It absolutely was not possible for Evan to hire out the Eiffel Tower. He genuinely looked into it. It was, however, possible to rent a penthouse Airbnb with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking it. A ridiculous flat, all glass and chrome and minimalism, perched high enough that the lights of Paris stretched out below like a spilled jewellery box.
Honestly, Evan could take or leave the view. He’d seen it enough. Always thought it was a bit overrated, if he was being honest. What was not overrated—what was absolutely not overrated—was fucking James up against those windows while the Eiffel Tower glittered obscenely in the distance.
X-rated, maybe. Overrated?
Fuck no.
They went the third week of September. Officially, Evan said it was a celebration: he’d been accepted into a PhD programme at Edinburgh. Full studentship, Research Council funding—the whole bloody works.
But the truth was simpler. More selfish. He wanted ten uninterrupted days with James. No gigs. No shows. No flatmates, deadlines, or bandmates.
Just this.
Just them.
Because Evan knew that sooner or later there was going to be more. He was going to have to let the outside world in. He hadn’t told his parents yet. Not about the PhD, or anything else. Panda knew, of course she did. Not about James, not yet—but she knew that Evan was done. He wasn’t going back, no matter what his parents tried. He was out. He was actually looking forward to telling his parents about James. Thought he might save it for Christmas. Drop the bomb at one of his father’s wretched dinner parties—do it in front of whatever Tory politician his dad was currently courting, whatever lord’s daughter his mum was thrusting at him with pointed looks and sharp comments about settling down. He imagined it. Imagined himself saying: I’m seeing someone. James Potter—yeah, that James Potter. Then sitting back and watching the whole thing detonate. He wondered if the horror would be enough to break through the years of Botox and force his mother to display an actual facial expression. Evan would pay good money to see that.
His father would threaten to cut him off—probably would cut him off when Evan didn’t relent. His mother would reach for emotional blackmail. She’d tell him she didn’t want him being a negative influence on Pandora—that if this was the kind of life he chose to live, then it was better he stayed away. Evan was prepared for both. Panda was an adult now, at uni—out of the house, out of their mother’s reach, at least for the next two and a half years. She could make her own choices. As for the money? The flat—everything else?
Well, there was a reason he’d picked law as an undergrad despite having no interest in it. A reason he’d bought the flat outright with the money his grandfather left him. Used everything he’d learnt to tie it down so tight they couldn’t claw it back if they tried. His plan had worked. He had a career—or the makings of one. A place to live that was legally his. An income—not a huge one, granted, but enough. He had independence. The ability to walk away from his family with his middle finger raised and to say go on then—try me, over his shoulder as he did. James wasn’t the reason he was leaving. He’d always planned to. James just made it sweeter.
On the second night in Paris, they sat on the balcony of the Airbnb—Evan’s feet propped casually on James’s leg.
“What happened with Barty?” Evan asked, tapping ash over the balcony wall.
It was something he’d been wondering about since the three of them had gone to the pub the afternoon Barty got back from Greece. James and Barty had behaved like mates, bantering back and forth like nothing had ever been wrong.
“How’d you win him over?” Evan pressed, curious. “Can’t just have been the money—he was still calling you a posh entitled twat for the first month of the tour at least.”
“Think he just finally realised I wasn’t a threat,” said James, giving Evan’s foot a squeeze. “Imagine it was about the same time he figured out I was into you.”
Evan cocked his head. “How’d he do that?”
James grinned—that boyish grin that was somehow adorable and hot as fuck at the same time. “Wrote a song, played it for everyone,” he said. “Barty turned up at my hotel room after, said he knew it was about you—threatened to end me. And then asked me if I thought you felt the same way. Said I thought you might.” He paused. “He called me a wanker, but then said he’d try to adjust his perspective on me provided you liked me back.”
The first half of James’s sentence didn’t quite hit Evan’s brain properly at first. He nodded, automatic. “Sounds about right.” He dragged on his cigarette, frowning as the words settled. Then asked, “Wait, you wrote a song about me?”
James looked down at the balcony floor, then back up—brown eyes warm, a little shy. “Yeah.”
Something deep inside Evan went still. Went quiet. Below, traffic hummed softly.
“Can I hear it?”
“Now?”
“No, in five fucking years. Yes, now.”
“No guitar,” James said.
He lifted Evan’s feet off his lap and stood. “Can give you a practical demonstration of the gist, though, if you want.”
Evan looked up at him, slow and assessing. “How’s that work then?”
James took his hand, tugged him to his feet—and kissed him. A slow, filthy kiss. The kind that went straight through Evan, molten and unstoppable. James tasted like wine and smoke and everything Evan had ever wanted.
“Like this,” James said against his mouth—hands tightening on Evan’s hips, backing him into the balcony wall.
The stone pressed cool against Evan’s spine. James’s hands were anything but—slow now, reverent almost—sliding under Evan’s shirt.
“Intro,” James said, like that explained anything.
He ducked his head to kiss along Evan’s jaw, the column of his throat, teeth scraping skin. Evan couldn’t help the sound it drew out of him—a rough, bitten-off gasp that slipped free despite himself. James was a biter. Evan knew that by now. He liked to leave bruises scattered across Evan’s throat, his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. Evan wasn’t complaining. It did something to him—something sharp and dark and helpless. He liked the marks. Liked that James had made them. Then, James worked open the button on Evan’s jeans and dropped to his knees without ceremony, yanking them down far enough to expose him to the night air, to Paris, to him. Evan felt the first drag of James’s mouth—rough and perfect and his—and every muscle in his body went taut like a wire pulled too tight.
“Fuck—” Evan bit out, voice cracking halfway through.
James pulled back just enough to say, voice low and smug and unbearably fond: “Chorus and verse.”
And then he swallowed him whole. Evan’s hands clenched the edge of the stone balcony wall helplessly. Every nerve ending felt flayed open, straining towards the heat and pull of James’s mouth. The city moved below them—cars, lights, a river of life too vast to notice a man coming undone five storeys above the ground—but up here it was silent, except for the wet, obscene sounds of James wrecking him, piece by careful piece.
It didn’t take long. It couldn’t. Not like that.
Evan came hard, gasping James’s name, low and desperate, hips jerking helplessly—and James took it, swallowing everything like a benediction. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at him, flushed and beautiful and his.
“Outro,” he said.
Later, Evan lay awake watching James asleep beside him, one arm thrown across Evan, head nestled on his chest. Somewhere far below, a car alarm wailed half-heartedly, then died. The lights from the Tower blinked stupidly through the gauze curtains, casting long, broken shadows across the floor. James shifted, tightened his arm, like he was anchoring them both to the bed. Evan let himself feel it. Feel it all. The weight of James’s arm. The scrape of his unshaven jaw against Evan’s chest. The impossibly steady thud of his heartbeat, solid and real and here. And underneath it all—threaded through the warmth and the weight and the steady, impossible reality of it—there was this ache. Low and sharp. The kind that made your hands clench uselessly in the sheets.
Because Evan had been waiting. Fuck, he’d been waiting for this for years. Waiting for someone to choose him. To want him. And James—brilliant, ridiculous, beautiful James—had. Evan wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was. Knew what it could be. Which was terrifying. And inevitable. And maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky—final. Evan wanted it to be final. He didn’t want there to be an after, not after James. He wanted this to be the end. The words were burning a hole in his chest, in his mind, in his throat. Probably too soon to say them. But fuck it—he wanted to. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake James, and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. Whispered them into his hair just to try them out. Smiled as they landed. James made a low noise in his sleep, mumbled something incoherent against Evan’s skin, pressed closer—a soft, unconscious movement.
Breakfast the next day was at a place Evan had picked. A narrow slip of a café tucked down a crooked alley in the 5th arrondissement, a few streets off the Seine. Le Perchoir des Oubliés. The café leaned precariously between two taller buildings, its blue shutters faded to soft grey, the chalkboard sign outside so weatherworn it was almost unreadable. Evan watched James for a moment, sipping his coffee—let himself enjoy it. The way James frowned in fierce concentration over the menu. The way he butchered the pronunciation with such enthusiasm it almost came off as charming.
Almost.
Finally, when James started what sounded suspiciously like a heartfelt request for la grand-mère du jambon—the grandmother of the ham—Evan intervened. He leaned forward, plucked the menu out of James’s hands, and ordered for them both. The woman behind the counter—who looked old enough to have survived three wars and a revolution—gave Evan a brief nod and disappeared into the kitchen without a word.
James leaned back in his chair, arms folded, giving Evan a wounded look. “You let me crash and burn.”
“You were very brave,” Evan said mildly, buttering a roll.
Without thinking, he slid the plate across the table—casual, automatic—the kind of unconscious gesture you only made for someone who was yours. James took it without hesitation, without even looking. Like he’d been doing it for years. After breakfast they walked, Evan guiding them—he had a plan. Down a side street lined with bookshops and boutiques. There was a music shop halfway down—gleaming floors, heavy wooden counters, a grand piano in the window, guitars hung neatly on the walls. A woman behind the counter—mid-thirties maybe, with sharp cheekbones and a tattoo of a bird on her shoulder—was sorting sheet music with brisk efficiency. She looked up when he approached.
“I’m looking for a guitar,” he said.
The woman tilted her head. “Acoustic or electric?”
“Acoustic. I don’t know much—you’ll have to choose. Something good. Price is not a problem.”
She considered him, eyes sharp and assessing. “For you?” she asked, a little sceptical.
Evan shook his head, stepped aside slightly, and gestured towards the window. “For him.”
James was standing at the polished black grand piano in the display—fingers trailing lightly over the keys, pulling a quick, effortless melody from them without even really trying. The woman’s eyes widened, recognition hitting fast.
“Is that—” she started, voice catching.
Evan smiled, small and wry. “It is. Can you help me?”
She blinked, pulled herself together with visible effort, and nodded. “Of course. One second.”
She disappeared into a back room, and Evan leaned against the counter, watching James noodle absent-mindedly at the piano. The woman returned a minute later with a case. She set it carefully on the counter and popped it open to reveal the guitar nestled inside—dark mahogany gleaming softly in the late-morning light.
“Martin 000-15M, €1,690,” she said. “Mahogany body, warm tone, excellent resonance. Very good choice. I think it will suit him—but have him try it. I have others if it doesn’t feel right.”
Evan lifted the guitar gently from the case—fingers brushing the smooth curve of it—and carried it across the shop floor to where James was still standing at the piano. James looked up, eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Found you a guitar,” said Evan, handing it across. “No excuses now.”
James huffed a laugh—half amusement, half something softer—and took it from him with reverent hands. He pulled out the piano stool and sat, the guitar settling into his lap like it had always belonged there. He strummed a couple of chords—light, testing—and the sound that bloomed from the wood was rich, low, golden.
“Nice pick,” he said.
Evan shrugged. “Can’t take credit—they all look the same to me,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the window.
James played a few bars—simple but with an edge. “It’s going to be a bit more punk rock, but I’ll give you the acoustic version for now.”
And then he started to sing.
“You’ve got static in your veins—I can hear it crack, Your record collection brings dead songs back...”
Evan couldn’t help but smile at that.
“I call you past midnight, voice richer than sin, I’ll be your next mistake, your clean slate, your win. If you ask I’ll give you my heart—let you tear it apart like modern art.”
And then James hit the next part—and Evan froze.
“You play at love like you don’t want to win, Too scared to be wanted, too stubborn to give in.”
If he’d ever needed confirmation that James knew him—saw him with more clarity than anyone else ever had—there it was. James looked up at him then, eyes warm.
“Make it hurt, I’ll still beg for more—I’ll give you the kingdom, just open the door. I’ll choke on you like a prayer on my knees, say it like a curse—make you believe.”
And Evan thought about the night before. James on his knees, mouth hot against his skin. The memory—and the words—sending want coursing through him.
James finished. Looked at him, eyebrows raised. Open. Expectant. Evan wished they weren’t in a shop. Weren’t in front of a very public window. Wished he could show James exactly what he thought right now—how his chest felt too small, how his skin was about three seconds from splitting open just trying to contain it. He cleared his throat, rough.
“Give me a minute,” he muttered, turning fast, before he did something that would get them both arrested.
At the counter, the woman was already watching him, a small, knowing smile playing at her mouth.
“He’ll take it,” Evan said, handing over his card without hesitation.
She nodded, smooth and efficient, and rang him up. Passed him the case across the counter. Evan took it and headed back across the shop floor. James was still sitting there, guitar loose in his lap, looking faintly bewildered.
“Did you just buy it?”
Evan nodded. Short. Sharp. “Come on. Let’s go.”
James stood, carefully placing the guitar back into its case. He latched it shut, slung it over his shoulder, frowning slightly. “This is not a cheap guitar,” he said, voice quiet. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Evan shrugged, forcing a casualness he didn’t feel. “Was going to anyway. Know you’ve got a few already—figured you could keep a spare at mine. If you want.”
The words hung there between them, heavier than they should have been.
If you want.
He didn’t add that after hearing those lyrics, after hearing that song played on it—there was no fucking way he was letting anyone else ever own it. Not a chance in hell. James watched him for a second—too long. Something flickering across his face, fast and unreadable. Then he just nodded, easy. But the tips of his ears were pink.
“Yeah,” James said. “I want.”
The street outside was bright in the midday sun. Evan shoved his sunglasses on—partly for the glare, mostly because he felt stripped raw and didn’t want James to see it yet. Not here. Not in the open. Not until they were alone. James laced their fingers together without looking. Warm. Solid. Familiar, despite still being new. They were almost back to the Airbnb when it happened. Realistically, Evan should have seen it coming. Probably a miracle it hadn’t happened sooner. He’d seen it with Lily. Knew the score. Knew that life with James meant flashbulbs and headlines and strangers knowing your face.
And yet—he hadn’t been expecting it. Not here. Not now. The soft, metallic click of a lens. James dropped his hand—sharp and sudden, like he’d been burned.
“Shit,” he said—and he sounded scared.
Evan looked up just in time to catch it—two men in front of them, heavy lenses trained straight at their faces. James moved fast—shoving the guitar case up like a shield, pushing Evan behind him—then hurried them past the photographers, through the building’s door and into the lift.
“I’m sorry,” James said, voice tight. “I didn’t see them. I didn’t—fuck—”
Evan frowned at him, trying to read his expression. “Bound to happen.”
Upstairs, James set the guitar down on the counter and turned to him. Panicked in a way Evan didn’t quite know what to do with.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wasn’t thinking—with the hand thing—I should’ve been more careful.”
Understanding—and then relief—washed over Evan. James wasn’t upset for himself. This was about him, not about James.
“You’re worried because you think I mind?” Evan asked, wanting to confirm his suspicion.
James stared at him—mouth open—shut it again, visibly scrambling. “Don’t you?” he asked, slow, uncertain.
Evan kissed him. Hard. Final. Non-negotiable. Led James towards the bedroom. He didn’t mean to say it during sex. It was one of those things you weren’t meant to do—tell someone you loved them for the first time while fucking them. But it just came out, dragged from him. James went still. Every muscle tensing under Evan’s hands.
For half a second Evan thought he’d fucked up. But then James groaned—broken and low—and asked him to say it again. So Evan did. Into his shoulder. His neck. And James came apart at the words. Afterwards Evan lay there, James’s head resting on his chest—let himself run his fingers through James’s ridiculous hair, still damp at the nape. He couldn’t stop touching him. Didn’t even try.
“Knew what I was getting into,” Evan said eventually. “Knew it was inevitable. Going to be worse than it was with Lily.” He hesitated, fingers going still for a second as he thought about what he wanted to say. “Don’t know how much you actually know—don’t like talking about it, to be honest. Always the wrong type of people that are interested.” He sighed. “Thing is, you with me? Won’t just be me that’s going to get backlash. Parents will probably try to scare you off—my father might even offer to buy you out if he’s feeling particularly parental. High chance the media might not be kind about it.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of James’s head. “Probably should be the one apologising.”
James looked up at him then—brown eyes soft, concerned. “Don’t,” he said. “Not me I’m worried about.” He hesitated, then added: “Sirius said something last summer—looked into it a bit afterwards. Realised what kind of family you come from. Who your dad is. Assume this won’t go down well with your folks.”
Evan laughed. “Fucking understatement of the decade. Famous musician? Bad enough.” He grinned down at James—helpless, fond. “A man? Getting disowned for sure.”
Concern flashed in James’s eyes. Evan shook his head, cupped James’s jaw—thumb brushing across the stubble there—careless, tender, so far gone he didn’t even try to hide it.
“Don’t care,” Evan said honestly.
For a long moment they just lay there. Then something shifted in James’s expression.
“Did you mean it?” he asked. “What you said before?”
And Evan knew he wasn’t talking about his family. He was talking about them.
“Yeah,” Evan said, watching him steadily. “Still do.”
James smiled. Radiant. Like the fucking sun.
“I love you too.”
Fondu au noir.
Fade to black.
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