Page 17 of The Other Side

Osian didn’t understand why Bryan disliked him so much; it wasn’t as if he was stealing anyone’s spotlight. He only lived here for a month out of the year, only played with them at the most three times during that period. Was it just that Osian was a better player? Osian stopped worrying about it and let himself fall into the music. They transitioned seamlessly into The Irish Washerwoman, then surged into A Fig for a Kiss. Though he knew far more tunes than the rest of them, he was perfectly content to follow Paul’s lead.

Playing came so naturally to him that he was able to send a little magic into the plants on the pub’s windowsills. Did Bill never water them? It hurt to see any plant struggling.

By the time they reached the final run through of A Fig for a Kiss, the room had grown noticeably louder. Tankards knocked against tables, conversations rose and fell between phrases, and a few brave souls had cleared a patch of floor near the hearth to dance. Fi was in Noel Wilson’s arms and having fun. The pair had been dating the last time he’d crossed over. Osian was happy to see people enjoying themselves, but now he had to be a little careful. It was easy to get carried away when mortal folk reacted to fae music, especially if they danced. That Osian was the only fae of five musicians made it safer but if he noticed anyone growing too wild, he’d stop playing. It had happened before.

It was a good evening and Osian had fun.

“One more?” Paul said.

“Go on then.” Will twirled his tipper between his fingers. “Something lively.”

Osian hesitated only a second before leaning toward the microphone. “How about The Kesh Jig?”

The reaction was immediate. A handful of regulars cheered.

They began softly, just the two violins in unison. Then the guitar joined in, followed by the mandolin’s bright chatter and the steady pulse of Will’s bodhrán. The melody curled through the pub, familiar and welcoming. Everything settled into place. For a few hours, nothing had existed beyond the music. No expectations. No questions about where Osian spent the other eleven months of the year. It was the sort of freedom he rarely felt. But Drum was still there in his heart, that missing beat.

So many times he’d told himself to give up, only to find that he couldn’t. He had to keep looking because although the chances were slim, they still existed. One day, he’d find him. The right place at the right time. It would happen.

When Osian caught sight of a guy at the bar in a neon-yellow hi-vis jacket, he frowned. The silhouette didn’t look right. The words Police Community Support Officer were stretched across a frame that was too tall and too slim to be Matthew Green. Oh, but Fi had told him Matthew had gone missing so this had to be the new guy. Osian hoped this wasn’t going to be a problem, because if this guy asked for ID, Osian would have to use a touch of magic, just a subtle nudge, in the same way he’d persuaded Matthew that he was nothing to worry about when he’d seen Osian wandering on the moors.

The PCSO hovered near the taps, his cap shadowing his face as he leaned in to speak to Bill, who ran the pub. A moment later, Bill wove through the cluster of tables, circling his hand, signalling the band to wrap things up.

Bryan was immediately aggressive. “What’s the problem?”

“Too loud,” Bill said apologetically. “Complaint from the neighbours. It’s almost eleven anyway. You’ve been great.”

Bryan grumbled, Paul did too, but the room was already transitioning into the shuffle of packing up. Osian reached for his violin case. As he picked it up from the floor, the PCSO walked over. Osian raised his head, and the world shifted on its axis.

The officer was looking at Paul, offering a disarming smile. “Sorry, guys. You sounded really good. I’d have come and listened if I’d been off duty. Unfortunately, there were calls from two different neighbours saying they couldn’t sleep because of the racket you were making. They clearly have no taste.”

Osian had always told himself he’d know when he saw Drum again. Even after all these years, he’d know. He’d consistently believed that one look was all it would take. That he’d feel something fundamental pulling at him, a physical tug in his chest that would make his heart hurt.

Just as he felt right now. Except he’d assumed Drum would feel it too.

“It’s not like we play every night.” Paul was still grumbling under his breath, shoving his guitar into its gig bag.

If you don’t stop looking at him, you’ll freak him out. Osian dropped his gaze as he loosened his bow, but he could feel the weight of a curious stare. The PCSO stood talking to Bill, yet his attention kept sliding back to Osian. Maybe he did feel it too. Not recognition, otherwise they’d be in each other’s arms, but more an itch that couldn’t be scratched away, some quiet but invasive instinct telling him that something about Osian simply didn’t fit. Because that was exactly how Osian felt.

His pulse drummed a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Look at me. Please, look at me again. Right in the face. I have to be sure. Twenty years is a long time. I could be wrong. My heart is telling me it’s you, but…

The officer turned just as Osian stood up. His knees almost gave way and he grabbed the table.

By the gods, it’s Drum. It is him!

Twenty years might have passed but Osian knew those eyes, that face. His heart tightened into a painful, tangled knot—for the boy he’d loved more than life, for the boy he’d never even kissed, and now for the man standing in front of him who Osian could see possessed absolutely zero memory that they’d once been everything to each other. He had longed for this exact moment for so long, yet now it was here, Osian was entirely frozen. He couldn’t believe the search had ended here, in a nondescript pub.

As the rest of the band grabbed their gear and filtered out, Osian lingered by his chair, watching Bill chat with Drum while the pub emptied around them. Fi waved as she and Will left.

“Osian! Do you want a lift or not?” Paul appeared suddenly, blocking his view. “Come on.”

Osian could feel Drum watching him, but Drum’s itch had faded, if it had ever been there. There’d been no flicker of recognition upon seeing Osian’s face, no spark at the sound of his name, which was what he’d hoped for. Osian needed time to think; he needed to tread carefully. He’d completely freak Drum out if he just blurted the truth.

Still, as he walked out into the cool night air, his chest felt impossibly light. He’s here. Drum’s eyes were the colour of the sea in Forstal Channel when the sun turned it into an impossible blue. He still had dimples in his cheeks. That same floppy dark hair. Osian couldn’t let him walk away.

Seeing the marked police vehicle parked out front made his next decision easy.

“Paul, I don’t need a lift after all, thanks,” Osian said.