Vibrations [Prosper]

"Maybe," said Dean. He saw it now. He’d always been good at seeing resemblances, and he kicked himself for not realizing earlier. Maybe that was why he’d found Prosper so handsome.

Prosper was laughing at him, and Dean laughed along. It was funny, maybe funnier in their drunkenness. He wasn’t sure how he felt, though, with Prosper’s arm around him. It was a friendly gesture, would have gone without him batting an eye if they hadn’t just been flirting for the last hour. But now… He didn’t want to endanger whatever he still had with Pierce. He didn’t want to get carried away. Easily, he could.

The other man seemed to pick up on his reluctance. He asked, gently, if Dean wanted to stay. Dean considered for a moment, looking up at the building. He felt unwilling, or unable to part ways. It was like these people were a river and he was bobbing along in the rushing water wherever they took him. The spell would break by morning, he was sure. But it hadn’t broken yet.

“I guess I can’t say no to a twirl,” he said. Maybe he ought to make an effort to get to know others in the group. He extended a hand across Prosper. “Clemence, is it?”

“Clemence, Dean,” he said, gesturing to each of them in turn. Prosper gave a little nod of the head like an understated bow. He turned to Clemence, holding a hand over his mouth like he was telling her a secret as he stage-whispered, “Dean is my brother’s good friend.” Then he turned to Dean and did the same thing, “Clemence went to a weird school in the south.” Prosper ducked away, avoiding her inevitable irritation as the group moved up inside. They took an old, clunky lift up to a floor that wasn’t marked on the side of the lift.

After a short walk down a dark hall, the group went into the front door and entered the apartment they were staying in. It was a warehouse that had been converted – with magic – into a rather stunning apartment. There was art everywhere; parts of the exposed brick walls and wooden beams had been painted by the person who lived here. There was only one bedroom in the place, but luckily the lounge room was large enough to accommodate them all – one side of the room was taken up by mattresses and carefully arranged couches. Two of his friends had brought their own tent, which was set up next to all of the bedding. Prosper went straight into the kitchen for the wine as someone else started playing some music.

NPC; Clemence Robineau

She wasn't drunk enough for this.

Somehow, she'd found herself tripping along with some mutual friends. She didn't like London, she found out. It was cold, dark and wet and nothing like the glittering, vibrant, cultural centre of Paris. For the past three hours, she'd been drinking something called "glitter bombs". She didn’t know what was in them but it was sweet and sparkly and now she couldn't feel her face.

Clemence was being carried along by a surge of teenage energy. Dressed in a short figure hugging black dress, her carefully coiffed dark hair now fell in disarray. She'd left France with an elegant, shiny chignon and she'd exploded in London looking like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Clemence wasn't even sure why she was here. She'd been invited by Zara but the blonde had since disappeared and so, she was here, drinking and feeling her inhibitions slow melt away. She was a shy girl by nature. Cute, freckled and demure but she didn't feel like that now. The gang moved and she slipped up the stairs with a squeal of surprise. She didn't like lifts, she didn't trust them and she wasn't drunk enough to put her faith in a bunch of cables.

As instructed to twirl, she did. Elegant and poised, the tall brunette spun in a neat little circle and she didn’t need to be sober to do it. She'd been training since she was a toddler and she could execute a pirouette with ease. She spun in a tight circle, her curtain of dark hair flying around her pretty face, her toes pointed and her arms soft. Swooping into a plie, she garnered a round of applause from the assembled squad.

Clemence wasn't stupid. Zara had beaten her in that audition and as a result, she'd not been offered a place in the prestigious school. She'd instead been training in the south of France but she was due to transfer to Italy over the summer. Sometimes she really hated Zara.

"Hi!" Clemence squeaked, reaching for Dean's hand and completely missing, instead grasping thin air. Shaking herself, she managed to take his hand and squeezed it. Prosper's brother's good friend? Clemence made the distinction that Dean must be Prosper's brother's boyfriend. She was so used to a world where most men were gay and she assumed this was a euphemism.

"Wait, what?" The ballerina asked with wide eyes as Prosper pranced off, reaching to stop him but her arm just fell to the side. Why did they always do that to her? She'd had a bit of a crush on the dancer for a while now, ever since they were thrown together but she hadn't seen him in years and now, she was at a house party in a ripped dress with a stranger.

She offered Dean a quick smile. "Sorry," she said as she sat next to him, blowing at a dark curl. Her lipstick was still miraculously in place but her eyeliner was smudged, making her look like a rather sleep and confused racoon. For someone who spent most of her time on stage, Clem wasn't really that confident and it showed as she suddenly felt silent. Dean's hands were warm and his accent wasn't French.

"He does that a lot," she explained with a sympathetic smile. Prosper was flighty and bouncy. He was a riot, a natural born host and which was why this party was hopping. "Are you staying?" She asked with a smile, gesturing around at the rapidly assembling blanket forts. There were tents and sheets and cushions, like one giant slumber party. Just then, she sneezed and a lot of glitter fell from her hair and landed around her like snowflakes.

Clemence shook his hand. He smiled at her, hoping the dimples worked for him a little. But, as they reached the apartment, he noticed that she seemed to be more interested in Prosper. She was distracted immediately by his departure, deflating as he left them. “He’ll come back,” said Dean. He hoped, anyway. As much as he wanted to avoid Prosper after the little revelation, he also needed him around. His lifeline in this glittery quicksand. He was worries that without Prosper he would drown.

Dean and Clemence sat down on a couch together, watching the group settle in. She apologized for Prosper. “Oh, I can imagine,” he said. He was still unconsciously comparing Pierce and Prosper in his mind, wondering what ran in the Lachapelle line. Flightiness, maybe.

She asked whether he was staying and he answered with a small smile. “I guess so.” The place looked free and comfortable, this was the sort of place he’d always wanted to spend a night. "It looks kind of like something I would have done as a kid," he said, watching a couple lying on a rumpled comforter on the floor. He remembered himself and Sara making a blanket fort once when it snowed, draping all their linens over chairs and piling them on the floor and getting in trouble for tearing the house apart. It was a fond memory. Everything about this space evoked fond feelings. But still, he felt out of place.

He looked back to Clemence. Something about her seemed to match that hint of discomfort he himself was feeling. He wondered who she was, where she came from. But he didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure this was a place where origins were important.

The wine was warm and sweet with tart fruity flavours and a hint of cinnamon. It was good wine! Prosper sipped some straight from the ladle in between pouring a few glasses while he decided what to do about Dean.

Prosper and Pierce had never really talked about things like sexual orientation or identity labels or any of that. It probably had a great deal to do with the kinds of conversations that they steered clear from with their father. Still, Prosper wasn’t surprised that Dean and Pierce had had a… thing… or whatever it was. It made sense in his head. But that complicated things just a little. He’d sensed some discomfort from Dean and, if he were being honest, he felt a little uncomfortable himself. His new friend had said that he and Pierce were friendly, not together or anything, but Prosper didn’t know what that meant, or if there was more to the story. He leant over the kitchen counter, poking his head out to have a quick look. Dean seemed comfortable enough sitting with Clemence.

Prosper sighed. Dean was attractive, and the whole situation was a perfect set up for a fling or a make out session or a one-night stand. Prosper found himself in these sorts of magical, beautiful temporary things all the time. As much as he was invested in the idea of something more long term, he liked it. And not that many minutes ago, he’d been sure that Dean was caught up in it too. In him. The Frenchman returned with a few glasses of wine, placing most of them on the table then moving toward the couch and handing one to both Clemence and Dean. “It’s good,” he said. “Felix made it.” Prosper paused for a moment, then, “Let me borrow this man for one sec.” Prosper held out his hand again for Dean to take.

Some of the small crowd were dancing and a couple were heatedly making out on the ground beside a bed. A couple of others had actually gotten the paint out and had started painting each other in shimmering golds and pale blues. Prosper led Dean past them all, to the small courtyard. He sipped on his wine, looking up at the sky. “London is so much bigger than Paris,” he said softly, his tone matching the dim lighting and cool air. His accent stood out in the quiet, though Prosper could still hear the music well enough. “More festivals, so many more people.” He tilted his head to the side slightly. “The food is much better in France.”

He had just been trying to think of something else to say to Clemence when Prosper reappeared. “See,” he said, turning to her with a soft smile as he took his wine, “told you.” But Prosper didn’t seem to have intentions of staying, and he made an apologetic face at the girl as he was asked for his hand. Dean wasn’t sure he should hold the hand offered, but didn’t want to snub Prosper. He took it.

Prosper led him out into the chilly night. Dean stuffed the hand not holding his glass in his pocket as he looked around the space. He wondered what Prosper wanted to be in private for. Even after he spoke, Dean wasn’t sure. “Paris is still big,” he said, dumbly, watching the other man.

I’m going to Paris, he decided in that moment, but knew he would eventually waffle about it until he talked himself out of it, so it wasn’t much of a decision. The thought depressed him. He sipped his wine. Maybe he should just leave tomorrow. Not give himself time to put things off anymore. He scoffed to himself. He’d be too hung over for that. It was a shame things weren’t open when he had the passion to do them. He’d never gotten that tattoo.

“I’m really…” he said, “…inspired.”

He wanted to paint this gathering in thick strokes, play with light and shadow and shimmering metallics. He wanted to get something tattooed on him. He wanted to go live in the City of Lights, dance, fall in love.

He wanted a lot of things. He was scared to wake up not wanting them as much anymore.

“Paris is still big,” he agreed. Not big enough, he thought. Prosper wanted to go to places with art on the walls where you could go to the same corner store every day and still see different faces each time. He wanted to go somewhere so packed that things were always moving quickly because they had to. He was sure that Pierce had been to places like that. He was jealous.

Something in Dean’s tone caught his attention and Prosper sipped his wine, watching the other man over his glass. Prosper knew it was cold, but he couldn’t really feel the icy air biting his skin. “Inspired?” he repeated, testing out the word.

Prosper glanced back through the large glass windows at the chaos that was happening inside. He could see how, from an outsider’s perspective, they might all seem like nymphs or fairies or something. Somehow more magical than your average group of wizards. Prosper was happy to indulge this fantasy, for both Dean and himself. He found it all very magical and fantastical and very ephemeral. He supposed there was something romantic about that.

“Tell me what you mean,” he said, moving to the small wooden bench and patting the space beside him for Dean to take.

Dean sat on the bench beside Prosper, sighing as he was asked to explain himself. He wasn’t sure what to say, how he would sound. Pathetic? Like a massive cliché? “You lot just make me…” he said, “…really want to do things.” He looked out into the dark courtyard, not at Prosper. “Let myself go. Be like you.”

"I'm tired of my life," he said. "I thought I would be happy if I were just safe, but I'm not. I've got...something in me." It struck him that he’d had more or less this exact conversation with Pierce. “Er,” he said, thrown off a bit. “I just never do anything. I’m...” He didn’t want to say he was afraid. He wasn’t, even. The unknown didn’t scare him. But it was so much work to change things, and so much commitment. What if he made a mistake?

He hadn’t even approached anyone about going away, not his family, not Seamus, not Dennis. Not after Pierce’s reaction. The best he could do was tell all his hopes to some drunk stranger.

“Who knows,” said Dean. “Maybe it’ll stick this time.”

Prosper smiled, a glint of something mischievous in his eye. This boy who’d been with his brother was interesting, and Prosper was drunk and it made things simpler in one way and more complex in another. It was harder, for example, for him to think about all of the things he should probably be thinking about right now, like the fact that he didn’t know what weirdness there was between Pierce and Dean. He didn’t know if it really was a simple one night stand that was over, or if they’d been in love or if someone had gotten their heart broken. Out of loyalty to Pierce, Prosper felt like he should back off. The knowledge gap was too big. It was too weird.

A part of him wondered what would happen if he did back off though. There were too many single or polyamorous people in this group for Dean not to receive attention from someone else, and Prosper’s fleeting claim on Dean had been pretty contingent on the fact that he’d brought him into the group with some kind of intentions, however vague they were. Prosper would probably be disappointed if Dean ended up in the arms of one of his friends tonight. Maybe even jealous.

So this was the part of the night where things got deep, Prosper thought. It was one of many paths an alcohol-fueled night could take them on. One of many possibilities. Prosper imagined that they could have just as easily wound up locked in one of the men’s bathroom stalls for a drunken snog and a grope, if things had gone another way. He kind of liked this, though. He didn’t follow Dean’s gaze out into nothingness, but instead lounged comfortably against the back of the bench, watching Dean speak with keen interest.

“So why don’t you just do it?” He asked, when Dean finally trailed off. "Pack up your things. Quit your job. Book a portkey with a handful of sickles and your wand and a backpack." Prosper smiled again, aware of the character he was playing right now. He liked being "inspiring". It suited him. “It’s a big world. There are lots of ways to explore it and lots of places to be explored. Qui n’avance pas, recule.” The grey-eyed French boy understood the sentiment Dean was trying to explain. For a while after school had finished, he’d stagnated. It was frustrating to graduate with big dreams and then end up stuck in routine again. Since then, he’d made some changes though. Soon he’d make some bigger ones. His words weren’t just for Dean, he thought, but also for himself. Qui n’avance pas, recule, he repeated in his head.

He glanced back over at Prosper, surprised to see him watching with interest. Part of him hadn’t expected to be actually listened to. “I dunno,” he said. “I’m the most inspired when it’s midnight and I’m drunk.” He looked down at his wine and laughed. “I guess that’s me,” he said. “I make big plans when I don’t actually have to follow through. I’m like everybody else.”

Prosper, like Pierce, like Riley, made him want to be different. How many times did he have to be inspired before he took action?

“Maybe I should give you my number,” said Dean. “Never mind, you probably don’t have a phone—my address then. Have you remind me tomorrow to do something big. So I can’t ignore it.” He needed someone with that magical freedom to lead him there, inspire him all over again.

Prosper knew the feeling. Late at night was when he was most “inspired” – though he’d call it “restless” – and if he was drinking, he often had big, grand ideas. He’d done many stupid things while drunk – many awesome things too. There was something about the I’m like everyone else statement that grated Prosper in a weird way. Everyone was like everyone else, weren’t they? And at the same time, wasn’t everyone absolutely unique? Weren’t they all so very particular? He shook his head.

“You can just do it,” he said, bumping Dean lightly with his shoulder and watching him closely. “Catch that spontaneous spark –“ Prosper clicked his fingers “– and run with it.” Prosper nodded towards the large window to one side, where he could see that the group of painted people now outnumbered those who were paint free. “You were brave enough to run off with this lot, you can definitely go travelling.” He smiled a cheeky smile.

“Number,” Prosper repeated blankly. Aside from the odd jaunt to muggle bars as teenagers with Zara, Prosper hadn’t really had much to do with muggles growing up. None of his close friends had ever been muggleborn and Dahliental was definitely a wizarding town through and through. He had lots of distant pureblood relatives and no muggle ones that he knew of. He just wasn’t exposed. “Why should I send an owl tomorrow?” he asked, adopting a teasing tone as a slight smirk tugged at his lips. “Are you leaving tonight?”

He smiled down at his lap as Prosper nudged him, glad his companion had that much faith in him. “Sure,” he said. He did have the ability. Maybe he was just making up excuses. Maybe that’s just the way I am was a cop-out, not a reason to avoid anything at all.

Dean shook his head. He had to stop casually revealing how muggleborn he was, even if he wasn’t really muggleborn at all. Prosper teased him and he grinned. “I guess I can stay the night,” he said. He looked back inside. All the laughing, twinkling, sensual people there tugged at him. The spell was still in effect. “I’m something of an artist, you know,” said Dean with a soft smirk. It wasn’t something he ever called himself, had always felt too pretentious. But he would embody that tonight. “You want to become a masterpiece?”

“Oh really?” he asked, taking Dean’s smirk as encouragement to tease just a little more, despite the unspoken agreement between them that however flirty or drunk they were, nothing was going to happen tonight. It was a shame, Prosper thought, but it would be weird to be with someone who wasn’t his, but was his brother’s. He wondered if Dean would tell Pierce about tonight. He wondered how close they were. “Oh, tattoos, right. It makes sense that you’re an artist.” He got to his feet, helping Dean up and then keeping hold of Dean’s hand as he let the other man lead them back toward the house. Nothing was going to happen, but holding hands wasn't anything. Not in this group of people. Then again...

A moment before Dean’s fingers touched the door handle, he tugged Dean’s arm, spilling the other man’s drink a little as he spun him around. Prosper stepped forward, touching Dean’s waist lightly with his free hand like he’d done while they were on the dance floor. He leant in and kissed him right on the lips. It was just a soft kiss; a light peck just a little too intimate to be chaste, but it was gone in a fluttery moment. At Dean’s expression, he said “I’m French," as if this explained things. He shrugged. "It’s how we say thank-you-for-staying. Now go, go,” Prosper ushered him inside with a mischievous smile. That would have to be it, he thought. Well, that and the half-naked body painting that was going on inside.

Prosper put out a hand again, and Dean took it. It felt like the other man was leading him everywhere tonight, if not physically than otherwise. They made their way back to the doors, but then Dean was caught by surprise as Prosper pulled him close, pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before he could prepare for it, could close his eyes.

He smiled as Prosper pulled away. It was a friendly kiss, affectionate. Perfect for them. He met the man’s eyes. “Thanks,” he said. And he didn’t need to say anything more than that.

Now go, go. Dean went.