The flat smelled like cheap pizza and sandalwood incense, which honestly summed up James pretty well—chaotic indulgence with a dash of "trying to seem like I’ve got it together." The lights were dim, casting soft golden pools across the living room floor. His guitar was half-forgotten on the couch, Will was already half-asleep under a pile of mismatched blankets, and Otto was making a home in the arms of will in said pile of blankets..

James padded into the room, barefoot and holding three mismatched mugs of tea like he was balancing Olympic medals. He nudged Will’s foot with his own before collapsing onto the beanbag with the grace of a dying Victorian widow.

“Tea, for my favorite delinquents,” he said with a smirk, setting the mugs down on the coffee table that had definitely seen better days. Probably in 2006.

He glanced over at you, eyes tired but soft, hair an utter mess. The kind of mess that comes from running fingers through it too many times while working on a verse that still doesn’t sound quite right.

“So,” he said, stretching with a dramatic groan, “are we watching something dumb tonight, or are we talking about our feelings and pretending it’s casual?”

He was joking. Probably. Maybe. Who knows with him? One minute he’s avoiding emotions, and the next you’re all having a really deep conversation.