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The fans’ ship name for him and Trevor has always been something he’s supposed to ignore or talk his way around, but he’s not worried about it right now.

He notices a girl up front, pressed right against the metal barricade, a rainbow boa wrapped around her shoulders. She’s full-on sobbing. He moves closer to the edge of the stage and squats down in front of her, mouthing, “Are you okay?”

She composes herself enough to nod her head, then yells out, “Finally!”

He gives her a nod in return and a little wink. Standing back up and looking out over the crowd again, he can’t contain his grin. Because he agrees.Finally.He’s done it.

He’s essentially just outed himself.

He may not have said it in so many words, but he’s prepared to do that when the big question inevitably comes.

And it’s going to be okay.

He’s Skyler fucking James. He’s a goddamn musical icon.

And no, he’s not an egomaniac, so he doesn’t really think of himself like that. But like. Heis.

His fame and success have afforded him a whole lot of things in life, like three houses in two different countries. But maybe the most important thing it can afford him now is some real freedom.

Finally.

TREVOR

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,I don’t mean to bother you, but um…aren’t you Trevor Blue?”

Trevor pauses, a crinkly bag of lettuce clutched in his hand, and slowly turns to face the twenty-something redhead who’s staring at him hopefully.

This still happens sometimes, although not as often as you might think. Thanks to the flop of his debut solo album years ago, and his failure to record another one since, he’s managed to fade into relative obscurity.

It’s typically only a certain demographic that recognizes him these days. Women around twenty to thirty-five who were big into the whole boy band resurgence a decade ago. They didn’t even know him, yet back then, they were convinced he was their soulmate or something.

Or Oli or Noah or Jermaine.

Or Skyler.

It didn’t matter which of them these girls crushed on the hardest. Everything was just smoke and mirrors.

But that’s not to say he didn’t appreciate the fans. At the time, he was endlessly grateful. They’re the ones who made him famous, after all. When that was something he actually wanted.

It didn’t bother him too much when his album flopped. That wasn’t really him anyway, not fully. Making it, he still felt so much pressure to be what he’d been told so many times that people wanted him to be.

Thanks to his Boys Will Be Boys days, he has more money than he’ll ever need anyway, as long as he’s careful. Even after Sierra took half.

He nods at the redhead and sets the lettuce back on the shelf, glancing around nervously, worried she’s about to cause a scene.

Luckily, she keeps her voice down when she says, “Oh my god, I can’t believe this. I loved Boys Will Be Boys. ‘Playground Memories’ was like my anthem in high school.”

He only manages a hint of a smile, out of practice and caught off guard. “Thanks, hon. That’s nice to hear.”

She bites her lip. Possibly wondering if she’s overstepping and deciding she doesn’t care, because then she asks, “Can I please have your autograph?”

“Sure. What would you like me to sign?”

The girl frowns and starts digging frantically through her purse. “Oh no! I must have something.”

The longer she takes, the more he glances around, wishing she’d hurry this along before anyone else notices what’s going on and realizes who he is.

“Aha!” Finally, she reveals a crumpled scrap of paper and smooths it out against her chest before handing it to him, along with a pen.