Ed grunted without looking up from his phone where he scrolled through photos.
“Hey. No one made you sit with me. If you want, you can go do your lonely brooding thing at the back of the bus like usual.”
“No.” Ed’s gaze flicked his way, his expression guarded. “I’m not done talking about what happened back at the venue yet.”
“You’ll have to wait. My public needs me.” This time, Ed’s grunt was more derisive, and Pasha snapped, “So rude. Don’t be jealous just because they know a winner when they see one.”
Outside, the muted screaming from the schoolkids turned to laughter when Pasha waved wildly at them. They pulled out phones when he clambered onto his seat, almost elbowing Ed in the face, kneeling to keep them in view as the bus inched forward.
“They love me. They really love me.” He hammed it up, but he wished he could bottle the way he felt inside. Each moment of public recognition had, right up until an hour ago, meant a way out for him. Each smile from a stranger or request for a photo had sent his optimism spiraling higher. School hadn’t ever been his strong point, and moving around so much as a kid meant his dismal grades had trapped him in a dead-end job with no future. More than that, the first prize was something he could take home—something tangible that proved his worth. Yes, this contest was a key to a locked door he’d finally get to open.
Ed clearly didn’t agree. “They’ll love you until Saturday if your stunt fails.”
Pasha kept smiling instead of responding. He thumped his chest twice before pointing at each of the kids in turn, emulating how the host of the show started every single Saturday night show. Their phones flashed as he blew kisses.
The bus lurched forward much faster. Only Ed’s quick, sure grip on his bicep stopped Pasha from face-planting.
“Whoa, thanks.” He swayed toward the glass again at another sudden movement. This time, both of Ed’s hands splayed over Pasha’s chest, broad fingers caging his ribs until he was completely steady.
Outside, the kids splashed through murky puddles, camera phones outstretched, running to keep up as the tour busaccelerated. Pasha twisted for a last glimpse, then slumped smiling on his seat.
Ed looked the opposite of happy. Now he simply muttered, “Show off,” and retrieved his phone from where he’d dropped it. He checked the screen for damage, his frown as deep now as when he’d been scrolling through his photos.
Now that reality had sunk in, Pasha understood why Ed was in a foul mood, but he didn’t have to show that shit on the outside. Not while still in the competition. Neither of them could afford to give away how they felt, not even for a moment. “Cheer up. I was just giving my public what they want. You should give it a whirl if you want a real chance of staying in to the end.”
“Isn’t lasting that long a little optimistic? Because while it was fun playing gay chicken with you back there, three days is all we’ve got left in the competition at most.” Ed turned so they faced each other. The thin skin under his eyes was smudged the same gray as the clouds over the capital. “You really think that’s enough time to stage a counterattack that’ll make any difference?” He broke eye contact when one of the crew made their way down the aisle with a handheld video camera. Ed suddenly sat back. “Forget it. We can’t talk here.”
“It’s fine.” Pasha raised himself to one knee, peering up and down the vehicle. “They’re videoing someone up at the front.”
Ed ignored him again, his shoulders a rigid, wide expanse, his face back to the neutral mask he’d worn from the start of the contest. That neutrality wasn’t normal. Pasha had seen a different version of the man in the control room, and that little burst of temper a moment ago surely meant he had some more fight in him.
“Hey, talk to me.” He folded himself into his seat and nudged Ed with one knee before lifting the armrest and shuffling closer. “You know, one of the cruelest things you can do to an extrovert is ignore them. It’s practically a war crime.”
Still Ed stared at his phone, saying nothing.
Pasha injected sincerity into his tone, his accent mellow and reassuring like he used to secure sales at work. “Youcantalk to me, Ed. No one’s paying us any attention.”
He didn’t anticipate Ed’s hissed reply.
“You can quit that fake accent right now. I know you only put it on for the cameras. It’s as fake as the photo you got Charlie to take. Was that seriously your strategy to stay in, Pash? At the venue, I mean. Romance? You really think a photo of two blokes cuddling will make the public vote to keep us? Because I don’t.” He paused and reined himself in. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking at all. If romance is your key to survival, surely you should hit up one of the girls. Some of the boy band are. You think it’s any coincidence that the two who can’t sing for toffee fight to sit with Anya lately?”
The tabloid newspapers had been full of which band member the youngest female competitor would choose, like hooking up with one of them was her duty. Pasha twisted in his seat and looked back through the gap in the headrests. “Where is she, anyway?” He craned his neck, trying to spot the young singer’s bleached-blonde afro. “Hey, she isn’t on the bus at all.”
Ed rubbed at his brow. “The boy band isn’t either. I bet they’re getting extra rehearsal time now management have already decided who the finalists are.” He tapped his phone against his lips. “She could make it without any of this crap.”
“She’s good,” Pasha admitted.
The light dimmed, then darkened as they went through a tunnel, distracting him from adding that he truly liked her. He did. They spent time together almost every evening, and Anya’s sense of humor was wicked. The camera crew seemed to deliberately ignore it, though, preferring to record segments with her about hairstyles or fashion.
Ed said, “She’s better than good.”
Maybe Ed saw a little deeper than her surface too. Or maybe he liked her for other reasons. Pasha frowned. “She’s far too young for you,” he blurted.
“Thanks for that vote of confidence. I hadn’t planned on asking her out. Just as well, since apparently I’d need a blue pill to get it up now that I’m pushing thirty.” There was a faint ghost of one of those rare smiles, a slow curl of his lips and a deepening crease in his cheek—more a score than a dimple. “She’s not my type. I was talking about her voice. She always sounds great. It’s hard to believe she’s only sixteen.”
“You could be better than her. And you’re not old.” Certainly nowhere near old enough to need stimulants.
“Hey, I thought you said I was lazy.”