Good morning, starshine [Ollie]

Paris was new and exciting to Tock, still. He had moved there with no plans, no job, and no place to live and had all but fallen into this bohemian flat of fellow artists. He slept on the couch, people came and went, there was a party vibe to the place but also an artistic one. Everyone fed on one-another’s energy. Tock loved it, and fed on it, too. He had been lonely after Sid moved out, but now he felt alive. He was always surrounded by work and wine and good company. He’d been drinking more than usual, but it felt normal here. He was working harder than ever on his coursework and doing well. He knew he needed his own flat eventually, but loved the environment of this place. He’d met a few fellow students coming in and out, and had even spent a few nights way from the flat in their apartments, but always found himself back here after a night or two. He didn’t really want to leave, but his back had gotten used to proper beds and the couch wasn’t going to cut it for long. 
 
The night was young, the wine was flowing, and Tock was hard at work on a painting for class—something unique and interesting. He was using a new type of technique, and frequently trashing the artwork. He had bumped himself up a bit—something he had been doing a good job avoiding, but at the flat there seemed to be no dearth of substance—and felt like he was one with his paintbrush. He thought he was his art for a moment, felt shiny and happy and strong. He was hyperfocused, feeling creative and more than he usually was. Sid wasn’t on his mind, neither was his loneliness. 
 
When he heard the door open, he ignored it at first, so fixated on his work, but it wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice that he looked up and into the doorway. There, he saw someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone from his former life. He gritted his teeth a bit, a little anxiety creeping up his throat. Oliver Rigby, in the flesh. Tock had crushed on the younger boy in school, albeit briefly, but had definitely changed his priorities between now and then. Now, as ethereal as the younger man looked in the soft light of the flat, Tock saw only a friend he had left behind. He didn’t know what to say. 
 
“Ollie, you look good.” He offered. He had been following the band, only for Rheya’s sake. He was glad to hear they had made it big. “Surprised to see you here, hm? How have you been?” He didn’t bother introducing himself or apologizing for his disappearance. He was sobered a bit, now, though. Slower. He felt dizzy, so he poured himself another drink. “Are you here to sing for us?” 

@Oliver Rigby

It was strange being back in Paris.

It wasn't the first time he'd been back since— well, since his whole world had changed. But it felt like it could have been. The night was young but the old cobblestoned streets in his neighborhood were lined with people on their way out for, he imagined, dinner, or drinks, or nowhere in particular. That might have been what he missed the most. In London, people didn't just wander for the sake of wandering.

Oliver vanished the cigarette he'd finished as he climbed up the concrete stairs leading up the loft. He was drawn like a moth to the flame to the familiar sound of laughter and music pouring out of the open windows overhead, the smell of something cooking wafting out with it.

Inside, nothing had changed. Everyone was in their usual spots draped over the furniture or sitting on the counter, a few new faces in the mix. It had only been a few months but for Ollie, it might as well have been a lifetime. He was met with hugs and kisses, a few sarcastic requests for autographs (he'd have done the same if the shoe was on the other foot). He noticed someone familiar mid-embrace and paused— Tock.

"Well, this is my home," Ollie grinned. It wasn't, really, not anymore. He wasn't sure who was living in the loft full time those days, it was usually a revolving door, but he wouldn't be surprised if his old friend had landed there. Taking a glass of wine offered to him from somewhere, Ollie shrugged off his coat and dropped it on the back of the couche as he made his way toward the wizard.

"It's been ages," He couldn't recall whatever happened to the older student. "That's beautiful..." He was distracted by the art behind Tock who was sat on the floor, not bothering to answer the question of if he was there to sing for them. He wasn't, but knowing his friends, it would happen in the early hours of the morning either way. He touched a hand to the man's shoulder where it met his neck as a way of greeting in lieu of a hug. He didn't want to interrupt the work.

Tock grinned, feeling shiny and happy. He loved praise, especially of his artwork. “You really like it?” He asked, smiling wider. “It’s for class.” He admitted. He was soon to be getting his own flat, but for now he loved the environment here, and it was Oliver’s home? “I didn’t know you lived here.” He admitted. “I suppose it makes sense we’re both attracted to the same kind of places.” He smiled.

He eyed him up. Oliver was still as handsome as ever, but there was something special about him now that he’d become famous. He was doing well for himself. Tock wasn’t jealous, but he was happy for him regardless. “Here, you want to pull up a canvas and work on something with me? I’ll collaborate with you.” He offered.

“What’s it like being famous?” He wondered. “You’re not going to forget where you came from, are you?” He teased.

"Yeah," Oliver confirmed with a smile that was verging on perplexed as to why someone would say they liked something if they didn't mean it. "The colors are nice," He took a step back to admire the way that the pinks and blues melted together with each of the strokes slashed through where it appeared the man had thrown paint on the canvas. Painting, drawing, those concrete mediums, he appreciated a great deal given they were so different to his own.

It was like stepping into an entirely different world.

"Well—" Ollie leaned back to kiss the cheek of Jerome who had clapped his shoulder as he slid behind him, over to the piano. "I don't really, anymore," He glanced to where his room was, upstairs. They hadn't filled the spot yet because he was still paying rent, though he had insisted that someone use the space while he was bouncing around from city to city. The sad truth was he didn't know if he would ever be back there full time.

"I'm in London now, mostly," He grinned, both wanting to linger and not on the question of what it felt like to be famous. He didn't even think he was. Not really. Though still, equal parts of Ollie wanted to shout it from the rooftops and maintain some semblance of normalcy. Especially there. "The label's put me up in this—" He tried to think of the best word for it but really it was a glorified hotel suite. Top floor and all, he thought to himself.

"I'd love to," Ollie sat back against the arm of the couch nearest and flicked his wand, a canvas coming to place in front of him. Manually, he took some of the paint from the jugs near Tock, hastily poured them onto a plate with little regard for them mixing. "How've you been?" He said with a paintbrush propped between his teeth, glancing sideways to him.