[mp] syrup & honey [harlan]

thursday 7th august | schiedam, netherlands

Bérénice had begun the day daintily sipping at the samples – admiring the miniature tulip-shaped glasses they were served in, savouring the different flavours offered by the oude and jonge genever – but had progressed, over a few hours (with Harlan’s encouragement), to knocking back the liquid in one swallow. They thanked the stall holder and stepped away; Nice slipped her arm through his and cuddled into his solid form, smiling and rosy-cheeked.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, though they still had some time before it set. They were slowly making their way out of the festival to go and get dinner, possibly with some more gin (she had never had a taste for it before, but perhaps she’d just needed to acquire one).

“I’m moving to Chatoeil,” she announced, continuing their conversation – sort of – from before they’d been distracted by another sample. They hadn’t really been talking about moving, or Chatoeil, but Harlan had been telling her his vague plans for next season and what was next term if not a season of her own? “I’ve— uh,” she hesitated, trying to find the best word, “relinquished the Deputy Head role. So I can spend a day in the clinic.” It was the ideal compromise, at this point in time. It allowed her more time off school grounds, without jeopardising her role entirely; whilst also keeping a foot in the door of the career she had meant to only take a short break from. “I haven’t told my parents yet, I’m still sure they – Maman, probably – had something to do with it in the first place.” She rolled her eyes.

Harlan happily (too happily, but Bérénice was just as merry and failed to really notice) took a large chunk of juniper liquorice when it was offered to him by another stallholder, though judging by his expression he was rather regretting it the moment he’d popped it into his mouth. Bérénice laughed and held up a bitterballen on a cocktail pick to him; “Here.” 


@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan hated festivals, of every variety. They were the combination of all the things that made his skin crawl— crowds, costumes, obligatory group games.

But there he was, stupid tulip souvenir glass neckless roped around his neck with his drunken grin to match, strolling the cobblestoned pathway. When Bérénice had mentioned Genever he was, naturally, skeptical, but had agreed. At first, he justified it because he was in the area (vaguely) for the national team, but truthfully he had some morbid curiosity— about them and about the festival.

"Really?" Harlan looked down at Nice, casually wrapping an arm over her shoulders without so much as thinking of who might see them. "That's good, right?" He asked. He knew that the whole Deputy Head thing wasn't her idea, but it had to have been a tough decision to make nonetheless, a change in career path.

"Have you found a place?" He ran a thumb absently over the thin strap on her shoulder, eyes exploring the next stall that they approached. The woman behind it was eagerly offering a handful of things of which he happily accepted in exchange for some coins. Juniper licorice, he found out, was not for him.

Harlan tried not to make a face, turning around to avoid the watchful eye of the stallholder as he forced it down. Thankfully Nice had an anecdote in the form of, quite literally, anything else. He pulled her hand up, not bothering to grab the cocktail pick himself, and bit into the bitterballen. "Cheers, thanks," He called back to the woman before directing them away with a laugh. "Surely, no one actually enjoys that, " He thought aloud, glancing over to her with a grin.

Harlan wrapped his arm around her and Bérénice curled into him, grateful for the warmth and his solid form as the evening began to cool. Was it good? “I think so,” she answered honestly. “Teaching is great but... I miss the hospital.” Parts of it, at least. It was easy to feel like she was wasting time at the school, the hospital had always filled her with a sense of purpose. “I don’t know yet whether I want to go back to it full-time or keep doing this, so I thought doing a bit of both was a good compromise.”

The Frenchwoman laughed, light and tinkling, at Harlan’s reaction to the liquorice. Her amusement was cut short -- or rather, diverted -- when he grabbed her hand in his. She hated the word ‘fantasise’ but she had, about Harlan, for a long time, not in the explicit manner (that was a little more recent), but like this, the two of them. She wasn’t fooling herself (yet) that this was anything more than what it was, but when he touched her so casually, so easily, and it affected her so greatly, she felt foolish for wondering what if.

Bérénice cleared her throat softly and put her attention to the (now empty) cocktail stick she had been left holding, her hand lowered to waist-height. She shrugged, still leaning into him. “The Dutch, presumably,” she smirked softly, gazing back up at his face.

As they walked she circled mentally back around to his question pre-liquorice. “I found somewhere near the harbour,” she continued, “I’ll move my things before the term starts. I’m still in Paris until then.” She glanced up at him again, smirking again as she recalled his most recent visit to Paris. And hers to London. They’d somehow slipped into this unofficial arrangement and she didn’t want to spook him by pointing it out -- not blatantly, at least.

“What about you?” she asked carefully, curious what his plans were now that he’d finally won a championship. And if he might be more inclined to visit France beyond the summer, now that she wasn’t going to be  living on school grounds.

"Give it time, you'll work it out," Harlan assured knowing full well that Bérénice didn't need to hear that from him. The woman was impossibly intuitive,  her instinct was always going to lead her in the right direction. More so than any decision he made had done for him, at least.

"Yeah, has it got a guest room?" He teased, the effect of the gin, and the food, and the terrible sweets had culminated to create some kind of light-hearted monster. Even he didn't recognize himself. Relaxed and without a care in the world, strolling the cobblestone pathway with his arm draped over her, vaguely, he wondered if he was one of those people that gin made crazy.

Harlan let out an exasperated laugh, squeezing her shoulder. "Fuck if I know," He confessed as the stupid grin on his face fell. It was the question of the month— just what was he going to do with his Summer. It was no secret that downtime had never really worked for him, but as of late he'd been feeling more listless than ever.

"Think I might spend some time in Chatoeil..." He quirked an eyebrow, avoiding her gaze and instead studied the calm channel of water beside them. "I've heard the food is alright," Harlan nudged her, finally catching her eye.

Bérénice rolled her eyes, her full lips stretching into a wide smile and revealing her straight white teeth. As if he would need to stay in the guest room -- but yes, it did have one. She was preoccupied, however, by how relaxed Harlan seemed. A part of her wanted to claim it was because he was with her, but the more logical, sensible, rational (neurotic) part of her told her it was because he was in his off-season, he’d just won the league, and (perhaps most importantly) he’d been drinking gin for the last few hours.

Relief washed over Nice when Harlan admitted he had no plans. She couldn’t not have a plan, which was why she had compromised with putting a foot in both camps, but she still felt directionless. Her friends and peers were all settled in their careers or their families, and she felt as though she were lagging behind -- perhaps that was why Harlan had such a calming (and otherwise) effect on her; they were both alike, in that way. They could not-know together, at least.

And it was like he had read her mind. The Hypnotist looked at him, looking deliberately not at her. A funny little smirk playing on her lips where she was trying not to smile. “Oh, do you know someone you can stay with?” He met her gaze then and she held it, leaning back into him where he nudged her. “The seafood is amazing, actually. I know you like your oysters."

"Speaking of food…" she continued after a pause, "Do you still have an appetite?" she prodded his belly.

"A few, as a matter of fact," Harlan made a sound something like a hum in the back of his throat, in thought, though very little real thought had gone into it.

He only knew the one.

"So I've heard," He added more seriously at the mention of seafood as though the topic was his barometer for what was deemed not to tease about. Bérénice had always been a good listener. She picked up on every little nuance and quirk of a person, his person in this instance. Harlan wondered if he could ever be that adept with the minutiae. There were things that he knew she liked, of course, (a certain variety more than others), but in comparison—

"Do you know me at all?" Harlan teased, betraying the how and why of her psyche from just moments before. He ran his palm over her upper arm before dipping to pull her toward him at her side between metered steps down the cobblestoned pathway. "Anything you'd like?" His blue eyes scanned the resturant options that lined the canal, their outside dining areas spraweld over the walkway. "Oh, lobster and truffle oil..." He studied the nearest chalkboard sign. Sold.

fin