[oct mp] two tickets to paradise. [tag; berenice]

Maybe he should have booked a restaurant, instead.

That was the overriding thought in his head as he weaved his way down the packed street, avoiding tubas as he went. He'd already almost been knocked out cold by wayward brass instruments but it was practically impossible not be swept up the festivities. Despite it being autumn, it was a beautiful cloudless blue sky, the sun sitting high as it shone down on the partygoers. He'd never been to this part of the country before.

Will had forgotten his head. He should have offered to pick her up or, at the very least, met her in Chatoeil. "Hi. Sorry. Excuse me. Could I just squeeze through there -- " The tall man was forced to duck out of the way of a French horn that had just been swung gaily  at his head. He couldn't have stuck out more even if he'd had the words confused tourist tattooed on his forehead.

He really liked Bérénice and he wanted to continue to see her. She was busy being magnificent at Beauxbatons so their meet ups were few and far between. They'd had a nice time in the south of Italy but that was over six weeks ago now. He hadn't realised that whenever they got together, it was in the middle of a crowd. Italy in high summer, though romantic, wasn't quiet. Now, in a picturesque alpine village, he was unsure of how to keep a conversation going over a rather loud bout of yodelling.

Will wasn't a fan of shorts but he was wearing a Tyrolean hat for the occasion. Made of navy blue felt, his hat came with a brush of gold and orange feathers on the side and an intricate blue roping across the crown. In jeans, a powder blue shirt and a dark wax jacket, he was more English aristocrat than Alpine man but it was the thought that counted.

He managed to spot a break in the crowd and order two lots of beer and a pretzel that was wrapped in a white napkin. Will took a step back and blinked; it was chaos but he didn't feel threatened. Everyone was having a good time. It was a beautiful little place and he could only imagine how special it would look when it was deserted. He bobbed his head along to the deep noises of the various horns, sipping at what looked to be an actual litre of lager as he watched someone parade a rather bewildered looking goat down the middle of the street.

Mid-gulp, he looked up and caught sight of Nice and waved. Will held the large mugs of beer up and over his head with practiced skill (he'd been a fan of concerts as a teenager) and stepped close to her with a grin. "Hello," he told her, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he offered her a glass of beer. "Talk about a party," he joked with a roll of his big dark eyes.

He'd heard this was also a wizarding spa town and regret began to creep in; he really should have invited her on a relaxing spa day instead of an all-night rager. It was like a carnival atmosphere. The little town was positively heaving. It was bursting at the seams but no one seemed to mind; it was almost like a "more the merrier" type of vibe.

A band began to march down the centre of the street, people whooping and hollering in their wake. They were holding hands and dancing, looping in circles as they clapped to the music. Will had no idea where they were headed but he did know that he wanted to join in. "Prost," Will said as he clinked his glass against hers and took another swig. "Shall we?" He asked Bérénice with a smile, nodding the central crowd. He hoped he didn't get completely drunk and tell her that he fancied the pants off her.

Six weeks since she’d last seen Will. She sometimes found herself wondering if he was truly interested, but then he kept suggesting the next place for them to meet and she supposed he must be if he was going out of his way to work around her – now very busy – schedule. As a newly permanent professor Bérénice had doubted she would be allowed weekends ‘off grounds’ – add Head of House and Deputy Headmistress into the mix and it seemed equal parts expectation of duty and ability to do what she wanted came into play. It was one weekend, in the end. She presumed she might not see him again until the Christmas holidays – unless he was kind enough to make another trip to Chatoeil. So far he wasn’t shy about hopping around the continent, so maybe it wasn’t a completely false hope.

The Frenchwoman hadn’t been to an Oktoberfest since her days studying at L'Académie Guérison Adrienne d'Heur, but she had made the effort to purchase a new dirndl; her old one was long gone, and even if she did still have it there was no way she would still fit in it. The lace undershirt was perhaps a little lower-cut than she was used to wearing (especially now that her wardrobe had to be suitable for the classroom), but she doubted she would be the only woman suffering such an issue. Every single example of the traditional Bavarian dress she’d looked at was woefully lacking in the area of cleavage-concealment.  In addition to dressing for the occasion, Bérénice had also styled her thick, dark hair in a classic milkmaid braid.

They had agreed to meet near the food and drink stalls – in hindsight, it might have been easier if Will had given Bérénice the name of his hotel. Then again, that seemed far too presumptuous. Will was a gentleman, above all else. Her warm brown eyes scanned the crowd, realising now how difficult it would be to find him amongst the throngs of other people dressed in theme. Ah, there he was. She smiled and popped up on her tiptoes to wave excitedly before she could stop herself. She really must learn to control herself better than a giddy schoolgirl – she blamed being surrounded by teenagers again.

A moment later and Will was by her side. Bérénice returned his greeting, offering a kiss on one cheek then realising halfway through the second one that he was more familiar with the British style – just the one. She smiled bashfully, her cheeks flushing a warm pink. Nice gratefully accepted the stein with two hands, pleased to have something to distract herself with. “Hello – or, should I say wie geht’s?” she grinned. “I haven’t been to one of these in years,” she admitted, watching as people jostled and danced past.

The brunette gave Will a once-over. “Did you forget your lederhosen?” she smirked, reaching up to tap at the brim of his hat. “I like this, very… how do you say, dapper?” Her full lips stretched into a warm smile. “Prost,” she echoed back at him, and took her first sip of the German bier. Bérénice was not a beer-drinker, but it wasn’t as terrible as she had anticipated. She did, however, have an entire stein to herself. Perhaps she’d have to see if she could find any of that apfelwein she’d heard of. Nice’s gaze followed his nod before she glanced back to meet his eyes. She smiled again (did she ever not smile in his presence? It was beginning to feel like her mouth was permanently stuck this way), and took her stein in one hand, holding the other arm out to loop around his.

Will sipped at his beer before promptly choking on it as Bérénice drew close enough to see properly. She looked beautiful but that word was overused. She looked radiant, alluring, luminous, sexy. Once he'd managed to swallow the lager, he offered an apologetic smile. "Hi," he replied once more as he righted himself. "I'm so sorry," he said quickly with a faint blush clinging to his chest as he ruined the polite greeting. "I just didn't think my daydream would ever come to life." It was uncharacteristically forward of him and he really wanted to touch that lace. He needed to slow down on the beer.

"Ah." With that, he laughed before he winced. He felt embarrassed that Bérénice had put so much effort into this - he loved her braids - and he clearly hadn't. It didn't matter that the hat had been authentically made; he was a party pooper. Big time.

"No," he smiled. "I'm afraid it wouldn't go with the stiff upper lip and my inability to let myself go." It was a joke but thinly veiled. If Nice looked up the phrase English gentlemen, she'd find a picture of Will. His saving grace, however, was the fact that he was well aware of his stereotypes. "You look lovely though," he added gently so only she could hear. She was wearing enough of the German costume for the both of them.

She'd been before? "I've never attended," he admitted. "Is it always so intense?" His tone was light but, as ever, he was mildly alarmed. Thinking back, there wasn't really a lot to celebrate about British culture. His homeland was mostly about binge drinking and casual violence. Oh, and chicken tikka masala. That, in and of itself, should be celebrated. He smiled. "I like it," he added, hoping to lessen any fears that  Bérénice might have had.

As she extended her arm, Will stepped over to her. He looped his arm with hers politely- her hand on the crook of his arm as they followed the crowd down the higgledy-piggeldy street. He could feel the warmth radiating off her skin and she smelled nice, like jasmine, light and fresh. He really should have worn lederhosen. Oh, why was he so stupid? She must think he was such a loser. He'd already said too much. He'd called her a daydream. He hoped that wasn't offensive. As they walked casually down to the river, he could feel the panic rising. It was sticking in his throat like a piece of pretzel.

"How's school?" Will asked, his voice raised to be heard above the tuba that a large man was holding ahead of them, the instrument swinging dangerously. He did want to know. He'd also accidentally found himself reading French newspapers like he used to as a teenager. It was unusual but more than anything else, he wanted to know how she'd been, what was happening in her home country and everything in between. Will had also  noted that there was a new exhibition in the gallery in Chatoeil that was opening soon. It had a late opening on Wednesday nights, if she didn't want to give up her weekends and didn't mind sneaking off school grounds like a rebel.

Will opened his mouth to ask Bérénice for another date before they'd even finished this one when the tuba man swung around. He was bopping to the beat and putting on a show but hadn't seen anyone around him. "Be careful!" He called out, grabbing Nice around the waist and pulled her backwards, spilling both of their steins in the process.

A dull thud! echoed as Tuba Man waddled on after his band, leaving Will rubbing his forehead with a groan. "Scheisse," he commented lightly, a bit dazed. 

Bérénice frowned softly when Will apologised, her forehead smoothing out as he continued on to compliment her. She blushed, smiling demurely. The Frenchwoman wasn’t unused to compliments, but she was unfamiliar with such romantic, prose-y ones. Henri had—no, she didn’t want to think about him right now. Or ever. That chapter was to remain firmly closed.

The brunette laughed, gripping her stein a little more firmly now that she only had one hand with which to hold it. “We are going to have to work on that,” she teased, hoping that he would relax the more time they spent together. Merlin, she hoped she would relax more, too. It had been so long since she’d been… courting. That was such an old-sounding word but that was what they were doing, wasn’t it? Dating sounded very young, like something teenagers did. And besides, she didn’t think either of them were approaching this casually – she wasn’t, hoped he wasn’t.  “Merci,” she smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well,” she glanced around, taking in all of the sights and sounds (and there were plenty of both). “I like to forget how old I am but it was quite a few years ago. I think maybe it is? To us tourists, at least.” She shrugged.

They walked in silence for a moment, and Bérénice tried to think of something to say. The downside to sending owls to one another was that there was less to update on when they did finally meet up in person. Add to that the current surroundings – not exactly conducive to idle chit-chat. Oh. “Good—” she replied automatically before frowning, “—actually, it’s, with everything going on it’s quite stressful. My… family, they are rather involved at the Ministère de la Magie, so naturally it is assumed I know more than I do.” She sighed. “I don’t,” she clarified. “It’s all just such a me— Oohf!—” she clutched at Will as he grabbed her, sloshing her beer around in her other hand as she was moved out of the path of one of the performers.

She remained close to Will, their bodies almost flush in the bustling crowd, her fingers still gripping his upper arm tightly. Nice looked up at him through her eyelashes, like the damsel in distress she was – and he her shining knight. “Thank you,” she breathed, before stepping back somewhat reluctantly. “Perhaps we should… uh, hang back a little?” she suggested, using the more English terminology, not really too keen to be in the firing line of more instrument-wielding, bier-infused Germans.