Archive of Our Own

The shirt was never meant to have left James’s flat.

Will knew that in the same way you know you’re not supposed to take the tiny bottles of shampoo from hotels and you do it anyway. A harmless theft, a quiet indulgence.

Except this one had lasted years. Long enough that the fabric had thinned at the collar and the print had cracked in soft spiderweb lines across the chest.

It lived at the bottom of his drawer now, tucked under gym shorts, spare chargers, and a hoodie he swore he’d throw away but never did. He didn’t wear it out. Didn’t even wear it around the office.

It was strictly a night time thing, a no-one-will-see-this thing.

He told himself it was because the design had never been released. A mock-up James had shown him once, laughing about how ugly the first draft always was. Will had swiped it from the back of a chair like it was a joke.

Like he’d give it back the next time he was over.

He never did.

Tonight it was colder than it should’ve been for spring. The kind of cold that crept up through the floorboards and settled in your ankles. Will showered, let the steam fog up the bathroom mirror, and when he came back into his bedroom he stood in front of the open drawer for a moment longer than necessary.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just paused.

Then he pulled the shirt out.

It was softer than any cotton had the right to be. Years of washing had turned it into something closer to worn paper than fabric. He tugged it over his head and let it fall into place, the fabric enveloping him like a hug. The room was quiet except for the hum of traffic outside and the faint buzz of his phone alerting him to notifications on the bedside table.

He lifted the collar to his nose without thinking.

Nothing.

Will frowned and tried again, like maybe he’d done it wrong. A deeper breath this time, eyes closing automatically.

Still nothing. Just detergent.

Generic.

Clean.

Empty.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. For years the shirt had smelled like James’s flat, not even James directly. Coffee and fabric softener and the warm scent of vanilla.

Something warm and lived-in.

Something that had made Will feel ridiculous and comforted all at once.

Now it smelled like his own washing machine.

He swallowed down a lump in his throat, annoyed at how much this was bothering him.

The drawer beside his bed stuck when he pulled it open. Inside was a small, stupid collection he refused to think too hard about: half-used bottles of cologne, travel sprays, samples James had left behind at his place over the years.

Some discontinued. Some barely touched. Will picked one at random, spritzed the air once, then twice, and waved the shirt through the mist like he’d seen people do.

He waited.

It was wrong, it was too sharp, too new. Like trying to recreate a memory with the wrong filter.

He tried another, then another. 

By the fourth spray the air in his bedroom was thick with overlapping scents that didn’t belong together, and the shirt still didn’t smell like anything except effort.

Will lay back on the bed with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. The cotton bunched under his shoulders and the faint crackle of the old print pressed against his chest. He felt stupid, properly, objectively stupid.

He was a grown adult with a successful career, and was deeply upset over a T-shirt.

His phone buzzed. A notification banner lit the dark: a tour photo.

Bright stage lights, with a crowd like the sea, all reaching forward. James somewhere in the middle of it all, guitar slung low, grin wide enough to swallow the frame.

Will hit “like” and tossed the phone facedown without opening the comments.

The room smelled like a department store perfume aisle.

The shirt smelled like nothing at all.

He rolled onto his side and pulled the duvet up to his chin, one arm tucked under the pillow. The cotton warmed quickly against his skin. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that it was just fabric, just ink, just threads. Memory didn’t live in fibres. People weren’t scents you could bottle and keep in drawers.

But he still reached up once more, pressing the collar to his face in the dark.

Nothing.

Outside, a car passed. Somewhere down the street, someone laughed. Will closed his eyes and breathed in the ghost of something…someone that wasn’t there anymore, and the absence of it settled around him like a dark shroud.

Will cancels work on a Tuesday.

It’s not dramatic.

There’s no speech, no breakdown, no spiraling explanation. 

He wakes up at 11am already exhausted, the kind that sits behind his eyes and makes everything feel heavier than it should be. His phone is face-down on the bedside table, still charging, and for a moment he considers pretending it’s already too late to message anyone.

Instead, he flips it over and types.

Can’t come in today.

Sorry.

I just feel grim.

I’ll be off for a few days, I'll try and make up the work from home.

Obviously everyone is paid for today. 

Aby replies almost immediately.

Don’t worry about it.

Get well soon.

See you soon wine bestie💜 

The kindness makes his throat tighten in a way he doesn’t have time to deal with.

Will locks his phone and stares at the ceiling until the room stops feeling quite so close around him.

He’s showered and dressed within twenty minutes, moving on autopilot. Hoodie, jeans, trainers. The shirt is on underneath, of course, he doesn’t consciously choose it anymore. It’s just there, part of the routine, like the house keys in his pocket.

The train station smells like metal and damp coats. Will buys a ticket without thinking too hard about it, thumbs hovering for half a second over Brighton before pressing confirm.

The carriage is quiet, filled with people staring into their own reflections in the window. He takes a seat by the door and rests his forehead against the glass as London slides away.

He doesn’t text James.

By the time he reaches Brighton it’s late afternoon, the sunlight is already thinning. The walk to the flat is familiar enough that his feet carry him there without much thought. He doesn’t hesitate at the door. He never does.

The key James gave him in between shooting videos sat attached to a stupid leather coffee bean keychain.

James didn't even need to tell him that he was welcome anytime. Will knew that he could turn up at any time. James would plonk Otto on his lap, make him a coffee, and draw out what Will was bottling up in his brain.

Inside, the flat smells like James immediately. It was warmer than Will’s, softer somehow. Laundry detergent and something faintly like vanilla.

Will shuts the door carefully behind him and barely has time to set his bag down before there’s a blur of movement at ankle height.

“Hey, mate,” he murmurs, dropping into a crouch.

Otto weaves around his legs, tail flicking, loud and indignant like Will has personally offended him by existing elsewhere for too long. Will scratches behind his ears, presses his forehead briefly to the top of Otto’s head, breathing him in like that’s allowed to count as a substitute.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

He toes his shoes off and pads into the living room, shrugging out of his hoodie before throwing it over the back of the sofa. The sofa dips familiarly when he collapses onto it, spine sinking into the exact place James always sits. Will stares at the ceiling for a while, listening to the flat settle around him, the hum of distant traffic and Otto’s steady presence nearby.

Eventually, hunger registers.

He opens his phone and orders from the takeaway without looking at the menu.

Same place, same order. It was muscle memory at this point.

He adds an extra side that James always steals and almost laughs at himself for it.

The food arrives in a rustle of plastic bags and polite small talk at the door. Will eats on the sofa, knees pulled up, TV on but low.

It tastes right in a way nothing else has lately, which makes it all the worse, not better.

When he’s done, he cleans up after himself out of habit. Puts the leftovers in the fridge, washes his hands, and turns off the lights he doesn’t need. Not that he needed any light on to know his way round James’ place blindfolded.

James’s bedroom door had been left half open. Probably for Otto but Will couldn't help but hope that it was left half open for him too.

Will pauses there, fingers curled lightly around the frame.

He feels like he’s trespassing, even though he’s done this a hundred times before.

Even though James would tell him, and has told him that he was always welcome.

Inside, the room is dim and tidy in that slightly chaotic way James has. Will crosses to the wardrobe and opens it slowly.

He knows exactly which one he’s looking for: soft, oversized, worn thin at the cuffs.

The one James always sleeps in when he’s home.

He takes it out with care before carrying over to the bed.

The pillow on James’s side of the bed is cool when Will pulls the shirt over it, arranging the collar just right. He presses his face into it immediately, breath hitching before he can stop himself. This one smells right. Not perfect, cause nothing ever is, but close enough that it hurts.

Will curls onto the bed fully before reaching for the lamp on James’s bedside table and hesitating, hand resting there for a second longer than necessary. It feels intimate, wrong somehow, like flipping the light switch in someone else’s dream.

He turns it off anyway.

In the dark, with his face buried in fabric that remembers James better than he does right now, the tears finally come.

Quiet, ugly, shaking their way out of him until his chest aches and his eyes burn. Will presses the pillow closer, clinging like it might anchor him to something solid.

Otto jumps onto the bed a few minutes later, settling near Will’s stomach with a disgruntled huff. Will lets out a broken little laugh through his sobs and reaches down to rest a hand on the warm curve of Otto’s back.

“Sorry,” he whispers into the dark. “I’m so sorry.”

The flat is silent around him. Somewhere very far away, James is awake in more than one way under different lights, breathing different air.

Will cries himself to sleep holding onto what’s left behind.

James’s phone buzzes at 3:17 a.m.

He almost ignores it.

He’s half asleep on the tour bus, limbs tangled in unfamiliar blankets, and the air humming faintly with the road beneath them.

The day’s been long with the soundcheck, interviews, the show, the encore after the show. Now his body is heavy in a bone-deep way that only touring ever gives him.

The buzz comes again.

James blinks at the screen, squinting. Furbo Alert - Motion detected.

Otto, he thinks automatically. 

He's probably knocked something over again.

He opens the app.

The camera feed loads slowly, buffering just long enough for irritation to flicker in him and then the image sharpens, and James’s breath leaves him all at once.

It’s his bedroom.

The light is on, low and warm, and for a split second his brain refuses to process what it’s seeing. Then the shape on the bed resolves into something familiar.

Will.

He’s curled on the right side of James' bed, knees drawn up, with his face pressed into a pillow that’s been carefully dressed in one of James’s old sleep shirts.Otto jumps onto the bed a moment later, a familiar dark shape settling between Will and the pillow. Will's shoulders shake in small, uneven jerks.

Even through the tinny, distant audio, James can hear it. The soft, broken hitch of breaths between sobs.

“Oh,” James whispers, the word tearing out of him before he can stop it.

He sits up so fast he nearly hits his head on the roof of the bunk. The bus sways and  somewhere further up someone laughs, oblivious. James barely notices. His entire world has narrowed to the glow of his screen and the impossible sight of Will in his room, wearing his clothes, breaking to pieces where James should be.

The lamp goes off.

The feed dims, but not enough. James can still see the outline of Will’s body, the way he curls tighter around the pillow like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

James presses his thumb to his mouth, hard.

His first instinct is violent in its urgency. Cancel everything, drop out, apologise, get on the next flight home and be there now, consequences be damned.

He opens his calendar without really meaning to. Scrolling through dates that suddenly feel unreal, like someone else’s life.

There’s nowhere to put the cancellation, no time for him to pop home either.

The tour stretches on, relentless. Contracts, people, venues booked months in advance, with a band and crew who rely on him being there. A version of James who agreed to all of it when being away didn’t feel like this.

Will has work. Filming schedules, obligations of his own, and a life that can’t just be paused, even if James wants to beg him to.

They’re stuck. On opposite sides of the world, doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing, and it’s killing them both.

James stares at the screen until it times out.

His finger hovers over Will’s contact for a long, awful moment. He could call. He could say something…anything.

He could pretend this was normal, that he’d just been checking on Otto, hadn’t meant to see anything at all.

But he knows Will.

Knows how quickly that soft vulnerability would slam shut.

Knows Will would apologise for crying, for being in his flat, for taking up mental space. James knows Will would stop coming to the flat altogether just to avoid being a burden, to avoid being seen.

James can’t take that from him, can’t take the one place Will has let himself fall apart and be vulnerable.

So he doesn’t call.

He lies back down on the bunk instead, phone clutched to his chest like a physical ache. 

Sleep doesn’t come.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Will’s shaking shoulders, the way he pressed his face into James’s shirt like it might remember how to hold him.

When morning comes, it’s too bright and too loud.

James sits with a paper cup of coffee he doesn’t drink and opens his messages. He stares at the screen for a while before typing a message out to Tommy.

Mate.

Random ask.

Can you do me a favour at the flat?

Tommy replies first.

Yeah?

Everything alright?

Is Otto okay? I've been round to feed him I swear.

James exhales slowly.

Yeah.

Could you maybe move the furbo cams a bit?

Or hide them better?

Don’t want them to be super obvious.

There’s a pause. Then:

James

Are you okay?

Why do you need to move them?

James lets out a weak huff of a laugh.

Define okay

But yeah

Will’s staying there and I don't think he's in great shape.

I don't want him to think I'm spying on him or something.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Got it.

I’ll pop round later.

Jack can come too if that helps?

We’ll be subtle.

Thanks Tom.

Spare key is under the flower pot, put it back after.

I appreciate it.

And you looking after Otto, I'll let you know if you need to keep doing that (no point if Will's there)

He locks his phone and leans back, staring at the ceiling of the café he’s sitting in. Around him, the tour life hums back into motion. Voices, schedules, and the next city already looming.

Somewhere in Brighton, Will is asleep in James’s bed, holding onto a shirt like it’s a life line to something he thinks he could never have.

James finishes his coffee without tasting it and tells himself this is enough.

That watching from afar, keeping the cameras hidden, making sure Otto’s fed and the flat stays a safe place, that this counts as looking after him.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

It feels like standing perfectly still while someone you love is drowning, memorising the way the water closes over their head.

Tommy waits until Will leaves.

Not in a creepy way, in a concerned way. He and Jack sit in Jack’s car a street over, takeaway coffees cooling in the cupholders, and watching the front door of James’s flat like it might do something suspicious.

Will emerges just after eleven.

He looks…fine, if you don’t know him.

His hoodie’s up, headphones in, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He locks the door behind him and stands there for a second too long, like he’s forgotten something important and can’t work out what it is.

Tommy watches him go with his jaw clenched and a heavy tote bag over one shoulder.

“He looks knackered,” he mutters.

Jack hums in agreement, eyes still on the door. “Yeah. That’s the polite word for it.”

They wait until Will’s well down the road before moving.

The spare key is exactly where James said it would be, because of course it is.

James is predictable like that, predictable and sentimental and terrible at hiding things Tommy thinks he shouldn't have to hide.

The flat is quiet when they step inside.

“Otto?” Tommy calls softly, crouching instinctively.

The cat appears from the living room like he’s been expecting them, tail flicking in mild annoyance. Tommy scoops him up, pressing his face briefly into Otto’s fur.

“Alright, mate,” he whispers. “Your dad’s asked the best team in Brighton to help.”

Jack snorts, but there’s no real humour in it.

They move carefully through the flat, voices low. It feels wrong to be loud here, like raising their voices might disturb something fragile that’s finally settled.

Tommy spots the first Furbo immediately tucked neatly on the shelf in the living room, lens unobstructed.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That’s obvious.”

Jack winces. “Yeah. If I can see it, Will definitely can.”

They move it gently, like it might bite, and Tommy looks around before placing it behind a trailing plant on the windowsill. He angles the leaves just right, obscuring the camera without blocking its view entirely.

“There,” he says quietly. “Otto coverage. Minimal exposure to Will.”

Jack gives him a look. “You’ve thought about this.”

Tommy shrugs, a little defensive. “I’ve known James and Will since I was, like, sixteen. I know how their minds work.”

They find the second Furbo in the hallway on the coat rack and deem it suitably hidden, then the third in the bedroom.

Jack freezes in the doorway.

Tommy bumps into him lightly. “What?”

Then he sees it.

The bed is still rumpled, sheets creased like someone’s slept badly. On one pillow, carefully arranged, is one of James’s shirts, faded, soft, unmistakably his.

The fabric is darkened in patches, the tear stains faint but obvious once you’re looking.

Tommy’s throat tightens.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly.

Jack swallows, eyes fixed on the pillow. “Yeah, James said Will wasn't doing well, didn't he"

They stand there for a moment, neither of them moving. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and something else, something sadder.

Jack breaks the silence first. “He’s not coping.”

“No,” Tommy agrees. “He’s just getting by.”

Tommy crosses the room and gently moves the Furbo from the dresser table, tucking it behind a stack of books and an old photo of James, Memeulous, and Will that he's never updated. He adjusts it carefully, then steps back.

Jack watches him. “James is going to lose his mind when he finds out how bad this is.”

Tommy shakes his head. “He already knows, and he can't do anything. That’s the worst part.”

They head back into the living room, Otto trailing after them like a shadow. Tommy drops onto the sofa, scrubbing a hand over his head.

“We should do something,” he says. “Like, to properly distract Will.”

Jack nods. “Yeah. I was thinking that.”

There’s a beat.

“What about the pod?” Jack suggests. “Get him on Shut Up, I’m Talking. Low pressure, no expectations, just talking. Get him talking about other happier stuff.”

Tommy looks up, eyes brightening a little. “Actually, yeah. That’s good.”

“It’s Brighton-based,” Jack continues. “Familiar space, people he trusts-”

“We are basically James’s little brothers, we’re sort of family. We don’t have to make the episode that deep,” Tommy adds quickly. “Could absolutely just be stupid, laughing at old stories, remind him he’s not on his own here.”

Jack smiles faintly. “Exactly. Give him a reason to come round that isn’t just…” he gestures vaguely toward the bedroom.

Tommy nods, jaw tight again. “I’ll text him later. Casually. No pressure.”

They finish hiding the last camera and double-check everything looks normal. Before they leave, Tommy pauses in the doorway and looks back at the flat, the quiet hum of a place holding someone else’s grief and walks over to the plant pot where they had placed the first Furbo.

“We’ll look after him,” he says, more of a promise than a statement.

Jack had made his way over to Tommy and clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Just focus on the tour and we'll make sure he has people for him.”

They lock up carefully behind them, leaving the flat exactly as they found it, except for the cameras which were now tucked safely out of sight, still watching over Otto.

And just maybe, over Will too.

It becomes routine.

Not in a comforting way, in the way something sharp eventually stops drawing blood because you’ve learned exactly how to hold it.

James wakes to alerts at various times. Motion detected, sound detected, Otto activity. He learns the patterns quickly, even when he pretends not to be watching as closely as he is. Will in the kitchen means it’s late afternoon in Brighton. Will on the sofa means the day has gone badly. Will in the bedroom, light on too early, means he didn’t sleep.

James never opens the camera straight away anymore.

He counts to three first, lets his chest settle, and braces himself.

Sometimes he catches Will mid-laugh, phone in hand, probably watching something stupid. Those are the worst ones. They hurt in a dull, spreading way, because James can’t hear what set it off, can’t share the moment, can’t be there to make the laughter louder till you couldn't see Will’s blue eyes through his squinting happy face.

More often, he sees Will moving through the flat quietly, like he’s afraid of taking up space. Wearing James’s clothes like borrowed armour. Sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled up, staring at nothing in particular. Falling asleep on the right side of the bed with the pillow held close, the shirt always arranged carefully first.

James watches until the feed times out.

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about anything really, not properly.

Time zones eat holes in their conversations. When James is free, Will is filming. When Will’s done for the day, James is getting off the bus or in a venue or trying to convince himself he can sleep with noise-cancelling headphones and someone else’s laughter bleeding through the walls.

Their texts turn into fragments.

You alive?

Barely

I'm so proud of u btw

Cheers mate

Sometimes days pass with nothing more than a meme or a half-hearted “lol.” James types long messages and deletes them. Will replies hours later with something light, something deflecting, something that doesn’t ask for anything back.

James hates how good Will is at that.

So he tries to help in other ways. Small ones, practical ones, things that don’t require time zones to line up.

He orders coffee to the office one morning, pretending that he put in the wrong address.

Another day, James ships something to the Brighton flat. A hoodie, a vinyl, something stupid he saw and thought Will would like that. He messages after, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything.

Sorry, I meant to send it to the office.

It should be there tomorrow

The word home sits between them, unaddressed.

Will thanks him. He always thanks him, always polite, always distant in a way that makes James feel like he’s pressing bruises instead of soothing them.

From the cameras, James watches Will open the parcel slowly, expression unreadable.

He sees Will hold the hoodie for a moment before folding it neatly and placing it on the back of the sofa, untouched.

He sees the way Will’s shoulders sag afterward, like something inside him has given up on hoping.

The gifts don’t cheer him up.

They just underline the absence.

Every coffee, every package, every dedication of a song from three thousand miles away is a reminder that James isn’t there to drink it with him, isn’t there to steal the first sip, to make some awful joke or innuendo, to sit too close on the sofa and talk nonsense until the weight lifts on its own.

James is everywhere, except where Will is.

And Will feels it.

James knows he does.

One night, long after the bus has gone quiet, James opens the Furbo feed to find the flat empty. The sofa is bare. The bed untouched. Otto asleep on a chair by the window.

Will hasn’t come down tonight.

James stares at the screen longer than he should, phone heavy in his hand.

He wants to text, wants to call, wants to tell him that he misses him so badly it hurts to breathe, and mean all the things he’s been too careful to name. He wants to promise it’ll be over soon, even though he doesn’t know when soon is.

Instead, he locks his phone and lies back, staring at the dark ceiling of a place that will never feel like home.

In London, Will is alone in his own bed, wearing one of James’s shirts under his jumper like a secret he doesn’t know how to stop keeping. The bed is cold and ungiving against his body unlike the purple silk sheets and the thick duvet to stave off the seaside chill in James' room.

In America, James watches empty rooms and tries to convince himself that distance isn’t the same thing as losing someone.

Yet it feels exactly the same.

Midweek in the office feels longer than it should.

Will sits hunched at the meeting table, the ice in his coffee melting untouched beside his laptop, while Mikey scrolls through footage on the screen. It’s meant to be a quick check-in, the kind they do on autopilot, but his brain keeps snagging on nothing at all. The room hums with conversation he’s only half in.

“Mate,” Mikey says, glancing over his shoulder. “You alive over there?”

Will blinks. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Aby raises an eyebrow, half-smiling. “You’ve been like this all week.”

“Like what?” Will asks, even though he knows.

“Moody,” Elliott supplies cheerfully from across the table. “Proper grumpy old man vibes.”

Ieuan laughs. “It’s ’cause James is gone, innit.”

There it is.

They don’t mean it cruelly. Will knows that. It’s said lightly, fond even, a well-worn joke everyone understands. James is part of the furniture around here, of course they notice the absence, of course they fill it with humour.

Will smiles on instinct. The version of him that exists in rooms like this doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’m devastated without my emotional support musician.”

Mikey snorts. “Knew it.”

“Honestly,” Ieuan adds, “never thought I’d see the day.”

They all laugh. Will laughs with them, loud enough that no one questions it, easy enough that the moment passes cleanly. The conversation moves on, notes are taken, and the schedule’s discussed.

No one notices the way Will’s hands have curled into fists in his lap.

By the time he gets home that evening, the laughter feels like something he’s borrowed and forgotten to give back.

He doesn’t bother cooking, doesn’t bother turning the lights on properly. He showers, changes, and stands in front of his wardrobe longer than necessary, fingers brushing fabric he doesn’t want.

He pulls another one of James’ stolen shirts first.

It’s automatic now, muscle memory more than decision. Soft cotton, familiar weight. He layers his own jumper over it, tugs the sleeves down like that might keep everything in place. It helps. Not enough, but enough to get him through the night.

By Friday, he doesn’t go back to London.

There’s no dramatic decision, no moment where he acknowledges it out loud. He just…doesn’t get on the train north. When work wraps, he turns the other way, key already warm in his pocket.

Brighton takes him in without question.

Days blur together after that. Will starts leaving things at James’s flat. His toothbrush by the sink, his charger plugged in beside the bed, and a spare hoodie draped over the back of the chair. He stops packing a bag, stops checking the time.

He learns the rhythm of the place like it’s always been his. Wakes to pale light through unfamiliar curtains, feeds Otto before he feeds himself, falls asleep on the sofa with a YouTube video murmuring nonsense into the room.

He wears James’s clothes constantly now. T-shirts, hoodies, socks he definitely doesn’t own. They hang a little wrong on him, sleeves too long, shoulders too wide, but he doesn’t care. It feels closer than memory. Feels like cheating the distance just enough to breathe.

When he has to go back to the London office, he changes.

Not fully. He pulls on his own jeans, his own jumper, his own shoes. The uniform everyone expects, but underneath, always, is one of James’s shirts. Hidden. Secret. Pressed warm against his skin like a promise he doesn’t know how to make good on.

At the office, he smiles. He jokes. He lets them tease him gently about being miserable without James. Lets the narrative stay small, harmless, and funny.

At night, he takes the train back down south and unlocks a flat that still smells like someone else’s life.

Will curls into James’s bed, presses his face into the pillow dressed in soft cotton, and tells himself this is temporary. That this is what coping looks like. That missing someone this much doesn’t mean anything he isn’t ready to name.

He keeps the shirt on when he sleeps.

It’s the closest he gets to being held.

The last show ends in a blur.

Lights.

Noise.

Sweat cooling too quickly on his skin.

James bows with the band, waves to a crowd that feels unreal now that the finish line is in sight.

He smiles because he’s meant to, because this is what he worked for, because he’s good at pretending momentum still matters.

Backstage, the adrenaline drains out of him all at once.

He’s halfway through peeling out his in-ears when Kiwi appears, phone already in hand, expression carefully neutral in a way James has learned to distrust.

“Hey,” Kiwi says. “Don’t freak out.”

James freezes. “I hate when you start like that.”

Jono leans against a flight case nearby, arms crossed. He doesn’t look worried, just resolved.

“We moved your flight,” Jono says. “Earlier.”

James blinks. “What?”

“It's straight after load-out,” Kiwi adds. “You’re on the red-eye. You can make it if you leave now.”

For a second, James genuinely can’t process the words. They don’t land. They hover, unreal, like the promise of something he’s stopped letting himself imagine.

“I…” His voice cracks immediately, which is embarrassing and mortifying and impossible to stop. He clears his throat. “I thought that wasn’t…I thought it was booked for tomorrow.”

“It was,” Jono says simply. “It isn’t anymore.”

Kiwi meets James’s eyes. “You’re done here. I'll pack Ash and the rest of your guitars away. Go home.”

Something in James’s chest gives way.

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask how or how much it cost or whether it was inconvenient. He just nods, sharp and sudden, like if he stops moving he might lose the chance entirely.

The flight is a haze of sleeplessness and restrained panic.

James keeps checking the time, the map, the altitude.

He doesn’t message Will. 

Not a word.

The idea of ruining the surprise feels unbearable, like jinxing something fragile.

By the time he unlocks the door to the flat, the sun outside is just beginning to rise above the bay.

He slips inside quietly, toeing his boots off by habit. The flat smells almost exactly the same. Detergent, old wood, something faintly oud-y.

Home in a way no hotel or tour bus could ever be.

“Otto,” he whispers.

The cat blinks up at him from the sofa, tail flicking once before trotting over like this is the most normal thing in the world.

James crouches automatically, scooping him up, pressing his face briefly into familiar fur.

“I missed you too, you’ve been a good boy looking after him” he murmurs.

His heart is already pounding as he walks toward the bedroom.

The door is ajar.

James pushes it open slowly.

Will is asleep in his bed.

Curled on his side, hair a mess, his face slack in a way James hasn’t seen in weeks. He’s hugging the pillow tight to his chest, James’s old sleep shirt still pulled carefully over it like a ritual. One arm is wrapped around it like it might disappear if he loosens his grip.

James stops breathing.

The sight of him like this, worn down and folded inwards hurts worse than the distance ever did.

All the nights spent watching through a screen crash into him at once.

He steps closer, slowly, reverently.

Will shifts slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, fingers tightening reflexively around the pillow.

James swallows.

Very gently, he slides a hand between Will’s arms and the pillow, easing it free inch by inch. Will frowns, makes a soft, unhappy noise, arms instinctively searching for what’s been taken.

James doesn’t hesitate.

He slips into the bed instead.

The mattress dips, the sheets rustle as James presses himself close. Will's chest against his back, careful, warm, and real. He carefully places Will's arm around his waist, and holding his hand pulls him closer like he’s done a thousand times before.

Will stills.

Then  slowly, uncertainly, he relaxes.

His breathing evens out again, face pressing back into James’s back like it knows exactly what it’s found. Will’s hand drifts down, fingers curling into the fabric of James’s hoodie, gripping tight.

James feels the soft warmth of Will's breath against his neck and lets himself relax too.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

For the first time in weeks, Will isn’t holding a shirt. Instead he's got the real thing in his arms.

Will wakes up warm.

That’s wrong.

The thought arrives fully formed, even before he opens his eyes. Warmth is not how mornings have been lately.

Mornings have been cold sheets and the hollow echo of a flat that isn’t his.

Mornings are the faint disappointment of waking up alone even when he knows better than to expect anything else.

This is different.

There’s weight behind him.

Solid, familiar, anchoring. His arm slung low around a waist, hand resting just above a hip like it’s always belonged there.

Will freezes.

“Okay”, he thinks calmly. “Alright. This is a dream.”

That makes sense. His brain’s been doing this lately. Filling in gaps and conjuring comfort where it can.

It’s been crueler about it, too. Usually it fades the second he moves.

So Will doesn’t move.

He lies perfectly still, eyes closed, letting himself have this. Just for a minute. Just until the ache eases enough that he can wake up properly.

James smells right.

Not the wrong-version scent from sprayed cologne or borrowed fabric, this is him. Warm cotton, sleep, and something faintly metallic that always clings to him after shows. Will breathes it in like he’s drowning and this is air.

James shifts slightly, arm tightening without thought, pulling Will closer until their bodies are flush together. The contact is so familiar it almost hurts.

“Oh,” Will whispers, making barely any sound at all.

Dream-James hums softly, a noise so real it makes Will’s chest ache. As he strokes a hand up and down Will’s arm.

Will laughs under his breath. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he murmurs. “You don’t usually get this detailed.”

“Mm,” Dream-James murmurs. “Let me have this.”

Will goes very still.

That’s new.

“Nope,” Will says immediately, panic flickering at the edges of the comfort. “No talking. That’s cheating.”

James chuckles, low and sleepy. Shaking slightly against Will “You always say that.”

Will’s throat tightens.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “You always disappear when I open my eyes.”

“Not today,” James says quietly, turning in Will's arms.

Will snorts. “You would say that.”

He opens his eyes, slowly. Bracing for the moment where everything dissolves.

It doesn’t.

James is right there.

Close enough that Will can see the faint crease between his brows, the soft exhaustion still clinging to him even in sleep. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, curls doing whatever they like. His eyes are open, not fully awake, but watching Will with something achingly gentle.

Will stares.

His brain scrambles, searching for flaws. For proof. Dreams never get faces quite right, they blur at the edges. They don’t hold eye contact like this.

“Okay,” Will says faintly. “You’ve upgraded. Either that or I've lost the plot”

James smiles. Small, fond, painfully familiar. His gaze drops, then pauses.

“Is that?” he starts, then stops himself, lips twitching. “You nicked it.”

Will frowns. “What?”

James reaches out, fingers brushing Will’s shoulder, then the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. He tugs gently, just enough to see the faded print beneath the jumper.

“That shirt,” James says softly. “That’s my old merch.”

Will’s stomach flips. “You put that in the dream?”

“I didn’t release that design,” James continues, eyes warm. “You stole it off the back of my chair.”

Will’s breath catches.

Dreams aren’t supposed to remember things you’re embarrassed about.

“This is unfair,” Will says weakly.

James laughs quietly. “You sleep in it?”

Will doesn’t answer.

James’s hand lingers at his collarbone, thumb brushing skin where the fabric’s stretched thin. “You’ve been wearing this shirt a lot,” he says, not accusing. Just observant.

Something in Will’s chest caves in.

“I miss you,” he blurts, because dreams are safe and honesty doesn’t cost anything here. “You’re really annoying for doing this, by the way.”

James’s expression softens. “I miss you too.”

Will swallows hard.

This is the point where it usually ends. Where his brain pulls the rug out from under him and leaves him staring at an empty room.

He doesn’t want that.

Before he can think better of it, before fear has time to intrude, Will leans forward and presses a tentative kiss to James’s mouth.

It’s soft. Barely there. More a question than anything else.

James doesn’t disappear.

Instead, he stills, breath hitching, and then his hand comes up to cup Will’s jaw like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for permission. He kisses back gently, unhurried. Lips warm, familiar, and devastatingly real.

Will makes a small, broken sound into the kiss.

And then his phone buzzes.

The sound cuts through the moment like a knife.

Will jerks back, heart slamming violently against his ribs. The bedside table lights up.

Aby: Morning! I'm running a bit late but hopefully I'll see you at 11 👍

Reality crashes down around him.

Will stares at the screen.

Then at James.

Then back at the screen.

“Oh,” he whispers.

James’s face shifts instantly. Concern, uncertainty, hope all tangled together. “Will?”

“You’re…” Will’s voice wobbles. “You’re actually here. You're actually you”

James nods slowly. “Yeah.”

Will scrambles backward, nearly tangling himself in the duvet. “I…I kissed you…I thought you were a dream.”

James sits up carefully, hands lifted in surrender. “Hey-”

“I’ve never told you,” Will rushes, panic flooding in now that safety’s gone. “And you didn’t know, and I didn’t mean to spring that on you-”

“Will,” James says gently. “Stop. Please.”

Will looks at him, eyes shining.

James hesitates, then exhales. “I saw you,” he admits. “While I was away.”

Will stiffens. “Saw me?”

“The Furbos.. the pet cameras,” James says quietly. “I didn’t want to. I swear. But I saw you in my bed, wearing my clothes, holding my shirt like it was keeping you alive. I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t make it worse.”

Will’s breath shudders.

“It was killing me,” James continues. “I love you, I’ve loved you for so long it feels stupid I didn’t say it sooner, I wanted to bring you with me everywhere. I hated that I couldn’t.”

Silence settles, heavy and fragile.

Will lets out a shaky laugh. “I really meant the kiss.”

James smiles, eyes bright. “Good.”

This time, when Will leans in, there’s no hesitation.

The kiss is deeper now, not rushed, but sure. James’s hand slides into Will’s hair, grounding him, while Will grips the front of James’s hoodie like he’s afraid he’ll vanish again. It tastes like sleep, relief, and every unsaid thing finally finding its way out.

Will presses closer, heart racing, and James kisses him like he’s home.

When they finally part, foreheads resting together, Will laughs softly.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he murmurs.

James kisses him once more, slow and certain. “I promise only the real James from now on.”

Will believes him, smiling as he goes in for another kiss.