woman | oliver

saturday 27th december 2003

Ollie was sat at the upright piano, his fingers playing something that sounded vaguely out of Elton John's wheelhouse, but Charlie wasn’t about to tell him to stop. He poured the younger man a top up, setting it on the top of the piano precariously. He moved back to the sofa and reclined on it, his feet resting on the opposite arm to where his head lay. They had bumped into one another at the pub, started chatting music (it was easier than chatting about their personal lives -- he was sure they each knew more than they really cared to about the other's), one thing had led to another.

Oliver had honed in on Charlie’s piano the moment his eyes had lain on it; Charlie was too sozzled to tell him not to touch it. Besides, he was a musician, he'd no doubt respect the instrument the way it deserved. It occurred to him that his previous home, with Kate, would have been more impressive, with its built-in basement studio and the grand piano in the formal lounge. This, however, felt more him.

Ollie changed the tune he was playing. Charlie hummed along something of his own, tapping a beat with one hand on his thigh— He bolted upright and got to his feet, already halfway to the hall as he called back over his shoulder at Oliver,  glass outheld and finger pointing at him; "Wait there—"

Charlie returned a moment later, holding one of his guitars by the neck. He downed his glass and put it on the bench, slipped the strap over his neck and strode closer. "Do that again," he instructed, placing his fingertips to the strings and grabbing a pick out of his pocket. Oliver repeated the tune from before and Charlie supplemented it with his magically amplified guitar -- no cords nor speakers required for the electrical sound now filling the room.

"Reckon there's something there," he said as he finished the solo, smirking at Ollie. He nodded at the younger man; "Eh?"


@Oliver Rigby

All of it was vaguely reminiscent of another time. With someone else.

Ollie recognized the same dumbfounded way that he stumbled into Charlie Baker's home, drawn like a moth to a flame to the piano. Still, he couldn't stop himself from going through the motion. He shrugged off his coat and dropped it somewhere, he couldn't be bothered with where, and ran a hand through his grown-out hair, sliding onto the bench. His long, ring-clad fingers brushed over the keys with practiced ease.

The night had been something of a blur. A few from the label had gone out to see a newly discovered band, and that had turned into an afterparty at a bar nearby, which turned into an after, after party at the next up the road. They didn't have a formal Christmas party to speak of, but Ollie liked to think that might have been it, even a few days late.

Charlie had re-entered the room at some point though Oliver was preoccupied with the spill on the leg of his pants on his thigh from where he'd messily tried to follow suit and drain what was left of his drink. Served him right for trying to keep up all night, he thought to himself, more than half drunk.  "Alright," He obliged, trying to recall the tune he'd just played, ultimately adding a few nuances to mingle with the sound of the guitar.

"Yeah, that's good," He commented other-worldly as his hand shot up into the air, pointer finger outstretched, thoughts flooding him. "Bit higher, though, " Charlie was close enough that he could shift his hand on the base of the guitar easily enough, to where he knew the pitch would suit the song in his head. Ollie hummed to it. "Here I thought you had someone else playing for you..." He teased, shifting on the bench to take a quick drink.

Normally, Charlie would be pretty pissed off by someone trying to tell him how to play the fucking guitar, but ollie hadn’t rocketed to stardom purely as a result of bumming Liam -- he was talented, and he knew it came from the desire to get the right sound. Collaboration. Charlie plucked a few chords with his hand in this new position, nodding his head to show his approval of the adjustment—

“Get fucked,” he grinned, shoving at the younger man and not paying any mind to the way the drink in Oliver’s hand sloshed dangerously close to the piano. “Been playing longer’n you’ve had hairs on your chest, ya prick.” An exaggeration— he gave Ollie a once-over and wondered if maybe it wasn’t, actually. And Liam had had the cheek to give him shit about Kate’s age.

Charlie turned on the spot and wandered a few steps away, repeating the riff again without the Ollie and the piano to back him up. He paused and collected his drink, then caught Oliver’s eye. Charlie just stared at him for a moment, in a manner that might’ve been a bit unnerving, but he was too busy trying to work out how to ask— “Do you wanna…?” He had never written with someone who wasn’t Sam or Liam, and he’d never really had any intention of doing so. But the boys wouldn’t mind, he figured. Liam didn’t have a leg to stand on at least.

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind that he might have been overstepping, which was not uncommon for him— the tequila hadn't helped. "Aye- Merlin!" He fumbled with the glass in his hand to tilt it just before the liquid sloshed over the lip and onto, what he imagined, was an impossibly expensive and one-of-a-kind piano. If he learned anything about his short time in the industry, though, it was that most of his peers (could he call them that, really?) had little regard for worldly possessions.

Oliver looked down to his chest belatedly and less pointedly than how he might have if he were sober. His skin, marred with half-fresh ink, was soft under the silk black of his button-down shirt that was opened just enough to expose what chest hair he actually had. The joke was on Charlie because there wasn't a lot— a cruel, hereditary curse that his younger brothers seemed to have gotten most of those genes for themselves.

Age was a funny thing. Liam, Charlie, all of them, seemed to think that they were ancient in some way. Like they existed on a different plane. He wondered if by the time he hit his late twenties he might understand it better, but at present, he didn't think that they were all that much older. He could expect it from someone properly older, in their forties, fifties but—

Ollie's eyes flicked up when he felt a gaze on him, the greens narrowing on Charlie who in turn had an almost expectant look on his face. What had he asked, again? Did he want to what? Tilting his head, Ollie tried to work out the most likely end to the man's half-though. In truth, he had no idea. "Not really my type, mate," He grinned as he absently ran the fingers of his free hand over the ivory keys. Whatever Charlie was going to ask, it was almost certainly not that. 

Charlie was gazing expectantly at Ollie, waiting for an indication he’d said something ridiculous -- and wasn’t it? To suggest they—

Charle’s expression contorted into one of confusion, first, then bemusement— “Fuck off,” he said, grinning back (nervously) belatedly. Even if the younger man hadn’t been presently shacked up with one of Charlie’s best friends, that certainly would not be happening. (Nevermind that not being Ollie’s type had offended him slightly, because had he seen Liam?)

“I meant write,” Charlie clarified. “Together.” Further clarification. “This,” he added, gesturing between their respective instruments. He slipped out of his guitar strap and laid the instrument on the sofa as he moved to the liquor cabinet to top himself up. He unscrewed the cap of the tequila and sloshed some into his glass, then moved to do the same for Oliver, still sat at the piano.

“How do you usually do it?” Charlie asked curiously, setting the bottle down and scooping his glass up to have a large gulp. “D’you do music or lyrics first? Or just, bit of both?” It tended to vary for Charlie -- sometimes he’d have bits of lyrics scribbled down, other times they would pop into his head as they jammed together as a group.

Oliver watched with a grin, verging on chesire-like, as the gears turned in Charlie's head. He could see every stage of the realization process as it hit the man— confusion quickly melting into bemusement. But then he clarified that he meant to write, together. And just like that, it was Ollie's turn to be surprised. In his admittedly few years of writing, never once had it been proposed to him in such a prescribed way.

He let out a laugh that reverberated off the soundproofed walls. For a rockstar like Charlie Baker, there was an innate sense that he was somehow unsure of himself. And that was endearing in some way. He was learning (thanks most in part to Liam) that it was the case for a lot of artists who had come to make a living of their craft.

It was nearly enough to make Ollie wonder if he should have kept it pure himself, not sought out to make a living out of it.

"Well..." He shifted on the piano bench so that one leg was on either side and he was facing to where Charlie had moved to the cabinet of liquor. "Not nearly so—" Briefly he considered that what he was thinking might come across as harsh. Stunted, was what he wanted to say. "There's never really a plan..." His green eyes shot to the ceiling, nodding a thanks for the top-up and taking a gracious sip.

"No method to the madness," Ollie had heard that somewhere and decided he would use it, whether or not it made sense or not. He fished in the pocket of his faded denim jeans—torn at either knee—for the joint he prayed to merlin was still there. Charlie Baker needed to lighten up. "Here," He offered it with a grin, grabbing at his wand to light the tip.