[inverness] a case of you [liam]

Inverness this time of year was in transition. It wasn't quite Spring, yet Winter felt like a lifetime ago. Green rebirth was peeking out from every crevice but the ground, damp by perpetual rain, held tight to the cold. It sent a chill up Oliver's spin the moment they arrived.

It felt strange to be home. Every time he returned, no matter how long it had been, he was struck by the fact that while everything remained unchanged there was always something new— familiarity mixed with homesickness for a place he didn't yet know. Green eyes lit up as he took in the early evening landscape and all of the emotions hit him at once.

"Alright?" Oliver glanced once they'd made it safely to the ground. He had purposely apparated them to the town center as opposed to straight home for a couple of reasons. For one, he wanted to show off the village, the place that had a part in making him, and more importantly, he wanted to give Liam time to acclimate. The task of convincing him to come, to meet his family, to join in the joint birthday celebration for him and his brother's, hadn't been an easy one after all.

"There's mums shop," He extended a hand as he led them down the quiet cobblestoned path. The street lamps overheard were coming to life, otherwise, the storefronts around the square were covered in darkness, the afterglow of the early sunset only just visible. Places in the small wizarding community didn't stay open late, a far cry from London. His mother's shop was quaint, unassuming, and littered with furs and candles, and potted plants in the display.

It wasn't much, but it was hers.

Oliver pulled his coat over his chest tight, reaching over to Liam once he was tucked away from the wind. They approached a small brick standalone home, smoke pumping from the chimney, windows glowing. "No turning back now," Oliver gave a gentle squeeze. Despite what he said, he offered Liam a moment to protest, his eyebrow raised in question before reaching for the door. Realistically, they could be back in London in a flash, but Celeste Rigby would have his head.

When Ollie said it he’d laughed. The thought was preposterous enough to be a joke, obviously, that he’d want his family to know he was seeing some obnoxious, licentious, late-twenties libertine. Liam simply could not understand otherwise. He looked back at Ollie for a few seconds, blinked. “Really? Are you mad?”

At first he’d pointed out, unable to articulate any other reason this was lunacy, that he wasn’t exactly out himself. Ollie had nodded, as he did. There’d been a lot of this and it was understood. But Liam always hated to let him down, and this felt especially cold. His family? Liam had little experience with the familial bond, but he knew that was supposed to mean something. He’d thought it over in guilt. Surely none of the Rigbys were Witch Weekly gossip correspondents. Charlie knew now, of course—that was as good as a family dinner on his own end. Ollie was owed.

Of course, Liam was still lost. Not a single parent, his own or anyone else’s, had ever thought much of him. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted one to. In fact, he’d spent most of his life and career being deliberately as family-unfriendly as he could. Nobody took Liam to meet their parents—not unless they were trying to rile them up themselves. He didn’t gather that this was Ollie’s aim.  Frankly, Liam had no idea what to do with himself.

He’d washed, shaved, put on an outfit without holes in it, stood in front of the mirror for a while wondering how the fuck he’d become this unrecognizable sap of a man, and then Ollie had met him to apparate to Scotland.

They walked arm in arm down the country street, Ollie pointing out places, Liam vaguely listening as he gazed from one side of the road to the other.  “Brilliant,” he said, then shook his head. He put on as atrociously Scottish an accent as he could muster. “Bonnie.” Refusing to meet his eyes but bumping Ollie affectionately with his shoulder, he grinned. “’Course, not as bonnie as my lad here.”  He’d have to get this out of his system before he met anyone he could offend. The jokes, of course, but also the lovers’ talk. Even if Ollie wanted to make what they were understood, Liam wasn’t comfortable with the parents Rigby imagining any more than they had to.

They were approaching a particular house now. Liam was, miraculously, still breathing. Ollie may have been naive enough to think this was a good idea, but Liam was glad he’d at least had the sense to give him a chance to ease up a little. If he’d been dropped straight off in front of this door he thought he wouldn’t have been able to get any words out at all. But after a calm walk through the village, with just Ollie, Liam was feeling more comfortable. Well—a little. He slipped his hand out of Ollie’s and stuffed it in his pocket.

“There’ll be something to drink, yeah?” he asked weakly.

It was a peculiar feeling, being the one doing the calming down, the one with the advice. At least as it pertained to them. It was one of the first times he could genuinely see something he thought looked like fear in the other man's eyes.

"Is that what I sound like!?," He paused their walk briefly to stare at the side of Liam's face, mouth agape. Something about the word bonnie in his faux-Scottish accent was as endearing as it was confronting. "Maybe don't try that in front of my dad," Oliver leaned into him in return with a chuckle. His dad would have a field day analyzing that imitation.

Oliver had kept it as casual as possible—the prospect of meeting the Rigby's—he'd told his family that he had a friend coming along for the celebration. Nothing more and nothing less. It wasn't as though he was hiding it, or them, but he was careful to tiptoe around the other wizard's situation. Not everyone was as open as he was, his mother reminded him. His brothers and father bought into it without a thought, but his mother knew better. He'd been owling her for months, writing until his hand was too sore to possibly continue on about Liam Thompson.

As they rounded the front door of his childhood home, the familiar smell greeted him, enveloping everything, taking him back to another time. "There'll be something alright," Oliver grinned, his Scottish drawl already more pronounced. The Rigby home was always packed with scotch whisky.

Ollie settled for an affectionate touch to Liam's neck, their hands no longer intertwined, before reaching for the door. Immediately he was greeted by his mother at the other end as if she had seen them arrive and was watching through the frosted glass. "Oh little dove," She pulled her oldest son into an embrace before frantically turning to Liam and doing the same. "You must be Liam, I've heard so much about you," She barely attempted to whisper into the side of his ear.

In the living room was a familiar sight— his father on the couch with the paper, glancing over his shoulder, his younger brothers not far away, draped across the furniture. Charlie had a bandage on his arm and Henry a black eye and cut lip. Apparently Quidditch hadn't changed all that much, either. "Hello," Oliver called out with a wry smile. "This is Liam," He gestured to the wizard whom Celeste still held by the shoulders, mentioning something about making them a drink.

“Oh, don’t worry, I promise not to embarrass you,” replied Liam, almost cheerfully. He’d come close to forgetting what awaited them. The place was unfamiliar to him, quieter and calmer, so it was easier to feel safer. All too soon he was reminded that he wasn’t. He only had the time to give Ollie a tight smile in response before the door was answered and a woman swept Ollie into a tight hug.

Liam’s first instinct was to snigger. He was sort of amazed that Ollie didn’t have the good grace to look humiliated—little dove? He’s a grown man, ma’am. But then Mrs Rigby threw her arms around him next. He stiffened and lightly patted her back until she stepped away. “You have?” he asked before he could stop himself. He craned his neck around to look for Ollie, wide-eyed. His comfort in himself had always been strange to Liam, but telling your mum any more than the mere existence of your boyfriend felt like plain insanity.

Mrs Rigby gave his shoulders one last squeeze and said she’d get him a drink. Liam nodded vaguely. For a panicky second he was convinced that she was a skilled Legilimens, but she didn’t seem to have read that shift in his thoughts. He let himself relax. Ollie may have done this to him, but he would never have done that to him.

Now free, Liam nodded at the others in the living room. Ollie’s father seemed to have much less interest than his wife in the arrival of their firstborn son, so Liam disliked him at once. The teenagers as well, but at least there was something about them to comment on. Liam gestured between the banged-up boys on the sofa. “Looks like we just missed the fight, Ol.”

A glass of something was placed in his hand. It took a large amount of Liam’s reserve not to down it in one sip.

Oliver turned to his mother, astounded, though not particularly surprised. She had heard so much about him — Merlin's sake. He'd given explicit instruction to keep things as casual as possible as it pertained to what she knew about Liam (and it was a lot). As with most things in Celeste's life, keeping this to herself, though, was never going to be in the cards. She just couldn't help it.

Pushing waves of hair from his forehead, Ollie shot Liam a look as if to say sorry about that.

From what he could see, his dad and brothers hadn't even flinched. Knowing them, what was happening in the doorway held only a very small piece of their attention. The Quidditch was on. Oliver could hear the familiar whir of the radio over whatever soft, melodic music had lingered from the kitchen— his mothers doing. To anyone else, to Liam, the announcers excitedly discussing a play by play of the match would have been lost, but Ollie knew it well.

At the mention of the big fight, Oliver grinned, green eyes flicking from Liam back to his brothers. They looked like they did most of the time, with a varied level of injury, so he wasn't surprised. "Hope you won at least," He directed to his younger siblings. The sport itself did little for him, but he did like to see them succeed at something they'd grown to be so passionate for, no matter how influenced by their father.

Distractedly, he took the glass offered to him. It was certifiably above a standard pour.

"A funny one," Henry teased, nodding to Liam, with Charlie piping up right on time. "Looks a bit like the bloke from The Wizzards, aye?" He shifted the bandage on his arm smugly, referencing the boy band at the top of the charts as of late.

Oliver made a face, but his mother quickly jumped in. "You quit that, boys," She hissed before ushering he and Liam toward the kitchen, tugging at her son along the way. "Take off your coats now, get comfortable," She stepped ahead of them in her brisk pace and stirred whatever was in a large cooking pot. A stew of some sort, he assumed. She looked over her shoulder with a smile that Ollie only then noticed looked just like his own.

"We really are so happy you've come," She spoke to Liam, but Ollie was quick to jump in, spare Liam something. He couldn't have him getting overwhelmed just yet. The night was young. "Can we help with something?" He gestured to the various pots and pans she had out, setting down his glass and taking a step forward to drape an arm over her affectionately.

Ollie looked, if not as surprised as Liam was, at least healthily embarrassed that his mother would mention what she’d heard. Liam felt the rush of affection then. Plenty of people gushed about him, probably even to their mothers, but this—this felt different. His gaze drifted appreciatively over Ollie as he brushed his hair back. If they hadn’t been in his childhood home, Liam would have kissed him.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. They’d never been somewhere like this together. It wasn’t as if they’d ever even been on a date, Liam realized, far too late. The last time they’d been out in public they’d ended up groping in Ray’s back hallway. He had no frame of reference here. He and Ollie always been alone, always leading to something—the time they spent together was just extended foreplay. Clearly he couldn’t keep this mindset up. Liam tried to collect himself. Ollie was just like a mate. This was just like hanging out with Charlie, meeting Sam’s mum and dad.

Did Sam’s mum and dad even like him? Fuck.

The brothers were a couple of lads, that felt easier. Liam had enough experience with friendly ribbing to take their smug bullshit in stride. For a split second he considered sniping back, but he just grinned and gestured rudely at the boys as soon as Mr. Rigby looked down at his paper. From what Ollie had told Liam about his father, he wasn’t sure he’d mind, but Liam sure as shit wasn’t taking any chances. Mrs Rigby’s enthusiastic welcome hadn’t calmed his fear that the circumstances were stacked against him where a parent would be concerned..

Mercifully, he was brief enough that Mrs. Rigby didn’t see. Liam followed her and Ollie toward the dining room and draped his blue velvet coat on the back of a chair. His stupid eyes raked over Ollie as he did the same. When Mrs. Rigby turned her attention to the stove, Liam flicked his wand at Ollie’s neck to smooth down the back of his collar that he’d turned up in the process. Ollie turned around in surprise and Liam gave him a wink. Mrs. Rigby, thank goodness, didn’t notice. Liam couldn’t stomach the look she’d give him if she saw him do anything that tender.

Her attentions were stressing him out enough as it was. “Thanks,” said Liam, nodding helplessly. He didn’t think that was even the right useless nicety (my pleasure, why hadn’t he said that) but he was barely keeping it together enough to say any words at all. Watching Ollie wrap an arm around his mother like he might have a friend… Something about it was twisting his stomach in knots. Liam felt, in his bones, that he wasn’t supposed to be here. Not even within a mile of here. Across an ocean from here.

He picked up his drink again and took a large swallow. “Probably for the best I stay out of this—” he waved his free hand toward the kitchen “—I reckon.”

Oliver's hand slapped to the back of his neck. Something touching his collar had startled him— his immediate thought was a bug— but he caught Liam's eye and learned otherwise. His face turned disapprovingly but shifted to something more affectionate, a thank you.

He turned back to the kitchen with a grin, moving in tune with the soft sound of music that swelled from his mother's radio. She'd had the same one for as long as he could remember. He was surprised it was still going after all these years. With his arm still draped over her, they fell into a familiar pattern, swaying together in front of the stove as she stirred, and he dipped a pinky to the stew to taste.

“You know me, I can’t sit still,” She turned to Liam at the tail end of her sentence as if in some way, he too would know that, pausing the intro to their dance. "You sit down, Liam, don't fuss," Oliver figured she liked to think that he told the other man just as much about his family, about her, as he had about him. His heart swelled all over again at the thought.

“So Oliver tells me you’re in a band— what is it, The Banshee,” He couldn’t even be mad because she said the name with such conviction. He hoped that Liam, too, didn’t have the heart to correct her. Ever since she heard the news about his signing to the same label, she’d been brushing up on her current music knowledge, so she said. Her taste, in line with Ollie’s, was more inclined to the old stuff, the classics— songs to dance to in the kitchen with your son.

“Mr. Rigby would like to talk through the details of this contract business that Oliver has gone an’ signed without reading the finer print,” She said to Liam, as though he was the one who drafted the whole thing up. Emphasis on finer. He winced. "Relax, woman," He gave her arm a squeeze, kissing the side of her cheek before pulling himself up atop the counter nearest Liam.

Mrs. Rigby was such a strange, inexplicable presence to Liam. Some chirpy,  flighty little Frenchwoman in so usual a home, married to this tough-looking bloke with his head in a paper. Pardon me, ma’am, but how did you get here? She struck him as himself in reverse—an inherently interesting and artistic person born with the urge to escape her beginnings to live in fuckarse nowhere, Scotland and parent sports boys. It astounded him.

Sure explained Oliver, though. Liam watched them dance, uncomfortably rubbing the lip of his glass between two fingers. He couldn’t help feeling he belonged in the other room with the men.

“I am that,” said Liam, flicking his lips into a quick smile. “He hasn’t made you listen to us, has he?” Her next comment made Liam reflexively glance back toward the living room. Apparently Mr. Rigby had some opinions about his influence on Ollie. For such a familiar feeling, it didn’t set him at ease any. He set down his drink and awkwardly held his hands up. “I wasn’t there, mind,” he said with a little laugh. “But I don’t think there’ll have been anything too bad in there. Banshee’s been with Rocking Horse for years; they’ve always treated us well.”

Ollie hopped up on the table beside him and Liam ached to touch him. Just drape his whole stupid body over Ollie’s lap like they were lazing around on their own. No matter what the Rigbys knew or didn’t know, he couldn’t make himself so much as reach his hand over.

Oliver's eyes rolled back. He could feel the energy from his mother already, the question of whether she'd heard them or not sent her bouncing off the walls right then and there. She'd been waiting for her moment to explain that she very well had heard them, a lot, too. "Of my own accord," She tutted proudly, correcting Liam's assumption in a way that made Ollie grin. It was nice to see her like this— so assured, uninhabited— he almost wished that they could just stay there forever and not have to face dinner.

"She much prefers The Wizzards," He teased, touching a hand to Liam's shoulder a fraction too affectionately before recalling it to rest again on the counter. He knew that his mother wouldn't bat a lash, but he didn't want to press the matter with Liam, whom he was learning was not quite as open.

"Not true!" She sang out, waving a spatula accusatorily at Ollie. "It's different, your music," Her voice was shrill, faintly French with a Scottish drawl. Liam may not have noticed, but Ollie recognized her attempt to avoid speaking her mind in the chance she may him. "Not in a bad way," She resumed manually stirring the stew (though magic would have done just fine), turning her back to them. Oliver let out a laugh, slapping a hand over his mouth. She was as bad a liar as he was.

"I was thinking after dinner, we may head into town," He composed himself, speaking just as much to Liam as he was his mother. It was nothing like London, but he still wanted to show it off. He knew she was going to suggest that they bring his brothers along as all, but didn't hold his breath. "Probably back to London from there..." He trailed off, hoping to brush over it. They couldn't stay here, after all.
 

He wasn’t sure how sincere Mrs. Rigby was being in her emphatic praise, but Ollie’s laughter beside him seemed to indicate not very. Liam chuckled awkwardly. She wasn’t exactly Banshee’s target demographic, obviously, and it was nice of her to pretend to be—but he wasn’t sure how to deal with this sort of thing. It wasn’t often anyone fudged their opinions of his music aside from the occasional women who wanted a shag. “Is a bit different, yeah,” he admitted, slightly pink-cheeked. “Just don’t hold it against me.” It wasn’t often he was so polite about it either. Liam could only pray his spineless behavior here would never get back to the likes of Charlie.

He caved and took Ollie’s hand for a second, brushing his thumb over the rings and knuckles behind their backs.

Liam started to zone out then, for Ollie and his mum to keep catching up. However, too soon he was forced to look back from the cloud of steam rising over the stove. Merlin, what he wouldn’t have done for a smoke right now.“Town? Sure,” said Liam hurriedly. “…All of us?” For all he knew all of them would be headed back to London too. If he’d loved his mother this much, he knew he’d have wanted to show off.

Oliver eyed Liam, gauging his reaction; he didn't seem upset, nor had he come across as indifferent, he landed somewhere in between. Somewhere that Ollie couldn't quite put his finger on. Either way, his mother hadn't seemed to notice as she hummed a giggle in response. He did his best not to react to the knowing smirk she sent in his direction, but his reserve only lasted so long.

"Of course she won't— " Oliver piped up all too eagerly. The reassuring touch had helped. He resisted the compulsion to wrap his hand over Liam's as he might have under any other circumstance but allowed himself a brief moment to touch the pad of his pointer finger to his palm, casually outlining a shape. It wasn't that Celeste would care— hell, she embraced it already— Ollie was more cautious because of Liam. They hadn't quite worked out the finer details of this, of everything, and what that meant for them both.

All of them? Green eyes shot to the back of his mother's head, anticipating her answer. It was always her dream to have all of her boys be close, to willingly spend time together, but as time went on it seemed the less and less likely that was. Ollie waited for a breath before filling the silence.

"We can invite Henry and Charlie," He was less enthusiastic than usual. Just as he was about to speak up again, his mom turned back with the pot and spoon still in hand, very clearly trying to maintain normalcy. "No, no you boys go along, those two have enough to worry about with their broken limbs an' all," Oliver grinned, unable to help the immediate response.

Liam focused on the gentle brush of Ollie’s finger on his palm as he stared at the simmering saucepans, even after the moment had passed. Bless Ollie, honestly. Liam knew he was being…conservative about this in a way that his boyfriend found difficult to understand, and that Ollie was willing to indulge him meant more than he could say. (Would say?)

The Rigbys obviously all knew what was up, though, which gave Liam a different worry. He didn’t want them to think he thought he was fooling them—as if he thought all he had to do was keep his hands to himself and they wouldn’t catch on. He didn’t want them to think he was embarrassed. Even if he was. Especially if he was.

Biting his tongue, he dug out his cigarette case and turned it over in his hand. He was sick to death of trying to tailor himself. Everyone he met, everywhere he was, even alone in his house Liam felt like he needed to be different, and that stupid little quirk of human society had never angered him more. The urge was incessant, and it was exhausting—and he had finished his whiskey five minutes ago and couldn’t bring himself to ask for another.

He straightened up and forced himself to tuck the enamel case back in his pocket, wandering over to inspect the china cabinet just for something to do with his feet. After a second he turned back to smile at Ollie. One dinner later they’d be alone again. He could live through that. But when the cabinet doors sprung open in front of him for plates to float over to the table, Liam glanced nervously toward the living room. He could feel himself getting out his internal scissors and pins, rearranging, trying to predict what the Rigby men would need from him.

[out]

Every so often he glanced sideways to Liam, hoping that he might catch his eye, though he seemed to be intently watching the cooking process. Ollie almost frowned but instead sat up straighter, taking in a silent breath. He reminded himself that not everything needed to be taken personally, so long as he could help.

"Right, of course," Oliver agreed, smiling faintly at his mother who had already turned to flick off the stovetop. The reminder that they couldn't stay cooped up in the kitchen all night hit him, and he prepared himself. It wasn't that his father, or his brothers, were mean spirited in nature, it was just that they had no real idea of how to censor themselves. For them, seeing things from a point of view other than their own was a more trying task than it was for him and Celeste— who could do anything but.

"Ready, then?" He wasn't sure who he was asking, Celeste, Liam, or himself. Instead of letting that thought grow legs, though, Ollie hopped from the counter and turned to Liam just as he stuffed the cigarette case back into his pocket. He touched a hand without thought to his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow. He wanted more than anything to instill some kind of calm in him, in the situation, but it seemed unlikely.

"Le souper!" Ollie sang out for effect, leaning into the living area where the rest of the family was. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.

[fin]