Much worse.
Divide and conquercould suck his cock before he’d ever give up.
Still, of all the strategies they’d thought management might use to fix the contest outcome, splitting them up like this was a plot twist neither of them had seen coming. Visits home were usually saved for the final week of the contest. The homemade videos the finalists made were then used as fillers during the last ninety-minute show. The public might love getting a sneak peek into the home lives of their favorites, but management sending the two of them away early like this, to opposite points of the compass, was both a punishment and a warning.
He wondered if Gerry Hanson had personally read out the small print of their contracts to Pasha as well. They’d comply with the legal agreement they’d signed, he’d said, or they’ddefault their places. They each had a video camera and strict instructions to record some personal footage at home.
That meant days away in the week before the semifinals, without access to a voice coach or choreographer.
Days on his own to wonder if trying to kiss Pasha had lost him more than a chance to make it to the final.
Ed checked his phone once more before shoving it into the pocket of jeans that were tighter than he found truly comfortable. They hadn’t even been given time to get changed. One moment the lights had gone out, the next the production crew had moved them in different directions. Pasha hadn’t returned to their shared dressing room at all, and he hadn’t been on stage when the results of the public vote had been announced either.
No. The biggest cheers might have been for them, but Pasha hadn’t been there to hear them. He must have already been gone, spirited away from the venue like he’d done something terrible instead of having just sung his heart out.
Maybe he’d been happy to have some space between them. If the way he’d reacted when the lights went out was any real indication—back stiff and palms pressed against Ed’s chest—Pasha would likely appreciate the distance.
Ed gave up on his phone and made his way to the single berth in the next-door carriage. Its narrow bunk was comfortable, at least, and its linens crisp, bright white, and clean, but rest was evasive. He lay in the dark, tracing the shape of the words on the front of his shirt. With his headphones on to dull the noise, the sway of the southwest-bound train finally lulled him.
Ed dozed until breakfast service started. Then his rumbling belly urged him upward. The small berth filled with soft light when he raised the blind. What he saw outside prompted a moment of mental dislocation.
Cornwall instead of London.
Rolling hills dipping toward glimpses of the sea in the distance, instead of never-ending buildings.
A patchwork of fields and gorse speckled with vivid yellow flowers instead of traffic and roadside rubbish. The view said “Welcome home” as loudly today as when he’d returned from his last deployment. He shoved his feet back into his boots, steadying himself against the window when the train lurched.
The pane was cool where his palm pressed, prompting a much more recent memory—only this time Pasha’s hand wasn’t right there on the other side of the glass. Ed questioned himself as the train passed rusting warehouses and tiny cottages built from familiar, pale gray granite. How had he taken Pasha’s smile of greeting that day at the coffee shop as anything but friendly? Even Anya had said Pasha did nothing to ping her gaydar. Backtracking from that, Pasha hadn’t even answered that technician Charlie’s hopeful “Is it true you’re gay?” question. That was the day they’d found out management wanted them out. Why had Ed turned their survival strategy into something personal?
At some point Pasha’s touch had stopped feeling like acting.
When had that change even started?
The train going through a level crossing—Lostwithiel already—meant there was no time for overthinking. He’d grab a bacon butty and a brew, then get off at the next stop. Home was less than an hour’s hike from the station as the crow flew. He’d be home before nine if he hurried.
Once off the train, the roads were familiar, yet somehow he took a wrong turn. Muscle memory and wishful thinking led him to the second home he’d grown up running in and out of. At this time on a Sunday morning, the curtains were still drawn. Ed pulled out the camera Gerry had shoved his way last night and turned it over in his hands. The contract stated he should go home and film. They hadn’t said anything about whose home hehad to record. He wouldn’t break the rules, but Pasha had taught him a whole lot about bending them to his advantage.
Ed took a leaf out of Pasha’s book and started recording.
“Steve lived here until we signed up. I met him on my first day of school. I spent about as much time here when I was a kid as I did at home, especially after my dad died.” He turned in a slow circle, revealing the cul-de-sac of small ex-council houses. “Steve said I could share his dad, if I wanted. That’s how generous he was.” That memory silenced Ed. Now Steve’s son would grow up without a father as well. He shook his head, and cleared his throat before continuing. “Some of the best days of my life happened right here with Steve.”
He’d learned to skateboard on this street, and for more summers than he could recall, he’d tracked sand in through the back door after whole days surfing.
“There’s a shed in the back garden. That’s where we used to hold band practice.” Ed spoke quietly and focused the camera on the front of the house. “Steve loved music and was a brilliant guitarist. I still have his guitar. I’ll play it if I get to the final, and I’ll sing the song he wrote while we were stationed at Camp Bastion. His wife Mandy was pregnant with their first child, and he couldn’t wait to get home to bring up his boy in the same place we all grew up.” He dried up, words wedged behind a lump in his throat that showed no sign of shifting.
Fuck. Would talking about this ever get easier?
What would Pasha do in this situation? Ed puffed out a breath and turned the camera to face himself. His voice sounded weird to his own ears, but he kept recording.
“I know when we were on active duty I used to wish we were still kids sometimes. You can’t imagine how much it means to know you have a home to come back to. Little reminders are a big deal. I never stopped missing home—Steve’s and mine.”Yeah, his voice was rough and gravelly, all right. “I’ll never stop missing him?—”
Movement at the front of the house—curtains opening at the living room window—broke his narrative.
Steve’s mum stood on the other side of the glass, a chubby dark-haired baby on her hip, curtain fabric still bunched in her hand. Shock, followed by myriad emotions, crossed her face fast before she yanked the curtain closed again.
Ed almost dropped the camera. He pocketed it and straddled the short wall bordering the front garden—something Steve’s mum had scolded him for doing a thousand times when he and her son were kids—crossing it before he could think and only stopping when he got to the front door.
He stood, hand raised to knock, for several moments while replaying her expression. Like Pasha’s last night just before the lights blinked out, shock was a less than positive response. He lowered his hand when he heard the baby crying.