Chapter Text
When it works, it works.
James isn't the kind of comedian who blames the crowd when a gig goes wrong. He's the performer; it's his job to bring the laughs. But there's no denying that Josh Widdicombe is the sort of perfect audience that insecure performers dream of. Josh is already chortling away as soon as James even mentions the idea of getting "cabedged", and by the time he explains that Dave's son was upset by the the fact that James didn't retaliate with cabbage in his bed or something similar, Josh is literally wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. James builds on that, following the laughs and hitting all the right notes hard, again and again. By the time he gets to the end of the story, he knows he's struck oil with this particular scrape; the audience is going to go nuts when they hear this.
Maybe this could be a decent bit for a live show, James thinks, if other people like this story as much as Josh does. It could catch on.
High on the heady rush of a good set and not ready for the evening to end, he invites Josh to grab a beer afterwards. The conversation moves around a lot, ranging from Josh's upcoming appearance on Cats Does Countdown to James' material for his newest Edinburgh show. And yet it keeps making it way back to the cabbage and what James might do for revenge. By the time Josh has outlined a complicated, multi-step plan to weaponise Tesco's, James is both confident that he's hit on a winning piece and so damn sick of talking about brassicas.
"Mate, what do I have have to do to get you off the whole cabbage thing? Seriously, I'm up for any other topic of conversation so long as it's not green, leafy or commonly featured in Russian cuisine."
He senses a change in the air as soon as he speaks. It's subtle, and for a moment James wonders if he's imagining it. Then Josh lifts his brows. "How about 'the complex yet irresistible sexuality of the modern British male?"
James draws a deep breath. It's been a while since anything has happened between them, and he'd been starting to worry that it was over. It probably should be; James is not especially good at being a friend with benefits or a fuck buddy or whatever the current term for it is. His stupid feelings have a tendency to get in the way and he knows that Josh isn't looking to be anyone's boyfriend anytime soon. But it's always so good with them, even when it's confusing as hell. And it's 11:35 on a Wednesday night and James has nowhere to be in the morning. So he puts a hand on Josh's thigh under the table and feels his muscles twitch.
So, Josh had been a bit nervous about asking. That helps, somehow.
"A bit of a jump there." He slides his hand upwards. "But why not? At least it doesn't stink when it gets warm."
"Unless you do it right?" Josh smirks and James doesn’t even try to hold back his groan.
"You're absolute rubbish at dirty talk. You know that right?" He gestures for the bill. "New rule. My bedroom is officially a vegetable and speech-free zone.
Josh makes a stricken face. "Not even courgettes?"
There's a certain charm in making out in the back of the taxi, like they're kids at school or lovers in some Hugh Grant style rom-com who absolutely cannot keep their hands off each other. It sure as hell beats the times when they'd been so broke that they'd had to resort to stolen little touches on the tube or, even worse, on buses. The cab driver keeps looking in the rear view mirror like she thinks they might be those blokes she knows from the telly but at least she's unlikely to suddenly morph into a group of yobs shouting homophobic slurs. James tips her rather well for that alone and she drives off happy.
Still, he thinks as he fumbles with the key and Josh kisses and bites at the back of his neck, there was a kind of luxury in those bus and pot noodle days that they don't have anymore. They'd been dirt poor back then, waiting tables and tending bars and using every spare second to either refine and practice their material or seek out a new festival or open mic night. There had been plenty of reasons for why they didn't have steady partners or defined relationships or real homes. Those had been the days of trying to cook leftovers that had never been meant to meet into some kind of nutritional paste and there was one night when James had legitimately slept in a bush because he'd missed his train and couldn't afford a hotel. His singlehood had just been the assumed default. But he's successful enough now that it raises some questions. And he's getting increasingly flummoxed about how to answer his Nan's queries on why he hasn't settled down without explaining that he's never met anyone he likes to shag as much as that odd hobbity bloke from off the radio.
Also, said odd hobbity bloke has made it pretty damn clear he's not looking for a serious relationship at the moment. They both did, back when it started. And James has got the feeling that it's simply too late to go asking for a renegotiation.
Josh's voice drags him back to reality. "Is your own front door especially challenging for you, James?" Josh nips James's ear in frustration. "Should we call a professional locksmith or something?"
James waves him off like a housefly. "Well, if you'd leave my bloody neck alone I might have a bit more luck! Do you want to get in, or not?"
Josh smacks his arse, then grabs a handful and squeezes. "Oh, I want to get in. That's the problem."
James laughs in spite of himself and finally manages the lock. They pretty much fall through the door right before Josh yanks down his trousers and exposes him to the world, so he considers himself fairly lucky there.
Josh is gone when James wakes up in the morning, and that's not a surprise. James vaguely remembers him saying something about a table read in the morning or something similar, and they've never been the snuggling in the morning types anyway. Still, it's hard to hold back the disappointment as he rolls over onto the empty side of his crumpled sheets. Looking for something to hold on to, he pulls the pillow Josh had been using into his arms.
It's surprisingly, distressingly, wet.
Baffled, James squeezes it in his hands and hears the damp crunch from within, Disbelieving, he shakes the pillow out and, in spite of his solitary state he can't help but succumb to laughter as the limp, smelly leaves of cabbage fall from the pillowcase into his lap.