[mp] nothing changes anything [harlan]

The drink had been impulsive. Harlan knew it the moment he caught the bartender's eye and he had half a mind to turn around then and there. But he didn't. After handing Honey's over to her, leaving no time to linger where his fingers grazed hers, just), he looked back up at her in anticipation. His eyes were somewhere between impatient and apologetic. If she was smart, he thought, she would tell him to fuck off and get on with her life. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? He wanted to give every opportunity either way.

She couldn't pretend like she didn't know him.

"Well," He stopped himself short of saying something he would really regret. Swirling his tongue against his cheek, he studied her. It was clear that she meant what she said, that she couldn't pretend. And he understood the sentiment well. Harlan had never been one for putting on a front. He supposed that was why it was so natural for him to push her away all those times. A brow quirked as she took another mouthful of champagne that nearly drained the glass.

"I don't know what to tell you, Honey," The crowd quietly hummed as the auction began, their attention on the stage. He was thankful that everyone around them was distracted. It created a blanket of anonymity of sorts. A privacy not often afforded to him. At her name, he caught her eye and held it, shaking his head. Truthfully, he could feel his heart in his chest the moment she confessed it, but he was doing everything he could to ignore it.

"We shoul—" He began, then was cut off by the swell of applause that made it hard to think, let alone speak his mind. "Can we talk? Somewhere else?" Harlan left his drink and offered her a moment to decline before turning toward an exit with no particular destination in mind.

Honey pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose. Harlan didn’t know what to tell her, and she didn’t know what she wanted him to tell her, either. Except if she thought about it for more than one whole second, she knew exactly what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to take it back, wanted him to want to be her friend. There was a lot of want. At the very least she just wanted him to talk to her. But the eye contact—uninterrupted, almost unexpected—was making it hard to say any of that out loud.

We should— leave it there, she assumed. Or— talk somewhere else. The suggestion caught her off guard, even though that was exactly what she had wanted; she nodded once. “Alright.” Honey finished her drink, leaving the glass on the bar and regretting not getting a refill as she walked away.

She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going. There hadn’t been much reason to leave this main room—where all her sweets and cakes (and the free alcohol) were—until now.  She checked over her shoulder that he was following her, then refocused on working through the crowd, through the next room, then to the next one that was finally free of anyone else. She turned, uninterested in whatever exhibit was on show, only barely recognizing they were still in a museum.

He was standing closer to her than she had expected, but she didn’t take a step back, didn’t move at all save for raising her eyebrows (and the slight champagne-induced wobble she had in general). She looked up at him, waiting for him to speak first.