listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness (émilie)

The sounds of Fleetwood Mac swelled from the walls themselves, filling the open space and flowing out the open windows. Oliver couldn't remember if he had opened them, or if Stevie was responsible for that. One hand precariously held a glass of wine and half-lit mystery cigarette, while the other was preoccupied with using a spatula as a microphone. Thankfully for him, magic did most of the work when it came to cooking, but he did enjoy to play a role when he could. Particularly when it came to carbonara.

It was rare to have the loft to himself. He supposed, though, the holiday season meant that his flatmates would be coming and going more frequently than usual, as was he. In fact, he'd only just arrived back from a trip to Ireland for his Uncle's birthday 50th birthday. Given how close it was to Christmas, he had tossed up going altogether but ended up making a last-minute decision after a particularly grim shift at work.

As the song change faded out and in, Oliver recognized the next classic at the first chord. He practically threw the spatula down to prepare himself. Dreams. Music had the unique ability to completely control emotions, and he intended to let just that happen.

"Now, here you go again," He sang through a half-closed mouth, the power behind his voice still audible even so. He'd perfected harmonizing with this song so many times that it came without much thought now. In his mind, he was right there with them, on stage, sashaying around the place in some velvet number.

He'd made it about three-quarters of the way through his performance, complete with all of the theatrics, when he noticed that was he wasn't actually alone. "Shit!" Oliver stopped in his tracks, the velvet number snapped back to the reality of fluffy robe he adorned in the blink of an eye, as quickly as the stage lights disappeared. Staring back at him was an elvish blonde. She may as well have been straight out of his dream as well. "I'm so sorry, I thought I was alone," Oliver slapped a hand over his chest.

Now that he was thinking about it, he did recall Nina telling him that a new tenant was moving in that weekend. "Would you like a wine?" He fumbled with the bottle on the counter beside him. "Oliver," He introduced himself. "You must be..." The wizard trailed off as if he actually knew her name. Lucky for her, he always cooked entirely too much pasta.

Émilie almost immediately regretted moving back to Paris. It had been her dream for her whole life, so she had moved to work at the Ministry, only to leave -- and go to Berlin, of all places -- when she got married, so she knew she should be happy about it all. Or about moving, at least. Her maman had been such a comfort the past couple months, though; how much she missed her was almost enough to convince her to go back to live with her parents on a far more permanent basis, not the temporary living arrangements she had made when she had first left her husband. She had good reasons -- great reasons -- for it all, but she had another one to add now: he had ruined Paris for her, too.

The coffee cart in the lobby of the Ministry didn’t appreciate her extended holiday, so she had found herself without a job, or simply just more time to focus on her art, which was exactly what she was trying to do. The shared loft was a cheap option -- she only had so much money saved up -- but the benefit of a lower rent was outweighed by how loud it was. She had a discman and Céline Dion’s Christmas CD turned up to full volume, but her headphones were a poor excuse for noise cancellation. Whatever that was, the music and the singing outside her door, it was too much.

She had been staring at a blank canvas for far too long to stand it any longer. Standing up, Émilie took off her headphones, smoothed down her skirt, tucked a curl behind her ear, and stepped out into the shared space of the loft, living room, dining room, kitchen, every room all in one. He didn’t notice her, either too involved with his song or she was too quiet walking around in her pink fuzzy socks. She cleared her throat -- hadn’t met him yet and could only hope he actually lived there -- but he didn’t hear her, so she leaned against the wall, tilting her head to watch him until he noticed her.

And he noticed her rather spectacularly; Émilie raised both eyebrows at his expletive. She had been prepared to tell him to quiet down, to let her concentrate -- and mope -- in peace, but then he apologized. It caught her by surprise and she just nodded, accepting the apology, nearly moved to tears as all her emotions came rushing up to the surface. She prevailed, though, managing to smile when he offered wine. “Please,” she said with a nod and a smile and just one more sniff to repress her feelings a little bit more.

“Émilie.” She stepped into the kitchen almost cautiously, the smell of whatever was cooking only reminding her she hadn’t eaten much that day. “That one’s mine.” She pointed over her shoulder toward her bedroom door. “Since Tuesday,” she added. She saw some empty glasses on the counter and she picked one up, holding it to the light to try to figure out it was clean; she decided not to take any chances and rinsed it out quickly before setting it on the counter in front of her new roommate. “What are you listening to?” Her musical knowledge didn’t move too far past France and certainly no farther than the Spice Girls.

Oliver grinned through the fleeting embarrassment of having been caught in the act. She'd accepted his peace offering, but still, he sensed something of hesitation in her tone. Not that he could blame her, though. Not after that introduction to all that was him.

"Émilie, I'm Oliver," With both of his hands full he bowed as a form of greeting. His gaze followed the direction to the door to the left of the kitchen that she now inhabited, though he was just a fraction of a second behind, caught up in studying her profile as she turned. Absently he thought to himself that perhaps she was living in Paris as a model or actress, or something of the sort. He had the tendency to romanticize that kind of thing when he first met someone new.

"I'm just upstairs," He nodded happily, pointing to the ceiling with the useless stub of an herbal cigarette that had officially lost its flame. "Consider this your official introduction to Chateau Crémieux," Oliver delicately placed his glass down to pull to cork from the bottle and fill her own that she'd just rinsed. The name predated his time at the loft, but it stuck with him, derived from the name of the street their little home was tucked away on.

Hoisting himself up on the counter next to the stove, Oliver gave the dish a bit of a stir before turning to his new housemate once he was certain he hadn't burned the pancetta. "Oh, Émilie, how much I have to show you," He replied excitedly, flicking his wrist to turn the record back on, this time at a more acceptable decibel. "This--" He paused a moment to let the music seep into the room. "-- this is Fleetwood Mac," Oliver closed his eyes, smiling to himself.

He stopped before he became too self-righteous, though, knowing how infuriating it was to have someone talk down to you solely on the basis of not having been exposed to something before. He didn't want to taint this for her. "You're from France?" He finally spoke up, his own Scottish accent felt inferior in comparison to the one he'd detected from her. He wanted to know all that there was to know about this person, but he metered his questions. Something about her felt skittish, like at any moment she may just disappear.

Émilie watched her new flatmate bow -- bow! -- and her eyes were wide as he straightened himself up. “Hi.” She was living with other artists, she reminded herself, and artists had quirks. She hadn’t any herself, of course, but if she wanted to be an artist she needed to stop being so judgemental (about the other artists, anyway-- she could judge everyone else all she wanted to). She followed his finger with her gaze, nodding as if she was well aware before that there were people living above her, too, that still got to use this common space. How many people lived here? God, what did she get herself into?

“It’s lovely,” she said anyway, blinking back a tear that was probably just left over from before; it couldn’t be from the shock she was still experiencing that this was her life now. She took the wine, happily -- if there was always free wine then maybe it wouldn’t be that bad -- and took too large a sip. It was better than she was used to, but that wasn’t too hard a feat: she didn’t have to drink German wine anymore.

She stood still (minus her large sips of wine), watching Oliver tend his cooking; she didn’t want to get too close lest he take it as a sign she wanted to help; she couldn’t cook, still. He had so much to show her, apparently, and it took her a second to remember she had just asked him about the music he had been listening to. It was Fleetwood Mac. “Oh, yes.” She hadn’t known that, didn’t know what else she was expected to ask about it. “I think it can rain without thunder, yes?” She wasn’t great at English, but it certainly wasn’t her worst subject. She knew more about the rain than Fleetwood Mac did, anyway.

Taking another sip of wine, Émilie nodded. “Lavaveix-les-Mines,” she confirmed, naming the town she was from. “In the middle,” of France, that is; she clarified after she saw a very familiar look of confusion on his face (because it was a look she so often had herself). “You’re not from France?” She couldn’t place accents, could hardly place her own, but she didn’t know many French people who went around making sure everyone else was from France, too.

“Can I have some more wine?” She had finished her glass when she wasn’t looking, she supposed.