Warnings: Non-magic AU, very short, forum roleplaying, not very accurate job descriptions or descriptions of anything else really (AKA a bunch of lies strung together to look pretty, like jewelry), PRESLASH and IMPLICATIONS OF M/M (aka male/male relations), unsastisfactory ending
Pairing: None, though TMR/HP preslash (AKA friendly friends)
Summary: !Non-Magic!AU! But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless. Twoshot; TMR/HP PRESLASH
I'm the most misleading person in the world for this summary. Sorry.
Disclaimer: Shh. This thing is really here to just fill up space in the header and make things look cool. Disclaimers are the new hip thing, y'know?
» Stripped Down to Words «
… SDTW Forums ►Interactive ►Roleplaying ►Full ►Invitational
… ►Café Rendezvous by ForeverYoung
ForeverYoung:
Rules: …
Background: …
RPers & Roles: …
Note: There is obviously M/M (slash) because I invited Evan & Marvolo… and no, I didn't just make this RP to stalk them and their hawt virtual relationship. That, my friends, would be creepy. ;)
ForeverYoung: Reserved.
ForeverYoung: Reserved.
…
PheonixRising:
Evan James
…
It's disgruntling how normal this day—night—is going. There aren't any stumbling drunkards from the bar a few blocks away, no raging male or woman as they catch their significant other with another date… passionate embraces haven't even started yet—far too early, and that sounded a bit too like a romance novel for personal comfort.
...
It's not like I want something to happen today, with a certain someone, who I still don't have the number of (thank you very much Jean for the reminder)!
The hours pass slowly, people buying their drinks and drinks for others, laughing and conversing at the bar as they flirted freely for fun or for deeper reasons. I vaguely pay attention. All of my co-workers have said that I've really gotten the hang of multitasking while listening, and I guess that's sort of an accomplishment. Useful.
The door to the club opens again, and it's certainly not because it's about time that he comes that I raise my head to look, even though I hadn't before for the last dozen or so customers.
But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, button up shirt undone for the first two buttons, a casual blazer on top, looking every bit right at home here. His hair is still neat and perfect, despite what that I know for a fact that it's windy outside. His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as I see blue, I'm left completely breathless.
…
VolDeMort:
Marvolo Gaunt
Club Rendezvous could very well be the only place one could go to alone and stay thus for the whole night without any disruptions. It was this quality that had drew me here the first time, as ridiculous as it sounds—seeking privacy in a public place, that is. However, sometimes it is best to step away from the comforts of home, still searching for the same relaxing atmosphere but… elsewhere.
And, of course, it certainly helped that there was a very fine man running the bar.
The smooth, jazzy tune of the playing band enveloped my senses as I strolled in. Thursday, hm? Well, it's not like I would complain. Legend has it that the best snake charmers could manipulate their snake without music, but personally, I believe the charm all lied in twisting the atmosphere to satisfaction. It was simply easier to do so if the foundations were already set.
I didn't need to look elsewhere for my serpent, either. He was where he always was—mandatory because of his job, of course, but I doubt he'd be anywhere else even if he wasn't the bartender—and it was a pleasing sight to see that he was already looking at me.
As if he had been expecting my entrance.
Looking right back, I can make out the slight flush of his cheeks, even in the soft lights, calling to my appeal in the subtle sort of way that all attraction begins with.
And perhaps today was the day. The intermediary chase had taken all too long already—not that I wouldn't be willing to dedicate time to charming my slightly reluctant snake, because I certainly was—and I desired to be rewarded my rightful prize.
Maybe a kiss, an exchange of numbers, something more…
With that in mind, I unhesitatingly stalked my prey.
...
"Harry, wake up already!"
He wakes up with a jolt, upper body snapping up with head whipping towards the source of the startling noise. The brown hair, brown eyes, feminine shape and hand-on-hip posture to top it all off immediately tells him who it is—his sister. Albeit not by blood, but his time and affection's good enough to make the label official (that, and the legal papers sitting somewhere in their parent's house cities away).
Well, she's not a burgular, and she's not an escaped convict either, so Harry thinks it's safe enough to yawn and rub at his eyes sleepily.
"But Hermione, it's only eight!"
"Only?!" she scowls, and opens her mouth to give him the lecture of a life time (not that she hasn't already given him one the day before), but stops when she sees the laptop still open and sitting atop his bed. "It's eight in the morning," she deadpans, "and you told me to wake you up. At eight. Sharp. Remember? Honestly, this is the fifth time this week that you've stayed up all night on the computer. What in the name of seven hells have you been doing on that thing?"
"Watching porn?" he answers cheekily, and receives an unhappy glare (not that any glares could be happy in the first place) with a pillow to the face. It must be one of the two that had fallen off during the night, he thinks, and he doesn't even bother to try and brace for impact because he probably deserves that soft, fluffy cushion thrown at him anyway.
"Wake up and make me breakfast," Hermione demands before sharply turning away and retreating to some other place in the house.
Harry smiles despite how pissed off his sister sounds, because he knows she'll never stay mad at him for long, and admittedly he loves spoiling her anyway, so making breakfast even though it's technically not his turn today is just fine by him. He stretches, the sheets falling away from his bare chest with no arms to hold them bundled in front of him anymore, and drudgingly moves away from his bed to go about the usual morning rituals.
By the time he gets downstairs, their respective drinks are already on the table—tea for Hermione, coffee for himself—and the stove is already hot. Eggs are set out too, so he knows his sister wants an omelet for breakfast. Harry goes through the process mechanically, mind elsewhere as it usually is according to everyone else, and his sister's quiet sips aren't loud enough to bring him back to reality either.
When he's sure the omelet is ready, he mentally checks off everything else. Bread is in the toaster, plates are set out, no dishes in the sink—as of yet—and nothing out of place. The morning's a regular morning, and Harry's just fine with that.
An hour later he's out the door, coat on because it's cold in the autumn, satchel slung over a shoulder with his laptop safely tucked away, second piece of toast wrapped in a napkin so he can eat it without getting his hands dirty while he walks to the café. There, he's greeted familiarly by a waitress—because honestly, he's known by everyone here because he's always here—and he takes a seat at the same place he always does, in a booth right beside a window with a good enough view of the people walking down the street.
Harry likes it here at the Leaky Cauldron, because even though the name is a bit lackluster, it's warm and cozy and he can sit for hours idly watching the pedestrians of London as they rush to wherever they're going on the particular day. He's a laidback type of person, because he already knows that being stressed is no fun, and to be honest being a writer while you're too busy thinking about all the things you have to do later is just no good either.
He's starving, hungry for words and a story and something that needs to be told, and he's definitely thirsty too; thirsty for readers and fans and people to pick up these stories and words and be just as enraptured by them as he is… but not everyone gets what they want, and Harry knows that, and knows he has other things to be thankful for, so he's still laidback even though there are things that he still wants.
Recently, he hasn't yet been able to find that something that he wants to cling to, to grab and hold on with and unyielding grip, to scratch and claw and defend and protect. There's yet to be a story that he wants to continue, to write past the point he can see at first glance, to finish, truly and completely. Harry knows that there's no point in rushing it, so he still sits and waits at the same table, mug of coffee and occasionally plate of treacle tart by his side. His notebook's still empty, page still blank, but his pen doesn't mind.
If it was two years ago, then maybe he'd be frustrated, but because it's not, and he's already met Marvolo, he isn't bothered at all by his inability to write something down.
Marvolo. Now that he's thinking about the man, Harry finds he can't quite stop. The amount of things that Marvolo is to him is… innumerable. And it's sort of sad, because he doesn't know the man past the brilliantly expressive, miraculous story weaver on the net, but then again perhaps it's better that way. Through the anonymity of the Internet, they unconsciously share themselves more than they expect they're sharing, and it's that, that key detail that lets them be as free and light and true as they are.
Marvolo is only a pseudonym, of course, but so is Evan. Despite that, Harry freely admits his… attachment. He gives his friend a special spot in his mind, reserved because Marvolo's a secret that isn't a secret, so to say, but rather just someone he prefers to keep all to himself.
With Marvolo, it's so incredibly easy to express himself. It hardly takes any effort at all to spin story after story, dialogue after dialogue, word after word, because Marvolo makes it easy to go with the flow. Coaxing the story to create itself isn't something Harry has to do, as long as he's with Marvolo, and that's why Harry stays up so late that it becomes early—just a few minutes, just an hour or so more, just a bit longer with his friend and indirect muse is worth it.
And it doesn't matter if Harry technically isn't Harry when they do stay up. Harry becomes Evan the bartender, or Evan the orphan. He's Evan the Earl, Evan the jealous lover, Evan the evil mastermind, Evan the best friend. To Marvolo, he becomes the father, the lover, the rival, the son, the brother, the enemy—everything. They're a duo, after all, and on the nights where the furious tapping of the keyboard is the only sound they can dare to make, everything else disappears except for the story.
Together, they effortlessly roleplay, and Harry can't bother to tear himself away. They write in first person, second person, third person—hell, once they tried to write as each other.
There's something addicting about being whatever the situation calls for, to write on the spur of the moment as someone else influences every single word that flows from your fingers. And, though it's obvious he's probably none of the things that he plays as, Harry finds that he's written more about himself by roleplaying than he could in an autobiography.
He wonders if Marvolo feels the same way.
When he leaves the café, he hasn't gotten anything done, but Harry thinks it doesn't really matter, because he can feel it. He feels the stirring of something coming, of something that will happen soon, of something that brings change and possibly the start of the next story. His body is already tense with anticipation—yes, something's going to happen soon.
Harry figures it's still perfectly fine to relax. Worrying is troublesome, after all, and if he worries too much his opportunity will slip away past his notice.
...Eventually…
The way Tom works is like how a clock works. He does things the same way over and over, not for the rhythm or the adoption of a habit that he can't get rid of, but because he knows that, in the end, it's the most efficient way to get things done. And Tom likes efficiency.
From when he wakes up to how he likes his meals and does his job, Tom has worked everything out so it all works well together. He knows himself better than most people can claim about themselves, so he's confident that his way is the way, at least when it's about himself. So he works like a machine: deft, nimble, consistent… precise.
And this is why all the directors he works with love him. This is why many of his co-workers envy him. This is why he's on top.
Because in the film industry, where things are hectic and unexpected obstacles are all part of the job, someone with a steady pace like Tom is gold. And he knows. He always does.
So when he wakes up still tired with a slight ache all over because of whatever position he fell asleep in, Tom ignores it—as per usual—and doesn't bother lazing around in bed. He can't afford it, and he needs his breakfast and coffee before he kills his manager and takes a vacation.
Actors don't get vacations. Not like those in the office can. Tom can't schedule a week off because he has enough hours and the work has been slow—no, he always has to get himself out there, keep the eyes on him, make sure no one is able to wrestle away the throne he sits upon. There's no real rest, and that's why he thrives in this type of environment.
As he sips his coffee and eats his eggs, he wonders what would have happened had he not given up writing.
Though, saying he had "given up" is incorrect. Tom doesn't like messing up his terms or butchering his meaning—well, occasionally he does but that's completely on purpose, and only when he has all the cards in his hand—not only is it amateur, it's inefficient. So Tom mentally corrects himself, because he hasn't stopped writing.
Technically.
In fact, he tries to write every night, though sometimes it's an impossibility due to his schedule. He doesn't write to keep up the practice, doesn't write because it's lethargic, and Tom certainly doesn't do it because he's holding out and waiting until he can switch careers. No, he writes for Evan.
And that was the key difference between who he was then, and who he is now.
Tom admits he doesn't know Evan that well. Well, he does, but not in the usual way. He doesn't know Evan's favorite color, doesn't know his favorite kind of food, doesn't know what he does for a living and doesn't know his preferred hobby—though he can assume it's writing.
Tom doesn't know Evan that way. After all, the only way they communicate is online. He doubts Evan's even had a passing thought in sharing all of that information with him. But there's something about the man—so he assumes it to be—that's utterly fascinating. Something that he can't pull away from. The way Evan writes makes him pause mid-paragraph, because he needs that moment to admire the way all of his thoughts were blown away to leave only the story. But Tom doesn't even want to stop; he wants to read to the end and then give Evan his due praise, but it takes awhile for his mind to catch up and by that time he's already taken his pause.
Evan writes like he's breathing, and his breath touches every word, every letter that he spins, gifting life and even a bit more to it. And it's not even about his writing style or how he uses his technical skills. No, it's because when Evan really gets going, Tom can catch a glimpse of who's behind the words, who's writing and who's begging for the story to be passed on.
It's wonderful and it's scary and Tom's hopelessly addicted.
But it only happens when Evan's really got something. Otherwise, the writing is certainly good, but not awe-inspiring. Tom doesn't mind either way, because while half of him is captured by the story they're making, the other half is consume with his part. His role. It was like acting, except with words on a page and to be honest, Tom feels like he found his place there. Because it isn't a job or seen by the professionals in the field, he can fully immerse himself in what he's doing instead of worrying about… the extra.
And it's perfect.
So... Hi. I'll just, y'know, drop this off here... nice and easy... not like those delivery guys who throw packages at your door.
Err, I mean, "Deliver-"
Sorry. Not that either.
Uh, enjoy... and drop a review on your way out?
Sincerely,
R.R.
