steppin' stone [charlie]

“Oh, bloody hell, Charlie.” Liam turned over his friend’s plastered leg on his lap to look at the back of it, forcing Charlie into an awkward position on the other side of the couch. “You’ve already let people take all the good spots.” And draw all the good things—he’d  seen two dicks at least. How was he always the last to find out about stuff like this? He couldn’t think of anything other than that to draw, so he uncapped Charlie’s purple permanent muggle-style pen and wrote his name in all capitals up the side of his shin. Liam had always liked getting opportunities to use these. You could draw all over anything without a scratch, and he fancied the smell besides. Quills were fucking useless. (Except in drama, where they were unmatched.)

He took a sip of the whiskey he’d poured himself upon arrival before expanding his name into block letters. “What are their hospitals like, then?” he asked, conversationally. “Loads more boring, I’d expect.” Wizarding society, like their writing utensils, was also unmatched in drama. “Are there televisions, though? I think I heard that somewhere.”

Liam had made enough effort now to act like he wasn’t just here for advice on his own shit—It’d felt like the nice thing to do, given that Charlie’s leg was broken and all. “Sam sent me his sister’s Witch Weekly a couple days ago,” he said as he shaded in the shadowed sides of his letters. “They’ve published a letter from some idiot teenager trying to say Ollie’s been giving me love potions to help his career.” He scoffed lightly, as if he wasn’t bothered, but his anger felt too obvious to try and cover up.

“What’d you say to Kate, when people were—” Liam stopped. He’d been one of the people casting doubt on that particular relationship. In fact, he may have once made the exact same accusation. Finding love while famous was a thorny subject, in a world where the feeling could be chemically induced.

He let go of Charlie’s leg and dropped his head over the back of the couch. “I knew it was going to look like that,” he sighed. “I told him, even. Months ago. I dunno what I was fucking thinking.” Life as a known homosexual hadn’t been that bad so far, so long as he avoided providing public commentary on it. Freer, at least. But freedom hadn’t been worth putting Ollie through this.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie let out a quiet grunt and twisted awkwardly, gripping the cushion next to him in an effort not to make more noise. “Should’ve come ‘round earlier then, shouldn’t you?” Charlie said through lightly-gritted teeth -- more from the flash of pain than from any bitterness about Liam being too busy boning his boyfriend to come visit his oldest friend (mostly). Of course, Liam had come as soon as he’d heard, Charlie knew -- there had just been an elongated chain of communication. Honey had been kind enough to loan him an owl, but he’d had to prioritise who he told and in what order (Sam, Fflur, rely on Sam to tell Liam, so on).

He watched Liam take up as much of the remaining space as possible on the cast and sighed. Perhaps that fit nurse would believe he had a toddler-aged nephew called Liam, endear him to her a bit.

Charlie craned his neck to check what Liam was doing now (no overly-detailed cock and balls yet) before slumping back on his end of the sofa. “Boring, yeah. For the first two days I wished I had fucking carked it,” he grizzled. But, “Mm, there’s telly. Fuck all on though.” No premium packages in the hospital, just a lot of shite -- and Charlie had grown increasingly bored with television in the last three weeks, having not much else to occupy himself with when alone. “Hospital’s even more boring when your only visitor is your Mum,” he lamented.

“Hm?” Charlie’s ears perked up at this new line of conversation, already assuming there was going to be some new scandal he’d participated in, despite being housebound since the new year—

Oh. Charlie chewed on his lip and tipped his head back on the arm of the settee, allowing himself the opportunity to stare up at the ceiling rather than give away his immediate reaction to that. It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered it himself, especially when he had first found out -- it was only his own relationship combusting that saved him from saying anything about it (because he’d been too self-centred to care about Liam coming out as a homosexual). But Liam had shagged Michel on tour, and was now back--openly, from what Charlie could surmise--with Ollie, so… a love potion seemed less likely. Didn’t it?

Charlie’s eyes widened before he scowled up at the ceiling. There was a moment of silence in which he wished Liam hadn’t brought her up, then he set to pulling on that thread in his head again— Charlie exhaled through his nostrils and propped himself up on his elbows, deciding to focus on Liam’s problem right now. “Mate, surely of the two of you, you’d have to be bewitching him,” he teased as he tried to sit up a little more, pulling his foot out of Liam’s lap (and out of reach of retaliation).

He wet his lips and shrugged. “Conversation was a bit different, with her,” Charlie said quietly. He hadn’t thought love potion was a serious accusation in his situation, more just that he was a slimy prick taking advantage of a teenager. “But, I dunno. Ollie knows what they’re like.” Or he did now, anyway. Kate had been thrust into the spotlight with no previous experience. Charlie pulled the hem of his shorts down his thigh awkwardly. “What did he say about it?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” replied Liam, almost genuinely irritated. If Charlie had really wanted to get in touch with him, Liam thought he could have, and he still wasn’t completely over it. “Not my fault,” he said. “Wish you’d tried to kill yourself on tour, when we’re all tripping over each other.” Charlie’s motorcycle had always set him on edge. Muggle speed vehicles occupied an odd place in Liam’s head, both as desperately cool objects of lust and chillingly grim objects of death.

What better way for a rock star to die, though, if he had to?

Charlie, predictably, looked away uncomfortably when confronted with Liam’s personal life. Liam picked up his drink again. He’d been on the fence about bringing this up, but who else was there to talk to about life as a public figure? Maybe he should have written to Esther or something. Liam had a sour feeling that if she wrote back he’d be able to smell the condescension in the ink.

He capped the marker and leaned back to let Charlie retake possession of his leg. “Sorry,” he said as Charlie made a face, but then Charlie replied and he was no longer forced to be serious. With a fond snort, Liam kicked the closest non-injured part of Charlie he could reach.

“He says not to worry about it, but I dunno.” Liam felt like he should. Ollie knew what the press were like, but he hadn’t built up the thick skin that the likes of Banshee had been working on for a decade. “Guess I’ve never done this, have I?” Liam mumbled into his whiskey. “None of the girls I ever went with had a reputation worth protecting.”

Charlie didn’t even glare at Liam, just looked at him. Tried to kill yourself, he’d said, and Charlie remarkably had the forethought not to say anything in response; Liam’s dad (his real one) had died in a car accident. It had really only been brought up once, but Charlie hadn’t forgotten -- and he assumed Liam hadn’t, really, either. Now he felt a little guilty that he could have put Liam in the position of losing both his father and a friend by the same means, even if neither had been Charlie’s fault -- nor was he about to not replace his bike once he was up and about again.

He smirked, then grinned as Liam tapped his good leg. “You walked into that one,” he said, scooting back on the settee.

But this was quickly becoming a serious conversation, which wasn’t what Charlie had expected when he’d answered his front door to see Liam standing there. Sam, sure -- that was always a good fifty-fifty probability on what kind of night he was in for, but Liam? Charlie had been hoping for a bit more of a pick-me-up than a drag-me-down.

His lips tugged up into a soft smirk at Liam’s comment. “Well, sounds like he’s not worried about it,” Charlie offered reassuringly, first. Then he realised that what Liam had said was more about Ollie having something to protect, versus Liam’s past conquests’ lack thereof. Charlie rolled his lips inwards. “Don’t know if I’m the best person to come to about it,” he pointed out quietly, in case Liam hadn’t worked that out already.

“Not because I don’t care,” he added hastily, in case Liam took that to mean he was uninterested. “Just,” he shrugged awkwardly and glanced away, before looking back at Liam again, “didn’t do a great job of it myself, did I?”

A silent beat passed between them. Charlie shifted and adopted a more blasé tone; “If that’s the worst thing that’s been written about you two you’re fucking lucky. All the real journalists on holiday still?”

“You ever sleep with any of ‘em?” Journalists, that was. Maybe that was why Liam hadn’t made any real enemies in the press -- just teenage girls writing in to Witch Weekly.

“Has anyone ever done a great job of it?” They were in a stressful business; Charlie’s wasn’t the first musical marriage to go down the tubes, nor would it be the last. Liam hadn’t even considered it before asking him. It wasn’t like Charlie’s thoughts on media management had ended it, after all.

But his advice seemed to amount to Get over it. Liam felt stupid now to have expected anything else from the frontman who got the worst press of all of them. But not undeservedly, and Liam was feeling bitter about it regardless. “Not shagging other women helps,” he muttered darkly over the rim of his glass.

Mean-spirited conversational turn aside, Charlie had not seemed enthused to discuss this at all. Liam finished his drink and clenched his jaw, pressing his whiskey-soaked tongue to the roof of his mouth. If he were being charitable and assuming it wasn’t all homophobia—too soon to be a happy couple, perhaps? But bloody hell. It had been almost a year and the entire relationship had been a nightmare. Liam had given up understanding.

It’d probably be smart to stop talking love with Charlie at all, given how differently they seemed to view it. It seemed to always cause more problems than it solved. But Liam needed someone to understand the unique position they were coming from, had no one else he trusted more—the thought of cutting off a part of his life from his best and oldest friend felt like lunacy no matter how much sense it made.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, and stood up, shaking his empty glass. “Want any?" He’d made an attempt and regretted it soundly, there was no other solution than to drink.

Charlie considered that for a moment, surprised--not for the first time--by Liam’s ability to use logic when it suited him. “A less shit job, surely,” he offered instead. “Sam, for a start...” Charlie trailed off, knowing that his friendship with Liam (and with Sam, respectively) was closer than their friendship with each other. He couldn’t picture Liam running to Sam for relationship advice -- they were at two opposite ends of the spectrum. Mostly.

He shot Liam a dark look and bit back a retort (something about that being hard to do when you didn’t shag women at all anymore). He had just been trying to make Liam feel better about it -- that it wasn’t as bad as it could be, and not in a competitive sort of way (he would’ve won, though, if it had been).

Charlie watched Liam stand and suddenly felt guilty. His eyes were drawn to his friend’s empty glass and he hesitated -- he wasn’t supposed to on the painkillers he was on, but he was reluctant to say ‘no’ in case Liam took it as another rebuff. “Just one,” he said. “Not really meant to,” he added, to try and explain ahead of any offers of a refill why he wouldn’t accept (in theory).

He watched Liam’s back as the other man poured them both a drink, and lifted his attention up to meet Liam’s as he turned back to Charlie. “You know if you’re really worried about it you could, I dunno, talk to Alan?” he suggested, scratching his elbow awkwardly. “He can probably talk to Ollie’s manager and you know,” Charlie gestured vaguely between two points in mid-air, “work something out between the two of ‘em. If they aren’t already.”

Charlie waited for Liam to retake his seat, taking the glass from him and having a sip -- savouring it for a moment. He glanced sidelong at Liam. “Are you two—”  he murmured, flicking his eyes up to meet him, “—like, serious?” He’d teased Liam about his boyfriend relentlessly before they’d broken things off, so it felt sort of like he’d ruined the term for the foreseeable future.

Charlie looked for a second like he might kick him in earnest, but thankfully it passed. Liam had already taken down a second glass before his friend clarified his limitations. “You’re not supposed to drink?” he repeated in amazement. “Because of your leg?” He wasn’t an expert in magical medicine, but Muggle medicine was just baffling. “I hope they’ve given you something well strong as a tradeoff.”

He sat back down. “Why haven’t you just gone to St. Mungo’s?” he asked, upon consideration. To hear Charlie tell it he’d been trapped in the Muggle hospital for some time, but if he was free now, what was the point of all the pills and plaster? “I know the doctors started things, but I’m sure a healer could, y’know, finish the job? Get you a better pain potion at least.” He swirled Charlie’s whiskey before setting it down on the side table. “Unless you’re enjoying the sympathy.” On his first year out of Hogwarts, some attention-seeking injury stunt Draco Malfoy was pulling had been a feature of several of his mates’s letters. He hated to compare Charlie to Malfoy, but the thought drifted to mind.

The conversation returned to Liam’s love life, and this time Charlie made an effort. “Lord, I’d love to see that,” said Liam. He ought to be dumping even more of his problems onto Alan, come to think of it. He didn’t think any of them had ever gotten properly used to having people, even him.

Charlie went on, to Liam's surprise. Were he and Ollie serious? Liam couldn’t stop himself from barking out a laugh. Never mind that he’d never called a partner his “friend” of either sex, he’d gone so far out of his comfort zone for stupid Ollie that the question seemed preposterous to ask. “Well, you know about it,” he said, “so I reckon so.”

Liam realized too late that this would make Charlie think about what he didn’t know. They had never really gotten into the specifics of it all. He’d said he was sleeping with Ollie Rigby now and that was all Charlie had ever wanted to know. Liam hadn’t wanted him to know most of it either. Surely Charlie had cottoned on to the foolish teenage infatuation Liam had had with him once, and Liam had no desire to explain himself. Nor about the photos Michel had taken of him after the war, nor that American bloke with whom he’d spent Charlie’s wedding night, nor how suspiciously into it he must have been way back when Hilary from Spellbound had wanted them to kiss. But—Ioan? Liam had just never been asked, and it had been so long ago that there was no way to bring that up himself.

Was he ready to be asked? He felt like it was time to tease Charlie some more, to maintain the levity. “We aren’t married yet, though,” Liam chuckled.

Charlie looked at Liam with an expression he’d used time and time again when magic-muggle discrepancies in everyday life popped up (mild surprise). “No, not really.” He nodded, then, when Liam asked for clarification. “Well, yeah. That’s why,” Charlie explained -- without really explaining anything. “You’re not meant to like, drive and shit, either,” he added, with a derisive sort of look at his leg -- driving (technically riding) had been how he’d broken his leg in the first place.

Charlie had another sip of whiskey, eyes closing momentarily. He peeked one open, then the other, at Liam’s accusation that he was enjoying the sympathy. “Not getting much from you, am I?” he shot back. “I dunno, lot of hassle, innit?” He stretched back into the settee. “Would have to get the Ministry involved to do their business,” he said, meaning obliviating people, “and then I couldn’t claim insurance on the bike,” he added, as if he was short of money. “And yeah, being a cripple has its perks,” he smirked, had another sip.

The Yorkshireman laughed lightly as the novelty of the idea hit him. “Me too.” Alan had gone from putting Charlie’s fires out to holding an extinguisher ready for Liam’s -- no wonder Sam was the only one without a stupid fucking nickname.

It was Liam’s turn to laugh, even though Charlie had been trying to be serious. He frowned softly, a little offended by that remark -- what did he mean, he knew about it? Who had known before him? But nevermind that: he reckoned so. Charlie’s eyebrows rose after a short delay, then rose higher after another moment in a sort of ‘fair enough’ expression. He had thought he was the zero-to-a-hundred one in the band (exhibit a: his short-lived marriage), and here was Liam streaking past him in the fast lane--

Charlie glowered--good naturedly, mostly--at that dig. “Yet,” he said warningly, still sort-of scowling as he held his whiskey out in a weird toast before bringing it back in for another sip. He licked his lips and had the forethought (or afterthought) to realise he was drinking this quicker than he ought to, made a point (to himself) of resting it on the arm of the settee.

He glanced back at Liam, figuring if any time was the opportune one to be curious, it was now. “So,” he started, then stopped, trying to work out what exactly he was trying to ask; he’d been about to inquire if Liam had always been this way, but realised before he’d said anything that of course he had -- you didn’t just wake up gay one morning, and he didn’t want to offend Liam by suggesting so. Charlie thought back to the clues that had been there all along and almost reached for his drink again -- rubbed at his forearm instead. “You know you could’ve told us, mate.”

Liam felt sort of bad laughing at everything Charlie was saying, but good god. “’Course I couldn’t have,” he replied with a chuckle. “Half the time I’m still wishing I never did.”

He took another drink and didn’t intend to go on about it, but Charlie didn’t look happy with his answer. Liam ran back over his words. Could have said that better, probably. “Not you specifically, I mean.” Sort of him specifically, but Liam didn’t feel like starting a fight right now. “All of it. I don’t like being Gay Liam. Only did it for Ol, ‘cause he didn’t fancy keeping secrets.” Secrets were second nature to Liam. They didn’t hurt him to keep; on the contrary they were part of who he was.

He did have Ollie now, that was true. And being with him was still as it had been, free and understood. But the rest of his life didn’t feel like his anymore. “Kind of feels like being a kid, yeah?” he mumbled into his drink. “Like I have to grow up and work myself out all over again.”

None of it had crossed his mind when he was a kid, and seeing people whose minds it had crossed then almost made him jealous. Even people his age. What had stopped him then? Would he have been a different person, if not for his parents? For Banshee? For the years of his life spent doing his damnedest to become someone Charlie would admire? Could he have ever been like Ollie, growing up with an understanding of himself, feeling like a native in his community instead of a foreigner?

His glass was empty again. Liam  summoned the whiskey and held it out by the neck. “Can I just have the rest of this, if you can’t?”

Liam laughed and Charlie wasn’t sure if he should laugh along with him or not — clearly, his face said as much, because Liam clarified he didn’t mean Charlie, specifically. “Right, yeah.”

Gay Liam, he said, and Charlie grimaced apologetically. He grimaced again (more internally, he thought) when Liam mentioned keeping secrets. “Sorry, mate. I—” He sighed silently and glanced off into the corner of the room; there was no excuse, really — he was just a prick. He wondered if he had been too nice about it all instead that that might’ve been worse, but he didn’t vocalise that theory.

He looked back to Liam and nodded. He didn’t really understand — except, sort of; the divorce had had a similar effect. Charlie had just had the benefit of not revealing a sensational change in his sexuality — he had had the disadvantage of polarising opinions on him even moreso than previously (it was a bit messed up, really, that some women were arguably more into him now)— but this wasn’t about him. He had to stay on task.

Charlie blinked and glanced at Liam, took a moment to register what he was asking. “Yeah, sure,” he said readily, figuring he’d just get Sam to send him another — Liam clearly fucking needed it more right now.

He wet his lips, parted them, then paused — he wasn’t sure where to go next, but he didn’t want to brush this conversation aside again, especially if Liam was feeling a bit alienated or— well, whatever he was feeling. He was too sober for this, but he could probably get Liam drunk enough to talk about it.

Charlie wet his lips again. “Does it feel better, though? Like, not having to hide it and that?” He shifted in his spot on the settee and scratched at a scab that was itchy (healing) on his forearm. “I suspect it’s easier, for him.” He shrugged. “He’s been like this from the start,” of his career, Charlie meant.

Charlie gave him a halfhearted nod and Liam took a generous swig from the bottle.

It didn’t sound like Charlie was hearing him at all, but Liam didn’t blame him for this one. He was trying, bless him—and nobody else seemed to get it either. “It's meant to, innit?” he mumbled. He’d resisted coming out, but when he’d needed to he’d tried to hope it would be better for him that he feared. Like it seemed to be for everyone else. Surely he just had to get over this hurdle and it would lift a big stupid weight from his shoulders, let him be his authentic self, and he would be happier on the other side.

He’d been lonely and lovesick and falling-down drunk and it had been the only thing between him and the man he loved; there hadn’t been a choice at all that night. But more and more lately, Liam was wishing he’d never made it. Or that he’d never clued in in the first place and was still chatting up every pretty woman he saw. He felt guilty for how much he hated living his truth, nervous he’d hate it forever… Afraid he’d start resenting Ollie—or his feelings for Ollie—for forcing him out.

It was all so stupid. He’d spent his whole life championing the individualist, the nonconformist, the unapologetic boat-rocker, and at the same time he’d hidden this part of himself with the paranoid fervor of a peer-pressured teenager. What was it that made this so hard to stand behind? He was afraid of nothing and he knew it.

“Well—Least I can still drink about it.” He tipped the bottleneck to Charlie. “And I’ve still got both fucking legs.” He’d wanted to talk about his own problems, but he truly hadn’t intended to visit his injured mate just to be this miserable at him. Liam reached over to clack his fingernails on Charlie’s cast. The pity party should have been his. "Looks like shit," Liam said. "I could never do that.”

It’s meant to suggested that it didn’t, really. Charlie pressed his lips together and kept his eyes on Liam. He didn’t know how to empathise with the other man about it — Charlie had had his own very public problems in the last year or so but he wasn’t about to try and compare his self-inflicted drama to coming out as gay, especially in a rock band.

But he could try and make Liam feel better about it, maybe. “Well, Freddie Mercury was gay and—” Liam wasn’t quite as big a fan of Queen as Charlie and Sam, and even Charlie had lost the desire to listen to them since his marriage had failed (that signed print Kate had bought him had yet to be hung on a wall, even though he’d moved in months ago), but: “—he’s one of the best there’s ever been. Nobody gives a shit that he was boning blokes.” He paused, very briefly but just enough to make sure what he said next wasn’t lost; “Least of all his bandmates.”

His line of sight had slowly drifted off of Liam, but quickly snapped back when the other man spoke again. Charlie grinned lopsidedly, “Yeah, alright,” he said, mostly because he didn’t have a comeback. Charlie shrugged. “It is shit,” he agreed, then the corner of his lips curled up into a smirk as he reclined back into the settee; “There’s some benefits though.”

“Didn’t stop him growing the world’s ugliest mustache,” mumbled Liam. He’d thought he’d wanted Charlie to take him seriously but lord, this was painful. “You can stop; I promise; lesson learned,” he said through a discomfited laugh. “Bleeding hell. Just let me change the subject.”

Obviously the man was trying, and Liam loved him for that. It was more effort than he’d ever put in to relate to the marriage drama. But the effort didn’t make it any more helpful. Some element of this was exactly what Liam feared, wasn’t it? That he’d spend his life and death being likened to the Freddie Mercuries of the world. That some future well-meaning friend would drag his name up to explain it was okay to be gay. That everything he did now would be categorized as homosexual art more than art itself.

Liam knew he wasn’t good with words, but perhaps it was truly impossible to get this point across to someone like Charlie. Ugh—did he need to make gay friends for this? But only a specific kind of which he knew none. Ought he to put a personal ad in the Prophet? 28M seeking uncomfortable, alienated, freshly-out homosexuals to commiserate with.

They’d lost sight of his initial issue anyway, which was as much his fault as Charlie’s. Liam should have known all this would come spilling out the second he got a chance. It had been on the tip of his tongue for months. Maybe he’d be able to work the Ollie situation out with Alan now that he’d finally spit it out. Asking Charlie for romantic reputation advice of any kind had been foolish to begin with. He’d just wanted to hang around with his best mate, hadn’t he? And felt like he needed to invent a reason.

Finally, Charlie’s serious face eased up into a smirk. Liam smiled broadly in response—in relief. “What are the benefits, then?” he asked with a chuckle. “All I’m seeing is no drinks and a couple of dicks on your leg.”

World’s ugliest moustache. Charlie dropped his focus to Liam’s goatee pointedly, then brought it back up to meet his gaze.

But he could stop — thank Christ. Charlie held his next breath in for a moment before letting it out in the form of a relieved laugh. “Sorry,” he said, running his hand back through his hair, still grinning softly. “I just—” He stopped, before starting again, realising he was not stopping but: “I’m just trying to say, like— s’alright, you know?” He wet his lips. “Doesn’t have to be different,” he shrugged, looking down at the empty glass he was now holding loosely between both of his hands.

Charlie laughed again, more earnestly— cut short by a wince and a light groan. He held his side gently, sitting with his back straight against the sofa. “Mm, well,” he smirked, one eye peeking open at Liam. He tilted the glass in his other hand towards Liam. “Pour me a small one and I’ll tell you.” Some things, at least, definitely weren’t any different.


[ out ]

Charlie looked as deeply relieved as Liam felt, which made him wonder how he’d made Charlie think he needed this. Was he giving off some sad, self-loathing scent? Probably he was—but Charlie’s nose was just unable to discern different flavors of gay disappointment. Not his fault. It meant something that he’d go out of his way to try. “Yeah,” Liam said. “’Course.”

He considered joking, here. That mean you’ll let me tell you all about last night? But even threatening to do so would put their delicate masculine balance out of sorts again, and they’d just rebuilt it. Liam wasn’t about to rock the boat again. In truth, he missed telling the lads about his romantic conquests. Getting pride and excitement back instead of grimaces and silent pleas to shut up. It didn't have to be different, Charlie said, but Liam knew that meant only when he had things to say that regular men would want to hear. Again, not their fault. It still stung.

He wondered again how to make new friends. Gabriel listened to him, but without enthusiasm. Maybe Ollie’s girls from the band, but girls took it differently. Liam felt like a kid again, wishing he could be friends with himself and get anything out of it.

Charlie finally gave in and handed him the glass. A small one—Liam splashed a tablespoon’s worth of whiskey in and pretended to hand it back. Charlie rolled his eyes, and Liam laughed.

This was the same enough.

[end]