Chapter Text
Why did I say that??
________________________________________
London always looked better at night.
Will stood by the window in his flat, arms folded across his chest, watching as the city glimmered beneath him:cars in ribbons of red and white, the occasional shout echoing from a nearby street, a siren wailing in the distance like a fading thought. He leaned against the frame, forehead tapping the cool glass.
The video was uploading.
“Ranking British Celebrities from Least to Most Punchable,” or something equally as pathetic.
It had taken all of twenty minutes to film with James, an hour to edit with Orla’s help, and another ten minutes for him to convince himself it was funny enough to go out on the second channel. The one where, somehow, a series of off-the-cuff commentary videos had slowly turned into something consistent. Something... safe.
Safe was fine.
Safe meant no one noticed how long it took him to answer messages lately. Or how he hadn’t left the flat in four days. Or how every time his phone pinged, he got that twinge in his chest, a tight little coil that hadn’t unspooled since 2021.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugged lightly at the roots.
The lights flickered against the glass.
He sighed.
The door to his room creaked open without a knock. Orla, naturally.
“Video’s up,” she said, slipping her phone into her hoodie pocket. “Already got a comment calling James a ‘posh lad who’d fold in a wind tunnel.’”
Will huffed a soft laugh. “Harsh, but fair.”
Orla grinned, stepping further into the room. “You alright?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned slightly, watching her through his reflection.
“You know when you say something, and you don’t know why you said it?” he murmured.
Orla paused. “Frequently.”
“In the video—I told James he looked ‘weirdly good’ with longer hair. And then I just… moved on. Like I didn’t just say that. Like it’s a totally normal thing for me to say to him.”
She tilted her head, amused. “Maybe it is.”
“It’s not.”
“Well,” she said, “then maybe you should unpack that.”
He turned, properly this time, arms still crossed. “What’s to unpack? I’m just tired. Brain’s fried. Spent all day editing footage of us talking about punchable faces—maybe that’s all it is.”
Orla looked at him for a beat longer than was comfortable.
He hated when she did that, read him like a bloody open book, when even he didn’t know what page he was on.
“Alright,” she said finally. “If that’s what you want it to be.”
It wasn’t. He knew that. But he nodded anyway.
Earlier That Day
“I think I’d let Richard Madeley punch me,” James said, tilting his head with that completely earnest expression that made Will want to smack him and laugh at the same time.
“You’d what?”
“Let him. Just, full swing. One time. Clean shot.”
“James: he’s, like, seventy.”
“That’s what makes it funnier.”
Will leaned back in the studio chair, eyes squinting as if James had personally offended his northern sensibilities. “You’ve got some seriously twisted priorities.”
“You say that,” James countered, pointing a finger, “but I know you’ve got Piers Morgan higher on your list.”
Will blinked. “Okay, that’s not even a...of course I do! That man’s had it coming since 2007.”
James burst into laughter, head tipping back, one hand thudding against the desk.
Will’s stomach twisted. Not in a bad way. Just...
Not in a way he was used to.
He watched James laugh, eyes crinkling, hair a bit of a mess, hoodie too big and sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looked like someone who didn’t try to look good, but sort of always did anyway.
That was probably the moment. The one Will would replay later in his head, pretending he didn’t remember exactly how long he’d stared.
They wrapped the video easily. Too easily. That was the problem. It was comfortable. It had been for a while. Long enough for Orla to set up lights and mics in record time without needing instruction, long enough for Aby to throw in background music that would hit just right without a second thought. Long enough for Mikey to nudge them through thumbnails without saying a word.
Long enough for Will to stop pretending this was just a joke channel.
It was starting to feel like… something else.
***
Back in the present, Orla was leaning against the desk now, sipping from a reusable water bottle with stickers all over it—one of them said “Feminist Killjoy,” which always made Will laugh.
He knew what she was thinking. She didn’t say it, but it was there in the air.
“You ever think we’re” he started.
She raised an eyebrow.
“a little too close? Me and James?”
Orla didn’t answer right away. “Do you want to be?”
Will gave a half-laugh, dry and humourless. “That’s not an answer.”
“That’s not a question.”
They sat with that for a second.
“I’m just…” he rubbed a hand over his jaw, stubble scratching at his palm. “I’ve never really had that kind of confusion before.”
“You mean attraction?”
He frowned. “I mean whatever this is.”
Orla’s voice softened. “You don’t have to label it, Will. You just have to be honest with yourself.”
He swallowed. “What if I don’t like the answer?”
Orla set her bottle down and stepped toward him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then we deal with it. One bit at a time.”
****
The next morning started too early and too bright.
Will groaned as sunlight streamed in through the gap in his curtains, hitting his face like some personal attack. He rolled over, fumbled for his phone, and blinked at the screen.
08:17
11 unread messages
2 missed calls
1 group chat argument about Greggs vs. Pret
He ignored all of it.
Instead, he stared at the ceiling, one hand resting behind his head, the other curled loosely around his phone. Otto, James’ cat, had made a brief appearance in his dreams, at one point riding a skateboard through his flat while James shouted something about sourdough starter and demon possession.
The dream had ended with Will, inexplicably, standing in James’ kitchen holding a baguette like a sword, and James had laughed at him—genuinely, full-on, chest-shaking laughter and Will had felt it. That twist again. That impossible warmth. Like his chest had opened up for a second and something new had walked in.
He closed his eyes.
No. Not going there.
***
By ten, he was in the small studio space they’d turned into a filming room. Orla was already there, hunched over her laptop, auburn hair scraped back into a bun, headphones crooked over one ear.
“Morning,” she said, not looking up.
Will grunted in response and dropped onto the old sofa, the one with three mystery stains and a cushion that made a crunching sound when you sat on it wrong.
James wasn’t there yet.
He rarely was, at least not early.
“Any plans today?” Orla asked, still focused on her screen.
Will rubbed at his eyes. “Avoiding the comments section. Probably failing.”
“Why bother?” she said, glancing up now. “The internet’s gonna ship you two no matter what.”
Will looked at her sharply. “What?”
She smirked. “Oh come on, it’s been happening since the ‘British Snacks Tier List’ video. You literally fed him a Jaffa Cake like it was foreplay.”
“That’s” He made a strangled sound. “not remotely true.”
“Mate, I was there. I filmed it.”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling again.
This was stupid. It was all stupid.
Except it wasn’t. Not really.
Because he’d watched that video back. Twice. Three times. And every time, he’d caught the way he looked at James, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to start.
And James. James had laughed in that way he did when he was comfortable. The kind of laugh that made people feel like they were in on the best joke in the world.
Will wanted that laugh. Around him. For him. Every day.
***
The knock came at half past ten.
James walked in, hoodie pulled up, cheeks a little pink from the cold. He held a paper bag in one hand, and a coffee cup in the other.
“I brought pain,” he said, holding up the bag. “In the form of overpriced pastries.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “That for me?”
James tossed it toward him, grinning. “Course. You look like you got hit by the back end of a night bus.”
Will caught it one-handed. “Charming.”
James dropped onto the sofa beside him, way too close, legs brushing. It wasn’t weird. It shouldn’t have been weird.
But Will’s brain had started cataloguing those touches lately.
Brushed shoulders. Hands passed across the desk. That time James had fixed his hoodie string without thinking, tugging it into place and muttering something soft under his breath.
Will peeled open the pastry bag. Pain au chocolat.
James knew. Always knew.
“So what’s the plan today?” James asked, tearing into his croissant like it owed him money.
Will glanced at Orla. She gave a tiny nod.
“We were thinking of doing a ‘Reacting to American TikToks’ video,” Will said. “Like the real unhinged ones. Florida Man energy.”
James lit up. “Oh mate, I’m in. Give me an excuse to roast someone who thinks English food is witchcraft.”
Will smiled. Not because it was funny, though it was, but because James looked happy. Relaxed.
It made the knot in his chest pull tighter.
*****
They filmed for an hour. Maybe more.
Orla ran the camera, Ieuan popped in to adjust the lighting and drop off tea, Aby edited notes on the fly from a corner of the room. It was smooth. Natural.
James laughed so hard at one TikTok he nearly choked on his tea. Will smacked him on the back, more out of instinct than anything else.
“You trying to kill me?” James gasped, coughing and wheezing but smiling anyway.
“Bit early for murder, mate.”
“Just make sure you use that footage for the thumbnail. Near-death for views. Classic YouTube.”
Will shook his head, laughing despite himself.
They kept rolling. James went on a three-minute rant about American cheese. Will accidentally said the word “moist” and immediately regretted it. Aby cackled from the corner. Orla gave him a thumbs down and wrote “cursed” in her notes.
It was... good. Easy. Safe.
And then James said something that turned Will’s stomach inside out.
They were reacting to a video of two guys pretending to be each other’s boyfriends in Walmart.
Will made a joke.
“Imagine having to do that for views.”
James repliedoffhand, casual, not thinking “I mean, if we ever did it, it wouldn’t exactly be acting, would it?”
Silence.
Will’s brain tripped over itself.
James didn’t even blink. Just sipped his tea and clicked to the next video.
Orla didn’t say anything, but Will caught the smallest flicker of her eyes from behind the camera.
****
He didn’t say anything for the rest of the shoot.
Just smiled. Laughed. Played along.
He could feel his pulse in his ears, could feel the edges of his thoughts pressing in, white noise buzzing in his chest.
When they wrapped, James patted him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Will nodded. Said something that might’ve been “yeah” or “sure” or “uh-huh.”
He didn’t even remember.
****
That night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again.
He replayed the moment over and over.
“I mean, if we ever did it, it wouldn’t exactly be acting, would it?”
What did that mean?
What was he meant to say to that?
He turned onto his side, pulled the covers tighter.
The silence was loud.
It was well past nine when Will wandered back into the studio, not because he needed to be there, but because his flat was too quiet and his thoughts were too loud.
Orla was still there.
Alone now, bathed in the blue glow of her laptop screen, a massive spreadsheet open beside Premiere Pro. Her brows were knitted in concentration, but her fingers weren’t moving.
Will paused in the doorway, watching.
She always looked like that when something was bothering her. Still. Not frozen, but paused. Like a video buffering just shy of the drop.
“You live here now?” he asked lightly.
She jumped a little, startled, then relaxed when she saw it was him. “You’re one to talk. What are you doing back?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe I’d… do something productive.”
“You?” she said, teasing but fond. “Productive at half nine?”
“I’m full of surprises.”
She smiled. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Will flopped onto the sofa again, feet up, head back.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The buzz of the overhead lights and the soft tap of Orla’s keyboard were the only sounds.
Then:
“Did you talk to him?” she asked, not looking up.
Will didn’t pretend not to know who she meant. “About what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not playing,” he muttered. “I’m just… not playing smart either.”
Orla shut her laptop slowly. “Will…”
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admitted. “He’s James. He’s my mate. I don’t—there’s no reason to mess that up over a weird feeling.”
“It’s not weird if it keeps you up at night.”
He turned to look at her, and she held his gaze.
“You think I should say something?” he asked, quieter now.
“I think you need to figure out if you want to say something.”
Will let out a breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. “God, this is mental.”
Orla gave a small laugh. “Tell me about it.”
There was a beat.
“You alright?” he asked, shifting to sit properly now. “You’ve been here since before I left.”
She hesitated. “Ieuan was supposed to help me with the colour grading. He left after ten minutes.”
Will raised a brow. “Storm out, or tactical disappearance?”
Orla sighed, standing up and walking to the far corner of the room, fiddling with some cables. “I don’t know. He said something about his parents calling. Got weirdly quiet after that.”
Will watched her. The way she always busied her hands when her head was spinning.
“Did you say something to set him off?”
“No,” she said quickly—too quickly. Then, after a pause: “Maybe. I don’t know. We were just talking. I mentioned I might go to Dublin next month, and he—he made this face. Like I’d said something wrong.”
Will frowned. “Because… it’s Ireland?”
Orla shrugged. “Maybe. He doesn’t like talking about his family. You know that. But sometimes he just… clams up. Like I’m the one doing something wrong for bringing it up.”
Will opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again.
He knew that feeling. Of freezing. Of spiraling. Of not knowing how to talk about the things that mattered most.
“Do you like him?” he asked, softer.
Orla looked up, surprised. “What?”
“You like him, don’t you?”
She didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the cables in her hands.
“That’s a yes,” Will said quietly.
Orla let out a long breath. “It’s just… complicated.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That seems to be the theme lately.”
**
Meanwhile, Ieuan was outside—sat on the loading ramp out back, hoodie pulled over his head, phone glowing in his palm.
The call with his mum had been short.
She’d asked what time church was next Sunday. He’d lied and said half 12. She’d told him to iron his shirt beforehand. Then she’d asked if he was still “working with that Irish girl.”
The way she said it made his stomach turn.
He’d ended the call quickly. Said he had to run.
He didn’t tell her that Orla had brought him banana bread the week before, still warm. He didn’t mention how she hummed when she edited or how her hands shook a little when she got tired. He definitely didn’t say anything about how he watched her through the studio window sometimes, just to make sure she was okay.
He hated that part of himself, how he’d learned to notice everything and say nothing.
His fingers hovered over his phone.
A message sat drafted on screen:
“Sorry for earlier. Wasn’t about you. Just… family stuff.”
He stared at it.
Then he deleted it.
***
Back inside, Will was pacing.
“I’m gonna call Clarkey,” he announced suddenly. “Try to… talk about football or crisps or literally anything else.”
Orla smirked. “Tell him hi.”
Will stared at his phone for longer than was reasonable before finally hitting the call button.
It rang twice before George answered.
“Oi oi, what’s up you lanky legend?”
Will forced a laugh. “Just… bored, mate. Needed a distraction.”
“You picked me over FIFA? I’m flattered.”
Will let out a breath, walking in slow circles around the hallway. “FIFA’s not got much to say these days.”
There was a pause.
“You alright, Will?”
The question landed too directly, too quickly.
Will hesitated. “Yeah. Just… bit of a weird day.”
“Weird how?”
He gripped the phone tighter. “I dunno. One of those days where your head just won’t shut up.”
George didn’t push, but he didn’t let it go either. “Work stuff or brain stuff?”
Will gave a dry chuckle. “Bit of both. You ever get that thing where something happens, just some stupid offhand comment, and then it won’t leave your head?”
“Every time I check my bank account.”
Will smiled, but only faintly.
George softened. “What did James say?”
Will’s stomach twisted. “What makes you think it was James?”
George was quiet for a beat. “Just a guess.”
Will didn’t answer. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.
George tried again, more gently this time. “Did he say something bad?”
“No,” Will said, quickly. “No, it wasn’t….it wasn’t like that. It was just…” He trailed off, searching for the right lie, the right angle, the right way to not say what he was actually feeling.
“Just one of those weird moments, you know? Where you think you understand something about yourself and then, suddenly you don’t. And it’s not even a big deal. Like, I’m probably just overthinking it.”
George let that sit for a second.
“You ever think maybe it is a big deal, and that’s why it’s messing with your head?”
Will pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. “I don’t know what it is. That’s the thing. I keep trying to figure it out but the more I think about it, the more it just... spirals.”
“Spirals, how?”
Will’s voice dropped. “Like, what if I’ve got this thing wrong? About myself. And it’s not just... him, it’s... bigger. And I never noticed.”
George was quiet again.
Will rushed to fill the silence. “But it’s probably nothing. I’ve just been tired lately. And we spend a lot of time together, that’s all. It's easy to get... confused. When someone’s always around.”
“Will.”
“I’m serious,” he said quickly. “People get weird ideas. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not—”
He stopped.
The word wouldn’t come.
George didn’t push for it. He just said, calm and careful, “You don’t have to know what it means right now.”
Will swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
But he didn’t know.
That was the problem.
He didn’t know anything anymore.
The studio was mostly dark now, just the quiet hum of a monitor someone had forgotten to shut off and the blinking red dot of a camera left charging overnight.
Will stepped back inside, phone still in hand, and found Orla right where he left her, though now she’d kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the sofa, nursing a cold tea she clearly had no intention of finishing.
She looked up as he entered. “You alright?”
Will nodded, but it was the sort of nod people give when they’re definitely not alright and want to pretend otherwise.
“Talk to Clarkey?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d that go?”
Will shrugged, dropping back onto the opposite end of the sofa. “Fine.”
Orla gave him a look.
“Alright, not fine,” he admitted. “But, you know. Whatever.”
She didn’t press.
He appreciated that about her, how she could sit in silence without making it feel heavy. The two of them had always had that sort of friendship: comfortable, calm, grounded. A low hum of understanding beneath everything.
“I think I’m going mad,” Will said after a long stretch of quiet.
Orla tilted her head. “Welcome to the club. I’m president.”
He smiled weakly.
“I mean it,” he went on. “Like, my brain’s just... full. And I can’t tell what’s real and what's making me overthinking everything.”
Orla didn’t say anything. Just sipped her tea and let him keep talking.
“I keep trying to make sense of stuff and it’s like, my brain keeps glitching. Like when you edit a video and the audio goes out of sync and suddenly it all feels off.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe you need to let it be off for a bit. See where it takes you.”
“That’s terrifying.”
Orla gave him a soft smile. “Yeah. But isn’t it worse to pretend it’s not?”
Will rested his head on the back of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t want things to change.”
“Maybe they don’t have to,” Orla said. “Maybe you just see them clearer.”
He didn’t respond to that.
The door creaked open behind them, and Ieuan stepped in, hood up, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
Orla straightened slightly but didn’t say anything.
He paused when he saw them both, clearly mid-thought. “Didn’t know you were still here.”
Will waved vaguely toward the editing desk. “She’s holding the place hostage.”
Ieuan gave a low chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Figures.”
Orla stood up slowly. “Can I talk to you?”
Ieuan hesitated.
Will stood too, giving them both a nod. “I’ll head out. Don’t wanna third-wheel a crisis.”
“Will…” Orla started, but he was already grabbing his jacket.
He offered a small wave, expression unreadable, and slipped out the door.
****
Outside, the air was cool and damp, the sort of early spring night that smelled like wet concrete and pub gardens. London didn’t sleep, but it did quiet down just enough to hear your own thoughts if you were unlucky.
Will shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking.
He didn’t have a destination, just a need to move, to keep going until the chaos in his chest dulled to something manageable.
Every step echoed with the same refrain:
What if this changes everything?
He didn’t have an answer yet.
But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted one.
****
Inside, Orla stood a few feet from Ieuan, arms crossed.
“So,” she said quietly, “you ghosted me mid-shift.”
“I didn’t ghost you,” Ieuan said, avoiding her eyes. “I needed air.”
“You’ve been needing a lot of air lately.”
He didn’t respond.
“Was it something I said?” she pressed. “Or… where I said I was going?”
Silence.
Then he looked up, jaw tight. “They don’t like you.”
“Your parents?”
He nodded once.
“Because I’m Irish?”
“Yeah.”
Orla looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “And you?”
“I like you,” he said without missing a beat.
The room felt very still.
“But that doesn’t make it less complicated,” he added.
“I don’t need it uncomplicated,” she said. “I just need you to be honest with me.”
Ieuan swallowed. “It scares me.”
“Same,” she said, softer now. “But I’m still here.”
He nodded, eyes shining with something unspoken. “Me too.”