[mcg] virtue's in the verse [oliver]

Michael checked his watch.

He had been doing that roughly every five minutes -- about every four and a half minutes, if he was being pedantic -- the kind of regularity he reserved normally for the last hour of the work day. It wasn’t his work day he was worried about now, though; it was Cordelia’s. The set had completed; the encores had been trotted out; then Cordelia had spotted a colleague, headed over to catch up for just a moment, and Michael hadn’t seen her in forty-five minutes.

The sensible thing was to stay put. If he went looking for her, she would probably come back to the Oliver Rigby tent to meet him, and by the time he’d given up and come back to the Oliver Rigby tent to wait it out, she’d have given up and gone looking for him. Michael was a great believer in the adverse effect of coincidence, so even though the performance was over and his foot was asleep and the band (the Band, properly capitalised) was almost done packing up its equipment and forty-five minutes had elapsed, he was still sitting at the end of the second row.

He eyed the musicians -- he had been mildly surprised to recognise most of them from his own time at Hogwarts, and a couple of them were giving him looks that either meant they recognised him from somewhere (three guesses where, he thought drolly) or rather, he hoped, that he was wearing out his welcome. (He checked his watch again.)

Forty seven minutes.

The band was clearing out, and Michael was not; that was probably why their leader, Oliver, the bloke Cordelia knew, was heading his way. Michael stood up, figuring it would benefit him to at least look like he planned to leave soon, and said apologetically, “Swear I’m not trying to impose. My girlfriend’s gone somewhere and I figure she’s gonna loop back around here eventually.” Then, a little more awkwardly, “Good show.”

@Oliver Rigby

It was the second night at the festival that Oliver had unapologetically talked his way into. Their album had just come out and the band had been playing small gigs around the country. He got the feeling, though, the higher-ups at the label didn't agree.

"Right, thank you," He said into the microphone softly, his voice reverberating against the tent and cutting through the cheers. He couldn't help but grin. A stupid, chummy kind of grin that dimpled at either side of his mouth and left his cheeks hot. He was never going to get used to that feeling.

The band fell into the familiar pattern of breaking down the stage with their instruments in tow and sweat from the Summer night on their brows and backs. It was a lot more work when they had only themselves and a handful of roadies to pitch in. Big bands, real bands (like Banshee), he imagined had people for that.

The crowd dwindled leaving a lone man who seemed to be looking everywhere but them. Oliver got the feeling that he was in search of something or someone. Hopping from the stage, he pushed back the sweaty waves of hair from his forehead and made his way over. "You—" He began, but he beat him to it. "No, that's alright, mate," Ollie assured with a smile.

"Who are you after?" Might be out back," He gestured to the area behind the stage that was essentially just another nondescript tent.

It occurred to Michael that, with so many people in the tent, Oliver probably hadn’t noticed Cordelia in the audience. They had gone to the little show -- the gig, Cordelia called it -- to support the brunch friends (brunch friends) but, without Cordelia to facilitate any meeting of brunch friends, he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to facilitate in her stead. He wasn’t even positive there was meant to be a meeting. That’s alright, mate, said Oliver -- Michael vacillated for an instant on whether to blurt out that his girlfriend was Cordelia Leighton (whom Oliver knew) or whether to make a generic excuse for his girlfriend to save some face (she had a work thing) or whether to just leg it and wait for Cordelia outside of the tent and let her handle the introductions when she turned up.

The third was starting to appeal. He still felt mildly in the wrong, like he was wrecking the magic of live music for himself forever by watching a band tear down their stage.

Fortunately, Oliver made the decision for him -- this was possibly the quickest and most painless mention of a mutual acquaintanceship Michael had ever had to work into conversation. “Think she knows you and your band” he said; his hands were doing nothing for him, so he clasped them behind his back and nodded like an idiot. “Cordelia Leighton -- she’s here with the Prophet.”

It occurred to him that, though he knew what he knew about Oliver, he didn’t know what Oliver knew about him. (Of course, now he wanted to.) “Michael Corner,” he said; he put a hand out to shake.

Someone that knew him and the band? Oliver's face contorted into thought before the name, Cordelia. Of course. At almost the exact moment the man had confirmed (maybe a fraction delayed from the whisky and the weed), his hand slapped against his cheek, grinning. "Michael—" He was sure that he said his name at the same time.

 The famous breakfast-adjacent Michael Corner.

Ollie took his hand but stopped short of pulling him into an embrace. Again, whisky and weed. As his green eyes canvassed the man he wondered if this was the kind of person that he thought Cordelia would end up with before deciding there wasn't any particular kind person for anyone.

"Oliver," He took his hand and smiled. "Bit like Cordy to leave you to your own devices..." The wizard laughed heartily before looking over his should at the stage. "Mate, Cordelia back there?" He asked Jonesy who was struggling to unpack the drum kit that was unfamiliar to him, voice louder slightly. After a moment George returned with a shake of his head to confirm that, in fact, she wasn't.

"Hmm," Ollie thought out loud, pushing back the sweat waves of hair from his forehead. "Didn't mention where she was off to, I imagine?" He scanned outside of the tent for their mutual whatever she was.

Oliver knew his name; he was smiling infectiously enough that Michael decided this was a good sign. He took a while to get around to using his girlfriends’ names behind their backs -- once or twice he’d had a breakup and consequent rebound that Tony had thusly not noticed until a month later. Oliver had made it weird, though, by already knowing his name mid-introduction; it made Michael feel like he had to contribute something else, but he didn’t want to pretend he went by Mike, and he already knew Oliver’s name (it was on the programme).

Michael took his cue from Oliver and gave the other man a once-over too, for reciprocity’s sake. "It’s a work thing,” he said, in Cordelia’s defense, and grinned. “Journalistic -- summat.” He didn’t really know. He followed Oliver’s gaze over to a floppy-haired contemporary, who was confirming that Cordelia was not out back.

“Nah,” he said, turning around as well to look out at the sweaty, sleepy crowds enjoying the sunset. There was rather more leg than Michael typically liked to see in a crowd, so he scratched his chin and squinted at the (admittedly picturesque) horizon. “Now, if I were Cordelia,” he said,  “Where would I go?”

He and Cordelia hadn’t gone to big events of this kind often enough for him to know if it was like her to ditch him -- he wondered if she’d ditched Oliver at any of the fancy California parties she’d accompanied his band to -- but it did seem like her to make a pit stop while she was out of the tent, and to continue to make them for forty-five minutes; they just had to figure out what pit stops would have appealed to her, at a massive event full of diversions.

Cordelia didn’t like whisky, which eliminated a fair few. “Finger food,” Michael suggested, a little doubtfully.

If he were Cordelia...

Oliver let the idea percolate for a moment, green eyes brimming from various substances as they scanned the crowd draped under the setting summer sun. He'd noticed it when they were on stage, how beautiful the place was, but he was struck by it again; it left his chest feeling impossibly full and hollow at the same time. He took in a breath through his teeth.

Finger food? Glancing over at Michael, Ollie quirked an eyebrow. Maybe he had lost touch with the Cordy he once knew in their younger years, bar her trip to Los Angeles. Either way, he went with it. If that look on her face every time she brought up the very name of the man across from him was an indication, Michael knew her far better than he ever had.

"So long as it's fried," Oliver laughed, gesturing to the sea of tents drenched in sunset. "Reckon we start with the fried Mars bar stand..." He led the way, looking over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't lost his new companion in their search for the lost girl. "Enjoying yourself here, then?" He asked casually as Micheal caught up. If the man's breakfast taste was any indication, he couldn't be sure either way.

“Sure,” said Michael; fried food wasn’t something he cared much for, so he’d never really discussed fried food preferences with Cordelia. He had no idea what a fried Mars bar would be like and he was torn between morbid curiosity and horrified dismay -- a Mars bar?

He tailed after Oliver, frowning squintily at the other food booths. One booth was selling an impressive array of the most bizarre fusion cuisine Michael had ever seen; he paused just long enough to ascertain that people were, indeed, buying it. (What?)

Was he enjoying himself, was the question. Michael didn’t truthfully know. “Well enough,” he said. “It’s more crowds than I like, m’self, but the music and the food and the booze is good.” He’d had some of the truffles from the Honeydukes tent, which he thought entitled him to comment on the food -- they were richer than he liked, but not bad. “Have you gotten much chance to look around, or d’you spend more of your time --” he pointed with one thumb back over his shoulder.

Michael was distracted again by an intriguing, mildly disturbing fusion food booth -- he paused to read a handwritten menu Spellotaped to a pole, and to muse on the awkwardness of companionship with a bloke he had exactly one commonality with. It would probably suit, now, to mention it -- “So you know Cordy from school?” he said.