[majorca] truth hurts [fergie]

majorca // 15 june 2003

“It’s fucking toasty.” Honey looked round belatedly, checking their mother wasn’t within earshot and hadn’t heard her swear. She’d gone in to make more sangria -- Honey might have had more than her fair share of the first batch -- but she had a habit of turning up unexpectedly so there was no such thing as ‘too careful’ in this house. She rearranged her mum’s big gardening hat, pulling the brim farther down her forehead as she glanced toward her brother, sitting in stony silence, not laughing at her comment like she had expected.

She narrowed her eyes at him; they’d been sitting across the table from each other throughout their pre-birthdays brunch but that wouldn’t do now; she got up and came around the table, sitting -- after removing the cat -- next to Fergie where their dad had been minutes before.

“I don’t know how to tell them,” she said, figuring she knew why he was annoyed. It’d been a couple weeks since she’d broken up with Harlan but it hadn’t been too long before that when she’d told her parents she was dating -- seriously dating -- someone. Isla had just barely warmed back up to her after the whole newspaper incident; Honey thought she was plenty justified not saying anything when the grand idea of having a bigger birthday brunch when they could both bring home their significant others to celebrate had been bandied about by their mum.

Fergie seemed more interested in his sangria -- he only had some left because he’d been more interested in the fry up they’d been served while Honey had decided to drink her way through the meal -- than Honey’s dilemma and she turned to sit back in her chair, pulling her hat a little lower again. “After the match, maybe.” He still hadn’t said anything, certainly hadn’t asked when but considering that they were doing this family gathering a week early just so Honey could ‘go to the quidditch final and see her boyfriend play’ it was only fair.

@Fergie Flume

Fergie had offered to go and make the sangria himself, but their mother had insisted -- this was their birthday trip -- and he’d been forced to stay with Honey, in the sun. He’d made a makeshift hat out of a towel -- he had forgotten his own, and they usually came to Majorca in December when it wasn’t so hot and it wasn’t such an issue, but Honey was turning thirty and this had been the clever plan to avoid having to invite their parents to her party back home.

Despite his towel hat, under which he felt he was possibly hotter than he would be without it, Fergie was a rather warm shade of pink all over -- sunburnt, or on his way to being. Honey commented on just how hot it was and he ignored her, or did so as much as being three feet away allowed. She seemed to sense this and got up, and moved the cat -- Fergie’s last line of defence -- to sit beside him.

She didn’t know how to tell them. He had to admit that doing so now would affect the mood of the trip (not for the better), but he had thought, naively, that she would have told them in the weeks between the breakup and now. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been time. He was possibly also a little bit mad because he had told Lysander and a few of the other boys that Harlan Bellamy was coming to his birthday party and now he’d look like a right prat.

But he was mostly mad because this was classic Honey. Another man down because she couldn’t— He lifted his glass to his lips and drank more of his (slightly warm, now) sangria rather than think about it. After the match, like it made any difference. Add another reason to be mad: he’d lost his free ticket to the finals. Admittedly, he was perfectly capable of buying a ticket -- and would have done so if he’d thought he needed to before they sold out. He let out a soft “Hm,” finally, mostly out of annoyance.
 
“You come up with a good story yet?” he asked, lowering his gaze to his lap from where he’d been staring at the pool, but not yet willing to look Honey in the eye.

He wasn’t saying anything, which only proved Honey’s point -- that he was mad at her -- more. She watched him drink, still avoiding her gaze, and she rolled her eyes and sat back, determined to stare at the pool just as much as he was. But then he said something -- or made a noise, more like -- and Honey turned to look at him again.

“Er--” she felt a bit caught out until she reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong; it took her another second to realize what he was implying. She held back her fuck off but only because she thought their mother might be within earshot. “The usual,” she said instead, crossing her arms across her chest, moving her gaze forward again. “He couldn’t live up to my impossibly high standards.” She rolled her eyes before she glanced back at him with the fleeting urge to tell him what had actually happened.

She looked back to the pool as she decided that having a fourth person know -- after Harlan, Grace, and Will -- would only raise the chances of everyone knowing and who wanted that?

“Could you just--” lighten up, she was going to ask, but the sound of music from the open patio door distracted her. “Oh, fuck off,” she muttered (finally-- it felt good to say) under her breath, as she recognized the song. She slid down in her chair a couple inches and pulled the brim of her borrowed hat a little lower. Banshee, while she was dealing with this, Fergie’s thinly veiled tantrum.

Charlie had come by the shop a couple weeks ago, dropping fun bombshells and seeking relationship advice; he hadn’t been gone for more than half an hour before his brand new song played on the WWN because he’d managed to pick his album drop date as the day to stop by and try to make her jealous, or something. And Fergie had gone and introduced their dad to his music, which he was so into, happy about his son’s talented friend, or something.

(Honey had scratched the last album’s Honey track because that was the last thing she wanted her dad bopping about to because bless his heart, he still thought the name was a coincidence).

“You should ask Charlie to sign Dad’s record,” she said, not looking at him, on the brink of her own thinly veiled tantrum.

Fergie let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He bit back the comment he really wanted to make -- that it was more like she had impossibly low standards and an inability to behave herself.

Silence fell over them again for a minute, which was probably better than having to talk about this here, with their mum and dad just inside. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right about not ruining the trip with the news their parents (mother, mainly) would be waiting that little bit longer before becoming grandparents. He wasn't sure how much they had actually liked Harlan, given they'd never actually met him, but on paper he sounded good. Well, perhaps not the paper. The Prophet seemed just as fond of Harlan as they were of Charlie. Perhaps Honey did have a type.

She didn’t get to finish asking (telling) him what to do, but he supposed Honey probably wanted him to fuck off too -- unfortunately for her he was suddenly feeling more inclined to enjoy sitting here, listening to her ex-whatever's new album. If it wasn't already blaring out he'd have made a point of asking his dad to turn it up a bit.

Fergie stared at her. "Why can't you? You're friends now, aren't you? Wee pen pals." He went to fold his arms grumpily across his chest and regretted it as soon as he felt the familiar sting of sunburn, which only made him grumpier. He didn’t think it was a coincidence that Honey and Charlie were suddenly ‘being friendly’ and then she’d broken up with Harlan in the same month. Fergie adjusted his towel-hat and peered at the doorway to see how far off those fresh drinks were (and their mother).

He glanced back at Honey and sighed. "Just tell me it wasnae him?"

She nearly regretted saying anything at all; wee pen pals. Honey shot him a look. It was almost enough to drown out the sound of the music, trying to remember if she had mentioned that ever--she hadn’t. (She had only ever breached the subject with Grace when asking what she thought if Honey--hypothetically--sent Charlie a note. She hadn’t been the biggest fan.) Fergie (usually) knew better than to snoop around her flat so she didn’t think he’d seen anything lying about, which narrowed it down to only having Charlie to blame.

Honey was pretty sure she had asked Charlie not to tell Fergie; she hadn’t been explicit in what not to tell him but after what had happened with his ex-wife’s assumptions about the letters she thought he could have figured it out, maybe. She thought about what Charlie had told her a couple weeks ago, thought that this was her chance to tell Fergie because she assumed he’d have opinions and Charlie deserved to hear them and maybe it’d distract Fergie away from his present issue--

But Fergie already had opinions about her. She glared at him for a second before she sat back in her chair, attempting to figure out when everyone had decided to have it out for her. How long had Fergie known--about the letters because there was nothing else to know about--and chosen not to mention it? Or was he just waiting for the perfect moment to let on? Or, he’d had a little too much sangria and couldn’t help himself. Whatever the reason: Honey hadn’t written to Charlie since April. They weren’t friends, despite whatever sort of advice Charlie had tried to glean from her on his last visit to Honeydukes.

Merlin, this was almost worse than if Harlan had found out; at least he would have had a right to be mad at her. Never mind nothing had happened anyway. She could play dumb and ask what Fergie didn’t want to be Charlie but she didn’t think he would buy it. “It wasn’t him.” She crossed her arms across her chest, rethinking how that sounded; “It was nobody.” She tried again: “It wasn’t anybody.” She didn’t know why she was trying; he’d already made up his mind about it.

Mrs Flume stuck her head out the open patio door and Honey smiled--less forced than if she was dealing with a customer but she wasn’t feeling genuinely smiley by any means--when she saw her, about to ask if she needed some help inside before she was cut off. She only wanted to know their sangria preference, peach or blackberry. “Peach,” she said, uncrossing her arms and scratching her nose, dropping the smile as soon as her mum was back indoors.

She looked back to her brother and dropped her voice (though it still had a bit of an edge), trying to reinforce the point she had given up on a minute ago: “It wasn’t me this time, alright?” This wasn’t how she had imagined this conversation going; she hadn’t wanted to tell him at all but she definitely hadn’t wanted to do it with their current backing soundtrack.

’It wasn’t him.’ Fergie was reluctant to believe her, but what did she really have to gain from lying about it? His sister might be an expert in selectively sharing information but she didn’t lie to him when he asked her things outright -- usually, anyway. But, it was nobody, apparently. He rolled his eyes, Fergie couldn’t decide if it was better or worse -- better than it being Charlie, obviously, but worse that she’d thrown away what seemed like a good thing (from his point of view) for some random bloke—

“What—?” He turned to face her, then stopped and flashed a similarly forced smile at their mum -- they were practiced at this, which probably wasn’t anything to be proud of -- then frowned when Honey beat him to picking peach; he’d been about to choose blackberry.

But he had bigger problems. “It… what?” He was back to staring at Honey, his expression a mixture of surprise and disbelief and something else -- sympathy, maybe, as her wording replayed in his head: It wasn’t me this time. Fergie sat forward a little in his chair, wincing as his skin un-stuck from the plastic chair back. “Did he…?” He didn't really need to ask: her face said it plain as day.

Their silence was broken by their Dad, in the kitchen helping Mrs Flume, attempting to mimic Charlie and Co's ooh-ooh's. Apparently this song was his favourite off the new record.

Fergie pulled an apologetic face -- sorry now for more than just assuming she had been the problem. “I’m sorry I—” he started, dropping his gaze to the cat, who had left the chair Honey had placed her on and was winding between their legs. He glanced back up. “Can you blame me?” Yes -- it was Honey, but also, it was Honey; she had to know her reputation preceded her by now.

“What happened?” he asked in a whisper, glancing at the doorway again. Another out of tune OoOoh reached them and he wondered if he should offer to go turn the music down or find another record. "D'you want me to…?" he jabbed his thumb in the general direction of where the music was coming from and grimaced.

Did he? Honey raised her eyebrows; did he really think she was about to elaborate? It was bad enough he was already looking at her like that, never mind if she got into the details.

She blinked, long and slow, when their dad’s voice carried out to the patio. Honey breathed out through her nose as she opened her eyes to look at Fergie again, determined to to not react any more than that. (Too much reaction and she might have to go on explaining herself.)

Honey looked away as her brother made the pity face and she shrugged at the apology that followed. She was better off, she thought, and she was about to say as much when he asked if she could blame him for thinking it’d been her fault. Her returning glare should have been answer enough, but she added a sharp, “Yes,” after half a second. Why did everyone think she wasn’t capable of genuinely trying? They didn’t get to want her to settle down and be convinced she was the reason she never would.

She followed his glance to the door and looked back, opening her mouth to answer—nothing had happened—when they were interrupted by their dad again. Fucking hell. Honey let the too-long oohs pass before shaking her head. “Am not affected by him singing.” He’d know the him wasn’t Mr Flume (though he risked changing that as he launched into singing along with a guitar solo).

“Look, I don’t want Mum to know because she already thinks I’m hopeless, alright?” She wasn’t asking him to lie. Technically. “And you know how Dad is about meeting ‘important’ people—“ he had a story for every famous face that had been in Honeydukes and his current choice in music was proof enough he was clinging to people Fergie knew, too; she didn’t go on explaining that she figured her dad had been excited to meet Harlan for other reasons. She didn’t want to explain her reasoning for anything, especially when it was out of her control.

She glanced back to the door to the house—they were on to the next song now—and back to Fergie with a small frown. “Did you buy him this?”

Fergie listened as she explained her reasons for keeping this between them -- for now. He adjusted awkwardly in his plastic chair. He didn’t think Honey was hopeless, but telling her so would only wind her up more, most likely. He understood, if not from firsthand experience but rather from previous secondhand experience -- and, if their Dad’s other music tastes were anything to go by, his enthusiasm for Banshee was largely down to Charlie and Sam being school friends of Fergie’s. How their parents still didn’t know about Honey and the frontman, Fergie couldn’t fathom (he supposed if nothing else, Charlie and Honey had avoided the tabloids when they’d been a thing -- he didn’t like to think about how they’d achieved their relative anonymity).

"They're gonna find out at some point," he said quietly -- back to Harlan, now. "Better it comes from you, no?" He caught the look she gave him and backed down a little. "I don't mean right now, but before they read it in the Prophet or whatever— Is it gonna be in the Prophet?" he asked suddenly, unsure how high profile Harlan’s other woman was. For his sister’s sake, he hoped not very.

Honey frowned at him and Fergie drew back in his seat. “Yeah,” he admitted, not sounding quite as cavalier as he wanted to. He had encouraged their Dad from the moment he’d realised it annoyed Honey -- seemed that had backfired at least a little bit. “He likes them, alright?” he continued, shrugging. “Thought you’d be used to hearing him by now, he’s all over the radio.” She’d have to live in a cave to avoid his music at the rate the WWN played it. “And him singing doesn’t affect you, so—”

Their Mum reappeared and Fergie’s teasing grin faded before they were asked what they were talking about. “Work,” Fergie answered in the same moment Honey gave the same lie.

[out]

They were going to find out at some point. Honey frowned, her gaze back on the pool. “I know.” She knew she had to tell them before the Final, too; if the Griffins lost before she told them… it wasn’t a good look for her. So: she had exactly six days to figure out how to tell them. Still, Fergie didn’t need to explain it like she was five. She knew better than him the opinions that were at stake here and she gave him the glare to prove it.

She nearly scoffed. “I doubt it.” Honey didn’t think anyone at The Prophet thought they were seriously dating, anyway, considering they were too caught up on Alannah and Harlan-- she didn’t want to keep thinking about Harlan. She didn’t want to think about Alannah--and by extension, Charlie, again--on top of all of that. “I’ve told Grace and you--” and Will, but Fergie didn’t need to know that-- “So if it’s in the paper it won’t be because of me.”

Honey glanced at the house before settling her gaze on her brother again.  “Aye, but I don’t have to like it.” Sure they were all over the radio but their dad wasn’t listening to the radio now, was he? “He doesn’t--” she stopped short of him off when Mrs Flume reappeared, a pitcher in hand and new (bigger) glasses on a tray following behind her. “Work,” she said in unison in Fergie when their mum questioned what they were talking about.

She smiled, holding her hand out for a glass, deciding to keep her stolen seat for now. She didn’t really want to look at Fergie now, anyway.

[[ end ]]