs ached. His skull felt stuffed with damp cotton. His joints protested every movement like they’d been rusted over. It wasn’t just a hangover—it was the ghost of everything he hadn’t wanted to feel crashing back into his bloodstream. He felt like death warmed over.
Blindly, he groped for his phone on the nightstand and cracked one eye open. Six thirty-two a.m. He hadn’t stumbled into bed until just shy of four. Less than three fucking hours of sleep. Fucking cat. He stumbled barefoot to the kitchen, passing a crumpled hoodie and an abandoned glass of whisky—the detritus of his arrival home the night before. The sight of the alcohol made his stomach twist threateningly. He washed Plato’s bowl with care. Rinsed. Dried. Then opened a pouch of food and dumped it in. The meaty, gelatinous smell was near lethal. He sagged forward against the counter, fighting a fresh wave of nausea that seriously made him consider throwing up in the sink.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered to the cat.
Plato, of course, ignored him. He ate like he hadn’t been fed in weeks.
Evan stood there for a while, head bowed over the sink, letting the tap run just to hear something constant. The morning was too quiet. Too sharp around the edges. A shower. That was what he needed. Not caffeine. Not clarity. Not yet. Just heat. Steam. He’d face the world after. Maybe. And that was a big fucking maybe. He stood under the scalding spray for half an hour, unmoving, letting the water pummel him into something vaguely resembling a person. Two days of heavy drinking—first the date with Alice, then a night out with some sort-of-mates from undergrad, more just to avoid being alone during the Marauders’ show, the one he hadn’t been there for, the one Lily Evans probably had been at. Then a solo self-pity session when he’d gotten home. Too much whisky. No more drinking today. Quite possibly no more drinking ever again. He let his forehead rest against the tiles of the shower while seriously considering the perks of a life of sobriety.
Evan emerged from the shower slightly more human. He popped a Xanax and then set about deciding on a plan for the day. Today was not the day to face the world. It was also not the day to go straight edge and sober—today was the day for smoking the hangover away. A day to be hazy. A day to soften the sharp edges of the world while he slowly dragged himself towards accepting the sharp, unpleasant truth of James and Lily.
A rummage through the kitchen drawer produced everything he needed, and he settled onto the couch with slow, deliberate movements. The joint burned between his fingers, his head lightened. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl and disappear. He was dozing, that sweet spot between sleep and awake—warm, comfortable, a documentary about big cats murmuring in the background. Plato curled on his chest like a heat pack, his head tracking the birds on the TV with sharp little movements. Evan was happily, fuzzily drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, enjoying the sun pouring in through the open window and the warm cat chattering on his chest. Then slowly he became aware of a pounding noise, deep and insistent, rattling through his skull. It stopped. Started again. He realised—it wasn’t in his head. It was coming from the hall.
Someone was banging on his door. He waited, hoping whoever it was would just go away. They didn’t. Groaning, he extracted himself from the couch, bundled Plato into his arms, and dragged himself towards the door. Probably Mormons. They’d been relentless this summer—and by some trick of heavenly, or more likely hellish, intervention, his flat seemed to be a popular stop on their divine map to salvation.
It wasn’t Mormons. It was James Potter.
Sunglasses. A hoodie. A baseball cap. The hood pulled up over the cap, casting deep shadows over his face. Evan blinked at him, slightly too slow—still cradling Plato like a security blanket, the cat draped over one forearm, as he squinted into the bright stairwell. Evan’s brain was lagging about five seconds behind, like every thought had to wade through syrup. The edges of James’s silhouette blurred and shimmered slightly at the corners. He wondered briefly if James was real. He didn’t think he’d taken enough Xanax, or smoked enough, to have a full-blown hallucination—but James was also meant to be in Spain and not standing on his doorstep, so he wasn’t going to rule it out just yet.
“Hi,” James said. “Can I come in?”
Definitely real. Definitely standing there. Definitely talking. Definitely not a hallucination.
Fuck.
Evan stepped aside, and James moved past him into the hall. Evan kicked the door shut, still cradling the cat. Several questions ricocheted around inside his head at half speed, like the puck in some weird slow-motion game of air hockey. Questions like: why wasn’t James in Barcelona? Why wasn’t he with Lily Evans? Why was he here, in Evan’s flat? Questions he should probably ask—but his mouth decided on something else while his brain was busy buffering.
“Are you wearing a disguise?”
James looked a bit embarrassed, tugged down his hood.
“I didn’t want to be recognised.”
Evan nodded. James was famous now. Properly famous. Rockstar famous. And wasn’t that a weird fucking thought.
“You want tea?”
“Yeah. Tea would be great, thanks.”
James shrugged off the hoodie, hanging it neatly on a hook, and Evan noticed the bag he dropped beside the door. Close to the exit, like he didn’t know how long he was staying. Evan wondered how long he was staying. Was he staying? Probably another question he should ask. Probably important. In the kitchen, Evan faced a problem that hadn’t occurred to him in the hall. He couldn’t make tea while holding the cat. He turned and deposited Plato into James’s arms. The cat blinked once, then settled like he’d claimed James as furniture. James looked down at him, then up at Evan—trying very hard not to smile.
It was then Evan realised two things: firstly, he could have simply put the cat down. And secondly, he was absolutely, monumentally, spectacularly stoned. He watched James adjust his grip on Plato—who was now purring like a tiny engine against James’s chest—and wondered if being high was a pro or a con in this situation. Honestly? Could go either way. Conversation might be an issue. But then again, if it was incredibly awkward he was less likely to notice or worry about it. A toss-up, really. Either way, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. It took Evan longer to make the tea than it probably should have.
James settled onto the couch. Plato remained in his lap like a very smug accessory. Evan handed him a mug, then collapsed onto the other sofa, reaching for the joint he’d left in the ashtray. He lit it, took a slow drag. Smoke curled from his lips as he looked at James properly for the first time. Tawny skin, darker than he remembered. Hair shorter too, still an artful mess. A small gold hoop glinting in his ear—that was new. Definitely new. Suited him. Looked good. Fuckable. Or maybe that was just James. Evan exhaled through his nose, then held out the joint.
James took a drag. Coughed. Passed it back. “Fuck me, that’s strong.”
Evan snorted—the amusement bubbling out of him too fast. The line hit harder than it should. He thought, fleetingly, about saying: yes, actually, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. He shook his head. Not a helpful thought right now.
“What the fuck—” He paused and recalibrated. “How the fuck are you here—shouldn’t you be in Spain?”
James took a gulp of his tea. “Got a flight out at six this morning.”
“Why?”
James sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t come to the show.”
Evan considered that, then decided it didn’t make any fucking sense. His brain squinted at the words, turning them around like a weird puzzle box.
“Because I didn’t come to the show?” he asked, to make sure he understood—because it didn’t seem to him to make sense.
James looked deeply uncomfortable. “And you—you went on a date.”
Evan stared at him. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed vaguely in James’s direction with the hand still holding the joint. “Because I had a date?”
He was starting to feel a bit odd just repeating what James was saying. But he couldn’t help it. It still wasn’t making sense. Either his comprehension was worse than he’d thought, or James wasn’t making sense. One of the two. He wasn’t sure which.
“I—yes? I mean, no. Not just because of that. I was going to anyway, when you didn’t show up, so no. But also kind of… yeah.”
Evan let his head drop back against the cushion. Okay. It was James. His comprehension was fine—well, maybe a bit wobbly, but not completely fucked. James wasn’t making sense, and that needed to change, or they weren’t going to get anywhere.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I am incredibly fucking high—”
James smiled at that, and it was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Bright, warm, a little unfair. Evan lost his train of thought completely. Stared for a beat too long. Fuck. What was he saying? Something about—oh, yeah.
“—so I’m going to need you to speak in full sentences.”
The smile faded. James looked nervous, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt like he wanted to disappear inside it.
“I didn’t like it,” James said, looking down. “I mean—I don’t like it. Don’t like that you went on a date. Don’t like the idea of you with someone else.”
“Someone else?”
“Someone who’s not me.”
The words fell like a bowling ball into a paddling pool. Fuck. Evan’s brain felt like it was trying to climb a staircase that didn’t exist. Had James actually just said that? Or was it his imagination? He couldn’t tell. Plato chose this moment to stretch dramatically across James’s lap, yawning comically. Evan watched the cat. Then James. Then the half-finished joint in his hand. He wondered briefly if this was some kind of fever dream. Or if the weed had unlocked another layer of reality in which James Potter turned up at his door, confessed he was jealous, and looked stupidly good doing it. He tried to dissect it, break it down logically, but every time he started his brain short-circuited.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. Longer. “Can you say something, please?” James asked, his voice strained—tight, like it was squeezing out between his ribs. “Something other than fuck.”
“Right, yeah,” said Evan. He put the joint down and dragged both hands over his face, fingers scrubbing at his eyes. “Give me a fucking minute to process, would you? I wasn’t exactly planning on being conscious today.”
“I know it’s probably not the best time,” James started, and Evan looked up just in time to catch the expression on his face—nervous, but set. Bracing for impact. “But I’ve wanted you for months. It’s been driving me mad—and I guess I needed you to know that I—”
It turned out Evan didn’t need a minute to process. Apparently, the words I’ve wanted you for months, coming out of James Potter’s mouth, caused some sort of magical chemical reaction—all of a sudden his brain was perfectly capable of snapping into action, and so was his body. He was on his feet before James finished the sentence, grabbing him by the wrist, yanking him up with zero ceremony, and towing him out of the room.
“What—”
“Not in front of the cat.”
James let out a noise—half surprise, half something that might have been a strangled laugh. But he followed. Evan shoved his bedroom door closed behind them, turned on his heel, pressed James back against it.
And kissed him.
Not gently. Not sweetly—months of aching want spilling out at once. It took James all of two seconds to kiss back with equal ferocity, like he’d been waiting for it, dreaming of it, like he was starved. And fuck, kissing James was something else. All heat—heat and teeth against lips, pulling, biting, demanding more. James tugged Evan’s t-shirt up and off with warm, frantic hands. Fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise, like he was afraid Evan might slip away.
James wasn’t like anyone he’d ever been with. He didn’t go still or pliant, didn’t let Evan take the lead. He pushed back. Met him halfway. Fought him for control. It was all hands in his hair, teeth against his neck, and James making these low, needy sounds that sent electricity down Evan’s spine. Desperate. Messy. The single hottest fucking thing Evan had ever experienced.
They hit the bed hard. A sharp tangle of limbs and need. A thigh between his legs, pressing—right there—sending shockwaves through his body. His hands mapped James’s body like a blind man reading salvation. Muscles shifted beneath his fingertips. The perfect ripple of movement as James rocked against him.
James’s t-shirt—one word. Demanding. “Off.” James’s body—a revelation. Lean, strong, tattooed skin laid bare. He’d seen it before, but not like this—not when he could follow the lines of ink that curled over his shoulders and down his chest with his mouth. James’s fingers twisted in his hair. Evan went. Willingly. Greedily. Mouth dragging across James’s ribs, tasting salt, tasting heat, tongue dipping into the hollow of hipbone—savouring, while his fingers worked James’s belt. Impatient. Clumsy with want. The taste of James in his mouth, the way his hips jerked up at the contact. The sound of his own name, half choked, half pleading. The way their bodies slotted together like they were meant to, heat building until it tipped into something heady and breathless—coiling tighter and tighter, until it snapped like a wire pulled too taut. James’s mouth at his throat, his own name caught between James’s teeth.
Evan didn’t remember falling asleep afterwards. Didn’t remember closing his eyes. But he must have—because when he opened them again, the light had changed. Early afternoon sun spilled through the window, soft and gold, painting the room in warm honey. A draught stirred the curtain, a breeze threading through the stillness.
It was quiet.
Except for the quiet rhythm of someone breathing next to him.
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