midnight in paris [ollie]

When a tall young man with a purple-smoking cigarette opened the door, Liam cracked a grin and explained in rusty French. Je suis un ami d’Oliver. The man eyed him and Liam nervously gritted his teeth. Did the French call him Olivier? Was this, in fact, the right Parisian garret commune? It certainly seemed to be one, at least. Liam opened the case levitating behind him and held out a bottle of gin. He’d brought seven, one for each roommate and an extra. His first thought had been wine, but he’d figured they’d be snobbier about it.

The man examined the English bottle and puffed on his cigarette for another second before calling for someone else inside. Liam waited out the shuffling. The next face that popped out was a girl with very curly hair and a kinder expression that quickly faded into shock.

“Hello!” she stammered in English, extending a hand with panicked force. “Oliver’s at work, do you—want to wait? I’m Simone.”

“Simone?” The fabled Banshee fan. Liam returned her handshake gratefully and gave her a smile as charming as he knew how. “Liam. Brilliant—Ollie’s told me loads about you.”

She stood stock still for a full five seconds before she got a grip and invited him in.

After a little while and agreeing to sign her albums, Simone turned out to be decent company. After another while, she’d darted down the hall and re-emerged with Ollie’s guitar. Liam knew the instrument well enough to recognize it now. Fondly, he took it by the neck and settled it in his lap. Strummed an aimless chord. He couldn’t wait to hear Oliver play it himself.

He’d started taking requests for instrumental renditions, but by the time the door opened again, Simone and a couple of the others had bullied him into singing as well. (She’d heard Santa Baby, and cackled uproariously at the look on his face when she said so.) His voice dropped off, though, as he lay eyes on Oliver Rigby for the first time in what felt like an age. Liam smiled broadly, exhaling a cloud of purple smoke from the cigarette he’d been given. “Surprise.”

He bid a cheerful goodbye to the flatmates, kissing Simone’s cheek twice for good measure, before following Ollie deeper into the flat. “It’s alright if you’re tired,” Liam assured him quickly. “I thought I’d stay the night, if that’s alright. Reckon I can wait until tomorrow to hear what you’ve been working on.” He paused to take another drag until he was sure no one was snooping. “Tell me you don’t share a room, do you?” he whispered in Ollie’s ear. He nipped teasingly at his earlobe. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Ollie’s room was small, of course, but thankfully appeared to be private. Liam’s heart swelled more and more as he took in every little thing. His own places had never said much about him—professionally decorated, empty and minimal. This, though, felt like walking straight into Oliver’s heart. Liam let his fingertips drift dazedly along the top of the bookcase.

He set the guitar up in the corner and, desperate to not seem too eager to touch Ollie again, offered him the fragrant purple cigarette instead. “Love these,” he said. “Love everyone, too, even the weird bloke. Though obviously I’ll take your side in any flatmate disbutes I’m unaware of...”

There was no point anymore. He lurched forward to wrap an arm around Oliver’s waist and kiss him slowly, lingering to breathe in the smell of sweat and liquor on his skin. “Merlin, I’ve been missing you,” he moaned. He jerked his head toward the single little window over the City of Lights. “I’d have come even without the view.”

It had been a long night.

During Quidditch season that wasn't an unusual occurrence, drunk patrons well outstaying their welcome, but this shift had been exceptionally trying. Oliver wasn't sure if it was because he had a taste of a different life, a glimpse at the grass on the other side, but it seemed that his patience had grown thin.

"Home safe," He kissed either side of his coworker's cheek, giving him an affectionate pat on the back. They survived. Their end-of-shift cigarettes had been paired with a side of commiseration in the back alley of the bar, propped up against dirtied shipping crates that served no real purpose as far as Ollie had seen. Perhaps for aesthetic, he mused, as he watched Timéo disappear into thin air, back to his flat somewhere in Montparnasse.

Oliver stood still for a moment. He watched the last of his cigarette came to a dull, diminished glow before snapping his fingers to dispose of what was left. He didn't want to go home, and he didn't want to stay here, but the sinking feeling of wanting to be somewhere else left a pit in his stomach. If he wasn't so exhausted he'd have hopped on a muggle train to nowhere, but instead, focused on his flat, and was there in instant.

The sound from inside, warm and enveloping, pulled him forward. Ollie expected new faces, there usually were a few, but there was one in particular that had stopped him in his tracks. Liam Thompson. And it appeared he hadn't noticed him yet. Ollie leaned against the frame of the door, watching fondly as the led a singalong as though he owned the place.

"Surprise, indeed," The wizard shook his head in disbelief, glancing at Simone to make sure that she was still breathing before raising his eyebrows as if to say I told you so. He led the way up the stairs to where his room, passing the various half-hallways and open doors, before arriving at his own. His tenure in the loft meant he got the best room if one could call it that, it was practically in the attic, but it had the access to the roof.

"Not anymore," Oliver recalled, grinning, stopping to lean against him and resting the back of his head on his shoulder before opening the door. He tried to imagine seeing it through Liam's eyes. It was chaotic, but warm, and probably the size of the smallest bathroom he owned. It wasn't tidy, but for whatever reason that didn't seem to matter all that much.

"The penthouse suite," He threw his wand to the bed, stretching his arms out as he watched Liam take it in. To his surprise, the man seemed just as taken as he had been just weeks before in California, and before that, in London. Taking a long drag of the cigarette, he expelled purple smoke through a grin. This had to be a dream.

The familiarity of being close again only intensified the feeling. Ollie laughed into a kiss, running a hand through curls of hair before following his attention out the window. "The only room with a view," He took a step forward and propped open the glass, the sounds of the street below seeping in. It wasn't a good view, but it was something. Leaning against the dresser, Ollie turned back. "You may well have killed Simone, you know?" He shook his head, chewing the side of his lip through a grin.

Liam took the cigarette back and stuck it between his teeth with a grin. Whatever was in it was starting to make him feel pleasantly light—and especially romantic, possibly, but that could have just been Paris or the man in his arms. Good Lord. His smile faltered awkwardly. Even with the city and the sweet smoke and the lingering taste of Oliver’s tongue, he couldn’t quite let go of how much fun his friends would make of him if they knew he’d just thought something so dreadfully saccharine.

He breathed out his smoke where Ollie had stepped away, and smiled again in amusement. “Ah, Simone,” he said. “She took it pretty well, I thought. At least—I’ve seen worse. But don’t worry. I always love to meet a fan.”

Liam paused to take another drag. “Honestly, I’m glad you aren’t one,” he said. “You know?” Obviously Ollie didn’t know, not yet, but it seemed like a reasonable enough feeling. “It’s...different.” Felt more real, he meant to say. Nearly every woman he’d ever brought home had been attracted to him as a Banshee first and a man second, if ever. He’d always been a man to Oliver. A rich and well-connected man, albeit—but himself. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that until he’d found it.

Liam glanced back to the dresser where Ollie was watching him, and gave him an affectionate quirk of the lips that he hoped some of that came across in.

He’d hung up his cloak downstairs, so he dragged Oliver’s duvet off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders before leaning out into the chilly February night. Zero impressive Parisian monuments were visible, of course. But the city itself was magical enough for the view to still feel monumental. He couldn’t wait to wake up here and see it in the dawn.

“How’d you end up someplace like this?” asked Liam, still marveling. He laughed. “How didn’t I?”'

Oliver raised an eyebrow. He did his best to level with the feeling but struggled. It was a hard thing to imagine, being a known entity, without having lived it for himself. No matter how many times he’d tried. His train of thought was broken the moment that Liam cracked, and he grinned without control in return.

In his trying to understand, he missed the point. It was a compliment. For him. Oliver Rigby, the twenty-one year who spent most nights cleaning dried beer off of tables and any others singing to said patrons who had an affinity for spilling their drinks and talking over his set.

He watched, content, as Liam rolled himself into the duvet. The man seemed to be comfortable anywhere, but it mattered more the fact was still true in his bedroom. “You see, I’m very well connected,” Oliver couldn’t help but smirk, casting a sideways glance to Liam before looking back out the window. It wasn’t the most spectacular of views, or homes, but it was his.

Pulling his own bomber jacket tight around his chest as the February wind whipped, Ollie half sat on the dresser, running a hand over his guitar in the corner. “I’ve put together some chords,” He worked under the assumption Liam would have to know it was for the song that they’d written in Los Angeles. The one they hadn’t finished. He pulled the guitar into his lap and absently strummed a thumb across the strings.

“Would you like to hear it?” Oliver asked, almost rhetorically, looking back up. He knew that Liam would. They had poured over the song for days but struggled to bring it to completion. Perhaps being home, away from California, was all that he needed. Blindly, he reached to the open shelf under him to try and locate the old bottle of whiskey he'd nabbed off his dad years ago. It felt like an occasion to celebrate.

(happy burday, @Emily)

Liam finally turned away from the window, sitting casually back against the sill. “You really are,” he said warmly. “Well-connected, I mean. Don’t lose that when you get big.” He smiled thoughtfully. “Keep in touch with ma chérie Simone. And whoever else here you don’t hate.” Liam hadn’t had very many non-famous friends in the last several years, and he hadn’t realized for a long time how much he’d have liked that. There’d really only been Ioan. He considered bringing him up as an example, but he couldn’t possibly find a reason to bring himself or Ollie down.

He chuckled quietly after a second. Merlin. Wide-eyed Oliver hanging on his every word made Liam feel an obligation to constantly dispense wisdom—even worse, he made it easy.

Thankfully, Ollie distracted them and picked up his guitar. “Too keen to wait for tomorrow, hm?” said Liam, grinning. He wrapped himself more snugly in the comforter in anticipation. “I hope you’ve been getting sleep, mate.” If it had been him, he knew he wouldn’t. They’d recorded the first Banshee demo overnight in a vacant studio, with days of sleepless nights before. Surely not a healthy work ethic, but he could feel it was one he and Oliver shared.

They’d get some sleep tonight, he’d make sure of it. Liam nodded, with an flippant little flick of his fingers reminiscent of an director asking the cast to run it again from the top. “Play on, sir.”

Most of the time he liked to think he could imagine Ollie’s voice in his head, but every time he started to play Liam was startled to discover he’d forgotten how rich it was, how lush. Like an old-timey wizard crooner had discovered rock and roll.  Liam nodded vaguely along, the airiness from the purple smoke making an odd contrast to this familiar song that felt like been enveloped in warm molasses. The mysterious end grew nearer and Ollie had finally found a key change that worked. Liam dropped his head back with a soft sigh. It was a song he could see some kid playing over and over in their bedroom, memorizing, anticipating the last verse—and that was how he thought a first album ought to feel. Like the kid finally getting to have a voice.

“And you’re sure you understand how many schoolgirls are gonna fancy you?” said Liam seriously around the cigarette. He puffed on it, considering, before continuing. “You know—judging from experience.” The experience of being fancied by a mob of adoring fans, of course, and the experience of being entranced by Ollie Rigby himself.

Under Oliver’s intent gaze, Liam couldn’t last two seconds until he cracked a smile again. “Got any more, then?” He eyed the liquor bottle that had just been unearthed from nowhere. “Got something else, it looks like.”'

The confidence in which Liam asserted his future was a hard thing to shrug off. But Oliver tried. Raising a shoulder as casually as he could stand, he still wasn't able to fight a grin. The idea of making it anywhere left him with a feeling in his chest like fire. One that no doubt had fueled the work he'd done on the song since he returned from Los Angeles. The past few nights he'd probably slept a total of four hours, and yet he still wasn't tired. He couldn't be now.

"You'd better keep your voice down," Ollie shook his head, dark green eyes studying the light from the hall that crept in under the door across the old wood flooring. If he knew Simone, and he did, she was currently pressed up against the door frame, listening. "May get a stalker on your hands," He continued voice low, with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"I have," He lied. His voice, a fraction higher than usual, gave him away. "A bit..." He corrected, innocently running a hand through tufts of wavy brown hair, thankful that Liam continued on. With or without permission, he was going to share the song though he was thankful that it seemed he was just as interested in it as he had been the week before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ollie had worried that the novelty of it, of him, would have worn off by now.

Taking a seat on the bed, he crossed one leg over the other and rested his guitar in his lap, shifting. He'd played the bloody thing enough, making a tweak each time, that even his housemates knew all the words, but now he hesitated. They'd written it together, laid the bones down, and Oliver worried that he'd taken too many liberties. What if Liam hated it? Worse, was bored by it? He couldn't bother with fear now, though, because his fingers had already started plucking away at the strings without permission.

A few words in, and he floated away. The song was easy to lose himself in. It was deliberately whimsical, even more so when it was wrapped in the purple haze of his bedroom. It had its roots in all the genres he loved, though it didn't feel like it belonged to any one in particular.

When he finished, he hazarded a glance up to Liam. He swore to himself that he could handle any kind of reaction, but now, at the moment that he was going to have to prove it, he wasn't so certain. After what felt like a lifetime, the wizard spoke. Oliver's mouth pulled into a grin, cheeks dimpling at either side, his pride evident across every feature.

Something about the moment felt like he needed to remember it, as though this was the exact moment he would look back on as being the start of it all. It was a peculiar feeling, outer body like he was watching as someone else. He took in every detail. The blurred lights of Paris outside his frosted window, the purple haze from the cigarette smoke, Liam's face as he spoke. There was a chance, of course, that he was just being sentimental, but he couldn't stop himself.

Oliver shook his head, blinking water from his eyes that had come out of nowhere. "Schoolgirls... schoolboys,"  He raised a hand flippantly, jokingly, before shaking his head again. It wasn't lost on him that Liam seemed more fixated on the female side of a hypothetical fanbase whenever it was brought up, but he had no intention of calling attention to it. "I just want to make music," He shrugged dreamily, falling back on the bed that was somewhere between a twin and queen, letting out a breath of air.

"Feels like a good time to celebrate," Oliver held the bottle up to Liam with a smile, sitting up on his elbows with his guitar still rested across his lap. "Still needs  a producer..." He hinted. The song belonged to them both so much that he couldn't see why it should have to stop here. He didn't trust anyone else with knowing the song like Liam would.

Liam’s eyes followed Ollie’s to the threshold, panicked. He’d forgotten in all his romantic bullshit to put an imperturbable charm on the door, or even to lock it. “Would she really listen in?” he asked, far more quietly in a hissed whisper. “She’s not out there, or hasn’t got one of those Weasley ears? Can’t tell you how many of those I’ve had to stomp on—“ He took out his wand, and paused. If there was anyone in the hall, they’d notice him charming the door, and that was a brilliant way to look like there was something to hide. “Maybe I should sleep in the front room,” he wondered aloud. It would ruin a good sixty percent of his reason for coming. But did he trust Simone not to immediately tell all her closest friends he came to stay in her fit queer roommate’s bedroom? Absolutely not. It’d only be jokes, if that, and there’d been any number of jokes made about Banshee’s masculine bond. Liam wasn’t really shagging Charlie or Sam, though. This was a hundred times more nerve-wracking.

He knew Ollie was sort of bemused by his insistence that they remain secret. Was willing to respect it, in a sweetly Hufflepuff way, but still didn’t get why Liam was so worked up about it. This bothered Liam. Only, possibly, because he couldn’t give a good reason not to be open either. His parents wouldn’t have been pleased but obviously Liam didn’t give a fuck, the fans would probably welcome it, even the band might not be too weird about it eventually. But it’d be different. They’d all think he was different, treat him differently, and for some reason this struck some primal, fearful chord in him. He didn’t want to be someone different than the man he’d spent the last decade becoming. Liam didn’t know why that man meant so much to him. But he did.

He gazed at Oliver, now sitting on the edge of the bed with the guitar he’d been playing himself not ten minutes ago. If he’d been smart Liam wouldn’t have let himself get here at all. But there had been nothing he could do to hold back. Not from that earnest determination and admiration and free-spirited joy and that voice and those lips and that stupid heartache he got now when they were too far to touch.

Fuck it. Before Ollie began to sing, Liam flicked his wand toward the door once, then again. The lock slid shut and the invisible barrier around the door shimmered for a moment before settling. My word against yours, ma chérie.

Ollie beamed at him and Liam couldn’t help beaming back, so forcefully his cheeks ached. Pride swelled in his chest. It threatened to burst as he thought he saw the shimmer of a tear in Ollie’s eye. Liam chuckled fondly. If it had been anyone else he’d have made fun, but he was too besotted by now to find it anything but sweet. Besides, Ollie was too busy making fun of him. “Alright,” said Liam, exhaling his last puff of smoke with a rueful laugh. “I reckon schoolboys must be getting a bit more open-minded than they were in my day.”  He’d never been sure whether the difference between him and Oliver was generational, or personal, or both. He didn’t care to dwell on it. “You’re a dead heartthrob, is the point.”

Liam vanished the cigarette and tossed the duvet aside, relishing the creak of the bedsprings as he climbed slowly over Oliver to sit across his lap. With a flourish, he took the proffered bottle. “Oh, does it?” he replied, playing along before lifting it to his lips. “I’d have been expecting credit anyway, you know. Liam Thompson — Mentor. No—“ He plucked at a couple strings of the guitar he’d pushed up Ollie’s chest. “—Muse.”'

It was more clear the more he got to know Liam that the wizard wasn't ready for his personal life to become to anything but that, personal. There were a number of reasons why Oliver could surmise that may have been the case, but none that felt important enough for him to bring up now.

There was so much of his life that Ollie had no idea about. He assumed that this part of it, the one in his bedroom, and the one that lived on the beach in Los Angeles, made up only a very small portion. It helped to remind himself of this as he watched the charm around the door shimmer into a fade, revealing the plain, familiar wooden frame. Smiling vaguely, his green eyes flicked to Liam once more before starting into the song.

For now, existing somewhere between reality and fantasy was right where they needed to be.

Oliver's chest rose and fell. Perhaps it was more noticeable than before because he'd just sung his lungs out, or perhaps it was because of the pride that was swelling in his chest, but it felt good. So good, in fact, that he couldn't even shrug off the compliments as he usually would.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, though, Liam was laying himself across his lap. Ollie shifted so that he was more upright, snaking an arm around his torso, the other rested over his knee. Each place that their limbs intertwined was warm, bordering hot, and he leaned into the feeling. He loved to touch. If he could have the sensation all day, every day, he would.

"Why not both?" He replied matter-of-factly, tilting the bottle in Liam's hand so that he could take another swig of his own. "You don't think it's too..." Oliver searched for the right words of the many that plagued his thoughts about his creative liberties on the song. "... all over the show?" He pursed his lips, toying with the fabric of Liam's shirt under his grip. "I got a bit carried away," He sighed thoughtfully, lazily.

'Was he trying to do too much? “Maybe a little, I guess,” admitted Liam, but with a nonchalant toss of his head. “For some people. But there’s nothing wrong with a bit of maximalism, I don’t think.” Affectionately, he cupped Ollie’s chin in one hand and scratched his thumb against one scruffy cheek. “You’ve got to be decisive. Make a call, and then if people don’t like it, you listen to the ones who do.” Easy for you to say, he could hear before Ollie said anything, and it wasn’t wrong. There was a lot more on the line without an established fanbase. Liam gave him a tight half-smile. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Won’t always work, obviously. But at least it’s better than getting nowhere.”

He slid off to Ollie’s side to lie on the bed beside him, and propped himself up on an elbow. Liam had been too wrapped up in the city and the attention and the funny drugs to find a good place to slip in his actual news, and he’d been well on his way to forgetting about it entirely. Thankfully he’d led his train of thought back to that direction before it’d altogether derailed. They could shag after he said it.

Liam took another sip of whiskey first. “Speaking of,” he began, too casual. “I’ve talked to my label.” After how last time had gone, and after spending some more time with Ollie outside letters, he’d wanted to say this in person. “They’re interested.” He dropped his arm and flopped down onto the mattress, rolling his head over to watch Ollie’s face for any sign of nervousness.

“You ready to try charming some strangers again?” he asked. “Or is it too soon?” With a soft chuckle, he grinned across the bed. “I promise not to invite any old flames this time, if that’s what put you off.”'

Ollie nodded. His marching orders. Be decisive, make a call, fuck the people who don't like it. Easy enough. In theory, they were simple things to do, human nature even to some, but they felt less so for him, at this moment. He bit his tongue at the opportunity to call out that Liam was working with an entirely unique mindset, but then Liam raised the point himself.

"You're right," The young wizard declared. With a final nod, he leaned his shoulder into the hand on his chin. The touch was reassuring. As was the vote of confidence. Even despite the fiasco in Los Angeles, of late it felt like he was walking on water. Like anything was possible. Ollie wondered if Banshee was ever worried before putting out work, given their expansive and (if Simone was any indication), fiercely loyal fanbase. A question for another time.

His label. Oliver's heart stopped. He turned to face forward in an attempt to hide his reaction when Liam eventually, and finally, pulled the plug on the little fantasy they'd been living in those weeks. Of course, they were going to pass on him. He made a terrible impression, the man from the label left without a word, and it had been radio silence since. He couldn't blame them, after all, his performance left much to desire.

Then the words they're interested, spoken as nonchalantly as discussing the mystery drugs his housemate had supplied. Oliver stopped. He didn't turn back to face Liam yet. He needed to make sure that it wasn't just his mind playing tricks on him. As Liam spoke up again, his voice sounded distant, but from the peek over his shoulder he saw his lips moving.

Standing up slowly, Ollie took a step around the limited space of his room, running hands through his hair before finally turning to Liam, resting them on the back of his neck. "Speaking of?" He finally broke into a grin that he could no longer fight, mouth agape. "Speaking of?!" He repeated incredulously, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees.

"Wha-" The wizard began, paused, then tried again "Whe-" Another question unfinished. He wasn't sure what details he wanted to know first so he stayed silent for a few moments. "You've got to be joking me," Oliver finally spat out, to himself and to Liam. Taking another spin around his room, he moved to the bed and pulled Liam up. Holding his face between both hands, Oliver shook his head.

"I'm ready," He replied with a grin, this time with gumption. He gave a slap to the side of Liam's cheek before pressing his lips agaisnt his mouth. The mix of emotions of gratitude and attraction and disbelief had somehow merged into one. He pulled back once more to get another look, as if to confirm it wasn't bullshit. Studying his face, Oliver grinned again. Where on Earth had this man come from?

[fin??]

Liam sat up on his elbows, to watch. Oliver had got out of bed to pace the three steps across the cramped attic bedroom, energy seeming to fizz off his skin. In a good way, Liam thought? Yes, definitely in a good way. His face split into a wide grin as well, reflecting Ollie’s incredulity with just plain adoration. “There’s a roof right outside,” said Liam, chuckling. “If you need the space.” He recalled having knocked over Charlie’s mum’s good china bouncing about the first time they’d gotten this kind of news. It hadn’t gone their way that time—but oh, Merlin, he hoped it would go Ollie’s. 

Ollie grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him easily up. Liam let himself go. He let himself be slapped, even—he deserved it—and laughed warmly into the subsequent kiss. “Oh, are you now?” he replied smoothly, mockingly. “Wonder what could’ve changed.”  He leaned back in close, dropping lingering kisses along Ollie’s jaw and chin. Mostly to hide from that way the boy was looking at him.

A cold gust of air made Liam remember to shut the window—but he had more interesting things than Paris in here. “Don’t imagine you’ll be wanting any sleep now, then,” he said, running a hand lightly over Oliver’s arm. He could still feel the manic energy burning in him, burning across their skin into Liam’s veins as well. “What’ve you done with the whiskey?” He toward the bedside table. “Left it over there?” His wand had been left too as he’d been swept off his feet. “Well.” Liam heaved the duvet off the floor onto the bed before unzipping his boots. “We’ll have to go and get it, I reckon.” 

He gently set the guitar up against the wall before falling heavily across Ollie’s bed and reaching for the bottle. “Come have another drink, superstar.”