Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’d been one-hundred-twenty-six days since Will had been back to this spot. The clearing he knew all too well, engraved deep into his memories, alongside the feeling of burning in his lungs, and a dryness in his throat. He’s sitting in the same gravel path he used to run to, the very reason he’s back here. He skims his fingers through the grass, heels dug into the all too dry dirt. Detritus. Whatever James called the stupid shit in the ground. 

It’d been fifteen days since he last saw James. Three since they last talked. Words echoed through Will’s mind, cut deep into his soul as his skin crawled. The last they spoke, Will had nothing nice to say. And instead of listening to his mother when she told him ‘if you have nothing nice to say, don't say it at all’, he threw it all at James. Words he could never mean, Words strung sentences he wasn’t aware he could muster up. He was losing himself — no. Lost himself, and James was the only one around for him to take it out on. 

It’d been fifteen days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes since James uttered the words ‘you don’t mean that’ to him. He knows this, because he was staring at the clock in James flat instead of making eye contact. He knows because he’s been counting. He’s counting the seconds until James reaches out. Like he always does. He hasn’t. The last of James was a three minute phone call. Will did most of the talking. 

It’d been three days since he last heard James’ voice, cut off by his own as he apologized so many times he couldn’t count. Ironic, because he’s counting everything else. He called James, because he was hurting, not because he thought James was. The other explained this to him at the end of their call, voice mundane and quite frankly bored. Will wanted to fade away as James’ voice came through the line, full of distaste and anger. He told Will how it made him feel that he didn’t seem to realize the impact of his words, how he needed a therapist again, that he needs to pull himself together before trying to fix someone else. It made his skin crawl, his heart ache. Because he knew he was right. James was always right about him, and it made him sick to his stomach. 

It’d been fifteen years since he’d last been to church. So why now was he clutching onto the cross hung around his neck? His finger picks at the gold, pulling it away from where it usually burns into his sternum. He doesn’t believe in God, but sometimes the devotions he’d scroll through on his screen late at night made sense. Maybe he believed in fate, and that along the way he fucked his up. Maybe he believed he was being punished, that James was his temptation, and when he gave in he signed his livelihood with. And maybe each kiss over his failing body sent him deeper unforgivable, every intertwine of fingers his own intertwine with eternal damnation. — but James doesn’t believe in God, so he tells himself he doesn’t either.

They aren’t religious, but he’ll pray. He’ll pray for something to speed up the damnation, the hell he knows he’s destined for, If there is a God. He doesn’t want there to be. But if there is, he’ll tell them he’s just fine with hell. That whatever makes him so unsavable is just a part of him now. That he’s quite alright with not being forgiven by this God, so long as James forgives him instead. 

He’d done all this counting, watching clocks tick by, reminders in his phone to raise his head out of bed to check if James has texted him back. Each time met with further disappointment at the harsh truth. All this counting and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because James would never know, let alone care. He picks at the ground, roots and grass more stable than himself. His body shifts, bringing his knees close to himself, arms wrapped around them, reducing himself to the rise and fall of his chest. He wants to cry, scream, run, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s done all of those things so much in the last three days he has nothing left to give. So instead, he’s sitting idly. Waiting for something else to take the pain for him.

He forces his hands through his hair, racking his brain for how his life could fall apart with the shift of a single human. His body reeks of sin, and he only wants to justify it with more sin. So he stands, digging his shoes into the floor beneath him as he keeps his arms wrapped around his shaking frame. He was halfway to Brighton. He drug himself out, no prep, and ran halfway to Brighton. His legs were jelly, and he was accepting defeat. It was easier to run knowing James was waiting for him. But his legs had nothing to run for when he wasn’t sure James would let him in for a cup of tea. 

He’s fine, he’s telling himself he’s fine, and he’s heading for the nearest bar to ask for their nicest fruity cocktail. He looks homeless, he smells of sweat, his face is raw and red : but he’s getting that cocktail. So he retraces his steps, meeting the road after about ten minutes of walking. It’s only 7, he’s sure there will be a local pub. He’s thinking in simple word sentences, because if he thinks farther than ‘I can do this’ and ‘I need a drink’ he’ll fall apart. 

He rubs his arms, feet falling harsh into the bricks of the street. He can see the pub now, it looks abandoned, but there’s a big red open sign in the middle. He allows himself to breathe, only focusing on the neon lettering and old broken door. It’s inviting, for someone so broken down to find a building reflective of himself. His breath makes clouds in the cold night, converse scratching the pavement and soft whispers to not be heard fall from his lips. 

His hand is pressing into the door before his body realizes he’s made it. There’s a creak, and a bell goes off above his head. A cheery hello pauses his trudging for only a moment. He slides into a bar stool, requesting a stupid fruity cocktail and bowing his head, sniffles fall and he would usually be embarrassed, but he can’t think quite straight and doesn’t think of it. 

Cold plastic cup inserted in hands and the liquid is draining into his body and rooting itself in his system. He’s drinking his sex on the beach like water and water like a sex on the beach. The woman serving is clearly concerned by him and he shrugs it off, doing his best to hiccup through his drink. She takes his cup when he’s finished and doesn’t bring him another until he’s finished his water. Will notes that this is probably someone’s grandma and he wishes he found someone who would over serve him without a second question.

He’s halfway through his second drink when his phone buzzes under his elbow. Perturbed, he checks it.

Are you in crawley??

JAMES , 8:30PM 

He is. But after reading he places his phone back down on the bar. James is complicated, Will thinks he knows him, until something shifts and he can’t read him anymore. Why would James care if he was in Crawley if he wouldn’t even return his calls? Will was clueless, so he turned back to what he knew better of the two, his drink. 

There’s an itching in his throat, and he thinks he’ll be sick. But after setting his drink down, he knows it’s his thoughts instead. James has texted him, and he shoved it off as if that wasn’t exactly what he’d been praying for. 

His cash meets the counter and feet meet the floor moments after, phone in his hands and he’s shoving himself out of the door with his shoulder first. There’s a train he can catch in 10 minutes, but the station is a 13 minute walk. 

His legs hurt and he’s all out of run, but he does it anyway. His belongings clutched in his hands and lungs working overtime. 9 minutes. The wind is nice through his hair, and it almost distracts him from every wheeze that racks through his body. 8 minutes. He’s got a cramp in his calf, but the cramp in his heart hurts worse, so he pushes through it. 7 minutes. He should stop for a shower. He stinks and he wants to apologize, sweat’s not good for apologies. But he doesn’t have a shower, or time to take one. 6 minutes. He hopes James is home, laying on the couch with Otto on his chest. He hopes Otto hasn’t forgotten him. He’d spent ages getting him to like him. Petting Otto would be nice. 5 minutes. His stomach rumbles, and he feels like he might double over. But he’s 3 minutes from the platform and doesn’t have time to dry heave over the pavement. 4 minutes. He’s praying James lets him spend the night, he might just sleep on the beach if he doesn’t. There’s no strength left to haul ass back to London. His lungs couldn’t take it either. 3 minutes. Every other thought is James, there’s no use in thinking because everything is interrupted by James echoing through his head. 2 minutes. For two minutes his brain doesn’t bother to send anything through his thoughts, he’s not allowed to stop running and can’t even when he reaches the platform with 1 minute left. The doors are about to close and his foot catches the dip when he runs into the train. 

He made it though. 

He made the train to Brighton, and he’ll be at James’ in 45 minutes. Without telling him.

He should text James, but his hands are too busy clutching his shirt and reminding himself to breathe. He finds a seat and brainstorms a story to explain why he hasn’t got a ticket, but can afford nice tennis shoes. 

He's not sure what he would say, either. ‘Hey James, I know I said all those nasty things but, I’m on my way and the only thing on my mind is putting it in the past!’ Or ‘oh yeah I was in crawley, but now I’m on the train to yours and would love to crash there.’ He’d rather die. He’d honestly rather stick his head out of the train and puke before texting James. But fuck, if he was dreading a text, how would he stomach it in person?

His arms are crossed over the table and his head is hurried before he thinks too hard about it. That’s Will in forty minutes’ problem.

—

Will hesitantly knocks on the door to James flat, knuckles burning against it as he clashes into it slightly too hard. He’s off his game, the bad kind of half drunk no one wants to ever be. But he needed to see James, he needed to have his hands on him again, prove to him just why they ended up together in the first place.

The door opens with a small creak, and Wills in and bumping slightly into James within seconds. 

“Missed you,” Will starts, stepping ahead of James and inviting himself into his home. He’s forgetting he’s not allowed in the same way he was just a month ago. 

“I missed you too, Will.” The younger replies, following after Wills steps with a glint of hope in his voice. 

“Did you, really?” He asks, turning to him.

“Of course I did, you’re my ex-boyfriend.” He replies, Will frowns. He steps closer to James though, looking up to him as he slides his hands around his waist.

“How long does the ex part last?” Will asks, slurring slightly over his words, rubbing shapes into James’ sides.

“You’re no stranger to friends with benefits Will.” 

“That’s like relapsing with us though,” 

James stifles a laugh, tries to pull away from Will but is pulled into him once more. He goes to speak, but Will's finger is over his lips in a shushing movement in moments. His other hand clasped tightly round James’. He’s pulling him to his own bedroom, and James’ stomach flips with excitement. He wants them back together more than anything, and if not, a nice night of getting topped would never be something he’d say no to. 

When they reach James’ room, his clothes are lost and he’s pushed to the bed not long after, boxers stuck to his skin with sweat and anticipation. Will's shirt is discarded, he’s bringing himself over James, pushing their bodies together, skin rubbing skin. His hands trace over James’ skin, goosebumps to follow. He’s kissing over his neck and collarbones, and pressing their bulges together, desperately trying to get James worked up below him. He wants to fuck him so well he forgets all those words uttered days ago. 

James won’t forget, he’s thinking about it now, hands glued to Will's hips, tilting his head and closing his eyes in hopes of blinking it away. He’s soon helped grounded again, as his lips are caught by Wills and his head is forced to turn back to him by a sloppy wet kiss. He feels sick immediately, cheap alcohol making its way over his own tongue carried by Wills spit. He brings his hands up to push Will up for space. 

“You taste alcoholic will,” he says, swallowing hard in his mouth. A desperate attempt at ridding himself of the others' taste.

“What, cause yer’ addicted?” A smug reply, Will advances to place kisses on him once more and he denies, thoroughly upsetting him.

“Fuck off, you’re drunk, you know what I mean.” 

“Hardly,” He’s looking up at Will, and he’s unsure how he didn’t notice till now. His eyes are bloodshot, he’s slurring, and he never has this much courage.

“You know how much I hate that.”

“Me?” 

It’s a stupid question, James doesn't deem it fit for a significant answer.

“Will.”

“Genuine question,”

It’s a stupid question, James doesn't deem it fit for a significant answer.

“The drink. When I can taste what cocktail you’ve had.”

He answers it anyway.

“Sex on the beach,”

Will smiles above, James’ face is cold and he pushes himself out from underneath Will, causing him to fall into the lavender sheets on his bed. The other groans.

“Go home, Will”

“I am,”

James looks confused, why would Brighton be Wills home. And he realises, Will means him. 

“Your home's not here,” he plays dumb in his reply regardless.

“s’ you,”

“It’s not.” He jabs, even though he wants it to be, he wants to be Will's home so badly it hurts. He worked years just to have Will say it, and now it hurts. He's miserable just looking at him.

“Don’t make me, please,” Will's reply makes James’ gut wrench, sick stirring in his stomach as he grips at the pillow beneath his head. 

“Don’t do this,” he pleads in return.

“You know I didn’t mean it. Told you that.” Wills doing his usual run of things. Fucking up, pushing it, breaking it, apologizing, begging, forgiveness. James is sick of it all, he isn’t allowing it. 

“You’re drunk.”

“M’ drunk, not dense.”

There’s silence, the horrible kind that makes James’ throat dry. He wished Will would leave, for the first time ever, he wished his own home would fuck off all the way back to London. 

“Say it.” 

Will asks, and James is confused again.

“Say what?”

“You hate me.”

There’s silence again, James swallows, and looks to Will. He looks ghostly white, and about really to throw up.

“I don’t.”

He soothes him. He doesn’t deserve it, but he consoles him.

“Then say that.”

“I don’t hate you, Will.”

“Then don’t make me leave.”

James frowns, makes a distasteful face that rocks Will to his core. 

“You can have the couch.”

“James—”

“Will.”

“Allow it, one last time.” He breathes, arms tangled around to hold his own body. Will watches the heartbreak in James’ eyes, at the mention of ‘one last time’. James felt it, Will made it real, Will spoke it. 

James arms move to envelope Will, as if he was merely a letter you’d send to a pen pal you never truly wanted. Arms slack, their bodies just far enough to have the space awkward. Will hates it. He’s not used to this side of the coin. He’s used to being the one who forces the space, to cut the ties before they have a chance to find their way back in knots. But now James is, eyes closed, head tilted just far enough back to minimize any lingering hope. He can’t stand it, he’s well fucked over, and knows no consequences will haunt him now, so he pushes himself into James. Tears falling against bare skin, shaky breaths turned shaky limbs.

“M’ sorry, m’ so fuckin’ sorry.” He sobs, head pressed deep into James chest, fingers grasping at his skin. There’s a tightened arm around his back, followed by a gentle hand combing through hair. He’s shushed, lips pressed neatly into the top of his head while a kiss is planted. It’s silence after, the only sound outside, and the shuffle of sheets below bodies. 

“I’d be sober for ya’. I’d quit the drink if you wanted. I’d move ‘ere, ditch London just to be with yous,” Will adds, voice laced with a truth that makes James cringe beneath him. Will shuts his eyes tighter.

“We’ll talk about it later, sleep it off.” James’ voice cuts deep, but his body is gentle and his touch is rejuvenating so Will doesn’t mind.

“Promise me it?”

“Put your pinkie out,”

Will does, moving his head groggily to observe their hands. James brings his to meet Will’s, and wraps their pinkies together, shaking their hands slightly.

“Promise,” 

Chapter Text

3AM

It’s three AM and Will’s still awake. He’s overheating, and there’s a heartbeat in his ear so loud he can’t focus on his own thoughts. There’s arms tucked tight around him, and his head is buried in the crook of James’ neck. The other's breath is hot down his back, but it’s the most comfortable he’s ever felt. James has never held him this tight before, and he can’t help but be painfully aware it’s due to his outburst earlier that night. 

He's calmed down significantly, despite the occasional shaky breath, turned into silent sobs into James’ chest. He hates to wake him, but each time James’ hands find their way back to his hair, and his arms hold him impossibly closer, it calms him all over again. Will stirs, and James is tugging him back into his grasp like a ragdoll. Will’s hands find their way to James’ chest, pressing into him and pushing himself away. 

He’s sober now, and the situation is a whole lot scarier. 

James’ eyes are open in seconds and he’s rubbing them to look at him. Will stares, swallowing the bricks of self reflection and building a wall in his stomach to contain the truth. The truth of the matter is : he’s so in love with James he can’t allow himself to hurt him any longer. He’s too fucked up, and James is right, he needs help. But it’s a whole lot harder when you believe the man lying across from you can fix everything with a hug and a pat on the back. 

“‘M sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, jus’ thinkin’.” Will speaks, his voice cracks through the shakes. There’s tears in his eyes and his hands are digging through his hair as his chest rises as if it’s lifting 120kg. James’ hands are grabbing his wrists and Will flinches slightly. James looks concerned, and it breaks Will just a little more.

“Will, you pushed me away, hard. If you’re thinking, think out loud.” James demands, his hands loosening on Will, and Will wishes he could take it back. He doesn’t realize how much James’ hold on him helps until he’s far from it and his body won’t quit stirring. “Will, breathe. Like I taught you, four seconds, the box.” He's directing him, and Will is trying to find the words to push past the hyperventilating feeling in his chest. He does his best to breathe, but he can’t think hard enough to keep track of what number fits where. 

James realizes Will can’t grasp that mechanism quite yet, and his hands squeeze his shoulders to bring him right side up. Will’s body is limp and his world is spun when James moves his limbs, the slight light seeping through the window feeling like the sunlight of the morning he doesn’t want to wake up to. 

“Hot coco, then. Smell the hot coco, cool it off. Breath in, breathe out.” James's voice is velvety, and his hands are over Will’s that have been cupped to simulate a mug of hot coco. Will finds it silly, until he’s doing as he’s told, and it’s easier to track. He’s not a toddler, he shouldn’t have to blow out hot chocolate to ground himself, but he’s doing it. He’s doing it, and it’s working.

“Better?” James' question is loaded. What part does he mean? Breathing? yes. Feelings? no. 

Will shakes his head yes, but James is aware what he’s answering for, and his arms are wrapping around Will once again. He feels like clay, James’ strong arms lift him easily and shape him into whatever he pleases. Will is malleable and the other knows it. He’s been pulled into James’ lap legs laid sideways and head tucked into his shoulder. The youngers arms are wrapped around his body, he’s rocking him then moving one arm to half hold him and comb through his hair with his fingers. Will feels like a child. He wants to be sick but it’s calming and he won’t disturb it this time.

“What’s wrong?” James asks what would usually be a question, but to will it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like James is aware of exactly what will leave his mouth. Will deems it impossible, and his hands move to make shapes over James’ skin.

“I’m ’jus, fuck— uhm, there was. No.” His voice won’t travel, it’s cracking, he’s more high pitched than normal and it makes his skin crawl. “I know you said we’d talk, but I ‘aven’t slept an’ you were suffocatin’ me an’ -.” His eyes meet James’ face, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “No, that’s not what I—ment. It was helpin’, promise. I jus’ realized ‘m fuckin’ you up, ‘n  you don’t deserve this. Any of it, the baggage stuff.” He explains, hiccups interrupting his speech, eyes fighting to stay open and trained. 

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve Will. You’ve been the best person to date by far. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?” James' words should mean something to Will, they always do, but now all he can stomach is deflecting. Deflecting until James starts to as well.

“You’ve got shit taste then.” Will's joke is followed by forced laughter from him, James is silent and slows his rocking, soon stationary besides the fingers running through Will's hair. He's sure he could pinpoint every noise occupying the deathly silence, and he’s sure this is a fate worse than death.

“You’re a good person, Will.” James' voice cuts through the dark, and Will stops holding his breath. Instead, he holds his words. He’s racking his brain for anything he’s done in the last month that would back James' statement. 

He can’t find anything.

“Then why don’t I feel it?”

James sighs, and Will feels an overwhelming sensation of dread wash over his body. Chills rise over his skin, and he tucks his head farther into the other. James responds to the movement by gently laying them into the mattress, soothing Will with a hand in his hair and legs tangled together.

“You will, eventually.” His answer comes far after Will's question, and Will expects him to have more to say, but it’s short, sweet and nice so he can’t complain. Will turns, back laying into the purple sheets of James bed, and he’s moved his head to stare at the ceiling. Hands shift, and James’ fingers are tracing shapes into his chest as he rests his head on his hand held up by propped elbow. 

“You still love me?”

Will's question is ridiculous, but he needs some confirmation he’s not overstepping. He clings to spoken words and James knows that, so he wants him to say it. More than he bothers to announce, but his voice carries his feelings uncomfortably and he can’t do much to stop it. 

“Of course I still love you, that’ll never change.”

Will nods, turning his head to look at James. His gaze is full of love and it makes Will's stomach turn over. He wants it to be full of love, so why he feels sick perplexes him farther than his brain cares to catch up.

Will's fingers find their way to caress James’ hand on his chest, gentle and hopeful. James’ hand stiffens under his touch, and Will tucks himself into the other when he makes brief eye contact. He doesn't cry this time, instead, wraps James into his own grasp.

“Love you too, for the record.” 

“Fuck–Will, what’re we gonna do?” His voice is stifled with sobs and seems choked slightly. Will wants to vomit, but more than that, wants to hold James closer. Absorb him, along with any of the negative feelings eating at him. James’ head is tucked into Will's shoulder now, legs tangled, allowing Will's arms to wrap around his larger frame, shoulders folding in.

There's a sweetness to it, the usual roles reversed to allow comfort to James. The shift is like a welcomed missing puzzle piece, fitting perfectly into the jigsaw of their complicated mending. When James thinks about it, this is what he wanted, to know Will is aware he also needs comfort. To know Will is ready to carry not only the weight of himself but also simultaneously the pressure of shared effort in cultivating a relationship. 

As if James is a plant in Wills garden, placed in soft soil by gentle hands, watered on schedule, and leaning towards Will as if he is the sun. 

“S’ yer’ turn, speak up Jamie,” Wills voice is finding its footing, in more control of the conversation as to comfort James. His hand moves to brush fingers through tangled waves, soothing James as he awaits a suitable answer. There's silence, cut by choked sobs from a perturbed James. He's working to collect himself, his own hands tucked into Will's chest tightly. Will presses a kiss into his hair, a hand pausing to hold the base of his neck, thumb brushing just under his ear in the way he likes. He’s forgotten that he knows that. Forgotten the sweetness of being engulfed by Will gently, as opposed to the much more hostile engulfed he’d been for the prior weeks.

You aren't aware how much you need something until it’s gone. James has learnt that much. How no matter how much convincing he assumed he would need to do in the bathroom mirror after this, there would be no getting over Will. No matter how many stars passed by granting empty wishes for forgetting what they’d shared, he would still be charted as his own constellation in James’ universe of a mind. 

“Just, thinking how we’re going to fix all of it. How we’ll be able to make sure it won't happen again.” James voices, moving his head to press his forehead to Wills. 

“Time. You taught me that.” Will's response is worth the following silence. Because he’s right, and James is sure that was the only perfect answer. 

They're both aware of how much of a joint mess they are. How they've gone from breakdown to breakdown, comfort to comfort, coddling to coddling. Their bodies are built for one-another in ways that feel far passed natural, as if sculpted from the same broken stone. 

“How do we start?” James speaks once more, a genuine question that he's hoping shifts Will’s priority. Will’s grip loosens on James, allowing his arms to slip out and wrap around him in return. 

“From the beginning?"

And the idea of it doesn't sound all that bad. To start from scratch. To forget all the words exchanged with the acknowledgment of the sweet times shared. After years and years of shared trials and tribulations, they both want to start over. It’s bittersweet and James knows that as much as Will, yet all James can think of is just how Will plans to start over.

“Could do with a proper date. Can’t remember the last time we went out.”

“Started to think you’d never ask.”

The following silence is sweet, and this time they drift to sleep with Will holding James.

9AM

James has slipped on Will’s jumper on purpose, and as Will is clamoring out of bed, he settles on finding one of James’ in his closet. He’s picking his battles today, and he looks nice in a sweater that’s just a little tight on him. Will moves his hands to caress James’ shoulders, fingers brushing the base of his neck as he stands taller to place a kiss to his cold skin. 

He doesn’t ask permission to take from James’ things, so long as there’s an extra toothbrush on James’ sink for him he does as he pleases. He slips clothes on, his black slacks, and a ‘don’t tell the dog’ jumper that runs a little big. As far as Wills is concerned, they’re the same size.

Keys jingle, and Will takes them eagerly as they head for the front door. This is their routine, James keeps track of the things, Will helps with the tasks James either cant or cant be asked to do. He’s the driver of the two, loves driving, and it only helps his case that James can't drive, no matter how many times Will tries to teach him.

They’re out the door and off to some distant restaurant Will deemed fit for breakfast with James. It's an hour away and in the countryside and James can't believe will woke up at five am to pull this off. It’s already romantic, and even though James has a slight fear Will might drift off at the wheel, he can't keep his eyes and hands off of him. His left hand is on his thigh, caressing him as he goes on about how unfair the last ChrisMD video he was in was. And though James couldn't be less interested about ChrisMD, he's smiling more than he has in about a week.

“And then, of course, George Clarke has the nerve to say I’M not bringing enough energy–” Will’s dramatics causes James to let out a laugh.  “Nah, and it's not even funny cause Arthur always backs him. He’s fuckin’ him i swear,” Will continues, but even he cant reach the end of his sentence before laughing. James hand moves to grasp his bicep, laughing even more now that Will has. 

It’s only after he's collected himself and looks up that he realizes Will’s giving him a look. The kind that screams words without needing to say them. The kind that says ‘I’d ask you to marry me if we weren't in a weird spot, and I'm afraid you might say no’. 

But, he wouldn't say no.

10AM

There's confusion riddled looks towards Will, and James doesn't mean it, but it's a little perplexing to see the change in the other overnight. As if those simple words they uttered at ungodly hours really did sink into his soul and settle finally. Will has not only gotten them a spot at a nice comfortable restaurant, but also drove them there, sorted out talking to all the different people, and was now pulling James' chair out for him to sit. He almost thinks to ask if the real Wills’ been kidnapped, and replaced by some slightly-more-out version.

“You alright?” The brunette asks, and James is quick to nod a yes. Adjusting his own posture, and placing his napkin in his lap to fidget with.

“Just adjusting, we haven't done this in awhile, and definitely not to this degree. It’s really nice, Will.”

Will gives a soft smile, adjusting himself into his own seat as his eyes graze the menu. They don't speak for a moment, until they’ve both realized what they want. Will’s the first to stir, pressing his elbows into the table and bringing his hands up to his face to rest his head on. 

“Yes?” James asks, knowing there's an unavoidable question brewing. He doesn't make eye contact though, he can feel Will’s eyes on him well enough.

“Nothin’ just looking at you,” His voice is sweet, and James looks up at him through brown frames. He puts his own menu down, adjusting to sit slightly sideways in his chair as he crosses his legs. He brings one hand up to the table, tracing shapes into the dark wood near the center. He watches Will's eyes fall to observe his fingers, and James responds by pushing them just a little more towards him. He looks away, off to the walls for a moment while he clearly collects himself. James missed this. Toying with him, invoking a shy response just by the smallest of gestures. “You’ve uh, so–I was thinking, and I did wanna talk about, us.” Will's sentence is soft, slow, and he's made eye contact again. His hand is now also on the table, and his eyes shift to watch his own hand slide closer to James’ until his fingers catch his, and Will’s holding his hand over the table. 

“What about us?” James allows the touch, in fact, invites it by turning his palm up, furthering it.

“How long are we not together?”

Will's question isn’t surprising, and James sighs slightly. He doesn't mean to deter will, but he watches the other sink into defeat long before James' reply comes. Will’s hand wavers, attempting to pull away, but James' fingers catch his, as if to reach out on a deeper level. 

“I don’t want to be split, Will. But, you have to promise to stop running from me.”

There's hesitation in reply. As if he isn't sure.

“You’re supposed to run towards me, not away.”

Will nods, he knows these things more than he likes to say, and it's not impossible, he just needs work. Will rubs his thumb over the youngers hand, brushing knees with him just for extra comfort. James knows more than anyone how much touch means to Will. That most things can be fixed by a simple hug or a thoughtful kiss. So he returns the favor, nudging him with his boot. Will smiles at the gesture, returning it with his converse.

“Right. No running. What else?”

James laughs softly, drinking some water as he partially rolls his eyes. He's glad Will seems open to talking about boundaries though. What previously felt like a chore, now out in the open over breakfast.

“No avoiding my messages either. And, you’re not allowed to use that shitty ‘out running’ excuse to miss my calls. ‘Don't care if all I can hear is breathing over the line.” James smiles, and Will looks equally as amused. Though a joke, there is some serious undertones, they both know it well enough.

Silence falls over the table, until the waitress comes to take their order. After, the silence persists, Will drinking his coffee down, James observing him. It’s peaceful.

“‘M serious about you, y’know. The kind of serious that makes my chest hurt n’ shit. The kind where sometimes I’m saving tiktoks of some stupid furniture you’d like just in the off chance we’ll live together someday.” Will speaks, breaking the silence for vulnerability again.

There’s a brief pause, where Will would like to think James is also thinking about their future together. As if there’s an imaginary house in James’ head just like his. 

“I’m serious about you too, Will. I just—” James starts, taking Will's hand in both of his. His eyes are apologetic, and Will would much rather curl up and hide from the world than hear what unfortunate reality awaits him after the ‘just’. He’s bracing for impact, biting into his bottom lip in hopes of distracting his brain. “There’s a lot to talk about, but I want to. I want us to work out, I care about you.” James finishes, and Will can’t help but crack a hopeful smile. 

“’s all I need to hear.” He answers, placing his other hand over James’. He’s staring at him, rediscovering each feature upon his face. Every beauty mark, each way his hair curled to frame his face. “If we weren’t out, I’d kiss you.” He admits, a soft smile on his face, converse budding into James’ legs once more. James smiles, removing one hand from wills to take a drink.

“Could. No one knows us here.” James’ reply catches him off guard, his head snaps up slightly, and he’s trying to decide if it’s a joke or not. 

“James,” Will pleads, as if he’s been asked to do some horribly embarrassing act. His look is apologetic, and James is the one to remove his hand now. They’re dragged across the table, and tucked into his lap with a swift movement and a disappointed look. “You know that’s my one thing, you can’t ask me—”

“I know, Will. Fuck, I know. But god forbid for one moment I think we might be in different territory. And fuck me for thinking you might’ve been in a different headspace now.” James' reply is cutthroat, laced in anger, and Will knows he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t mean it, but it hurts, and Will’s hand tucks into a ball as he retreats it into his lap. 

“James,” Will starts, and this time he’s not pleading, he’s consoling him with a gentle tone. He can tell James is on the verge of tears, the brink of crumbling, and so he stands. He carries himself to the side of the table James is on, holding out his hand for him to take. “Com’on” he suggests, and James nods, even though he’s not all that sure what the other’s doing. He watches Will's feet, following gentle footsteps to the back of the restaurant, and through the men’s bathroom door. He follows him all the way, and into the nearest open stall. 

“Will—what’s,”

“Just, let me talk.”

James nods, and his hands are taken into wills once more, pulled to his chest in a swift movement. He’s leaning back into the stall, looking to the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts. James is surprised he hasn’t bursted out into tears just staring at him.

“I wanna come out, eventually. But, we both said, we didn’ wanna be a public thing.” Will clears his throat, giving James’ hands a gentle squeeze as he adjusts himself. “So, is that still somethin’ you stand by?” 

The question is loaded, and James isn’t sure he’s all that ready to answer. He’s chewing into his bottom lip, thumbing over Will's hand, looking into melting blue eyes. He can’t tell if his next tears are from admiration,  disbelief, or sadness, but they start, and they feel like they won’t stop. His breath is catching as soon as he attempts to speak, tears falling quickly as Will's hands find their way up to his face. He assumes he’s going to wipe his tears, tell him to calm down or something of the sorts. But as hands reach, his glasses are taken and held, and arms are wrapped around his neck as he’s pulled into Will. He leans, tucking his head into his shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist as he lifts him into the hug. 

“You’re alright, just breathe. Take your time,” his voice is smooth, gentle, sweet, and flows like honey into James’ ears. He’s tracing shapes into James’ skin and running a hand through James’ hair. They’ve been emotionally wrecked for days now, and he hated himself for shifting it again, but he’d held on so long, it was a matter of time before it snapped again. “Fucks’ sake, breathe, please.” He’s asking him now, not suggesting. James takes a deep breath in, shaky and wet, but all so full of emotion. “Just like that darling, you’re alright. Try that some more,” he suggests, and James listens as he leans into him, pushing his body further into the stall as his hands grasp at the fabric of his sweater. 

He pulls away, after sniffling and breathing in the other for a while. Will looks concerned, reasonably, and his hands don’t leave James even as he pulls away from the hug. 

“What’s wrong?” 

It should be a simple answer, but it’s not, and Will knows that. 

“Nothing, and everything. Nothing makes sense. I want us to be easy, but all the time I wish we could do normal things for a couple, and we just can’t. I thought I would like it better if I didn’t have the pressure of being in a public relationship, but fuck me i want to post pictures with you, and see people say we’re fit together, and all this other shit that didn’t matter before I met you.” James chokes, swallowing his tears down like a brick in his throat. “I want it, Will. Because I’ve never felt like this with anyone, and I’m so afraid we’ll miss out if we don’t live the way we want.” He pleads now, bringing his hands up to cup Will's face. 

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay, let’s do it. I’ll do it. We can tell anyone you want. ‘M serious, could post it now an’ I wouldn’ be upset.” He replies, nodding into James' touch, looking up to him with hopeful eyes that feel far too dangerous to James. “I told you ‘m serious ‘bout yous” his hands move to grasp James’ sweater, balling the fabric into clasped hands. Sometimes he wonders if Will thinks he’ll fade away if he doesn’t hold him tight enough.

“We don’t have to, Will.” James sighs, bowing his head slightly as his hands fall inwards to pass over Will's chest. He’s still looking at him, their arms touching, breath cascading down each other.

“I want to.” Will speaks, and his rushed suggestion is now a pleading demand to James : who nods. He won’t lie, he’s just as eager as Will, if not more. He’s aware they’ve spoken about how they’re okay with being an item behind closed doors. But the further their relationship progressed, not to mention the further George Clarkey pushed, the more James started to explore the idea of being a public item. 

“If you’re sure, that would be fucking amazing.”

“’m sure, don’t worry.” He reassures James a final time, hands shifting to fall to belt loops, fingers tugging him closer. He’s not sure the last time the younger has looked this happy, and Will is absolutely going to bask in it. If he'd known this is all it took to get James excited for their relationship, he would have done it much longer ago.

“This means we’re back together then? Yeah?” Will asks, and the stall is filled with quick cheery laughter, followed by a tight hug. Kisses pressed into Will's cheek, and multiple ‘yes’ mumbled against his skin.

“Should we get back to the table? Put together a post or something?” James asks, receiving a nod and a small kiss. A nice one laced in sweetness and coated with  gentle intentions. Their hands connect, leading each other back out and to the table. 

For once, Will doesn’t pay any mind to the stares. He doesn’t think about what the other patrons will think of him holding his boyfriend's hand, and he certainly doesn’t care if there are side glances, or an occasional whisper. It’s only when they get back to the table, that he even notices. There’s a certain pride to it, knowing something doesn’t affect you anymore. Maybe James did know what he needed. Per usual. 

There’s silence, and James’ phone is out on the table. He’s showing Will, fingers flipping through favorited photos, albums of them together that have yet to see the public. Will’s careful to point out a few, allowing James to do most of the planning for their post. He’s picked good ones, one of their first anniversary : they’d taken a ferry to France and had dinner out late. In the photo, James had taken a selfie of them, Wills kissing his cheek and his face smashed by his hand. He loves that photo, and now he’s not so sure he’s ready for these photos to come out. 

The second photo is formal, one of James’ family members took the picture, they’re laughing, Will's arm is around James, they’ve got matching outfits, and he can’t help but smile at the photo. Maybe he’s just not ready to share James. Even though he has, and will continue to for years. He wants to keep him, bubble wrap his being and tuck him away for just him. Not to keep the world from him, but to keep him from the world. 

There’s a few other photos added, ones with certain looks or touches they wouldn’t have gotten away with prior. Sharing a milkshake in one, another being when they went puppy shopping, James has a small dog in his hands and Wills petting it extremely close in proximity. There’s another where they’re roughing each other up on the floor, it’s recent, from James’ birthday, they’d fought over a goal, it turned into play fighting and a candid photo taken by persi. 

After Will approves them, there’s typing from James. He’s working at a perfect caption, inviting Will as the second poster, sorting out the minor details of it all. 

It feels like ages for Will, staring at James as he types his heart out into the caption of an instagram post. It all feels silly, announcing a relationship to strangers on the internet, exposing emotional moments for nothing but likes and comments. Except he knows James has always appreciated his audience, often going above and beyond to provide stability for his fans. 

His phone vibration brings him back to, and he clicks on the post. His eyes flick through the photos, shifting to the text moments after. He’s reading. He’s reading through beautiful words and heavy sentences. Compliments, and love filled admiration for himself. All from James. He chokes back tears, the nice ones from feeling all too loved. The kind that choke you up, but don't make you feel awful. 

“Fucks sake, I love ya’” his words are quick, and he’s wiping his eyes seconds after, clearing his throat before he speaks again. “Holy shit, you’ve already got comments.” He notes, but he can’t bring himself to look. Not yet at least. He won’t, and for once it doesn’t feel so suffocating. It feels, liberating. As if he’s got all the more energy to put towards other things, and he will. Eventually.

“I love you, so much.” James’ reply is sweet, flowing like honey and making it all the more hard for Will to focus on the task at hand. His voice always catches Will, but especially off cameras. He speaks sweeter to him, shows him he cares with phrases and tone. Will loves it, feeds off of it on most days. He’d spend a lifetime just listening to James go on about anything at all. “They’ll still love you too, Will. You know that, right?” He adds, which pulls Will’s full attention.

He pauses, sinking in his chair lightly. He’s unsure about the comment, confused on what exactly it means. He has guesses, his family, friends, but maybe James means the fans. Whatever it is, he nods to it, giving the other a reassuring smile. 

“I kno’, but it sounds much better when you say it.”