24. Isaiah #2
“He can try.” Isaiah let out a huff of breath. “I should have kept things anonymous, or kept my research out of it. Maybe then—”
“Hey, hey, stop. You aren’t responsible for someone choosing to hurt you,” he said. “But it isn’t going to work. You’ll figure this out. And I’ll help, if you’ll let me.”
Isaiah nodded. The roast arrived before Isaiah could process properly. Plates heavy with meat and potatoes and Yorkshire puddings. Chris wordlessly passed over his Yorkshire, swapping it for the parsnips on Isaiah’s plate.
It was a sweet gesture, but Isaiah barely tasted the meal.
He ranted instead, letting loose everything trapped in his chest about academic gatekeeping, about respectability politics dressed up as ethics, about how society at large needed to move the fuck on and let people live.
Chris listened. Actually listened. Not the way others did, nodding along blindly. He paid attention, understanding in his eyes and a hand gripping Isaiah’s as though the two of them could hold each other steady.
By the time their plates were empty and they’d migrated to a worn armchair near the fire with pints of cider, Isaiah’s pulse had finally slowed.
He perched in Chris’s lap, curling instinctively into him.
Chris’s arms came around him without hesitation.
The pub was warm and golden with firelight.
Voices hummed around them and Isaiah let himself rest his head against Chris’s shoulder.
“You have to go home tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.”
This weekend had been too easy, too good. Oxford had felt so much more manageable with Chris in it. But tomorrow he’d drive back to Cardiff, back to chasing a comeback and avoiding scrutiny, and Isaiah would be here, still fighting for grants and legitimacy.
He thought about the collab suggestion again. He’d meant it half as a joke, half as a dare. But Chris’s reaction had been so immediate. So sharp. Maybe he’d been offended. Maybe he agreed with the way Matt saw things.
Isaiah swallowed.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot yesterday,” he said quietly.
“What are you talking about?”
“The collab thing.”
Chris looked at him, a question in his eyes. “I know. It’s fine, Isaiah. Seriously.”
“I wasn’t…trying to say you needed…”
Chris looked down at him, something unreadable in his expression. “I overreacted. It’s… It wasn’t what you think. I don’t think what you do is—”
Before either of them could say more, a voice cut through the warm air.
“Owens.”
He froze.
Matthew bloody Gates stood at the edge of the firelight, pint in hand, expression carefully neutral. Ollie at his side, shifting awkwardly and avoiding looking directly at Isaiah, as if they hadn’t once shared everything with each other. Isaiah straightened slowly but didn’t move away from Chris.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Matt said mildly.
“Well, following me around would be a step too far. Even someone as deeply obtuse as you must see that.”
A faint smile crossed Ollie’s lips, but he didn’t intervene.
Chris’s arm tightened slightly around him.
“I hope you understand that my appeal wasn’t personal,” Matt said.
Isaiah let out a humourless laugh. “You questioned the ethical validity of my research and implied it damages the university.”
“I questioned whether publicly monetising one’s own sexual performance while simultaneously seeking institutional endorsement presents a conflict.”
“Of what?” Isaiah shot back. “Taste?”
“Of integrity.”
The word landed heavy.
“My work examines digital intimacy economies from an embedded perspective,” Isaiah said, voice cool now, academic. “Autoethnography is a recognised methodology.”
“When there’s informed consent of all participants.”
“There is and you know it,” Isaiah shot back.
Chris shifted slightly beside him. Isaiah felt heat climb again. “You’re not worried about ethics, you’re worried about optics.”
“And you’re naive if you think they’re separable.”
Isaiah swallowed audibly. Students at nearby tables had gone quiet.
Chris cleared his throat. “Can I give you an outside perspective?” he asked, looking only at Isaiah.
Isaiah nodded as Matt scoffed.
“I don’t really get most of what you’re arguing about,” Chris said evenly. “But if the university’s reputation is that fragile, maybe it’s not his research that’s the problem.”
Silence.
Matt blinked. “And who are you?” He sneered. “A client?”
“Matt,” Ollie groaned, hiding his face behind his hands, but Isaiah stiffened. That had hit far too close.
Chris shrugged slightly. “I’m just a Welshman with a half-finished bachelor’s degree who thinks you’re wrong.
” He smiled his disarming smile, and Isaiah melted a little bit.
“You’re arguing that viewers haven’t consented to being part of the research, but they have—they’re all well aware and fully anonymous. ”
Isaiah stared at him.
“Suppressing a subject you dislike doesn’t make it go away. It just means someone else gets to define it.”
Isaiah stared at him.
Matt’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t your field.”
“No,” Chris agreed easily. “It’s his.”
Matt stepped toward Chris, but Ollie put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Matt, stop.”
“Stop?” Matt shook his hand off as if it burned him. “What do you think this is doing to your reputation, Ollie? I’m trying to protect you here. People are talking.”
“I don’t need your protection, Matt,” Ollie whispered.
A silent conversation seemed to pass between the two of them that Isaiah honestly didn’t care to imagine. He just wanted them to fucking leave so he could enjoy the rest of his time with Chris before the world pulled them apart again.
Matt held Isaiah’s gaze for a long moment, then inclined his head stiffly. “We’ll see what the committee decides.”
“Yes,” Isaiah replied. “We will.”
The pair walked away, whispering furiously to each other, and the noise in the pub slowly resumed.
Isaiah exhaled shakily.
Chris looked at him. “You alright?”
Isaiah didn’t trust his voice for a second. Then he nodded. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
Chris shrugged. “Seemed obvious.”
They fell back into silence, the fire crackling softly.
“I don’t know what happens now,” Isaiah admitted. “With my work. With us. With…any of it.”
Chris’s thumb traced absent patterns on his hip. “We wait and see.”
Isaiah tilted his head back to look at him. “You’re in limbo.”
“So are you.”
“For now.” Isaiah studied him carefully. “I’m not asking for…” He hesitated. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“I know.”
The pause between them felt charged.
“But maybe,” Chris said slowly, “we could stop pretending this is nothing.”
Isaiah’s breath caught and he nodded slowly.
“No more running, cariad,” Chris added.
“Not from this,” Isaiah agreed.
Isaiah settled back against Chris, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath the hum of the pub, and let himself believe, stubbornly, that this didn’t have to end just because the weekend did.