[Paris] Soft self-portrait with fried bacon [Tony]

He was glad she had gotten home safe, but he worried regardless. He had been stupid, and he knew it. He had just been so touch-starved, so needy for some kind of affection that when they got close, he had kissed her despite himself. He knew better than the take things any farther, and when she had tried to, he had put a stop to it. He knew it was the right thing, even though it hurt her. He had said the words, probably for the first time. More interested in men. He knew it, had known for awhile, but had never really had a need to say it to anyone.

She didn’t take things well, obviously, and he had worried about her and stressed all night as he made his way around Paris looking for her. She had made it home safe. He was thankful. Of course, Sid’s visit the following day had not filled Tock with fuzzy feelings. As much as he missed Sid, as much as he had empty nest with Sid gone, he hadn’t enjoyed being berated about his mistake. He deserved it, he supposed. Circe was sensitive, and had been hurt already. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling as though no one seemed to care how lonely he was lately.

That was part of the reason he was at the party flat that afternoon. He wanted something creative, beautiful, exciting. He wanted to be around others and feel less isolated. Things weren’t going great for him at his art school, either. What had started off as a beautiful experience and new kind of self-expression had turned into the Prophet all over again. His work was too angry, too political, too controversial for his classes. He wasn’t getting good grades despite his technique, and he was getting fed up. What did he need a degree for? Maybe he should just move back to London and get over it as it was.

He was a few drinks in already, working perfecting a “self portrait” that looked more akin to a Dali than an actual likeness. He heard a knock on the door, unusual, but the door did not immediately open. Did they not get the memo? Walk in, walk out was the theme of this place. He swayed a bit as he walked to the door to open it, maybe the drinks were stronger than he thought?

He opened the door to see someone he didn’t expect to see here, or ever again. Anthony Goldstein, his former roommate. He blinked a bit. “Tony?” He asked, a little confused. “Um, hey, come in? What brings you here?”

@Anthony Goldstein

He waited until after Passover, at least, to go in search of answers to questions he didn't really want to ask. He shouldn't, really, not three years later. There had been a window for this, for snooping, for interrogation, and it was long expired. He wasn't allowed to wonder what happened anymore. He wasn't allowed to want to ask what happened anymore.

And yet. Three years later. Three times Tony and Kai had fallen into bed together since they've broken up. Three people in bed the night that Kai cheated on him. There was something about that, the three sets of threes, looping and twisting around Tony and Kai, that compelled him here.

Here being Paris, of course, on an April weekend that Tony found himself with both the mental fortitude and emotional wherewithal to head for the Continent. Here being this loft in Paris, specifically, the address burned into his brain from other times Kai had gone off here to unwind while Tony suffered through 2L. Here being in front of the door to the loft in Paris, hand hovering over the wood.

Tony took a deep breath and knocked. The pause between his knuckles rapping on the surface and when the door swung open was too long -- he almost been ready to leave. He didn't know who he had expected to open the door. Senna, maybe, or someone in her band. Or Kai himself, G-d forbid. Or some long haired artist type, wreathed in cigarette smoke and perfume.

Tock Neilson was solidly in the category of 'People Tony Literally Never Expected To See, Ever, In Any Context.' So Tock opening the door was a surprise, to say the least.

"Neilson?" Tony said, eyes wide and jaw hanging slightly open. He rubbed his chin, shoved his jaw back into place. Tock blinked at him owlishly -- apparently, the surprise was mutual. Tony blinked too, not processing the offer to come in for a too-long moment. "Oh, thanks," Tony mumbled, still shocked. "Um, I was just looking for someone -- what are you doing here?" It wasn't an accusation, but it was a little pointed. Tony didn't like surprises.

He could tell the comment was a bit pointed, probably intended that way, but in his slightly-intoxicated state, it seemed almost like disappointment rather than surprise, and he felt affronted just the tiniest bit. Was it that bad to see him here? “Just… hanging out, I guess.” He shrugged. “Used to live here when I first came to Paris, now I just stop in whenever I need a little friendly company.” He admitted, and that was the truth with all things considered. He really just wanted some friendly company. He knew everyone that lived there now, and didn’t know who might know Tony, however. In fact, almost none of the people he recalled ever living here seemed the type that would hang around Tony, but hey, maybe the other Ravenclaw was more fun now than he had been in school?

“Who’re you looking for?” He asked. “I can see if they’re here, you know?” It meant to be an offer, but instead came out like an awkward question. He moved aside so Anthony could make his way into the flat. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.” He offered, making some small talk. “How long have you been here? Or are you just passing through?” He asked carefully, moving over beside his artwork to find the cup he had been drinking from. He realized, belatedly, that he had accidentally used it as a water cup for his paintbrush.

“Oh fuck, that’s vile.” He spat it back into the cup. “Shit…” He sighed a bit too heavily, put the cup down, and looking for another one, just as red and solo as the one before. “You want a drink or something, man?”

Just hanging out, I guess, Tock said. Tony's brain short-circuited. The man was saying more ... things, yes, he lived in Paris now, had lived in Paris for what sounded like a while, and this loft was the equivalent of a home for wayward wizards, or something -- Tony shook his head, blinking again.

Because the thing about Tock was -- was --- well, Tock was not supposed to be here, because Tock being here meant that Tony had to remember school again, and wasn't that just the sickest thing? It was so hard to escape the circle of boys he lived with for eight years (not that he wanted to escape Michael or Terry, mind) because Wizarding England was just too damn small. To not see Tock for -- what, six years? -- was a success, in that.

No, his own voice echoed back at him. It's been seven years. Tony stepped over the threshold, looking at Tock again with a different distant look in his eye. Seven, because Tock hadn't been there the last year, and hadn't come back for eighth. Because Tock wasn't allowed at school that year. Guilt settled in the pit of Tony's stomach. How dare he be so shocked to see Tock -- the fact he was alive should come with cheers.

Tock asked if he wanted a drink. He should say he's alright, to be polite. "Yes, please," is what comes out instead, his voice a little hoarse. Something strong, he hoped. Tock was drinking paint water, though, so maybe not that.

His former roommate was asking -- had already asked -- other questions. Tony cleared his throat. "I'm just passing through," Tony echoed -- he didn't really even plan on still being on this side of the Channel tonight. "Usually I'm in London." He rubbed at his right wrist with his thumb, hands clasped in front of him. "I'm looking for -- do you know Senna Shea?" He wasn't totally certain he got the last name right.

Tock was still reeling a little bit at the unexpected visitor—this was even odder than the time Oliver Rigby had waltzed into the flat, after becoming a famous musician, and reminded Tock of the old crush he had endeavored on Oliver when they were in Hogwarts. How embarrassing. The same had never been true for Tock and Anthony Goldstein. He had never liked the other Ravenclaw like that, but even more, he had always had the mind that Tony was judging him for his choices in partners and general disposition. Tock was nervous and paranoid by nature, always surrounded by maternal women who he needed to protect him. As stereotypical as it seemed, he preferred the friendly company of women and the romantic company of men. The bravest thing he had ever done was be publicly “out” with his ex-boyfriend, and he had been sure Tony was angry at him over it. Might be a homophobe. Might be jealous. Tock didn’t know or care, the other was angry and that was scary enough for him. It was strange seeing Anthony again now, after how much Tock, himself, had changed. Tony still made him feel a little small, despite himself. 
 
He looked through various bottles sitting at the bar, and decided just to give him some firewhisky. If he couldn’t shoot whiskey, Tock would shoot it for him. Then Tony could get whatever he wanted for himself, and Tock wouldn’t feel so tiny, insecure, and unsure of himself. He could still taste the paint water, so he filled two glasses with ice and poured the drinks. He downed a large sip of his own before giving the other one to Tony. 
 
“Senna?” He asked. It had been awhile since he heard that name, but of course he knew her. She was a Hufflepuff, the year above him, best friends with Rheya—one of his best friends. He wondered how Tony knew her, or why he cared to know. “Uh, yeah, I know of her. I never saw her around here, though? Isn’t she in Ollie’s band, though? He showed up here about a month or two ago. I was really surprised to see him, especially now that he’s all, you know, famous and stuff.” He shrugged. 
 
“You came all the way from London to see Senna?” He asked. “I mean, she’s not here, but she’s besties with one of my good friends, Rheya….” He admitted. “I could owl Rheya about it for you? What’s up?” 
 

Tock gave him firewhiskey, which on the one hand, baruch HaShem it wasn't something weaker, but on the other, did the man have anything stronger. Absinthe, maybe. Just pure rubbing alcohol would do the trick nicely. Tony was already feeling out of his mind, why not add a little extra to it? The glass had hardly hit his hand before Tony tossed back half the liquid.

It was just -- it was weird, is what it was, to be in Paris, to be in this loft where Kai had been (where Kai had been with other people) with. His ex-roommate. His ex-roommate, who was probably the first gay person Tony had ever met, mind, in his ex-boyfriend's space. It was just insane enough to make Tony completely lose his emotional balance. He came up for breath, then finished the rest of the glass.
 
And he didn't even know Senna. Great. "Ollie?" Tony repeated, not understanding. Who the fuck was Ollie. How was Tony supposed to keep track of these things? He didn't even know Senna, not really, just in passing in the halls of Hogwarts and by mention in Kai's mouth. "I just thought I might find her here, was told --" Tony shook his head. Where was that firewhiskey? He poured himself another measure.

"There's no need to owl her," Tony said, trying to place the name Rheya into his mental geography of Wizarding Europe. An ex of Michael's? Odds were good. "I'm sure I could reach her myself." Perhaps in a way less absolutely mental than showing up on her doorstep. "I'll just try again. Later."

He should leave. Good to see you, Neilson, was on the tip of his tongue -- all he had to do was just say it and pop back home. Easy.

What's up? said Tock. "She fucking cuckolded me." What the fuck, Goldstein. Was there whiskey in his glass? Not anymore -- it's burning down Tony's throat before he can say any more stupid honesty. "So."