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The end of the year comes as a fucking relief. It’s been a long one, deadlines and press releases and tours and shows and flights making 2025 a delirious, intangible timeless mess, but finally Christmas shows up and then so does the end of the year.
James vaguely tosses around the idea of going to a party for New Year’s Eve - he’s been invited to several, most of them decent possibilities - takes a look at the gradually encroaching darkness out the window at 4.30pm on the 31th and decides absolutely not, resigning himself to sending off the end of the year with Otto, a takeaway, and whatever nonsense is on telly.
He’s tired. The year’s been incredible, one of the best of his life, but he’s got nothing more left in him, and the thought of conversation with strangers almost makes him feel a bit ill. Is it a little sad? Maybe. The thought’s still not going to drag him off the sofa.
Brighton is cold, and dark and wet, and he honestly can’t be arsed.
7pm, about one second from making another Tiktok - something, something, two days until Californian Rain, something - when a text notification stops James from gracing his followers’ feeds for the third time that day.
You doing anything
Will, who’d last left him with a frankly baffling Tiktok at least a day ago and nothing else, clearly has decided to emerge from whatever part of the country he’s found himself in in dire need of entertainment.
In life? James replies. Got a music career. Pretty good one too.
Will’s reply is unbelievably speedy, the three dots appearing for barely a moment, irritation clearly making his fingers sharp. Tonight knobhead
Plans, none of them exciting or that involve going outside, it’s weathering. You?
Same
That is a surprise, Will’s not exactly ever without somewhere to go or someone to hang out with, ten thousand mates and acquaintances and people he met once in his contacts, so for him to be without is a bit of a shock. James shifts a little on the sofa as Otto leaps up into his lap, pressing his tiny head against his fingers. No parties? Thirty’s calling, mate.
Instead of a text reply, Will just calls him. “Piss off, I’m not thirty yet.” He says, by way of greeting, his voice ragged, rain pounding down treble on the edge of the call.
“Yet.”
Will sighs, with all the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m knackered, Jim. It’s been a long fucking year. If I have to listen to 22 year olds have it off with each other to ring in 2026 I’ll kill meself. Are you at home?”
“Where else would I be? Where are you?”
“Be there soon.” Will replies, and hangs up immediately, a mystery and an enigma even on the last day of the year.
Well, James supposes, at least Will’s not annoying to be around. He rethinks his thinking as he waits, one hand stroking across Otto’s ears - at least Will’s the sort of annoying that is enjoyable to be around. And in his defense, if Will had actually asked rather than just sort of presumed he’d be fine with it, he would have said yes. There’s not many times he wouldn’t.
Of more interest, though, is the fact that Will’s in Brighton or at least vaguely nearby. Willingly? That’s something to think about, and he checks the shared Google Calendar with one hand, brow furrowing as there’s nothing listed for the 31st. More and more bizarre.
Drifting, lost in thought for a while, the rain pissing down overhead, Otto rolls onto his back, paws waving in the air, and bats at James’ fingers when they wander too close to his fluffy belly.
“Got us tea.” Will yells from down the corridor, forty or so minutes later, sweeping into the flat with the spare key. “It’s bloody wet out, Jim.”
Otto’s ears prick up with the sound of the movement, as Will bangs around presumably taking off shoes and such, but he doesn’t move, clearly too content not to venture too close to the rain thudding down outside the door, and for that, both he and James are in agreement. Staying in’s beginning to feel like a smarter and smarter idea, even if the tiniest part of him regrets the celebratory vibes any one of the many parties would have had.
When Will steps into the room, it’s with an audible squelch. He’s soaked, down to the skin, dark hoodie and jeans utterly sodden and he looks so pitiable and so tired that James doesn’t even really have the heart to laugh.
“Bit wet.” He says, shuffling the cat off his lap to drag a towel from the cupboard, in the hopes that it might just save his floor (there’s no chance but it’s nice to pretend).
“Bit wet,” Will replies, pathetically, and follows him towards the bathroom, actively dripping on the carpet, popping the soaked takeaway back down on the table as he goes.
Romantic, pathetic - they’re sometimes one and the same, but he feels the synchronicity now as he steps in to help Will yank his soaking jeans to the floor. (Will’d never have asked, too caught in the web of appropriate masculinity that he seems to get frequently trapped in, but the desperate look he’d shot at him was enough.)
Any other time, he’d maybe make a crack about it, how he’d stepped up against Will’s back, fingers coming to press in at his hips, dampness bleeding into his fingers but he just… doesn’t, the intimacy of the moment making silliness impossible. Just brushes his fingers across Will’s back and steps away when he’s got himself sorted, saying, “You look like a wet cat.”
“Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.” Will snarks, but his shivering takes off some of the edge of his tone as he does. “Can I- shower- yeah?”
“Nah, I’ll just let you freeze to death.”
Later, James sets the various takeaway dishes out on the table in front of the telly, eyebrow raising at the quality, Will’d gone for something a bit more pricey this time around. He’d wandered past the bathroom a couple of times while Will was showering, depositing bits of his own clothes up onto the edge of the sink; joggers, a sweater, dry underwear, thick socks.
It’s par for the course these days, they’re practically the same size, and despite Will’s bitching, he’s come to favour his sweaters whenever he gets the opportunity; muttering something about the “wearability” when he’d been questioned - though James is secretly sure he just likes being wrapped up in something designed for comfort over fashion.
(The tiny little bead of ownership that he feels whenever he sees Will wearing his stuff is something he’s long since pushed down deep.)
What he’d also learned was, “You were singing in the shower.” He says, when Will finally emerges, colour coming back to his cheeks, sweater pushed up over his wrists.
“Not a chance.” Will splutters, wrongfooted immediately, which of course means he’s lying. “Musta been from outside.”
“No it wasn’t, and yeah you were. Didn’t know you favoured my stuff so much, Will. I’m almost honoured.”
“I wasn’t fucking- singing- yours-” Will slumps down onto the sofa, head in his hands, immediately realising his mistake as the haphazard lie shatters in front of him. “Shut up-”
“I think it’s sweet, actually, does Arthur know you like him that much?”
“Piss off.”
“I saw that Christmas party story by the way, was singing Plasticine in public too much to admit to?” He’d not actually seen Will in the video, but the tiny flash of Yankees cap in the background under a hoodie had been enough. It’d almost been funny, how much he’d felt he’d needed to hide. Will, as always, is a mess of contradictory gendered subclauses, and sometimes he feels a bit sorry for him. “You were all on it at the gigs.”
Will slides down a little, pressing against him, a shining beacon of discontent, and sighs, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, which it actually could be. “It’s- it was- it was a thing, don’t make a deal of it, like.”
“Mhmm.”
“Are you seriously getting at me ‘cause I was wearing a jacket at karaoke?”
“Not getting at you. Just wondering if you from six years ago would be so worried about being called gay.”
Will heaves another sigh and presses back into the sofa, his eyes shuttering closed, his face drawn and exhausted. “Let’s not, aye? Not right now.”
“Sure. Thanks for the scran. Looks good.”
One eye cracking open to gaze at him suspiciously, Will says, “Yeah. No problem. Was in the area.”
That’s clearly a can of worms, so James leaves it, just cracks into the food, which verges on Japanese, something clearly more to his tastes than Will’s, though Will leans over his shoulder and steals bits of broccoli and bok choy instead of getting his own plate, which is something that’s both mildly annoying and moderately endearing, and also something he’s been doing for about seven years.
There’s a language, these days. Words aren’t always necessary. Will steals his green vegetables and wears his sweaters, James borrows his sunglasses and uses him to nap on. Somehow, they work.
Somehow they always have.
“You want to tell me why you were out in Brighton in the rain?” James asks, later. 10pm’s hitting like a truck, and they’re not cuddling but they’re not not cuddling, Will draped against his shoulder, arm flung around his waist, like he never would on camera these days. “And why your new year’s could have been spent with a bunch of 22-year olds if you’d not invited yourself over?”
“Not really.” Will mumbles, cheek against his shoulder.
“You should though. I’ve been told I can be very annoying.”
“Yeah, you’ve got that bit right.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean. For real, though. Are you good?”
“Jimothy, can of worms.”
“And what better time to air them out than before the year ticks over?”
Will just stares at him, a long drawn-out glance that seems to hold more than it offers. He’s been doing that a lot lately, looking away when James looks back, but he’s caught it in the viewfinder more than once.
If he was any other man… well. Maybe he’d assume something more. But Will is Will, and he’d never-
He doesn’t-
Yeah. There’s no use in hoping. It’s been seven years. “Go on.” He says, instead, and nudges Will in the chest with his elbow. “Confess your sins.”
“Jim-”
Lightly, he pushes a little harder. “Go on, tell uncle Jimbo.”
What he doesn’t expect is-
“Therapy, alright?” It bursts out of him in a rush of air, and he pushes off James’ lap, retreating to the other end of the sofa, face going horrible, tight and anxious. “Fucking therapy, and I didn’t want to get on the train home all misty-eyed, so pub, the rain, forgot the trains ended early today, a thousand things - if you say anything I’m walkin’ out, don’t bloody test me.”
Therapy? Will, in therapy? He’d known he’d been having a rough time after his breakup, had done some short term stuff at the end of 2023, but… spending an hour in the train on New Year’s Eve of all things implies regularity, a schedule to keep. Like he’d been going for a while, actively making an effort.
For someone like Will that’s… meaningful. “That’s great, man. Really proud of you for doing it.”
“You’re not going to ask why?”
Though the desire is itching at him, he doesn’t chase it. Will doesn’t love being pushed on serious things, if he decides to tell him, he’ll get around to it, and James will make do with speculating until then. “Not my business.”
Something in Will’s posture uncurls, and he doesn’t look quite as much like he’s going to run back out into the weather, which is enough. “Alright then.”
“Can I ask-”
Will tenses. If it was any other moment, it might be funny, but there’s something deeply tragic about it, actually, and not for the first time James worries for him. He doesn’t like it, feels a bit like he’s babying a grown man, but Will’s more of a marshmallow than people seem to see, and there’s been several points over the last couple of years where he’s become a genuine worry.
Him and James both, he supposes.
It takes a bit of effort to force his tone into something light, airy, unconcerned. “Brighton’s a bit out of your neighbourhood.”
“No, really?”
“Just saying, I reckon there’s at least a therapy place or two down the road from yours in London.” Even saying therapy in relation to Will feels insane. He feels faintly proud of him for indulging the concept, more proud still that he’s actually been going. “Do you wanna go into it?”
Eying him suspiciously, it takes him a moment to work himself up to it, it seems. “You ever wake up and miss the sea, Jim?” Will says, instead of answering with something normal. He uncurls from his hunch at the end of the couch and sinks back down next to him, rubbing at the back of his neck. “‘Cause I do. And London’s London, if I come out of a therapist’s and get spotted by a fan I’ll kill meself.”
“So you travel over an hour to a city you hate that’s full of Youtubers, what- fortnightly? monthly? instead.”
“You the fucking police or something, lad?” He shuffles about, pulling his legs up onto the sofa, genuinely a little annoyed. “It’s- familiar, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, that’s actually sort of sweet.”
“Not ‘cause of you, knobhead.” Will shoves him, grumpily, his elbow actually connecting against one of his ribs, splintering pain through his chest. He moans a little pathetically and rolls away, batting a hand across Will as he goes.
“The sea- the waves, the smell-” The tiniest bit of desperation shimmers in Will’s eyes, his gaze long and lanky, glancing across his cheeks. “You get it, don’t you?”
James doesn’t, really. He grew up landlocked Salisbury deadset in the middle of forest-and-field England, the closest ocean a bit of a drive to the south. The sea has an appeal, obviously it does, he lives in Brighton, but it’s not one that drags him along, sings in the depth of his bones in the way it clearly does Will. “Not really. But it’s good that you’re going. And I don’t mind having you around.”
“Gay.”
“Yeah it fucking is. Me wanting to see my best friend is entirely, completely homosexual. Y’know what’s even more gay? Coming over here to talk about it afterwards like we’re both well-adjusted. So fucking gay, that is.” James isn’t even entirely sure if he’s joking anymore, his tone starting out light and silly but quickly dipping south as he rants. He’s been mildly annoyed about this for a while now, ever since it started popping up in videos with regularity, ever since they’d started sliding against each other, not quite on the same page. “Fucking Christ, Will, free yourself.”
Will, to his surprise, doesn’t take the bait. Just shuffles away from him once more, legs pulled up to his chest. With his damp hair and his oversized hoodie, he genuinely does look a bit pathetic, desperation leaking from his pores. “...that’s what the therapy lark’s about.”
“Explain.” Maybe he should soften it with a qualifier, anything, but he’s genuinely annoyed. It’s the first row they’ve had in ages, and he hates it, the lighthearted bickering dropping into something discomforting and foul in a way that it just doesn’t with them usually. But he’s sick of it, the performativity of it all. Sick of indulging Will pulling away when all James has done in 2025 is step into the light. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve gotten better… lately.” Will mutters. He doesn’t quite meet his eyes, hands coming up to pull into the borrowed jumper, giant sweater paws. “Gotten worse, haven’t I?”
“I don’t think you’ve gotten worse. You’ve done incredible stuff this year, man.”
Will glares at him like he’s not really getting it, which he isn’t, really. Arguably it’s been the best year of their lives for both of them, so he doesn’t quite understand why Will’s so in his head about it.
“Sod the content, the content doesn’t matter. Why am I here every day of my life stressing about it all falling down? If I do something or-” His voice falters, shoulders slumping, a note of genuine fear spilling through his words, “-say something on camera it all could fall apart?”
“Oh, willne cancellation in the last few minutes of 2025?”
“Shut it, you know what I mean. Lost half the old audience, haven’t I?”
“And gained arguably a much better one.” He still doesn’t really get it. “What is this about, Will?”
Fear turned irritation turned indignation, Will shakes his head like he’s being utterly, completely dim. “You, moron. You, and me and how I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”
There’s not a chance- really? Anxiety, anticipation, fear - whatever - slams his heartbeat right through his skull, ‘cause he’s thinking- what he’s thinking- there’s not a chance- “Will.” He croaks, instead, thoughts dizzying, unwilling to move in case he’s read it all wrong. “Will- use your fucking words-”
“Nothing else to say.” Will breathes, voice equally as raw, and yanks him in by his collar to kiss him.
It sets James off balance, knocks him about as he wasn’t expecting it, and he goes down onto the sofa, elbow glancing off the armrest as he flails, a simple peck turning into something far more visceral as their chests collide. It’s a dumb idea. It’s a dumb, stupid, fucking idiotic idea, but he - literally - can’t pull away.
Doesn’t want to either, he finds. Couldn’t want to if he tried.
Their stubble rasps together, one of Will’s thighs coming to rest between his own, and it’s good, it’s great, he’s going to dance about giddily the moment they talk about it, but he’s also got an elbow in his ribs and a thousand unasked questions, so he needs to-
Will slumps against his side when he eases him away, eyes glittering, hair mussed; the smugness in his posture utterly infuriating, the little bastard.
“You come over here just for that?” James asks, but can’t keep the joy out of his voice as he does, hand coming to drift across the hem of Will’s- well. His- shirt. “New Year’s kiss? You’re insufferable.”
“Was genuinely just in the area. Didn’t mean for it all to come spilling out.” Will says, after a contemplative moment. His brows furrow, hand reaching out to wind in James’ own.
“Yeah, man. Okay. Sure.” Will’s hands are surprisingly soft, he finds; which honestly, shouldn’t be a surprise, he gets manicures more than anyone James knows. “Nice to know I have a starring role in your chats to your therapist.”
“Not just you. All of it. The fame, my head, what people think. All of that mess. Not fixed. But we’re getting there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And god, maybe they should talk more about it, spend hours winding conversation around their fingers, and through the air, but 2025’s in its dying throes, and he’s not in the mood for any more questions. Tonight is tomorrow, and tomorrow is 2026. Will’s hand sits steadily in his own. Anything could happen.
He just hopes Will’s there with him when it does.