Epilogue
After over a month in Oxford, being back at Chris’s parents’ house in Cardiff felt like a breath of fresh air.
Chris had been down to see him twice since Isaiah’d had to go back to Oxford to make up for the lost time on his research.
Between Matt’s baseless complaint, the holidays, and the tape, Isaiah was behind, but he was making up for it by focusing all of his time on research, letting his channel languish.
The anxiety over losing subscribers hit hard sometimes, but it wasn’t forever.
He’d go back to it eventually. He wanted to, and Chris was fully supportive.
“You look like I’ve suggested we jump in the fucking harbour.” Chris laughed. “It’s just a jog. We can stop at the farm cafe Alex’s family run for cake after.”
The thought of cake at the end of the torture did make it sound somewhat more appealing, but Isaiah didn’t trust it. “Will Alex be there?”
“Oh, probably,” Chris said, the portrait of nonchalance. “He works there most days.”
“And your other friends?”
Chris flushed. He’d caught him.
“Are you trying to orchestrate a casual group hang to introduce me to them properly?”
Chris ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe. I just thought it would be more comfortable than making a big production of it. It’s been ages now, and they really want to meet you.”
“And you want me to be sweaty and exhausted as a first impression?”
“Technically their first impression was when you showed up freezing and drenched, so...”
“Well that makes me feel much better.”
Chris wrapped his arms around Isaiah. “Please?”
“Fine. But only because I do want to meet your friends. Your mum talks about Mila so much I feel like I know her.”
“You’ll love them. And they’ll love you.”
Isaiah bit his lip. “You think?”
“I know.”
Isaiah nodded. He sat on the low bench by the door, tying his shoes and preparing for the humiliation of running alongside his Olympic calibre boyfriend.
It was bitterly cold outside, and the wind whipped his hair around even with the headband he’d pulled on to keep his ears warm, but at least it wasn’t raining.
Chris pecked him quickly on the lips before dropping his hand and starting to jog down the street. “You coming?” he shouted over his shoulder, the words almost disappearing in the wind.
Isaiah nodded—he was in this now, for better or for worse—and followed Chris down the road.
They settled into a pace that was clearly nowhere near Chris’s usual but was really pushing the limits of Isaiah’s fitness.
He couldn’t spend much time looking at the scenery and only responded to Chris’s idle chit-chat in grunts and groans as he struggled to keep up.
Still, when Chris offered to drop the pace, he kicked his own up a bit higher, just to prove he could.
Chris laughed and chased him down, falling into step beside him as Isaiah cursed his own competitive nature that wouldn’t let him back down now.
When they arrived at the quaint farm on the outskirts of Cardiff, Isaiah nearly collapsed against the fence.
Chris slung an arm around his shoulders and Isaiah let himself lean in.
It made him feel a bit better that his boyfriend was at least breathing hard as they walked up the gravel drive to the small cafe.
He recognised Chris’s friends immediately. Sam waved them over to their table and Mila stood to pull him into a hug while she admonished Chris. “You made him run here? Are you some kind of sadist?”
“Isaiah runs cross-country; he likes it.”
“He looks like he’s about to keel over.”
Isaiah winced. That was not the impression he necessarily wanted to make on the group.
A short brunette came out of the back, pulling off a frilly apron as he walked towards them. His eyes met Isaiah’s and he let out a short, sharp squeak.
Chris leaned down and whispered in Isaiah’s ear, “Alex is a fan.”
“I can’t believe you outed me like that, Chris.” Alex pouted. “I thought we were friends.” The faux tears gathering in his eyes were actually pretty impressive.
“Save it for the conservatory, baby boy.” Mila rolled her eyes at him.
Alex laughed. “I am though. A fan. Not just of the channel—I read your paper on agency in the arts for one of my MA classes this year. I’d love to talk to you about it sometime.”
Isaiah grinned. He’d written that paper during his BPhil. He remembered revising it five hundred times with Amara before finally submitting it to a journal, and how they’d all celebrated when it had been accepted. Even Ollie, Matt and their friends had joined.
“I’ll grab your drinks first,” Alex said. “What sugary monstrosity are you going for today, Green?”
Isaiah laughed as Chris flushed and mumbled “white chocolate mocha” to his friend.
“Black coffee for me,” Isaiah said. “And whatever your best cake is.”
“Oh, you’re in for a treat. I’ll be back real quick.” Alex paused and flushed again. “I mean fast. I mean, I’ll be right back.”
Isaiah let himself catch his breath properly and enjoy the moment of seeing Chris with friends.
Alex returned balancing two mismatched plates stacked obscenely high with cake and a small tray of drinks.
“Right,” he announced, setting everything down with theatrical flourish, “one white chocolate monstrosity for Christopher Green, one aggressively black coffee for pretty boy, and—” He placed a plate in front of Isaiah. “—lemon and blueberry sponge. It’s my mum’s recipe. It solves most problems.”
Chris nudged Isaiah’s knee with his own. “Told you the cake was worth the run.”
Isaiah took a bite, grinned, and then slid onto Chris’s lap.
“Making space for Alex.” Isaiah shrugged.
Mila made a soft strangled noise. “Oh my god. You two are insufferable. I hate this already.”
Sam squinted at them over the rim of his mug. “We get it. You’re in love.”
Chris’s hand settled automatically at Isaiah’s waist, thumb tracing lazy circles on his hip.
“He’s cold,” Chris said, far too innocently.
“I am. I was forced to run in freezing temperatures,” Isaiah said. “This is survival.”
But he didn’t miss the way Chris’s shoulders relaxed when he leaned back into his chest. Claim staked.
Alex slid onto the bench after he handed off the remaining drinks and cakes to Mila and Sam and clasped his hands together under his chin. “I love this for you. I love this for all of us.”
Chris groaned. “Please don’t embarrass me.”
“You do that plenty without help,” Mila said. “Also, Isaiah, hi, welcome. I promise we’re normal.”
“That’s a lie,” Sam muttered.
Isaiah laughed. “It’s good to put faces to names. Chris’s mum talks about you all like you’re characters in a long-running soap.”
“Which one am I?” Alex asked immediately.
“The dramatic one.”
“Correct.”
They dug into cake, conversation flowing more easily now the initial novelty had passed.
“So.” Mila nudged Isaiah’s foot with hers. “Tell us about this research of yours. Alex hasn’t shut up about it.”
Alex flushed. “I mentioned it once.”
“You monologued about it in the kitchen for twenty minutes.”
Isaiah raised a brow.
Sam leaned forward. “How performers reclaim narrative control in industries that commodify them, right?”
Isaiah blinked. “That’s…actually a very good summary.”
Sam shrugged. “I read the article too. Alex sent it round after everything blew up.” There was a flicker of something protective in the way he said it. Isaiah clocked it and filed it away.
Alex pointed his fork at him. “The bit about audience complicity? That rewired my brain. At drama school they talk about craft constantly, but not power. Not like that.”
Isaiah felt warmth rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the run.
“It started as frustration, honestly. Watching artists be flattened into product. I wanted to understand where the leverage points were. Where autonomy lives. Then my life got more complicated, and my research evolved with it.”
Sam smirked. “So what you’re saying is, when you and Chris start your empire, it’ll be ethically structured.”
“Empire?” Chris echoed.
Mila waved her fork. “Couples channel. Merch. Joint interviews. Production studio.”
Chris flushed. Isaiah felt it against his back.
“We’re not—we’re—” Chris began.
“We aren’t planning that,” Isaiah said
“Yet,” Chris interjected, surprising Isaiah. “We’re not planning it yet. We need to be careful about these things.”
Alex grinned. “Careful is sexy.”
Sam groaned. “Please never say that again.”
They dissolved into laughter, but Isaiah’s mind was stuck on Chris’s response. They hadn’t talked about it. Isaiah had let the subject die months ago, but had Chris reconsidered?
Alex took a sip of his own coffee and then, with the casualness of someone pretending he hadn’t rehearsed it in his head, asked, “So, as a professional, who do you watch? Or would collaborate with, in theory?”
Isaiah considered. “I don’t watch that much, to be honest. Occupational hazard. And I’ve had a hard line on collabs since forever.”
“Liar,” Chris said. “You offered me a collab.”
“Which you turned down.”
“Because I don’t want a collab,” Chris said. “I want a joint venture.”
Isaiah stilled and looked at Chris. Later, Chris mouthed as he tightened his arms around him.
“Fuck,” Alex breathed. “That would be so hot—”
He stopped. Colour rushed into his face, and he backpedalled immediately. “Not that I’d watch you two. Obviously. I mean, you are, both of you. I just meant the internet would have… I’m not going to watch you guys like that. I mean—”
“Quit while you’re ahead,” Sam advised.
Chris’s thumb resumed its slow pattern against Isaiah’s hip, just a fraction firmer than before.
Mila, delighted, clapped once. “Right. Moving on before Alex proposes a three-way brand strategy.”
Alex covered his face with both hands. “I hate it here.”
“You love it here,” Sam said quietly.
Isaiah took a bite of the cake in front of him and moaned as the flavours burst on his tongue.
“Oh,” Mila muttered. “I think I might get it.”