yesterday [banshee boys]

If it’s what you both want, do it! was playing over in his head as he stood, staring up at the fading light of the evening sky, hands locked together behind his head. It was rare that Liam came out with anything close to wise, and it wasn’t what they both wanted – but it was what they needed. Or Charlie thought so, at least.

The door opened behind him and Charlie turned as Sam called out his name. Of course it was Sam; it was always Sam. Charlie stood his ground, glaring back at the Irishman. The intensity of his gaze softened after a moment and he fought to contain a sigh. Charlie pressed his lips together in a hard line and willed the desire to charge at Sam out of his head. He just wanted someone to hit him— someone other than Fflur; someone he could hit back.

Charlie’s chest rose and fell deeply. He frowned softly at Sam’s admission until he realised what it was in reference to. Then came the apology and he had thought he couldn’t feel any worse about all of this. “No, it’s...” He sighed now, the weight of another falsehood on his shoulders. What would it hurt to tell the truth now? Sam could hardly be more disappointed in him. “Vegas,” he said, before recognising that he would need to elaborate further than that for Sam. He spoke slowly, at a low volume; “We didn’t get engaged in Vegas, we got married there.”

“I was sober,” he added quickly, before Sam thought even worse of him. “We were,” he added. He wet his lips and smiled sadly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been, could’ve taken it back next morning.”

It was chilly on Liam’s lawn; as Sam watched Charlie warily, he wondered if he should have gone back for his jacket. (It was the one from the bachelor party -- probably a good thing he’d forgotten it.) He folded his arms against the cold, and also so he would look stern, and frowned up at Charlie, working through his admission in his head.

“You got married there?” he repeated, a little disbelievingly. “But -- and you didn’t tell anyone?”

If Sam had eloped in Vegas, he supposed he wouldn’t have told his mother, of course -- she’d have his head -- but he’d have at least let the lads in on it. But Sam wouldn’t have eloped in Vegas -- that was so American. He glanced to the side and rubbed his chin and said, offhand, “Christ. No prenup, then?” Once he’d become rich and famous, most of the marriage advice his siblings had started giving him was prenup-related.

Charlie wanted badly to crack a joke, it seemed. It felt desperate -- Sam was inclined to pity him, but he couldn’t allow himself to, just yet. Instead he said, still looking away, his voice low and serious, “C’mon, you don’t mean that.”

(He could learn to live with the knowledge that Charlie had tried for several months; Sam didn’t want to deal with the idea that he’d regretted it so fast as the next morning.) He tucked his arms a little tighter and said, a little angrily, “So what do we do now? Do the reporters know? Oh, Christ --” he looked back at Charlie -- “Does your mam know?”

If he didn’t feel as remorseful as he did about all of this, Charlie might’ve rolled his eyes at Sam’s classic dad-pose — arms crossed, glaring softly. As it was, Charlie felt he probably deserved it enough that he was able to keep his facial expressions in check.

He knew what Sam was really saying when he asked you didn’t tell anyone? — you didn’t tell me. Charlie’s face fell, guilt plain on his sharp features. He shook his head. “Her sister found out,” he admitted quietly, “but, yeah… didn’t tell anyone else. She wanted it that way.” He bit his lip softly. “She panicked about, her family and that. Wanted the big wedding for them.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t say no, could I? Already fucking tied the knot.”

Charlie’s eyes widened — too busy with the realisation that indeed, no prenup, to be mad at Sam for asking about it. “No,” he coughed lightly, still looking a little stunned. “I didn’t think...” he trailed off, knowing he was leaving himself open to a dig but banking on Sam being too Sam to kick him while he was down.

Sam, being too Sam again, didn’t find Charlie’s poorly judged joke amusing. Charlie shrugged half-heartedly. “Would’ve saved us all the trouble, wouldn’t it?” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t mean that, either.

The harder tone Sam adopted next threw Charlie a little. He scowled at the Irishman but immediately regretted it when he realised Sam had said ‘we’. Fuck, he was— “What?” Charlie faltered. He hadn’t told his parents yet, too worried about how disappointed they would be in him. If he could have just gathered everyone in one room and told them all at once Charlie thought he might have preferred that. They could gang up on him and got it out of their systems (and maybe, just maybe, felt bad for him when they realised he was getting it in the neck from all angles) — but he couldn’t, hadn’t. Telling Sam and Liam at the same time was the closest he was going to get, and look how well that had gone.

“No,” he replied quietly, avoiding Sam’s gaze. “I— You and Liam were meant to be first,” he confessed, hoping that would lessen the blow. “I saw Fflur th’ day before yesterday and it just…” He sighed inaudibly. “I’m assuming her family know by now, she’s already fucked off back to California.” And he had no right to be mad or upset about it, but he was.

He focused on a patch of grass that was longer than the rest of the lawn. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do,” he said morosely.

So Fran had known. Sam nodded rather than reply -- a part of him was bitterly glad that, even if the maid of honour had known the big wedding was a sham, the best man hadn’t. It made sense, that Kate hadn’t wanted to tell people about the elopement. It was embarrassing, he thought -- not that a divorce in under a year wasn’t also.

This would be a PR nightmare, wouldn’t it? He scuffed his shoe in the grass and sighed, the tight frustration of everything -- the secrets and lies and argument -- finally starting to settle down enough that Sam could think about what came next. Somebody had to think about the reporters; somebody had to think about the money; somebody had to think about the logistics. Lamely Charlie trailed off -- I didn’t think -- obviously not, thought Sam, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so.

“Probably,” he said, off Charlie’s shrug. It was too late now to muse about what would have saved them all this trouble -- the cards had been played, the dice had been rolled, whatever -- what would it change? He tried anyway, thought about how much he’d cautioned Charlie about dating a teenager, back in the earliest days of this. Thought about the talk he’d had with Kate, telling her to be sure this was what she’d wanted.

And what if they had been saved all of this? Charlie would be the same as he’d been at twenty-three -- happier though they’d been, Sam thought with an ache that it would have been a fucking shame, to miss out on the Charlie he knew now.

The best man, apparently, had found out before Sam and Liam -- not on purpose, he supposed -- but Sam willed himself not to be an ass and said, “What’d she say?”

(And that answered the question of where Kate was.)

Charlie was so despondent that Sam couldn’t bite back all of his pity; he unfolded his arms and shoved his hands in his pockets instead, followed Charlie’s gaze down to the floor and said, “God, don’t ask me,” a little bitterly. He thought back to what Liam had said, right at the start -- that they were here for him -- and he realised with regret that it was absolutely true, even though Charlie’d been in the wrong, even though he was still a little angry. With a shrug he said, “You’ve got plenty of time to sort it out, I reckon. Kate’s got even more.”

Charlie watched Sam anxiously. He had known, not very deep down, that Liam would ‘forgive’ him -- Sam had been the unknown entity, because Sam was the best of them. Charlie realised -- now, in this moment -- that it was his forgiveness that made Sam the better man. The only wrong Charlie had done in Liam’s eyes was to waste three years with Kate in the first place. Sam, always on the other shoulder, knew everything and he was still here.

Probably. Charlie didn’t have anything to say to that, so he didn’t.

He flicked his eyes up to look at Sam and briefly considered not telling him, but he’d not told Sam enough things already so; “She broke my nose,” he admitted quickly, then frowned as he remembered it, and brought his hand up automatically to touch his fingers gingerly along the length of his nose -- as though checking she’d definitely fixed it properly (thankfully, she had).

He kept his head down and nodded, trying to convince himself that Sam was right -- they had time. Kate wasn’t even twenty-one, she could -- after everything was sorted -- theoretically start again. If Charlie was being very optimistic, he could allow himself to believe that Kate would emerge from this relatively unscathed. She, at least, hadn’t had her reputation ruined, other than by association.

“I’m--” Charlie dropped his hand from where he’d been vainly checking for damage (as if he hadn’t already spent a good hour looking in a mirror when he’d gotten home immediately after the fact) and shoved both of them in his pockets, sighed. “I don’t expect you to, you know,” he said half-heartedly, vaguely. He chewed on his lip and glanced up at the windows to Liam’s flat, the faint glow suggesting he was still up and had simply elected not to join Sam in chasing after him. He brought his gaze back to Sam. “I understand if you don’t… I can handle it,” he said, averting his eyes towards the end of his statement and shrugging. He wanted Sam’s help more than anything right now, but he didn’t entirely feel like he deserved it or had any right to ask for it.

Sam had never thought poorly of Fflur Blevins -- he’d not thought particularly well of her, but he could acknowledge that most of his opinions on her were probably unfounded and self-centred. He could have laughed; he almost did, before he forced a hasty cough to cover. “She broke your nose?” he said incredulously, widening his eyes at Charlie, inspecting his face for any lingering damage as Charlie half covered his nose with his hand. “Wicked.”

He didn’t want to dwell too much on his newfound respect for Fflur Blevins, since it was a weird feeling and he didn’t like it much, so he forced himself to keep a somber face and nodded along with Charlie, forced himself not to keep talking in case it ruined whatever internal thoughts were going through his friend’s head.

Hopefully they were, like, regretful and aimed at self-improvement, but Sam wasn’t sure he was feeling hopeful right now.

Charlie said, offhand, “I don’t expect you to, you know,” and Sam frowned, followed his gaze up to Liam’s window, looked back at his friend, trying to puzzle out what he was saying, what he didn’t expect -- or didn’t want -- Sam to be doing for him. I can handle it. Handle what? Everything?

He said quietly, before he could think better of it, “Well, why the fuck wouldn’t you expect me to?” He still wasn’t entirely sure what Charlie wasn’t expecting him to do -- support him? forgive him? help him? -- but it felt tight in his chest that his friend thought he would deny him any of those things right now. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to say that -- mate, I know you cheated on your twenty-year-old wife, but I’m here for you -- so he rubbed the back of his neck and said, finally, “I’m still your friend.”

Charlie didn’t miss Sam’s almost-laugh – he’d sat side-by-side with him in enough lessons and interviews over the years to recognise the sound for what it was – and had the decency to not appear offended by it. “Yeah,” he nodded gently, “fixed it, after, but— shit.” He almost laughed himself, in hindsight – but whether it was because he was still unsure about how Sam really felt about him or because he was still a little mad about Fflur’s reaction, he didn’t, opting for a half-arsed smile instead.

“It fucking hurt,” he continued, not expecting Sam to feel sorry for him so much as hoping that he’d go a little easier, at least, with the sermons Charlie was sure the Irishman was already tucking away for near-future use. If he weren’t angling for something, Charlie might be a little more embarrassed that a woman had been able to hit him so spectacularly – but Fflur was a (former) quidditch player, it wasn’t like he’d been overpowered by his Nan or something.

The Yorkshireman kept his gaze lowered, hands in his pockets and heel of his boot digging into the hard lawn, glancing up only when Sam spoke. Charlie was filled with unbridled, unadulterated love for his oldest friend in that moment. Sam had always been – to Charlie – the brother he’d never had, and he was firmly cementing himself in that role right now, which only served to make Charlie feel worse about everything.

“Mate,” he said quietly, not sure what else he should – or could – say and hoping that that conveyed everything that went unsaid. He bit his lip, dropped his chin and nodded at the ground, as if to say of course you are in the best non-verbal way he could manage. He mirrored the action Sam had performed just a moment before, rubbing at the back of his neck and shifting forward half a step. “I’m sorry.”

Well, at least she’d fixed it, he thought a little drolly. Charlie’d kind of deserved a good punch, maybe, but his nose was tragic enough without being broken too. Sam wasn’t any stranger to a broken nose -- he’d been playing Beater for Lynch holiday games for the last fifteen years -- but he couldn’t muster much sympathy for however much it’d hurt, or he couldn’t just yet. “Man up,” he suggested lightly; he still had to concentrate to keep from smiling.

If he’d had his money on any woman to hit Charlie in the face, he supposed Fflur Blevins was a frontrunner.

There wasn’t much he could offer yet -- not much sympathy and not much comfort, nothing better than sincerity -- but from the looks of it, it had been plenty. He thought his friend might cry, even -- he looked away as quickly as Charlie did, echoed him awkwardly: “Mate.”

Then, “I know you are.” Even just thirty seconds ago Sam’s response to the apology would have been a little less kind -- something in the and-you-should-be vein -- but he just shrugged and sighed. His friend had shambled forward just a bit; Sam reached out, gripped his shoulder firmly. “One step at a time, mate. Let’s just get you home. Or -- not.” Had Charlie said he’d moved out? Shit.

Man up. There went any hope of some sympathy. Charlie quickly reminded himself it wasn’t like he deserved any. And he supposed what was most impressive about it all was that he had somehow evaded having his nose broken up until now. God knew how many people had swung at him over the years (and had Fflur not been a girl, he would’ve swung back), it was a small miracle it hadn’t happened before -- especially with the target being not exactly small.

It meant more to Charlie than he could verbalise that Sam was here, standing in front of him, so he just nodded. He wasn’t sure what there was to say anyway. Didn’t mean this didn’t feel almost as bad as letting Kate herself down.

Sam grounded him with a hand on his shoulder and Charlie almost caved under the weight -- not because the other man had been forceful, but because it was the first reassuring contact he’d had. He kept his eyes low, not trusting himself not to fucking cry if he looked Sam in the eye. Christ.

“Hotel,” he said simply, clearing his throat softly -- now wasn’t the time to see if he could stay with Sam, and it occurred to him belatedly that Sam, at least, still had a girlfriend and Charlie didn’t even know if they were at the dropping in stage of their relationship; Sam tended to move at the complete opposite pace to Charlie with these sorts of things. Slow, steady. Didn’t he seem happier for it, too? Charlie made a mental note to ask how that was all going next time they weren’t discussing his own sad excuse of a lovelife.

Sam slid his hand from Charlie’s shoulder and the Yorkshireman nodded. “I’m alright, I can-- ‘m just in London.” He met the other man’s gaze finally. “Catch up soon? I’ve gotta move my shit out but… Friday? If you’re free.” He waited a moment before giving another little nod to signal his departure and turned to walk down the road a little way, waiting until he was out of the glow of the streetlight before disappearing with a quiet pop.


END

“Ah,” said Sam, a hotel -- what else was there to say? -- he shrugged, a little reluctant to actually see wherever Charlie had been shacking up. From the looks of Charlie now, it couldn’t be pretty.

“Friday, yeah,” he said; he shifted a glance up at Liam’s window again, feeling almost dishonest to be planning their next meeting on their bandmate’s doorstep. “See you,” he said, and Charlie nodded once and headed into the evening.
 
He’d left his jacket in Liam’s flat, probably piled next to the couch -- he decided in a split second that he and Lee could sort it later.

[out]