“Stop worrying, and put this on.” They’d smuggled in a little addition to the clothes chosen by the wardrobe department. Ed finished dressing, clearly uncomfortable with the shirt selectedfor him. Far from his usual drab choice, this week they’d gone with silky two-tone fabric studded with tiny rhinestones. His grumbling was epic.
Pasha pressed his lips together, holding in his laughter until Ed left to find Anya. He regretted not locking the door when two of the boy band members pushed their way in a short while later.
The third boy band member, his fauxhawk a deliberate distraction from his private school background, slipped in behind them. Pasha looked at the clock above the doorway. “Love to chat, lads, but the show starts in a minute.”
“How does it feel, Trueman?” Someone should tell the boy band’s only decent singer that he wasn’t cut out to be a bully. His sneer was as shaky as his voice.
“How does what feel, Ciaran?”
“Getting stabbed in the back?” His gaze flickered to his bandmates. “So much for all your truelove #TrueBrit bullshit. First chance your boyfriend gets, and he’s trying to pull Anya.”
“Yeah.” One of the others smirked. “We just saw them. Hands all over each other.”
“It’s called dancing, you dipshits.” Or standing still, on Ed’s part, while Anya moved around him, which had turned out to be much less hazardous for her.
“That kiss at the end of the song looked real to me.”
Pasha bit back the “What kiss?” that almost slipped out. The song ended with Anya twirling across the stage into Ed’s arms. These wankers were exaggerating. An urge to drag them back to the stage to make them admit their mistake almost overwhelmed him. The bell rang before he could examine where it had surged from.
He made it to the stage with minimal interference, and from that point time flew. When Pasha next stood in sight of the footlights, makeup on and micced up, the venue was full of cheering fans.
So much applause shouldn’t have been a surprise, but this week it was made exponentially louder by people calling his and Ed’s names. Each yell circled like a lasso Pasha felt wrap around his middle, tugging him toward the taped X at the center of the stage. He would have walked out in front of a venue full of people if Ed hadn’t stopped him, wrapping strong arms around him as theBritPop!theme music started. Ed pulled him back a few steps. They watched the opening credits play out on the huge screen together, neither moving apart. As the music died away, Ed spoke directly into his ear.
“Last chance, Pash.” He sounded out of breath, as if he’d just finished performing instead of being about to open the show. “Are you ready to do this?”
“I was born ready.”
Ed pressed his hand over the center of Pasha’s chest for a long moment that lingered, then he was gone, leading Anya onto the stage, where they spoke for a few minutes with the host of the show. Smoke machines sent out wisps of mist that wrapped around Pasha’s ankles as he watched Ed twirl Anya into their starting positions.
She was stunning. Tiny, with Ed towering over her. Happy when he curled his hand around hers.
They looked so good together.
Pasha shoved in the earpieces they all wore during the live show. He glanced up at the control box and wondered if Charlie was watching. It seemed like forever since he’d taken that first photo.
The audience slowly settled, and the sound guy’s countdown was calm and slow while Pasha’s heart thumped wildly. Other contestants gathered, relegated to the wings this week instead of sharing the spotlight, because of Gerry’s offer. Pasha ignored them and watched Ed very closely, his fingers unconsciously crossing.
His breath caught when the spotlight hit Ed.
Far from looking dumb in the stupid shiny purple shirt he’d pulled on, Ed was… he was…. Those rhinestones lit up under the bright white light like diamonds littering a night sky, and when Ed glanced his way, for a moment Pasha was blinded.
A voice in his ear counted down, and Pasha watched Ed step forward, singing exactly as ordered. His voice twined with Anya’s until hers soared much higher. Then her solo faded, and Ed’s surged in with the force of a storm, blowing away any doubt that he could win this whole thing, his top notes reaching the venue’s rafters.
He’d been holding back this whole time.
The song was perfect for him, and Anya was his perfect partner, but there was no time right now to overthink how good they sounded together. Pasha stuck to the plan and unbuttoned his shirt as the song drew to its conclusion.
Anya’s voice ascended again, right until she twirled in the wrong direction. She grabbed Pasha’s hand and pulled him onstage as his shirt fell behind him.
Ed’s shirt lay at his feet too in a puddle of purple, and he meshed his fingers with Pasha’s just as easily as he had done for the last few weeks. He squeezed once and then sang the last lines declaring endless love directly to Pasha instead of Anya.
For a moment they might as well have been alone on the stage, Ed’s gaze was so focused. Then the sound of applause washed in, a tidal wave of screams and cheers far beyond the usual. The roar drowned out the sound of someone from the production crew yelling in his earpiece. Pasha knew he must be laughing even though he couldn’t hear it because Ed was doing the same.
They took a small step apart from each other and bowed before standing upright again, screen-printed hashtags stretched over their chests on the T-shirts they’d ordered onlinefrom a fan’s website. Pasha’s letters were big and bold—jet-black over a stark white background. No way to ignore them.
Ed’s broader torso had three words, stacked on top of each other from his chest to his navel, the middle of the three words striped like the rainbow banners they’d driven past in the tour bus.
The cameras cut to an ad break, but not before the message#TrueBritandWeship it!filled millions of TV screens.