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Five years down the line it’s an open secret.
Try as they might, they’ve fallen a bit into Dan and Phil’s schtick, Schrodinger's relationship, except the cat’s definitely still alive. Will utterly ignores questions about his sex life on various podcasts, James talks in metaphors about the meaning of his songs, and the comments are full of excited screeching whenever they both appear on camera together.
(Will’s found some other guests in the last five years. He didn’t want to seem too desperate when their relationship dipped beyond ‘accidental necking’ to ‘purposefully moving in together’, so a bit more willne is only like 50% James in 2031, at least when Will can be bothered to record.)
(The schtick’s a little old compared to the main channel, which has morphed into something fresh, travel-based and interesting, and they’re both insanely busy, so it sometimes falls to the wayside.)
No-one would ever ask, but it’s not as though they’re hiding it. After way too long travelling back and forth, they’d found a little triangle-shaped apartment in London together, directly over a Joe & the Juice - convenient, despite James’ bitching. Big windows, decent sound muffling, a bath; it’d been nearly perfect when they’d discovered the place, a real diamond after looking over several other awful options.
Anyone who wanted to find out probably could.
Being an internet celebrity and a professional musician has its foibles - they’ve always found it hard to go out together without being stopped by fans - but on a greying autumn Sunday, a day before James goes off on tour, and two days before Will takes the crew off to Australia, a series of accidents land them in Shoreditch, and the weather is uninspiring enough out that the streets are fairly clear.
(It’s been a long while since Will’s used the studio in this part of London, but the area still feels familiar, distant drifting memories of many lazy mornings, James curled over a lyric pad in tiny coffee shops, arguing over plans for Rodd’s out in the park.)
Somewhere among their wandering, the sky darkens and tea beckons, and Will ushers them towards a restaurant in the south of the area, vague nervousness hovering in his chest. If the evening goes well…
Well.
Everything’s a leap, and he’s made a career out of making several of those. They’ve talked about it enough that he’s almost entirely sure, but… You never truly know until it happens, and he’s still worried that four hours from now he’s going to be alone in a park, one of the best parts of his life gone.
Even though James wouldn’t. He really, truly wouldn’t.
But he still worries all the same.
The restaurant is comfortable, cozy furnishings and private tables, and the waiter ushers them right to the back behind a partition without being asked. They can see out to the street through the windows, but no-one can see in, fortunately; the fawning sometimes gets a bit old, and he can feel the concept grating on him tonight, some fan interrupting what he’s about to do. No thanks.
The moment the waiter steps away, James looks at him, eyes crinkling, and says, “This is… very nice, for you. I feel very underdressed.”
‘Course he’d pick up on it, if Jim’s one thing above all else, he can read him like a book. Will shrugs. It probably looks less relaxed than he needs it to. “You look fine.”
“How romantic.”
“Shut up, knobhead, I take you to nice places. Have for years.”
“I know.” James replies, fondly, and reaches out to squeeze him on the hand. Even after five years, the act done in genuinity still gives him goosebumps. “I’m messing. Still feel a bit underdressed though.”
“Just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re wearing my stuff, aren’t you?”
After the jewellery collection had become utterly mingled somewhere near the end of 2027, and James’d kept on wearing his shirts, they’d said fuck it and just merged their wardrobes. It wasn’t that complicated, though James still favoured ‘hipster wanker chic’ and Will ‘lost on the way to a beach party’, it had maybe improved both of their styles, softening their edges, giving them both more to work with. These days, he’s honestly not sure where James’ wardrobe ends and his begins.
The pearls, though, they’re recognisable. They’re his pearls.
The smugness in James’ voice is utterly blatant. “Well, I know how much you like them. How whenever I wear them you just wanna-”
“Jim!” He yelps, cutting that train of thought off right there. How’d he become the one to balk at this sort of thing in public? “I’ll walk out.”
“No you won’t, darling.” James replies. He takes a second, sips at his mocktail, still grinning. “No you absolutely won’t.”
The meal is incredibly good, and Will thanks the hours he spent on Tripadvisor (and then subsequently messaging half the restaurants on his shortlist) for it, but he can’t quite shake James’ look. James’ inquiring, suspicious look. Like he knows. Like he’s been clued in through the series of ‘accidents’ that had ‘cancelled’ their ‘booking’ across town, the Tube ride, the dress code mishap - all of it.
But, then again, in nearly twelve years of knowing each other, and five years of being together, Jim’s always been able to pick up on the little things; a careful hand on his back when press junkets get too frantic, soothing the conversation between stakeholders when headaches start pounding at his temples.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving this.” James says, once Will’s paid and they’ve got their coats, the edge of the autumn air creeping around the restaurant’s front door. “But why do I get the feeling I’m being romanced?”
“No idea what you’re talking about, Jimbo.” Will replies, innocently, the nerves roiling in his gut making him frantic, kind of insane. Coupled with the fact they’ve been sitting for a couple of hours - yes, he has an ADHD diagnosis as a thirty-five year old, no, knowledge of it doesn’t always help - “Can we walk?” He says, instead, rocking forward a little on his toes.
“Your ankle holding up alright?”
These days, the gammy one tends to take a beating after too much time on the pavement, so it’s not too out of pocket for Jim to ask, but he’d taped it in preparation and as he bounces on the balls of his feet, it’s only a little twingy. “Yeah, babe. It’s fine.” The weight of the box in his jacket pocket is more than enough of a painkiller, anyway.
“Good.”
Will’s spent enough time in Shoreditch that he knows his way around, even at night, and he leads a bemused Jim on a bit of a wild goose chase for twenty minutes or so, before he directs them both towards the gardens.
His watch buzzes on his wrist.
Lurking down the road. We look like wronguns. But we’re here. I will charge extra if I freeze off my fingers. Just so you know.
Couple minutes, Will replies, charge us more if you lose a toe. Ieaun too
👎, Kiwi sends back, which is maybe a response.
When he pulls open the gate for Boundary Gardens, James’ expression has morphed into something a whole lot less bewildered, hands absently pressed into his pockets as he steps through. He’s definitely clocked it, then, and that somehow makes it all easier. Will doesn’t love keeping secrets, likes them even less when they’re something this big, and his nerves settle as they walk up the stairs together.
He can do this.
They can do this.
“Will-” James turns to him, eyes softening.
“Not a word until I’m done.” He retorts, throwing a hand out wide as though that’ll keep James from speaking - not bloody likely -, his heart hammering in his head.
James just curls his fingers through his own, pulls him in close, breath ghosting over his face and whispers, “Kiwi’s in the literal bushes. Right behind you.”
“I know.”
“He’s got a camera and twigs in his hair.”
“That’s sort of the point, moron.” Will snarks back, but throws the fingers up at Kiwi behind his back anyway.
“Kiwi being absorbed into the forest is sort of the point?”
“Jim, will you shut up and let me propose to you, please!” It falls out of him out of desperation, the last few hours worth of anxiety tumbling out in one of his panicked little shrieks. Birds don’t quite fly out of the trees overhead but it’s a near thing.
James’ mouth snaps shut, and he blushes, red spilling over his cheeks as his fingers tighten around Will’s hand, ‘cause- well. Will supposes all this is new for him too.
He’d prepared something. Not quite memorised it, but had at least an idea of what he was going to say. In the moment, staring into James’ eyes, just them mostly alone in a place that means so much, the words wander from his brain.
Actions have always been his thing. Less so words. But the ring box is burning a hole in his pocket, and there’s a videographer and a photographer lurking in the bushes, and now’s the time to get it together, Will.
“Literally seven years ago today, it was.” He starts, insanely. Fuck, this is why James does all of the talking. He sounds reed thin and anxious. “When I ran to Brighton. Insane idea. Moronic idea. I never told you how many arguments about it we all had in the office, they were all certain I was going to die in a hole on the side of the motorway, but I didn’t, did I?”
Softly, from a bush behind him, he hears a, “fuck off, Will,” probably from Ieaun, who definitely had a hand in some of the arguing and had also bet against him finishing the run in general.
“But I had to.” He continues. Boldness grows as James looks down at him, eyes soft, thumb running across the back of his hand. It’s all a bit fairytale, this, but after five years of dating someone like James; after the injuries, the celebrity, the company, he thinks they both deserve a bit of a fairytale.
The blooming in his chest is unquantifiable, blossoming through his veins. “Thought it was just me anxiety, just needing to do something, needing to do something that scared me and you were there for the ride but-”
He swallows. Lets himself feel the fear that’s hovered inside his ribs ever since he first looked up at James and James was looking back. Lets it all go. “It was for you. It’s… always been. What’s the point of running 90 kilometres if you’re not there at the other end?”
James, the bastard, is clearly two seconds from crying, and if he goes off, Will will too, there’s been a flood of emotion pressing its way up his throat for two hours, maybe two days, maybe for months and months. He kneels, shakily; pulls the ring box from his pocket. Had the ring size for years, somewhere in the depths of his email receipts from 2025, ever since that stupid ring and the Mothman plushie that sits on the shelf in their bedroom.
It’s always been him.
The movement is familiar, but the moment’s never had more weight; fake video proposal after fake video proposal running through his mind as he stares up at Jim, who is actively welling up, tears streaking down his cheeks, shimmering bright in the rotunda’s overhead light.
“Didn’t know then, but I know now.” Will chokes. “And I can’t- I need-” Fuck. I can’t do this without you lies unspoken, terrifying on his tongue. He sniffs. “You want to make a series of really bad financial decisions with me for the rest of our lives?”
“Think I’ve been doing that for twelve years.” James murmurs. His grin is utterly dazzling, voice utterly wet. “Yes, Will. Fuck, yes.” And he doesn’t struggle at all as Will leaps into his arms.
When they get married, six months, twelve days and four main channel shoots later, neither of them wear white.
“Right, okay viewers, you might have noticed Jimothy’s new facial feature-”
“It’s fucking sunburn, Will-”
“And a bit of new jewellery. ‘Cause someone spends too long checking his hair in the mirror every shoot day to remember to take his ring off-”
“Yeah, who was it that held up today’s filming ‘cause his eyebrows weren’t right? Wasn’t me-”
“-And frankly I think James and I have never looked better in the photos so I want to post them, yes, we got married. No, we’re not going to talk about it. For some reason I decided to get tied to this moron for the rest of my life-”
“What the hell, Will-”
“‘Cause we love him very much. Anyway. You all know now. Do whatever you want with that. In today’s video, we’re going to-”