red right hand [liam]

february 2003

”Another drink?”
 
Charlie glanced down at his glass, at the barely-melted ice and the sliver of amber liquid remaining. He flicked his eyes back up to the waitress. “Yeah, sure.” He bit back the offer for her to join him, just. He was waiting for Liam, and his bassist was due to arrive -- Charlie checked his watch, the one Kate had bought him for his birthday last year because he’d never bothered to buy himself one before that -- ten minutes ago. He shrugged to himself and looked up, about to reconsider his options, but the dark-haired woman had already departed back to the bar, making the decision for him. Probably for the best. Probably.
 
He finished the last of his whiskey and quietly slammed his glass down on the table at the same time he spotted Liam working his way across the room. He grinned, forgetting he’d been mad at the lack of correspondence over the past few days -- when he’d needed him most -- and stood to greet him with a tight hug. “Happy New Year,” he said jovially -- or as jovially as Charlie could -- not missing the fact they were now in February. It had been that long, thanks to one thing after another: Christmas, New Years, so on. Charlie assumed Liam had gone to California because he tended to avoid family holidays -- Charlie could almost sympathise after this year. "You have a good one?"
 
His embrace lingered a moment longer than it might’ve under sober circumstances, but when he finally released Liam he slouched back into his side of the booth. “Sam said you’ve been in LA,” he drawled, adjusting in his seat, “any reason?” Charlie smirked, hinting. He’d heard -- through the Duenas grapevine -- about an Esther Winslow show.
 
Speaking -- thinking -- of famous (infamous?) women; “Sam shacked up with that quidditch player yet? He wouldn’t tell me,” Charlie grinned, “only had an owl, mind, so maybe she was looking over his shoulder and he couldn't tell us the wedding date.” For Charlie to send as many owls (which wasn’t actually that many) as he had to Sam and Liam in such a short space of time ought to be a warning in itself. He’d been desperate for a valid excuse to get out of the house, and Sam had been unusually quiet (ha), so Charlie had hoped Liam would pick up the slack. He didn’t quite trust himself to head out alone, but if Liam hadn’t graced Charlie with his presence tonight maybe he would have convinced himself it was his only option.
 
The brunette returned to the table with Charlie's whiskey, setting it down with a smile. Charlie grabbed her wrist gently, looking at Liam, "What you drinking?" He turned his attention to the waitress, "Get him two, and me another please, love."
 
 
@Liam Thompson

Liam hadn’t sent Oliver a Valentine, but he’d considered it. As nothing but a gesture of affection, he’d have done it—Liam was made of nothing but stupid gestures of affection where Ollie was concerned. But he had never understood Valentine’s Day as about affection at all. At least, not when all your relationship was so far was a month and a half of letters and one week of beachfront debauchery. There was too much implication in it. They knew each other too well now for him to weaponize that, as Liam had done occasionally for women he was trying to convince he was romantic and charming. But they hadn’t known each other’s sense of humor long enough to do Valentines for a laugh, as he’d done sometimes with Sam and Charlie.
 
If he’d been sensible he wouldn’t have hooked up with someone until the middle of February at least.
 
It was the middle of February now, and Charlie had asked him out for drinks. Liam had left a little late, a calculated ten or so minutes, just so as not to seem as eager as he was. If Charlie was going to spend all his time being a married man these days, Liam wanted him to think he had other things to do too.
 
Charlie greeted him at the bar with a crack about how long it had been, but not in a self-deprecatory way. That struck Liam harder than the surrounding affection. He laughed vaguely. “Oh, yeah,” he said, slapping Charlie on the back. “I’ve been writing a lot, actually.” Thankfully that was true. He may have disappeared to another continent to have a secret affair, but at least he had something to show for it. The high ground had to be maintained. “Hope you’ve been, too, mate.”
 
He settled in opposite Charlie, drumming fidgety fingers on the table. Charlie, however, seemed to have something on his mind besides waiting for the waitress: he wanted to know why he’d been in LA. Even though it hadn’t even been a secret, Liam bristled. “I’m perfectly within my rights to go stay at my own house for a bit, aren’t I?” he said. “What’s it to you?” Of course, getting all offended did not lessen Charlie’s smirk. Liam dramatically rolled his eyes. “Met this kid singing in a pub,” he said. “Really great voice—we got to talking and I said I’d help him out. Got him a spot opening for Essie Winslow.” He took the liberty, for Oliver’s sake, of stopping here.
 
Charlie’s inscrutable train of thought led them then, thankfully, to Sam’s love life. Previous bitterness forgotten, Liam pulled another face. “Lord, I hope not.” Quinn Regan struck him as far too full of herself for Sam. She was the sort of girl he might have gone for himself back in the day, as long as there wasn’t going to be a relationship. But Sam tended to be more serious about his women than Liam had ever been. He deserved someone pleasant at the very least.
 
The drinks arrived. Liam downed his catch-up whiskey in one gulp, set down the glass and lifted the second to tap Charlie’s. He was keen to get to whatever level of drunkenness his companion was already at. Being sober was uncomfortable at the best of times. “Cheers, then,” he said. “Your turn now—how were holidays with the Missus?”

“Have ya?” Charlie tried not to react negatively, whilst at the same time doing his best not to appear too enthusiastic – it came out somewhere in the middle, he thought. At least Liam didn’t ask him outright for the next album on a platter, so he could be vague and say: “Oh, yeah, bits and pieces.” Wasn’t a lie; he did have scraps of lyrics, or moods, maybe, was a more accurate description of what he had. Nothing coherent, and nothing he would be presenting to the boys any time soon.
 
Charlie narrowed his eyes at Liam’s obvious discomfort, before shrugging it off in favour of a playful smirk. “Mate, I’m not the Spanish Inquisition, I’m just askin’.”
 
Then he kind of wished he hadn’t asked as his fears were all but confirmed. “Really?” Charlie had read some shitty tabloid article before Kate had hidden it from him (he assumed that was what had happened, because for the life of him he couldn’t find it again) about Sam and Liam supposedly scouting for a new frontman thanks to Charlie’s apparent absence (he wasn’t allowed to have a holiday, clearly). He assumed Liam wouldn’t be so bold as to tell him about ‘this kid’ if that was true. Then again, he supposed it could be a double bluff. “Essie, eh?” Charlie chewed on his lip, not entirely keen on discussing whoever this potential new frontman was, but better he knew what he was up against if there was anything to the gossip. “He any good?” Liam had just said he was good -- great, even -- but Charlie was referring to how the opening slot went. And maybe to whether he was better than Charlie was.
 
Sam’s love life was an easier topic for him to discuss. “Christ, better not,” he agreed, though not for any opinion he had on @Quinn Regan (http://www.magical-hogwarts.com/index.php?action=profile;u=21147) in particular. “She a nightmare?” Charlie asked, curious to hear Liam’s verdict. Since ushering the third Banshee into chatting up the quidditch player, Charlie had been so engulfed in ‘married life’ that he hadn’t had an opportunity to get to know Sam’s new girlfriend – assuming they’d already progressed to being official. Wouldn’t be Sam if they weren’t already official, would it?
 
Charlie grinned as he watched Liam finish his first drink before the waitress had even left them. He’d missed this – the drinking or Liam, whichever it was – more than he’d realised. “Cheers,” he echoed back, drinking. The Missus. The one sat at home, likely wondering what he was really up to if not with Liam, as promised. Charlie lowered his glass to the table, eyed the second, as-yet-untouched, glass he’d predicted he would need, then called after their waitress before she’d completely disappeared; “Oi, love, may as well bring us a bottle, eh?” He flashed her a flirtatious grin. She looked between the two men, then nodded and withdrew. Charlie leaned back in his seat to get a good look at her retreating figure, then forward to speak to Liam in a lower tone. “You reckon she looks a bit like that Hilary?”

“It was okay,” said Liam, too eager to drop the subject to elaborate one way or the other. He’d already embarrassed himself. Quinn Regan was a far less likely subject for him to do so again, but he managed it a little. “I mean, I dunno if we’ve spoken,” he admitted. “But in interviews, y’know, she comes off sort of smug and bitchy.” The argument was weak and Liam knew it, so after a couple seconds he decided he couldn’t let it stand. “But so do we, I’m sure, and Sam puts up with us. So what do I know.”
 
Normally Charlie would have at least told him to fuck off, but he didn’t answer the question about Kate at all. “What?” Liam asked after a long moment of silence. “Was it that shite?” It was only how miserable Charlie looked that made him bite back some kind of smug I told you so. There were other times for that—or there’d better be, given all the hilarious content he’d generated in years of complaining to anyone who’d listen. But sad Charlie didn’t take mocking well, even from friends. “That’s what drinks are for, I s’pose,” said Liam. He searched for something lighter to change the subject to. He’d come here to have a good time, and he wouldn’t allow Charlie to wallow while he did. “Forget the missus, then,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows. “Have you seen the mistress?” Fflur, obviously. At least Charlie might have something fun to say about her.
 
Charlie had other things to say, and they were rather more unusual of him. Liam glanced back toward the waitress, confused. “What, from Spellbound?” he asked with a little laugh. The waitress was dark-haired and pretty like that Hilary was, but that felt like a weak reason for Charlie to bring her up. Generally he avoided it. Liam had always had the sense that, as the woman in whose bed they’d once kissed, there was something of a pact of silence between them where she was concerned.
 
Maybe it was just all the cock he’d been sucking lately, but Liam was starting to feel a little suspicious. This, and the hug, and no Sam, and brushing aside questions about the wife... Was Charlie trying to drop a hint here? Liam leaned back again, watching his friend through narrowed eyes. Obviously the thought was bonkers, but... He knew Charlie got desperate for connection sometimes. Maybe he was just really desperate—which usually meant something was really wrong.
 
Liam lowered his voice. “You okay, mate?

It was okay. Liam was rarely the type to be quiet about things he was involved in, so Charlie took his response to mean that it went terribly, or – worse – it had gone very well, and he ought to be concerned. He made a mental note to bring it up again once he got a bit more alcohol into the man sat across from him.
 
“She looked alright from a distance,” Charlie said, no hint of malice in his words. If he’d been single, he might’ve given her a nudge – but if he’d been single, Sam might’ve felt the need to actually call dibs, like in the good old days; it hadn’t needed to be said because Charlie was married and Sam was not. “Can’t say I’d ever actually heard of her,” he admitted. “You should’ve seen him, mate, he was practically frothing at the mouth when she won that Ireland game.” He shrugged, agreeing with Liam’s sentiment: “He puts up with us.”
 
Charlie took a long sip from his drink, avoiding looking at Liam – trying to prolong the inevitable. He set the almost-empty glass down on the table, fingers still wrapped around it. “It was alright,” he said finally. He met Liam’s gaze and held it, daring him to say something. Charlie wasn’t stupid, he knew Liam hated Kate - was pretty sure Kate hated Liam, if she had it in her to hate anyone. “The ‘missus’ is at home,” he started, “let’s leave her there, alright?“ He drank again, draining his first glass (well, first in Liam’s company) before moving straight onto the second.
 
He rolled his eyes. Charlie was slowly becoming indifferent to Liam’s teasing about Fflur – it was only really a problem around Kate. But Charlie hesitated, wary of admitting to seeing Fflur (“the Best Man”) before catching up with Liam – but it wasn’t his fault Liam was off fucking around in California and wherever else until now. “Last month,” he said, shrugging and not putting any effort into correcting Liam’s assumptions. “She’s moved in with Rob, officially, I think.”
 
On to the important stuff; Charlie smirked. “Yeah, don’t you think so?” If you squinted, tilted your head a little. He was only bringing it up because he wanted Liam to egg him on – tell him to go for it, if he wanted. Charlie had never needed much encouragement in the past – especially hadn’t needed to prompt Liam for it – but he felt like if he could just get Liam to say he should, then he could.
 
But Liam did something very unlike him, and asked if Charlie was okay. Charlie frowned, offended at the insinuation he wasn’t okay. He opened his mouth—then shut it firmly as the waitress returned with the bottle Charlie had requested; he didn’t smile, didn’t take his eyes off of Liam. She left in silence, and Charlie picked up the whiskey and topped them both up. “I’m fine.” He waited a beat, lifted his glass to his lips, then set it back down on the table without drinking. “Actually, I’m not fine. I know what you’re doing – you’re not fucking subtle about it, you know?”

Charlie seemed skeptical, but Liam forced himself to let his words stand. He pretended not to notice how Charlie was looking at him and took a long sip of his drink, gazing vaguely toward the bar. As Charlie repeated him he grimaced, but talk of Kate—or talk of the lack of it—was enough to get him back again. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said, grinning wryly back at Charlie. He raised his glass. “Lads only, that’s the way.”
 
Quinn Regan was not a lad, but Sam was, so Liam would permit it. “Well, Sam’s from a Quidditchy lot, isn’t he?” he replied, chuckling fondly. Sam had always been the most normal of the three of them, liked normal man things as well as the funky artsy stuff. The most Gryffindor, Liam had always thought of it as. He and Charlie found it sort of endearing. “I just can’t help feeling there’s better Quidditchy birds for him to froth over. Though come to think of it, they might all be like that.” All famous people, maybe. Liam, again, had always liked a famous bitch, but he saw Sam with someone a bit more down-to earth. More Gryffindor.
 
“Did you invite him today?” he asked after a second. The curiosity had been bothering him. Things were always different, depending on whether Charlie was after all his friends or just Liam. It hadn’t been just Liam for a while now.
 
Charlie rolled his eyes, and Liam rolled his right back before he finished off his whiskey. Fflur and Robin weren’t lads, at least not nowadays, so he’d let it drop. Hilary certainly wasn’t—however, Charlie seemed less keen to let this one go. “I dunno,” waffled Liam. “A lot of girls look like that.” Normally he’d have tried harder, but he was more worried about Charlie at the moment—
 
I know what you’re doing.
 
Liam clenched his jaw. As he felt the sudden rush of anger frothing in his veins he was almost surprised by it—he would have expected shame, or maybe panic. But he found as stared back into Charlie’s disgusted face that he’d rather slap it than apologize. “Alright, fine, maybe I’m not subtle,” he snapped. “What’re you gonna do, tell my mother? I don’t give a fuck.” One hand wrapped around his wand in his pocket—not out of a temptation to hex Charlie, more out of... a temptation to hold onto something, for security.
 
“Don’t know why you think you can judge me, actually,” Liam continued, heatedly. “Seeing as it isn’t any of your damn business.”

Charlie pushed his lips out and shrugged in agreement – Sam was from a Quidditch family. He wasn’t sure what sort of girl Sam needed, but at least being able to tolerate Quidditch would have to be on the list. “I dunno, can’t say I’ve spent time with any—” He stopped short, realising Fflur was a ‘Quidditchy bird’, or had been, once. He vaguely wondered if she was again now, technically, as Flying Professor. Regardless, she’d never been Quidditchy around him, so he didn’t think she counted. If he was trying to count Quidditchy birds he knew. So he was at zero, probably. “Maybe they are.”
 
“Who, Sam?” Who else. “No.” Charlie didn’t like being reminded that he’d excluded one of the three of them. Even if Sam hadn’t been inclined to come (as was his tendency when he was in a relationship), it was the offer that was important. Being a group of three Charlie thought they’d each become painfully aware of the possibility of excluding one of their number very early on, and he felt guilty of doing that now – but Sam wouldn’t have approved of Charlie’s intentions tonight. Liam – normal Liam – would.
 
Charlie made a ‘pfft’ noise and pulled a face. “Do they?”
 
He had expected Liam to react to being called out – but he hadn’t expected this reaction, exactly. Charlie’s features contorted in anger – and in confusion. “Tell your mother? What are we, twelve?” It made no sense to bring her up, like they were schoolchildren telling on one another about playground bullying. In what world would Charlie go crying to Liam’s mother (who he’d never even physically met) to tell her that her son had replaced him in his own fucking band.
 
But Liam was still going – getting more heated – and it was only serving to piss Charlie off more. He was the victim in this, not Liam, so why was the man across from him acting so scandalised about being caught out? “Not my business?” He repeated, incredulous. How the fuck could Liam say it wasn’t his business? Was he on another planet? Charlie’s right hand balled into a fist on the table – right now, that table was the only thing preventing him from launching himself at the older man. “You think I don’t fucking know why you’re doing these sideshows?” He spat, as if there had been more than one – but for all he knew, there could have been. “You’re trying to replace me, you piece of shit. Why? Because I got married?”

Liam had imagined some distaste for the thought, but he’d never expected Charlie to be this angry at him. He hadn’t been bold enough to expect anything, frankly. Couldn’t dare to think of any future besides that Charlie would never know. But not even in his worst nightmares had his best mate looked at him with this much naked loathing. Somewhere inside Liam knew he’d break down later, sick with himself for ruining a decade of friendship for a slip in self-control. Right now he was too furious for that.
 
“Yeah, we’re not twelve,” spat Liam. “I haven’t got family to disappoint anymore. Nobody’s going to make me feel guilty about it, alright? Not even you.” They were lies, or at least, he thought they were. Even if he didn’t care what his mother thought there was a whole fanbase of youths now whose judgment Liam feared more than anyone’s, even more than he feared Charlie’s. If he were some random wizard living a normal life, he might have been able to do this. He might have been able to weather the loss of one friend’s respect. But as a public figure? Even though Liam knew now that he’d done nothing wrong, he didn’t feel like he truly believed it enough for that to hold him up.
 
The venom in Charlie’s voice enraged him, though, too much to think on it, too much to worry—until he said something that didn’t fit at all. “What are you talking about, mate!?” Liam replied quickly, stunned. “I’d never—“ Even in his shock he was prudent enough to lower his voice to a hiss, glancing toward the waitress to make sure she wasn’t hovering. “We’re just fucking! That’s it! What on Earth would make you think… You really thought I’d do that?” His incredulity had faded out into bitter hurt that it was impossible to keep from creeping into his tone. “Fuck yourself, Charlie.”
 
Liam slumped back and fidgeted with the rim of his glass. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Charlie was Banshee, they all knew it. Liam thought they’d all known it. He was replaceable, Sam was definitely replaceable—no offense to him, of course. But without Charlie they’d have to come up with another name and start over, if he and Sam even saw any point in staying together at all.

He wasn’t going to be made to feel guilty about it, not even by the man he was replacing. So much for loyalty. Charlie couldn’t believe this. Banshee was his. Well, his and Sam’s, more than it was Liam’s. Liam wouldn’t even be in Banshee if it wasn’t for Charlie. Some fucking friend, to repay him like this -- and over what? Him taking a few months out to be with his wife (tonight notwithstanding). He knew Liam had a problem with Kate, but he’d never thought it would creep over into their friendship.
 
“You’d never?” Charlie repeated, egging him on and on the verge of laughing maliciously right when Liam said: We’re just fucking!
 
Charlie fell silent. All of the rage he’d felt building -- fed by paranoia and his own self-loathing -- suddenly dissipated into nothing. It was gone, completely. The rest of Liam’s rant washed over him. He relaxed back into his side of the booth in a daze, arms hanging limply by his sides as he tried to reconcile this new information. He felt like a dick, now, because Liam wasn’t trying to replace him, and Charlie had accused him of betrayal. “I--” he started, halfway to an apology before it dried up in his throat as he replayed we’re just fucking over in his head again. “What?”
 
Liam wasn’t replacing him, he was just fucking… “Who?” he asked, finally, stupidly, not sure if he was piecing things together correctly. Liam was either fucking this new kid or he was fucking Sam, and not that Charlie had ever thought about it before but he really was hoping it wasn’t the latter. It wasn’t the latter, but he just had to hear it from Liam; he needed one of his oldest friends to confirm that he was having sex with another man.

It took some time for Charlie to realize just how far from the goal hoops he was here. After Liam’s anger started to fizz out his friend’s was still blazing, and Liam winced at the sharp tone. But Charlie got there eventually.

Who?

Who?? Had they been talking about anyone else? Well—

Liam bit his tongue. Theoretically, he could take it back now. Make up something else he’d meant, maybe. But he doubted he could really, because Charlie was looking at him knowingly, like he very much understood but just wanted to make him say it. Oh, get stuffed, Charlie. They’d always been perfectly happy to let weird shite like this go unexplained. Had Liam demanded Charlie tell him all the ways Kate’s therapist said he was fucked in the head? No, he’d known there were some and that’d been enough. All Charlie had to do now was know and leave him alone about it.

On the other hand, though, he had gleefully begged for details on every girl Charlie’d ever boned. The question was just… Which precedent was this situation more equivalent to—the mental illness, or the smoking hot affair? Liam glanced back at Charlie. Maybe it was fear, but he still couldn’t tell.

Liam craned his neck around to search for the waitress.  How long had it been since he’d had any liquor in front of him? He beckoned her over and waited for her whole agonizing trip to refill him to get up his nerve. “Oliver,” he clarified, in his most casual voice. “Me an’ him.” He hid his face at once in his glass. There was no need to elaborate, make any declarations about what he was, or wasn’t—at least until Charlie asked, which he could feel coming. Does this mean you’re some kinda queer? Frankly he’d prefer it was asked that way—he hadn’t even thought of himself in politer terms yet, couldn’t handle them.

Drink empty once more, he fidgeted with his glass. “As I said,” said Liam, hunching his shoulders protectively. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

He searched Liam’s face for some hint of this all being one big joke, but too much of it just sort of… fit together, in hindsight. Charlie had ignored Kate’s comments about Liam and the way he acted because it had all just seemed too ridiculous -- Liam had slept with as many girls as Charlie had (or, close enough, they weren’t keeping up tallies anymore). If he was into blokes Charlie would have known by now -- and yet, there were one or two occasions that did fit, if he was, and Charlie knew from experience that it was possible to be curious about something and not act on it. Maybe Liam just finally had. Acted on it.

Neither of them were saying anything. Charlie, because he wanted an answer. Liam, he presumed, because he was working out how to answer. The ‘who’ wasn’t really that important, in the scheme of things -- just that he was a he. The waitress came and topped them both up, and Charlie didn’t break the silence to request she leave the bottle just yet, even if he really wanted to.

Finally, after what felt like too long -- even for a man as dramatic as Liam Thompson -- he was out with it. Oliver. Charlie continued to stare at Liam, the glass in his hand remaining firmly on the table, fingers wrapped around it. After a pause, he drank until his vessel was empty, then set it back on the table between them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t know how he felt about it all. Didn’t know what he was supposed to say. It wasn’t shock, exactly. He was mostly conscious of not looking disgusted by it all -- he knew he had a tendency to look one way despite feeling another (it was a party on the inside). He wet his lips, eyes still downcast at their empty glasses, about to ask--

It’s nothing to do with you. Charlie flicked his gaze back up to Liam’s. “No, I s’pose it’s not,” he conceded, his tone a lot more calm than it had been moments prior. He poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, then stopped when he realised the seedier connotations with that particular tick. Now that he thought about it, this certainly set the whole Hilary situation in a new light -- among countless other moments they’d shared throughout the years. He found that Liam’s answer had only served to give him more questions, really.

He turned to look for the nearest waitress -- didn’t bother waiting for their waitress, the one he’d singled out -- and motioned at their two empty glasses silently. He faced Liam again, steeling himself to say something -- something that wasn’t, like, too serious, hopefully. He also didn’t think now was the time to rib him about it (that could come later). “So are you like, you know... gay, or… d'you still like birds too?”

Charlie finished his drink as well, and they sat there in silence with empty glasses like a couple of idiots. Eventually Charlie gave his opinion. Well, sort of.

“Yeah,” said Liam gruffly. “It’s not.”

He was right, obviously. They were both right, seeing as they seemed to be on the same page here—but Liam couldn’t help feeling a little…short-changed. If that was it—? Liam had wasted so much time catastrophizing, and Charlie was just going to say oh, not my business, I guess. If he found it disgusting, sure, he could fuck right off. But he didn’t seem to think that, or have any thoughts on it at all. This was Liam’s life they were talking about, he thought bitterly. He’d have liked Charlie to have an interest. I’m in love, arsehole!

Thankfully Charlie requested the bottle, just in time for Liam to top himself up and then suck it right back down again instead of thinking about that.

He rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth as he considered how to answer the next question. He was glad Charlie’d asked it—pleased he was at least making an effort here—but Liam hadn’t ever really decided how he felt about that. He hadn’t ever got very far in thinking about it. He’d mostly just drunk instead.

“I like the way they make me feel," he said eventually. "Y'know, girls. But I don’t think I like them, really. Not like this.” Hopefully that made sense to Charlie. Liam didn’t know anyone who liked girls more than his best mate.

Charlie watched Liam refill himself, waited a moment, then moved to top up his own glass with a generous pour.

He knew he should say something -- something other than who -- but he was still trying to process what Liam had just admitted to. Liam, who had always harped on about any and every girl he’d ever slept with -- any and every girl Charlie had ever slept with too (and Sam, he supposed, back when Sam had been less tight-lipped about his escapades) -- was, well, if not gay, at least not straight. Charlie swallowed his whiskey and set his drink back on the table, fingers still wrapped around the glass.

He flicked his eyes up to meet Liam’s, searched his face as he spoke. Not like this. That didn't really answer his question but it would do. Charlie nodded -- not sure he understood exactly, but thinking he understood enough. “You--” He bit his lip. Frowned. “How long?” How long had he known, how long had he been lying to them, how long had he been with... Oliver. Charlie made a conscious effort to commit the name to memory -- he was usually uninterested in his own lays, let alone those of his mates, but this was obviously different and he supposed he needed to make some sort of effort.

“What’s he like?” he asked, the he sounding just as foreign coming from his lips as it was asking Liam about a significant other in the first place. He was curious though -- was this bloke, like, Liam's boyfriend or was he just someone he was fucking? Just fucking. At least, if nothing else, this was finally a chance for Charlie to get one back on Liam and his incessant ribbing over the years about any girl who had made it to being the girlfriend. Sam was lucky in that much, he exclusively dealt in girlfriends these days--

He sat up a little straighter. “Does Sam know?”

"Not long,” said Liam, quickly. “Few weeks, maybe.” That didn’t count the month of friendship before it had become something else, or the four-five years he’d been actively pretending to be heterosexual—which was what Liam had a feeling Charlie was asking about, but Charlie hadn’t been specific, so Liam sure wasn’t going to get into that. Better he think Liam had looked upon Oliver Rigby one day and suddenly acquired a taste for cock. At least, better for now.

He glanced at the waitress, and then at Charlie’s awkward face, and then at his drink, which he brought to his lips again.

“What’s he like?” Liam looked back up at Charlie in confusion. “Like, what, in bed?” The alternative was that Charlie was earnestly asking what Oliver was like as a person, which made Liam uncomfortable for some reason. He wasn’t sure Charlie had ever asked that about anyone he’d been with before. Was this just what your mates asked when there were no tits to discuss? Was he trying to be nice? (He’d better be—Liam had just remembered he’d been accused of musical conspiracy five minutes ago, and was miffed all over again.) Was this Kate rubbing off on him? Maybe he was nervous about offending him—Liam figured he could understand that. This queer stuff was a minefield of faux pas and he’d just dropped Charlie in the middle.

“I dunno,” said Liam. “He’s just some bloke. I like him.” He hadn’t written any of their love songs, and for good reason. It felt unfair, sort of, that he could feel all manner of stupid things about Ollie but couldn’t wax lyrical about them for beans. He drained his glass instead.

Somehow, he was even more surprised by Charlie’s next question.

“What, you think I tell Sam anything I haven’t told you first?” There had almost certainly been something in the last decade that Liam had done just that about, but nothing that really mattered. “’Course he doesn’t,” he said, waving a flippant hand. He sunk back into the booth again. “Guess you can tell him if you want, now. Only fair and all.”

Charlie had intended to not look surprised, but the whiskey already in his system had other ideas and his eyebrows shot up. “A few weeks?” he repeated, “Shit.” Charlie knew that Liam meant he’d been just fucking Oliver for a few weeks, not any of the other vague, unspoken questions that he had tried to lump in with ‘how long’. He supposed he could come back to that at some point, probably.

Again, Charlie failed to adequately control his face -- he looked like he’d just smelled something foul. “No, Christ--” he stopped sharply, suddenly aware of the potential offence he could be causing. He wasn’t actually disgusted by the notion of two men, just still stuck on one of those men being Liam, specifically. “I mean, that’s-- if you want to talk about… we can,” he offered awkwardly, stilted. He thought, distantly, that he might be able to talk about that with Liam one day, maybe, in the same way they’d always talked about fucking girls -- and if Liam really wanted to launch right into it now, Charlie would do his best to deal with it, but he thought that maybe neither of them were there yet (thankfully).

I like him. Charlie wasn’t stupid. Liam didn’t like anyone. Charlie wasn’t going to jump straight to accusing Liam of being in love but, shit, this was alien to him. Almost as alien as it must have been when Charlie had started seeing Kate. Liam drank, so Charlie drank too after a nod.

His eyes flicked up to meet Liam’s and he felt an odd sensation in his chest, then his gut -- guilt and superiority mingling uncomfortably at Liam’s question-cum-statement. Charlie had told Sam plenty that he hadn’t told Liam -- and vice-versa, for that matter. They each had their uses, and Charlie generally knew who was the better audience.

Charlie’s lip tugged up at one side into a lopsided smile, “Sorry, I just--” he rubbed at the back of his neck, “-- I know I’ve been kind of… preoccupied.” He picked up the bottle and topped them both up generously, an unspoken apology for his reduced presence in their friendship -- how else had he not noticed one of his best friends had started playing for the other team? “I’m not gonna tell him,” he said, somewhat firmly, setting the bottle back down and picking up his glass instead. “I’m not gonna tell anyone, it’s your business who you’re fucking,” he continued, speaking as much for himself as for Liam. He drank again.

Liam’s business and Charlie’s too, though -- he still had questions. He was curious. “So, what, you met in LA?” he prompted, expecting the other man to launch into another of his tales.