“Never does on tour.” Corina tapped a few keys on her laptop, her ever-present frown turning thoughtful. “Do you think you’ll stay in touch when this is all over?”
Ollie swallowed thickly, unwilling to admit how many times he’d pictured the end of the tour, of waving goodbye to the bus—to Shay—and returning to his old life like nothing had happened. As though he was the same person he’d been before he met Shay, and it wouldn’t rip him in two to leave him. “I hope so. He, um, gets me, and I’m starting to appreciate that.”
“You know, there’s a couple of rest days coming up after the London shows before we head up to Leeds for the final dates.”
Ollie nodded. He’d been planning on going home and recharging before filming the final scenes of Shay’s documentary.
“I was planning on sending Shay home to Derby,” Corina continued, “rather than putting him in the hotel with the others. He’s wiped out, and I think he could do with a break.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So….”
“So what?”
“Why don’t you take him back to your place for a few days?”
Ollie dragged the element he was working on into the wrong place and dropped it there, ruining an hour’s worth of editing. “Shit.”
“It’s that horrifying?”
“No, not that. Fuck. Sorry.” Ollie gave up and closed his laptop. “You want me to what?”
“It’s not about what I want.”
“I don’t understand.”
Corina sighed. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I have the first clue what’s going on with you and him, but take it from me, whatever it is, you’ll never be able to see it clearly while you’re trapped on a cramped bus with an audience and while he’s working so much. Get away from it all, even if it’s just twenty-four hours. It’ll be worth so much more than a month spent like this.”
She waved a hand around, then turned back to her laptop as though she hadn’t flayed herself open wide enough for Ollie to see that her clipped, impatient advice came from a place of painful personal experience.
Ollie stared at the side of her head, panic and excitement sluicing through him in equal measure. Home was a sanctuary, where he’d always been deliberately and wonderfully alone. Where he’d spent a year stumbling around with his skin hanging off and his brain still stuck in the back of that damn burning car. The thought of taking Shay there seemed somehow shameful, as though Shay would see the worst of Ollie simply by walking through the door, but at the same time, he pictured Shay everywhere in his tiny one-bedroom flat—curled up on his couch, leaning in the kitchen doorway, asleep in his bed.
I want that.
* * *
“Where arewe?”
Ollie glanced down at Shay. “Southampton. We drove here after the show last night, remember?”
Shay gazed up at him, sleep addled and confused. “We’re not in Bristol anymore?”
“Nope. And we were there less than twelve hours. It’s okay not to recall much of it.”
Shay rolled over and dropped his head in Ollie’s lap, a quiet groan escaping him. Ollie rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around for Shay’s medical bag. Though Shay had stumbled off stage like a zombie the night before, he’d been in good shape, blood-sugar–wise. Hopefully he’d be able to sleep a bit longer.
He found the bag and tested Shay’s blood as unobtrusively as possible, relieved to find it was in the range where Shay had assured him he didn’t have to do anything for a while. Shay didn’t move. He wasn’t asleep, Ollie could tell, but clearly had zero interest in being awake.
Ollie let him be. The last few days had been insanely busy, five shows, two cities, and barely enough time to breathe, let alone squeeze in the filming that was the only reason they’d ever met. But somehow, they’d managed it.
“So I’m Russian?”
Ollie shook his head. “No. This bit of Europe isn’t part of Russia anymore.”
“Fuck’s sake.” Shay groaned and banged his head on the table. “Why don’t I know this shit?”
“Because it’s never been relevant until now?”
