a thrill of hope [ollie]

It was exhilarating to have someone look at him the way that Liam was. It felt as though for the first time that night that he was seeing him in his most real form. This wasn't the Oliver who had meticulously gone over every single detail of his set to make sure that nothing went off without a hitch, willing patrons to even glance in his direction. That wizard was long gone now. He'd shed his skin through the sounds of Bowie.

This sort of reaction didn't happen often, but when it did, it was magic.

Holding position leaned back on his knees, Oliver's chest rose and fell rapidly, working to catch his breath despite the racing of his heart. He hadn't realized until the two hands were cupping either side of his face that he still held the stupid bloody wand-microphone to his mouth as though he was taking in the applause from the audience, tempting them to continue their praise. Finally dropping it to his side, Oliver studied the man's face that was in the closest proximity he could recall of the night.

"Couldn't have done it alone," Oliver couldn't stop himself, the endorphins had taken control, even brimming his green eyes. Maybe it was the song or this place, or maybe it was Liam, but he swore there wasn't a drug that could touch this particular brand of high. Thank Merlin his hands were off of him though before Oliver had completely melted into the piano. He slowly regained the feeling in his legs as he walked toward the familiar faces of the women of Spellbound. "Hilary" He repeated by default in a daze, though he didn't really mean it.

In all honesty, the one with the nose ring, Pheobe, was the only one that really did it for him. With her white-blonde hair and elvish features, though timid compared to the rest, she held a presence that none of the others had. Oliver found himself returning to Liam in the frame, though. He was so comfortable, so confident, amongst them. He couldn't help but wonder which of them he'd dated and which of them he'd "dated" in the more physical sense.

"Well, " He began to correct himself, not yet willing to step too far from under the warmth of body heat against him. "I do quite like Phoebe," Oliver touched the side of the frame where she stood separated from the rest of the group. She'd always publically been the black sheep of the group, and for that, he admired her. Sometimes, he wondered if she ever really wanted to be in it in the first place. Even in this photo, she came across as terribly bored by it all.

Oliver couldn't keep eyes away from the center of the frame for too long, though, from where Liam was. He studied every movement that replayed on a loop, only aware of his gawking a moment before speaking up. "I can't believe you know them," It was then that he finally realized his surroundings. The wall was covered in photos with artists and various gold plated records with the word Banshee emblazoned across them. "Oh.." He turned back to look at Liam, having finally put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Shit," He turned back the wall, in shock.

'“Phoebe,” repeated Liam. “Interesting.” He truly wasn’t sure what to make of that one. Sort of he’d been hoping for one of the others, to compare to some other friend of his’s taste he didn’t understand. But Liam didn’t know that he knew any other Phoebe boys. Seemed like the sort of opinion one had just to be contrary. Ollie’s favorite Beatle was probably Ringo. Liam was a simple man. He’d always gone for Paul. But he did have respect for a determined outsider.

“Can’t say I know much about her,” he said, resting his chin on his arm, his curls mingling with Oliver’s. “Quiet one for real. Sam says he made her laugh once, but I don’t believe him.”

Not that Ollie knew who Sam was. Liam really couldn’t believe he’d gotten this far before telling a hilarious Banshee anecdote. But he didn’t have to watch out for that any longer, it seemed.

“Oh, shit what?” repeated Liam mockingly, following Ollie’s gaze toward the gold records. “You’ve finally caught on, have you?” He stepped back to lean against a small table, watching as Ollie wandered further down the wall. “I was sort of enjoying that, you know. Usually doesn’t take as long as that.” If it took any time at all. Most women (must he insist on comparing Oliver to women?) knew who he was from the outset. They had to, or else they wouldn’t have come. “Sort of refreshing, really,” said Liam softly.

Clearing his throat, he quickly shook his head. “Go on then, tell me you hate us.” He held up his hands, beckoning for criticism with a crooked smile. “If it’s Peppermint Grapefruit, though, I’ll have you know I hate that one too.”

And oh, Merlin, if it was Santa Baby...

Oliver hazarded a glance in the direction of the real version of the wizard behind him with a slight frown. He felt compelled to stand up for Pheobe despite the fact that he didn't personally know her. Not at least like Liam did. "She seems nice -- " He ventured, green eyes flicking back to the photo as if to validate his statement in some way, though now he was questioning if Liam knew something he didn't. Not one to shy away from his opinion, though, he continued "-- normal," It dawned on him then that he wasn't exactly making a strong case here, not with the bright and charismatic women (and man) to be compared to.

Phoebe Bridgers seemed to carry less significance, though, as his realization hit him.

His face was now a shade of red that he attempted to hide by taking only brief moments to look back at Liam. The wall of treasures was his perfect excuse, every direction that he looked, he found something new to be in awe of. He brushed only the tips of his fingers over the shiny gold award, heart thumping in his chest.

"Explains a lot," He spoke to himself as he turned to finally face the wizard who was now sat casually atop a side table. Oliver took a few steps to bridge the distance he'd made between them as he mulled over how he was going to handle this, a hand pushing tufts of chestnut waves off of his forehead. He wasn't sure if it would be a good or bad thing that he knew of Banshee exclusively through his flatmate, who had a bit of an infatuation, but he was going to find out.

"Peppermint Grapefruit," Oliver repeated with a grin, tasting the word in his own mouth in an attempt to recognize it. No doubt he'd heard it from the confines of Claire's room at some point in time. "I don't, I don't, " He began, hands in front of him to action his reassurance. "It's just..." He chewed on the side of his lip through a smile despite himself. "I suppose my housemate may have..." His eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, she may have bastardized you, is all," He spat out quickly, unable to stop himself.

"It's just she's constantly playing that song about the.. bludger to the head," Ollie explained with a sigh, acutely aware that his inability to lie was driving now. He leaned an elbow against the body of the piano to ground himself, but made the mistake of maintaining eye contact for just a moment too long and his face flushed all over again. He couldn't will himself to look away, so instead, he spoke. "Have you got any gin?" He finally grinned. Even as someone who wasn't a drinker, he needed one.

If he were kinder he might have said something to reassure Oliver, given that he was stammering all over the place and his face was cherry-red, but Liam found it too hilarious to stop. Being famous had rarely failed to entertain him. He was chuckling at the thought of the singing housemate—an odd way to characterize a woman one was living with, like a deliberate effort to stress the platonicness of things—but that train of thought was forgotten as Ollie leaned awkwardly on the piano and requested a drink. Liam laughed aloud.

“You sound like you’ve taken a bludger to the head, mate,” he said, clapping Ollie’s shoulder, and then after a second, his cheek. “Let’s hope with some more gin in you you’ll forget I’m anyone and pull it together enough to properly sing.” With a jaunty swish of his wand, Liam summoned his open bottle of gin from...well, he thought it might have been on his bedside table. “Take yourself back to ten minutes ago,” he said. “When all I was was musically gifted and irresistibly cool.” Liam caught the bottle by the neck, grinning.

He took a gulp and handed it off to Oliver, then lifted the strap of the blue guitar off over his head. “Trade you,” he said when Ollie looked back to him. “Not for keeps, you idiot.” (Though could he blame Ollie if the thought crossed his mind, with all Liam had offered him tonight?) “Just saw those eyes you were givin’ her. Thought you might like a go. Y’know, in there.”

With his free hand he pushed Oliver toward the door to the recording booth. Gin sloshed in the half-empty bottle. “Go on,” Liam pleaded. “Sing us another song, Mr. Rigby.”

Through slow blinks, Oliver took in surroundings. Where in the hell was he?

The room was still dark, though the sun was threatening the horizon in the first window he was able to make out through sleep-filled eyes. It was always the way, innocent or not, waking up somewhere that wasn't familiar, putting the pieces together one piece of furniture and one memory at a time. With some difficulty, he pushed himself to lean back on his elbows on what he found out was a couch. The empty bottle of gin atop the piano was to blame for this.

Looking down he found that he was fully clothed and neatly tucked in what appeared to be a fur throw. Pure white. Ollie ran a hand over it with appreciation before the sight of dark black ink smeared across the inside his forearm caught his attention. Was that... a signature?

Liam. Everything came back all at once. Ray's Shitty Tavern, the man at the bar, his studio (a professional real-life musician studio) and that god damned recording booth. The memory of a singing Celine Dion forced it's way back into his brain. Ollie practically groaned at the realization, falling back onto the pillow as though if he closed his eyes hard enough he would shake himself from this dream. One simple glance to the floor beside the couch where he found a mass of dark curls confirmed the opposite.

Surely, the man had a bed, but there he was, sleeping peacefully on the rug. Oliver smiled despite himself and carefully tiptoed around Liam's limbs. It was Christmas Eve, and he had to get home. He had half a mind to wake him and let him know that he leaving, give him his couch back, but he decided against it. Instead, after draping the throw over Liam, he scrawled a quick note on the back of a discarded piece of sheet music. His address. Uncrumpling the parchment, he placed it neatly on the keys of the piano before apparating home.

[fin]