[paris] summer slipped us underneath her tongue [harlan]

"Not likely," Harlan was quick to counter, a knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. There was a part of him that kind of believed it, too.

He watched as her perpetually wide eyes lingered on his chest before meeting his own. He decided not to comment. Bérénice seemed to always be in awe of everything, as if she was seeing it for the first time, as if she was really taking it in. That was endearing when compared to what he had self-prescribed as his own emotionless stare.

"Another drink?" Harlan feigned surprise at her sudden change of heart. It was probably a good idea, after all, maybe then she wouldn't be so worried about speaking ill of their parents. As far as he could tell, that was the only way they were going to get through the night. "Don't suppose you want some of this?" In a peculiar twist, she had finished her champagne first.

He didn't liken her as a whiskey person— not anymore, at least, but it was worth a shot if it saved him venturing back indoors.

He took the champagne flute thrust upon him and looked hopefully to the entry, but saw no help. He nudged her with his own half-full glass. "I quite recall you liking whiskey once upon a time," Harlan remembered fondly. It was in their later teens after her initial vow of never drinking again, long after the first time he'd "forced" a hangover upon her. Their families were vacationing in Spain, or somewhere, the details eluded him.

"Really going to make me go back in there?" Harlan conceded, dramatically handing his glass over anyway. "If I'm caught though, you're on your own out here," He warned over his shoulder. Thankfully, a server with a tray of champagne met him a few steps into enemy lines. He took two, for good measure, returning the empty, and let the kid know they may be in need of more as the night went on.

“You’re a bad influence,” she told him, deciding in that moment that she would blame him for her sudden desire to get more than a little merry -- she was overdue a good night out. She glanced down at the whisky as Harlan held it out to her and Bérénice thought she felt a touch more lightheaded just from looking at it. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head infinitesimally. “Mm.” This wasn’t a good idea.

“I wouldn’t say I liked it,” she argued, still eyeing the amber liquid with a look of mild suspicion. “Before your encouragement I’d only ever had a glass of wine with dinner,” she said, referring to the first time they (Harlan) had sneaked a bottle of something for them (mostly her) to try. “I prefer wine,” she said with a smarmy grin, hoping he would be a dear and go fetch her another.

“If you would,” she smiled, taking the glass as he offered it -- just to hold, of course. “If you don’t make it back I’ll come and rescue you,” she offered with a slow smile, “maybe.” She lifted the crystal tumbler to sniff at the contents, her eyes closing briefly; it was a comforting smell, warm and enveloping, and it brought back a handful of memories that seemed to only surface in the presence of whisky.

Bérénice had the glass almost to her lips when she spotted Harlan returning, a flute in each hand. She smirked behind his whisky and took a sip anyway, her free arm crossed over her front and her backside resting on the parapet. “Very efficient,” she complimented him, holding his glass close to her chest -- not quite willing to give it back just yet. “You look rather good carrying champagne,” she smirked.

“Are you staying in Paris tonight?” she asked, bringing the whisky tumbler up near her mouth again. “Or are you all travelling back?”

Harlan shook his head as he took a step back onto the balcony, that little smirk of hers was not lost on him. In truth, he would have wound up doing it anyway— getting the drinks, risking his anonymity— but in retrospect, he wished he'd made her work just a little bit harder for it. Maybe then she wouldn't be so smug.

"Don't push it," He warned. He was sure he looked absolutely ridiculous. "No need to suck up, Nice, told the kid to keep 'em coming— friends a bit of a lush," He sidled up to ledge beside her with a grin and precariously placed one of the glasses atop it, pausing briefly before turning back to her question.

"Family will leave tonight, I've got a meeting in the city in the morning," Harlan explained with no particular level of excitement. "—interview," He corrected, even less enthusiastically. He would have much preferred to go home to his own bed, but with the way that his schedule had been, he needed to cram as much into every weekend as he could. "Assuming day two of the birthday celebration is happening?" He teased, taking a sip of champagne without thinking.

"We sharing, then?" He nodded to his glass that was still held tight in her hands with an amiable scoff. So much for preferring the wine.

“I’m not sucking up,” she told him with playful grin -- evidence that she was enjoying Harlan playing waiter far too much. Then, her jaw dropped just enough to show her shock. “You didn’t!” she swatted at his arm softly, her mouth still twisted in a reluctant (not really) grin.

“Oh?” An interview, of course. “Not for Oui, I assume?” she teased, sipping at his (her) whisky.. “Well, if I had known anything about all of this,” she gestured at the party, “you could have stayed at mine, saved yourself the hotel.” Not that he was short for the money. “You know it’s empty most of the year now, so if you ever need to get away for the weekend...” she trailed off. The offer was innocent, but she realised now -- now that she had already put it out there -- how it might be misinterpreted. The brunette cleared her throat softly, the apples of her cheeks taking on a pinker hue that she hoped he couldn’t see in the low light outside. “Not so empty over the summer,” she added, smiling a little awkwardly.

“If it is I suppose I’d find out in the morning.” She looked at him, slightly weary but smiling through it -- as was becoming the norm around her family. “But no, I don’t think so,” she shook her head softly. “I’ll probably spend the day before I head back to Beauxbatons.”

Her eyes flicked from his face to the whisky and back; she smirked. “You’ve always been so good at sharing,” she joked. Bérénice drank, holding his gaze over the rim of the glass. As she lowered the glass, her attention went with it. “I don’t remember the last time I had whisky,” she mused, “probably not a good sign,” she let out a light laugh, then held the glass out in an offer to swap.

At the offer of her home, Harlan nodded, though he had no real intention of taking her up on it. Something about being in someone's place when they weren't there felt like an intrusion, an invasion of privacy. The anonymous monotony of a hotel suite worked just fine for him. In fact, sometimes he even preferred it.

"I'll be sure to avoid it over Summer," Harlan commented with a smirk, an attempt to alleviate the tension that he spotted across her reddened cheeks. Bérénice, for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom, had always been quick to embarrass. It wasn't a bad idea though. A weekend away to France. Her place was beautiful, decorated very much in a way that suited her— airy and sleek, inviting. The antithesis of his.

"Back to school," He thought to himself aloud, eyes canvassing the gardens before flicking back to Nice. He'd almost forgotten the party just inside, lulled by the false sense of security that was the balcony.  It was only a matter of time before one of them was spotted.

"Don't tell me it was Italy," Harlan turned serious, though held a half-grin. He hoped that wasn't the time given they had to have been only sixteen at the time, but he was feeling like recounting the memory. He happily traded the champagne for his preferred drink.

"Feels like a lifetime ago," The nostalgia plagued him. How quickly time seemed to pass as he got older was something that he tried desperately to grab hold of, but the more he did the more it slipped through his fingers. "Best you stick to that, then," He snapped out it, nodding to her flute. "I remember you that night," He bumped an elbow casually into her with a grin. Physical touch was not something Harlan could stay away from for too long.

“You don’t have to avoid it entirely,” she replied, backtracking and regaining some of her composure. “Just, maybe don’t bring anyone home with you,” she smirked softly; she was fine with having him to stay, but she didn’t want him and a guest keeping her up at night. Bérénice had borne witness to Harlan in his element enough times to last a lifetime, and if the papers were even remotely close to the truth it didn’t sound like he’d changed his ways despite now being over thirty.

She nodded. “At least it’s a little bit warmer down there,” she smiled, trying to convince herself that heading back to the boarding school was what she really wanted.

“No,” she grinned back at him, swapping glasses. “It was Switzerland,” she joked, her dark eyes flicking to meet his; that had been the following year, and definitely hadn’t been the last time she’d had Scotch whisky. Not that whisky was the only risky beverage around Harlan -- it had seemed, when they were younger, that he would drink anything. Bérénice had done her best to keep up with him one Oktoberfest in Munich, shortly after finishing her training to be a healer, and that hadn’t ended well.

The brunette shifted slightly, subtly trying to leech some body heat from him as the temperature dropped -- the alcohol not quite doing its job of keeping her warm. “Mm,” she agreed, “we’re getting old,” she smiled, having another sip of champagne.

“Italy? I was sixteen!” Bérénice nudged him and shook her head lightly, staring straight ahead at the people on the other side of the glass, dancing and pretending to enjoy each other’s company. She let out a soft sigh and rested her head on his shoulder again. “How long have we got left?” she asked, half a smirk on her lips as she lifted her face to look up at him. "Our hour."

Harlan raised an eyebrow— the mention of him bringing someone back to Berenice's even more unlikely than him staying there in the first place. He let out a breath of a laugh, indicating as much. Honey wouldn't go for that anyway, and she was the only person he should have been bringing anywhere.

Steely eyes met Bérénice's almost instinctively as she shot a glance up at him. Switzerland, then, during a Bonaccord/Bellamy trip some years after Italy. They had to have been at least eighteen then. He settled into smugness with a grin. Was it selfish, certainly, but the idea that he was so tied to an experience for someone, even something as seemingly commonplace as drinking whiskey, felt nice.

At once, his smile didn't quite meet his eyes anymore. They were getting old. That very idea had been plaguing him in every other area of his life, so he was happy to breeze over the topic, particularly in the moment.

"Sixteen and trouble," Harlan teased. Nice was far from it, even then. If anything, that would have been him— the mastermind behind nicking the bottle from his father's bar, not that it took much effort. He probably would have given it to him if he'd thought to even ask.

As she tucked in closer and rest her head against his arm, Harlan settled against her in return. It was comfortable, and normal for them, so he reminded himself to not to read too much into it— the closeness and what, for anyone else, may have been considered flirting. Their hour. He cast a glance at his watch and clicked his tongue in thought.

"Better drink up," He looked down at her with a raised eyebrow. "Nearly halfway through now..." He scanned the room once more— it seemed that no one had noticed, but he imagined one of their mothers' radars would soon go off. "Cold?" He brushed a hand over her arm that he noticed had goosebumps. "If I'd followed the dress code, this is where I'd give you my suit jacket," He shrugged and wrapped an arm over her shoulders instead.

“Pardonne-moi, you are the trouble,” she pointed at him accusingly, the rest of her fingers still wrapped around her champagne flute. ‘Always have been,” she smirked, bringing the glass to her lips and sipping.

The witch let out a gentle sigh as she made herself comfortable against Harlan. This would be easier, wouldn’t it? This sort of life -- dinners and parties. Maybe she should give in to it, move back to Paris and accept everything that came with being a Bonaccord rather than try to fight it. Being a recluse wasn’t really suiting her as much as she had thought it would, but she didn’t think she could return to the hospital -- but nor could she sit around all day doing nothing at all. She needed to work. Summer wasn’t far away, she could figure it all out then, maybe.

“Halfway?” Bérénice replied at a murmur, the wine beginning to affect her ability to remain alert and fully legible. “Hm,” she hummed, “a little,” she admitted, gazing up at him with a smile on her lips as he pulled her in close. She gave him some of her weight, leaning into him comfortably. “Such a gentleman, when you want to be,” she teased, her eyes flicking to his mouth briefly.

She glanced away and back to the party, through the glass -- just in time to see Harlan’s mother moving suspiciously quickly from one end of the room. “I think we have less than an hour if we stay here,” she said, the edges of her words blending softly from the alcohol. The last thing either of them wanted was to be discovered like this (alone) by one of their parents -- it would only stoke the embers of a non-existent fire.

Bérénice slipped from under Harlan’s strong arm and took his hand in hers. “Quickly,” she hurried him, leading them in the opposite direction of the party and down the balcony steps into the gardens to be swallowed by the darkness, out of reach of the warm glow upstairs. “Shh--” she lifted the hand still holding her wine, finger awkwardly pressed to her lips to hush him. The brunette pressed close, encouraging him to hide beneath the platform, out of view. “She can’t see us,” Nice whispered, looking up at the bottom of the balcony from their hiding spot underneath it, imagining Mrs Bellamy above.

Harlan followed Bérénice's guidance toward the gardens— though he was visibly less covert, walking plainly with a hand in his pocket, drink to his mouth. He cast a glance back up to the last he could see of the illuminated windows of the party before letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It took a moment for him to see anything other than the outline of her figure and the tall shrubbery surrounding them.

Quickly, she whispered. "Alright, alright," Harlan didn't match her hushed tone, as evidenced by her swift shushing. He made a face. "Very bossy— this birthday soiree is getting to your head, Nice..." He trailed off with a hint of a smirk, only briefly catching her gaze. Mrs. Bellamy, at least, wouldn't step farther than halfway on the balcony to look for him, so the threat felt less imminent, but he went along with it anyway.

Suddenly pushed with his back against one of the pillars, Harlan let out a dramatic breath of air. "A bit extreme, no?" He allowed his eyes to travel the length of her body that had him held under the platform— she was certainly committed, he'd give her that.

Harlan was only aware of the hand that he'd rest on her side once she pulled back slightly to look up at the party to see if their cover had been blown. He studied her face, her upturned eyes, as she assessed the situation. He averted his gaze when she turned back, clearing his throat and shifting slightly so that they weren't so entwined. That, if seen, would be hard to explain, even if it was innocent.

"So what now, then, Bond?" He referenced the muggle film character. When they were younger, he'd snuck tapes back from school from a muggleborn friend so that he and Nice and his brother could watch once their parents had buggered off. Their situation now felt very reminiscent. "Going to hide down here the whole night?" He offered the whiskey with a grin. He supposed, if they could, it wasn't all that bad of an idea.

“I am not bossy,” she whispered shrilly back at him, offended – and not for the first time. He certainly knew what buttons to press.

And they were pressed close, now. Bérénice was momentarily distracted by how it felt, her body up against his solid form. They hugged, they touched, but not like this— The French witch glared softly at him when he voiced his opinion. With an arch of her back, she peered up at the balcony cautiously. “Shh,” she hushed him again (louder, drunker), forgetting that the music from upstairs would easily drown out lowered voices down here.

Satisfied that they had escaped successfully, Bérénice leant back in, effectively bringing them flush once more. Harlan cleared his throat and she seemed to realise what she had done. Bérénice only missed his hand after it left her side – she hadn’t noticed it wrapped around her waist, the warmth welcome and familiar. She looked at him with round eyes, but she didn’t put any space between them other than to allow for his movements; some part of her brain convinced that to make a big deal out of it would make things worse, another part simply reluctant to retreat.

“Bond?” The champagne was certainly slowing her down, it took her a moment to catch up. “Oh.” She rolled her eyes with a smirk, before focusing on the whiskey as he held it out. Nice pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, half-hiding a slow grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she murmured, lifting the glass to her mouth and holding eye contact with him as she sipped. Passing it back to him, she licked her lips. “At least until the hour is up,” she offered, gazing at him.

“When is your next match?” she asked, seemingly out of the blue; that would be her next opportunity to see him, wouldn’t it? Without orchestrating anything elaborate, or raising suspicion. “The one in Scotland,” she added, her eyelids drooping, as she steadied herself with a hand on his hip.

"Bond," Harlan repeated, watching her with a raised eyebrow, expectant. Not that he would ever admit it but he would be disappointed if she didn't remember. It was an otherwise ordinary memory from their childhood but somehow it stuck. Thankfully, Nice got there eventually— he wouldn't have to tease her for that too.

It seemed that somehow they were again as close as they had been when she had pushed him under the awning in the first place, but now he was more careful about any wayward hand placements. He watched with interest as she took a sip of whiskey— for someone who had been adamant that the drink wasn't for her, she sure was proving him wrong. Harlan grinned, happily taking back the glass, if anything, to keep his hands busy.

At the mention of Quidditch, Harlan shook his head as if to bring himself back to the present. "Next week," He said after a slight pause for deliberation. The weeks were flying by the further they got in the season, he could hardly keep up with what month it was anymore. "That means you'll be coming then?" His gaze dropped briefly to her hand that touched just above his belt before flicking back to her, a hint of question furrowing his brow. If he didn't know any better...

Fuck it. Harlan allowed himself to lean into her slightly, back still pressed to the pillar. His hand fell again to her side, casually, but was threatening to drop. He would have almost forgotten who she was he didn't catch her eye in the moment. This was Bérénice. "I should probably be on my way soon, anyway," He cleared his throat suddenly, shifting. "Early morning," It wasn't really, but sticking around much longer, he knew, would not end well.

“Think I’m more suited to the role of one of his floozies,” Bérénice joked. Her warm brown eyes grazed over him slowly, appreciatively, as a smirk played across her lips. “If only you had worn your jacket, you could have played the leading man.”

With her hands free the brunette failed to know what exactly to do with them – an overwhelming desire to wrap them around his torso was gratefully eschewed when he answered her. “Next week,” she repeated, focusing (with a small amount of effort, lines were blurring and the whiskey wasn’t helping) on his face. “Yes— that is, I’ll come if you want me to.” She hadn’t said it suggestively, but it was difficult to avoid the undertone, what with her hand on his hip and her body leaning into his.

As Harlan’s attention was drawn down, Bérénice continued to watch his face with interest, observing the lines around his eyes and across his forehead that hadn’t been there before – before before, the last time she’d allowed herself to look at him like this. But if anything they – and the faint greys she’s noticed along his hairline in the light upstairs – only served to refine him a little bit more.

Nice felt the quidditch player shift as their eyes met again and her chest grew tight in anticipation – of what, she didn’t know. The French witch did recognise the feel of his large hand on her waist this time, and didn’t think she was reading into it. Her lips parted just barely, automatically, her warm gaze focused on his mouth—

Her eyes flicked up to his and she caught herself. Pressing her fingers into his hip in her urgency to stand upright, without him, she shook her head softly – silently admonishing herself for whatever she had thought was about to happen. “Of course,” she agreed, “I should probably— upstairs, the party.”

Harlan suppressed an uncharacteristic laugh, slapping his hand over his mouth. He figured that Bérénice hadn't meant the double entendre— it was Bérénice after all— but he couldn't help himself. "You should—" He composed finally, pulling back into his usual stoic demeanor. "—come, to the match" He clarified, though he didn't particularly want to. "I'll send some tickets for you and..." He paused, realizing that he didn't know the new man's name.

"—I'll send a couple," Harlan coughed, brushing over the fact that he knew so little about the guy. The details mattered little. He was far to preoccupied with her nails tugging his skin under the taught fabric of his shirt. He let out a breath, cut short, his own hand flexing against the small of her back.

"Right, then," He said finally with a sigh, selfishly allowing himself to press to her as he stepped away from the column. Harlan had always been a sucker for any kind of physical touch and it seemed that this night was no exception. The more he was given, even an inch, the more he craved. But it was time to go.

"Walk you up?" Harlan spoke into her side before pulling away from the semblance of an embrace. On the one hand, he wanted to do anything but that, but on the other, he needed to be rational— logical. He led the way in which they came, across the stoned path and back up the stairs, met with a familiar face.

"Simon," He breathed, trying to hide his disappointment. His older brother eyed the pair with a suspicious grin. "Fancy seeing you both here," His voice was smooth, but alarming. Harlan knew better than to trust him. "Happy birthday," He pulled Nice in before, "We can expect you at the polo, I'm sure?" Harlan practically groaned. His brother's defense tactic, to keep the attention off of him, was all too clear.

Harlan’s outburst took Bérénice by surprise; she looked up at him wide-eyed in confusion. Her mouth twisted into an uncertain smile, wanting to be in on the joke – hoping he wasn’t laughing at her. “Bien,” she said, gripping his forearm when he mentioned – or rather, indirectly alluded to – Will’s existence. “Yes,” she nodded quickly, “I’ll be there.”

Bérénice had somehow narrowly avoided making a fool out of herself – she wasn’t sure yet if Harlan was to thank for that, or if it had been his fault in the first place. Did he know? He wasn’t stupid, he was observant – he had to know. The way he pushed himself against her wasn’t exactly unavoidable and it had Nice second guessing her second guesses, and then he was crowding her – she could smell his cologne mixed with the whiskey and the faintest hint of sweat and her natural response was to want to close the gap.

His breath hot behind her ear sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, and it took her looking up at him – meeting his gaze – to register what exactly it was he had said. “Yes, please,” the hypnotist cleared her throat and took her place alongside him, her arm slipping through his with the briefest hesitation.

They took the stairs slowly, though Bérénice was sure now this was due to her footwear and how much champagne (and whiskey) she had had, rather than through any desire to prolong their time together. So focused was she on where her feet were going, she didn’t notice Harlan’s brother until the man she was leaning on announced his presence.

Bérénice stared at the other man like a deer caught in headlights. “I—” she started, before he pulled her into an embrace and wished her a happy birthday. “Merci,” she mumbled with a shaky smile, then a more confident one as she stepped back beside the younger Bellamy brother. “Oh,” she turned to Harlan, looping her hands around his forearm to use him for support (figurative and physical), “if I am invited, of course,” she smiled again, “wouldn’t miss it.”

She glanced behind Simon, a pretty young woman a few paces beyond who was most definitely not his wife lingering just out of earshot. Without missing a beat, Bérénice smiled at Simon once more; “How is Pippa? It will be lovely to see her. At the polo.”


OUT

Simon pulled Harlan into a handshake, the hand that clapped his back a bit too tough to be considered friendly.  A warning. He didn't need to even half-glance at the mystery woman to know he was meant to keep quiet about it— whatever it was. For the first time in a while, his brother may have owed him the same, he thought to himself begrudgingly. Harlan had no intention of a rumor getting to their parents. And it wouldn't have been the first time he had to cover for Simon.

Harlan watched as Bérénice was pulled into an embrace, only briefly flicking his gaze to the woman was decidedly not his sister-in-law to gauge her reaction. Apparently she'd seen something of much more interest among the pitch-black darkness of the gardens. Pathetic, he thought to himself, but immediately caught his hypocrisy and adjusted his face.

Of course, she was invited, she was family, said Simon, holding his brother's gaze for an uncomfortable period, almost daring him now. "Right," He agreed, less enthusiastically, but not because he didn't want her to join. "Your parents will have the details, we'll see to it that an invitation is sent to Beauxbatons as well," Harlan glanced over to Nice reassuringly before she brought up Pippa. He nearly let out a laugh, but instead turned back to Simon with a wolfish grin. Checkmate, asshole.

[fin]