Chapter Text
The garden gate swings open with a tired squeal, and three more people drift in. Evan recognises the girl immediately—long braids, wide smile. She’d been at the party last night. Behind her come two tall, gangly redheads, matched in the way siblings always are: all elbows and cheekbones, hair that looks like it’s never quite agreed to behave. They move easily, like they know the space, nudging each other as they talk. One of them is already halfway through a story as they slot themselves into the group, no hesitation, like they’ve always been part of it.
Conversation rearranges itself around them. Rem on one side, Marls on the other. Evan talks about work, pulls out a few lines from the novel he’s editing that make Marls laugh. She tells him she teaches elementary school. Somewhere along the way, the topic slides to public transport, which turns out to be something Rem has unexpectedly strong opinions about. One of the redheads—Fab, Evan learns—jumps in, and with him the whole thing derails. It turns into a ridiculous debate about whether ghosts would have to pay taxes if they existed. Zoning laws. Afterlife bureaucracy. The works.
The more Rem talks, the more Evan likes him. There’s a quiet steadiness there. Thoughtful. Funny in a dry, sideways way that takes a second to land. It reminds Evan, a little, of Reg. Evan wants to ask him about James. About Harry. About where his mother is, who she is, how that story fits together. He’s already pretty sure Marls isn’t Harry’s mom. There’s no pull between her and James. No glances, no low-level tension humming under the conversation. That gets confirmed when Fab leans in and kisses her—quick, soft, practiced—his hand resting briefly at her jaw.
He wants to ask, but he doesn’t.
Because it feels weird.
Like asking would mean admitting that he doesn’t really belong here—that he doesn’t know the ins and outs of James and Sirius’s lives like he used to. And maybe also because Em’s voice keeps looping in his head, telling him he likes James. Which is annoying. His eyes keep drifting back to the grill, where James stands talking to Sirius.
Later, Marls stands, brushes her hands on her shorts, and announces that she’s going inside to grab more drinks. Beers for her, Rem, and Fab. A soda for Evan. Her chair is left warm and empty.
It stays that way for all of thirty seconds.
Then Harry appears—slight and deliberate, dragging the chair awkwardly around to Evan’s other side, his brow furrowed in serious concentration as it bumps over the grass. He sets it beside Evan’s like it’s meant to be there, climbs in backward, knees tucked under him, and fixes Evan with an expression of grave scholarly intent.
His eyes are wide and green and unblinking. “Have you figured out how to put the lightsabers into your movie yet?” he asks seriously.
Evan blinks. Then snorts, despite himself. “Still working on it,” he replies.
Harry leans in, elbows on knees. “I’ve been thinking. What if it was a sword instead—but it’s not a real sword, it’s, like, light energy.”
Evan raises an eyebrow. “Like Sailor Moon?”
Harry beams. “I watched it today. Dad says cartoons are okay on Sundays.”
Evan smiles. There’s something endearing as hell about the kid. He nods, “could work.”
Harry grins, a little smug.
“Tell you what,” Evan says. “If I use it I’ll give you credit. Harry Potter, story consultant. I’m better with dialogue than world building anyway if the truth be told so I could use all the help I can get.”
That makes Harry pause. “What’s dialogue?”
“It’s this,” Evan says. “People talking to each other. It’s the hardest part to get right. You have to really listen to people. Pay attention to how they talk, what they don’t say. Most people think writing is all about plot. But actually, it’s mostly just… listening properly. Most of the time, people say what they think they should, not what they mean.”
Harry frowns a little, like he’s trying to process that. “Like when Marls tells me she’s not mad, but her eyebrows go all crazy and which means she is mad?”
“Exactly,” Evan says.
Harry considers that for a minute, then says. “I bet you’re a good writer.”
“Sometimes,” Evan says. “And sometimes not. Sometimes I suck.” He grins at Harry. “But don’t tell anyone that. I’ve managed to fool everyone so far.”
Harry laughs—really laughs. It lights up his whole face. Then he says, “You’re cool for a grown-up.”
“That’s a very low bar,” says Evan, “but I’ll take it.”
Harry’s about to reply when James appears, a paper plate in one hand.
“See you two have met,” he says, scooping Harry up with his free hand and taking the empty seat beside Evan. He shifts Harry onto his lap in one practiced motion and deposits the plate into the kid’s hands. At some point while Evan had been focused on Harry, James had changed. The spiderman board shorts and tank are gone, swapped for jeans and a t-shirt; the apron’s gone too.
Evan lifts an eyebrow, shooting Harry a conspiratorial look. “Actually, we go way back, don’t we, dude.”
Harry nods. “We’re making a movie,” he says to James, mouth full of hot dog and potato chips.
“Is that right?”
“There’s a sword made of light,” Harry says, barely pausing to chew. “But it’s not a lightsaber. It’s better.”
That earns a short laugh from James—quiet, surprised. He glances at Evan.
Evan sips his drink. “I’m just here for my connections and marketing tie-ins. This one’s the auteur.”
Harry grins wide, his legs dangling over James’s lap. “I’m gonna be in the credits.”
“Story consultant,” Evan confirms. “Full title.”
There’s a lull—not awkward, exactly, but edged. Like a shift in the current just below the surface. James isn’t quite meeting his eyes; and Evan feels that odd tension again, the one from when he’d walked in—the sense that maybe James doesn’t want him here.
Evan clears his throat, nods towards Harry.
“We met at the beach last week,” He says, because he feels like he needs to say something. “Didn’t realize at the time that we had a friend in common.”
James nods. “Right,” he says, it sounds a little forced.
Harry looks up at his dad, demanding attention. “Dad, have you seen Evan’s car?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s even cooler than Sirius’s,” Harry declares with absolute certainty. “It’s red and it’s a Jeep and it has no roof.”
Evan shrugs. “Technically it has a roof. It’s just… an optional roof.”
Fab, who’d been deep in conversation with Rem stops talking, leans over attention directed at Evan.
“That’s yours?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the driveway. “Hell of a statement, man. Thought maybe Sirius had hit his midlife crisis early when I saw it parked out front.”
Evan rolls with it. Shrugs and says, “was going for Barbie-themed drug dealer, but I’ll take midlife crisis.”
Fab laughs. Marls reappears, and then Sirius—now sporting the Too Hot to Handle apron.
“Feast your eyes on my glorious meats, losers,” Sirius proclaims, holding aloft two mismatched platters like offerings to the gods.
“Did you just say that out loud?” Rem asks, deadpan.
“Remus,” Sirius says, scandalized as he places the trays on the nearby table. “Show some gratitude. Jamie and I have been slaving away over there so you may eat, and this is the thanks we get?”
Rem just shakes his head.
Sirius starts handing out plates like a deranged maître d, narrating each one like he’s a contestant on a low-budget, high-pressure cooking show.
“Veggie burger for Dory, because she’s a communist,” he says with a theatrical flourish toward the girl with the braids, who’s barefoot and currently standing in the kiddie pool, deep in conversation with the quieter redheaded twin, not Fab, Evan thinks his name might be Gideon.
“Plain burger with ketchup for Fabby” continues Sirius, “—because he lacks imagination.
Then one for James. “Extra charcoal for the Dad of the Year.”
James rolls his eyes but takes it. “Thanks, Chef.”
Sirius grins. “You’re welcome. I seared it with love. And propane.” He turns next to Rem and Evan, balancing two plates in one hand. “Hot dogs for my favorite gays,” he announces. “That one’s self-explanatory, obviously.”
Rem looks mildly embarrassed. Fab flicks Evan a surprised glance—the quick, unguarded kind that says huh, didn’t see that coming. Evan’s used to it. He knows he doesn’t exactly read as stereotypically gay; probably his stepdad’s fault—spend your teenage years pretending to be something you’re not? Hard to shake off the urge to hide, to fit in, even when you’ve given up pretending. Sort of instinct by now. The thought lands sharper than he expects. He brushes it aside, lifts an eyebrow at Sirius.
“I’m telling Reg you said I’m your favorite gay,” he says.
Sirius winks, completely unrepentant. “You do that," he turns to the other brother, not Fab and says, “burger with extra cheese for Gid, the more creative brother,” and then, brandishing a plate at Marls, “and for my beloved godwife—”
Marls narrows her eyes. “Don’t call me that. It’s weird.”
Sirius beams, handing her a plate. “Whatever you say, dearest.”
The food is pretty good considering Sirius was at least partially responsible for it. The afternoon moves slowly, Evan doesn’t get another chance to talk to James alone until shortly before he and Sirius leave. He’s gone into the house in search of the bathroom, the fading sun is filtering in through the frosted window by the front door, washing everything in a soft apricot gold and making the space feel homey and warm.
Evan flips on the light and shuts the door behind him.
It's small—plain but clean. A faded Dodgers towel on the hook and a toothbrush holder shaped like a shark. The soap smells faintly like citrus and drugstore aftershave.
He doesn’t know what he expected of James’s place, exactly. But it wasn’t quite this. It’s nice, comfortable—but it doesn’t really fit James. Or at least, not the James Evan remembers. But then again, that James had been twenty-two, in school with dreams of being an artist, not yet a dad. This isn’t the house of that James, the James from before. This is the house of a quieter, more reserved James. This James that exists now.
Evan washes his hands, shakes off the water.
There’s a kid’s drawing tacked up next to the light switch—blue crayon explosion labeled DAD SURFING in wobbly letters. The stick figure is mostly limbs and appears to have hair that might be seaweed. Evan smiles at it.
When he steps back into the hall, he nearly walks straight into James, his arms full of paper plates and empty beer bottles.
They both stop short—
“Shit—” James says, dropping a couple of empty beer bottles he’d been carrying.
Evan bends to pick them up.
“Thanks,” James says.
Evan smiles as he straightens, nodding toward the bathroom door. “Nice portrait of you in there, by the way.”
James nods, but there’s something almost nervous behind it. Not embarrassed, exactly—more uncertain. Like he’s not quite sure how to take the comment. It’s subtle, but noticeable. A hitch that doesn’t fit the James Evan remembers—confident, loud, steady like muscle memory.
“He likes you,” James says after a beat. The words come a little too carefully. “Thinks you’re cool.”
“I’m honoured,” says Evan, and he means it.
James smiles, it’s still a little uncertain but there’s warmth in it. “You should be. Six-year-old boys are a tough audience.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Evan says with a smile. “I’ve never been so aggressively interrogated about dinosaurs in my life.”
That breaks something. James chuckles—real, this time—and some of the tension drains from his shoulders.
There’s a beat where neither of them speaks. James is watching him, dark eyes unreadable.
Evan clears his throat, glances at the beer bottle in his hand. “These going somewhere?”
“Right—yeah. This way. Thanks,” James says, leading him into the kitchen.
Evan disposes of the bottles and then leans back against the kitchen counter, watching James in the dim light. He hesitates, then says, “Harry told me he’s six.”
James nods, his smile small and a little wistful. “Yeah—seven in a couple of months, thirty-first of July. I can't believe it, honestly. I swear he was three, like, last year.”
Evan does the math. If Harry’s turning seven at the end of July, that means he was born a month before Evan left for college. Born while Evan was still in California. And it sits oddly with him that James never said anything.
They’d seen each other that summer. Not constantly, but enough. A few mornings surfing. That trip up to Santa Barbara. Long drives, salt-stiff towels in the backseat. And still—nothing. No mention of a pregnancy. No hint of a child on the way. For reasons Evan can’t quite name, that stings.
He wonders if Reg had known. If Sirius had. Had it had just been Evan James hadn’t told? Had kept it from? Or maybe it had been all of them—and why? Why wouldn’t James have said anything? About the birth of his kid. A kid he clearly adored. A great kid. Something to be proud of. And yet—nothing.
“He’s a great kid,” Evan says quietly.
What he wants to say is: We were friends, weren’t we? Why didn’t you tell me?
But he swallows it. It isn’t his business. Maybe they had been friends—or maybe Evan had only thought they were, maybe he’d only ever been Sirius’s kid brother’s friend to James. Either way, it was a long time ago. James doesn’t owe him an explanation.
He clears his throat. “You’re a lucky guy.”
James looks at him then and smiles—fully this time. Open and warm, like the sun breaking through cloud.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”