[paris] half drunk under a full moon [ollie]

They were at a Chinese restaurant in Paris on the night of Ollie's twenty-third birthday. It was the nicest place he could think of where he wouldn’t mind spending an hour—the French did a lot of things Liam respected, but he’d never been wild about the food. After this he had less of a plan. But surely they’d figure it out. They were a couple of cool blokes in the most beautiful city in the world, and by then they’d probably be drunk enough to make decisions easier.

Just going on dates was difficult for Liam still, but planning them was worse. Ollie had been much easier to impress a year ago. Show him a recording studio and that Los Angeles existed and he’d be starry-eyed putty in your hands. Pop in to visit his grimy Paris attic if you wanted to be romantic about it.

It worried Liam, vaguely, how much he missed the power imbalance. When they were equally as cool he didn’t have much going for him. Among Banshee he’d always come second to Charlie—he’d been bitter about it but he’d known his place. Liam wanted to think better of Ollie than this. But they’d come together because Liam had something concrete to help him with. It wasn’t difficult to worry that Ollie might want something someday that Liam wouldn’t be able to offer.

Had all of this played a role in the fleeing of the country situation? Probably. Liam had always run from emotional bullshit, though often less literally. He didn’t think Ollie was feeling abandoned or anything—he was a busy bloke these days, Liam had been there. They’d been long-distance before anyway. His nostalgic yearning for the early days of their relationship was making it seem better than he thought it would.

It made the visits all the more exciting too. Liam rocked his heels under the table, fidgeting as he gazed at Ollie. At least it didn’t matter as much now when he couldn’t keep from gazing. “A club after this, or something quieter?” he asked. “I’ve got a few up my sleeve, but I think you lived here longer than I did—I’d like to see Ollie’s Paris.” And anywhere Michel Mallard didn’t frequent would be ideal.

@Oliver Rigby

Oliver didn't hesitate for a breath before leaning forward, chopsticks in hand, to pluck few stray noodles from Liam's plate. He was thankful he decided—albeit, after a moment of thought— to hang his faux-fur vintage coat over the back of his chair. Jesus Christ, his mother would have his head for the elbows on the table in a place so nice. He could almost hear the subtle shrill in her otherwise soothing tone.

Formalities seemed to go out the window as far politeness was concerned lately. It was funny the way that worked; the more successful you were the less those things seemed of any real consequence, the less they mattered at all.

Though, consequence at all had always been a bit of a foreign concept for the wizard, of course.

He hummed a thought as he drew the chopsticks to his mouth down the length of the noodles to avoid slurping too obviously. There were some manners left in there after all. Ollie wiped his mouth with the previously stark white tablecloth he'd draped over his knee. "Ollie's Paris, hm?" The grin pulled at his every feature, most prominently in the deep greens of his eyes.

"There's an exhibit a few blocks over," He explained, taking a bite from his own plate and already distracted by the carts as they wheeled by. He wasn't sure how many they'd gotten already. It was the beauty of dim sum, impulsivity. "Valerie mentioned it—" His once flatmate and fellow vagabond artist. "—some sort of collective..." His hands moved freely as he explained. "With music," His eyebrow quirked anticipatorily.

"Oh! Yes, please, love," Oliver smiled sweetly to the woman passing by with egg tarts, happily taking a plate.

Every time he looked at Ollie like this, Liam was crushingly aware of how many people would be justified in making fun of him. This was the dopiest it got. Chin in one hand, cheeks aching from the smile, engrossed as some boy in a witch’s blouse got noodle grease on the tablecloth. The lovestruck shit he’d spent years unable to believe existed. Surely a thousand teenage Liams were out there now telling their mates how much he’d changed for the worse, and the thought lived in the pit of his stomach even at the best of times. But none of them were in this restaurant, and he couldn’t have stopped if he tried.

Thankfully, Ollie had ideas—or Valérie did. “Ah—a collective.” Liam flicked up a hand in a dramatic pause, half a fond, faux-resigned shrug. “Arty bastard, aren’t you?” His mockery of Ollie’s hippie shite almost certainly came from a place of jealousy—if only he had had the chance to live in that smoky artist’s garret! But Liam felt compelled to maintain it. “If there’s music, though…”

He waved back and forth undulously to the ambient charmed piano in the corner, silly enough to make both of them laugh. “Surely we must?”

Liam plucked a tart from Ollie’s new dish and gestured with the crescent remaining after his bite. “Someday we’ll do Lee’s Paris, where you take a dodgy foreign potion and then wake up in the bathtub with lipstick on.”