Chapter Text
James
It’s not quite the harsh EDM-and-first-year-laden vibes of the main streets, the party James decides to take Will to. It takes a second or two of Googling, but he had done his prep in advance, and he finds the place he wants in a moment (after scrolling past the haphazard and definitely wrong AI results) then leads Will down a couple of side streets until he finds it.
Pumping reggaeton. A joyful but not voracious crowd. They slip in between patrons like they were born to be there, and Will gets them both drinks without even asking before they settle on the edge of the dancefloor.
“You just bought me here ‘cause ye know Spanish.” Will yells, disgruntedly, gaze jumping between him and the dancefloor over the din.
“Will, I brought you here to dance.”
“Then down your drink and dance with me, Jimothy.” Will replies, grin suddenly dazzling, as he raises his glasses to his lips, any fear of the moment suddenly overcome by the vibe, or the cocktail, or something.
James doesn’t understand his change of heart, and doesn’t really need to as the music swells over them, and he slams down his mocktail, grabbing Will’s hand, and pulls them both out onto the dancefloor.
J Balvin pounds between them, around them, the crowd shuffling them ever-closer together till they’re bumping elbows, knees, shins. James’ never been hugely fond of the pounding kickdrum-laden style that is reggaeton, but it serves its purpose in the moment, hammering a beat into his chest as loud as his heart, Will light on his feet around him, a dazed grin cresting his cheeks.
It’s not like how they’ve gone clubbing in the past, a rainbow flag across his cheek, the eyeliner, the highlighter. In the shine of the club LEDs, and even without them, he’s beautiful.
“I’m- gonna get- more-” Will yells, waving back to the bar. He shrugs off his stripey shirt, sweat glistening along his shoulders, his clavicles, and shoves it into his pocket. “Don’t leave me, aye?"
“Where would I go?”
Will blows him a kiss and disappears off into the crowd, all his earlier angst dipping from his posture as he goes, and James can’t help but stare; watching the muscles in his back shift beneath the mesh top, a lukewarm rumble of desire welling up somewhere deep inside him.
In all honesty, it’s always been there, even since before he knew it himself, some party in the depths of 2018 where he’d been introduced to a lanky, relentless Geordie and they’d had to be peeled away from each other by the end of the night, conversation an interwoven web between them.
And he’d shoved it down, and dragged himself past it, content to spend the time with Will as nothing more than a friend - friendship was all he’d wanted if it was the only option - but the faintest part of him has always wondered what if.
Will
James’ little pep talk had done wonders for his mood, and as he pushes through the crowd, eyes catching on biceps, and asses, and glittery cheeks, he wonders if it’s that simple. If he can just let go and feel it, without all the worry.
Gaze wandering, he steps up to the bar again, orders, and settles back against the sticky wood as there’s a bit of a pile up of orders, instinctively searching the crowd for James’ floofy hair, which is usually a dead giveaway in a crowd.
A moment, or two, and James emerges from behind a broader man, and maybe there’s something in the air or in the music because in this place he looks… a right sight. Dark hair and dark eyes, chest hair thick under the mesh top, muscles in his shoulders tensing in the stage lights as he dances, the rainbow flag glittering on his cheek.
He’s never seen James like this before outside of one of his gigs, but James is the natural-born performer Will isn’t, and he thrives under the light, his head thrown back, one palm slipping along the seam of his jeans, not a care in the world.
Will watches him, throat dry, and he itches.
“Nice ass on that one.” Some man next to him nudges him in the ribs, unpleasant breath wafting across his face, his dirty blonde fringe swinging. “You know him?”
“He’s taken.” Will snaps, and even he’s surprised by how viciously it comes out, like he’s maniacal, like he’s staking a claim. And he wouldn’t- it’s not like James would-
“Yeah, does he know that?” The man scoffs, and with a flick of his eyes, Will’s gaze leaps back to James, who’s still dancing, but someone else - shorter, blonder, skinnier - has slithered up against him, throwing beads over his head, chest against his chest, hip to hip. It’s not as though he’s pushing him away, but James’ head looms over the other man’s as he slips one hand along his back, and his dark eyes stare Will down.
Staring, challenging, wanting. All of them and more.
He’s not jealous, unless that jealousy stems from wanting James’ hands on him like that instead. Jealousy? Never heard of her. He’s never been less jealous in his life.
Will forgets the drinks so fast that he nearly falls over, and barges through the crowd, spurred on entirely by the tug in his chest, which feels six feet ahead of him and somehow still behind. Somewhere in the background, the J Balvin fades into something vaguely familiar, a bit more feminine. Stuttering an apology as he elbows someone in the tits, he stumbles to a halt in front of James, who’s still holding the fucking twink with one thick bicep, grin incredibly smug.
“You got back fast.” James smirks. The humor in his eyes is as deeply frustrating as it always is, ‘cause the bastard knows exactly what he’s up to. “See something you like?”
“He’s taken.” Will says, again, vaguely in the direction of the twink, who is so skinny, and actually not that attractive up close, way too skinny for James’ tastes, and also probably like twenty-one which is way too young too. He’s not jealous. He just sounds like a moron for normal and rational reasons. “Piss off.”
“I don’t actually think-” The twink starts.
“Am I now?” James continues.
“Yes.” Will finishes, firmly. It’s not the alcohol. It’s what’s been building in him all day, finally racketing through his veins, making itself known. It’s not jealousy. Not envy. Not at all.
“Sorry, love.” James’ grin somehow gets even wider. “Off you pop. I’ve got way too much baggage to be worth it.” He nudges the twink in the hip, and the younger man gets the message immediately, though longingly glances across James’ biceps as he goes. “Will, I-”
Will flings his arms around his neck, stumbling right into his personal space, and kisses him.
He’s not even sure why?
Too fueled by the vibe of the day, the emotional rollercoaster he’s been on, the swing of James’ hips, the beads clattering around his neck, Lele Pons & Yandel banging on in the background-
Oh, who is he kidding? He’s doing it ‘cause he wants to. In full view of a room full of people, pressed together in the club, like no-one else in the world matters.
And for a moment, they don’t.
For one second, they’re out of the spotlight, just him and James anonymous on the dance floor, one pair in a set of so many other pairs, pressed together from mesh shirt to mesh shirt, hips and knees and boots.
Lost in the heat of the summer’s day, the thick and sweaty warmth of the club, James’ arms come to curl around him, tight against his back, as the kiss deepens, and this is nothing like the jokey pecks he’s had on the pitch with the boys, it’s better by a thousand times, and all of it finally makes some kind of sense, his spine unknotting, the fears of the day flooding out through his feet into the floor.
When they finally part, he’s almost giddy with it; knows he gets a bit flaily in moments like these, heat flooding his cheeks, can’t quite meet James’ eyes, but definitely does feel it when James pecks him on the tip of the nose.
His hand’s still smoothing over the small of his back, warming gentle pressure against the mesh, and he looks up to see James grinning at him, annoyingly, beautifully, the glitter rainbow smeared all across his cheek, as he’s sure his is. “I hate you.” He grumbles.
“No you don’t.” James replies, and then blinks, listening for a second. “Is that Lele fucking Pons?”
[A series of Instagram stories:
- A spotted pink and purple cat with a wonky tail positioned next to a half-empty mocktail glass
- James, stood with a stunning drag queen, standing a couple of inches taller than him. A sticker tag reads @missandry
- A rainbow flag high on someone’s cheek
- The sharp edge of someone’s stubbly jaw, dark eyeliner, a smeared rainbow flag, a bare shoulder with a mesh shirt hanging ragged off raggedly. Text on screen reads: Pride was really good.❤️]
Fin.