[hvar] ungodly fruit [harlan]

The sun was still threatening to sink into the horizon. It was the start of Summer and they a good few hours left until the beach was blanketed in the night. Plenty of time for him to figure out where his head was at, assuming he could work out anything with her looking at him like she was. Fuck. This was still Bérénice. She was one of his oldest friends, and now she was something different. Not to mention how they had ended up entangled in the ocean in Croatia was the most complicated part of all.

Drinks were handed over and thankfully the bartender had no interest in lingering, Harlan noticed. His eyes flickered closed reluctantly as her fingers ran through the hair at the back of his neck, dripping with saltwater and warm from the heat. He turned then to look at her as she spoke and offered a sleepy smile in return despite it being early evening— something about hands in your hair.

The double words they were speaking were so blatant that they might as well come out with it (whatever the fuck it was), but it was a much easier to not. "To new tastes, of course," The answer rolled off his tongue matter-of-factly before he could stop himself, and he half-smirked. His hand drifted around to the small of Nice's back underwater, now that she faced him head-on, and he tapped his plastic cup to hers before taking a sip, intently watching her do the same.

A comfortable silence fell over them— only the sound of the waves, the wind, and few seagulls was left. Harlan bided his time. While he was curious, morbidly so, about her breakup, most of him didn't want to veer from the direction they were going. And those damn fingers in his hair. "I was surprised you came..." He admitted. "—not in a bad way," He corrected as his hand ran up and down her lower back, dipping slightly with each stroke.

Harlan’s large hand smoothed around her back and Bérénice was sure he had left goosebumps in his wake; a shiver of anticipation ran up her spine, and she was brought back to earth -- ocean -- by his cup tapping gently against hers. “New tastes,” she repeated, mirroring his expression with a soft smirk of her own.

She sipped at her whisky, taking her eyes off Harlan long enough to give the contents of her plastic cup (a novelty in itself) a critical, but not unimpressed, glance. “Is this the same as what we had—” she paused, flicking her attention back to him, “— in the library?” she finished, holding his gaze. The library where this had all started -- both recently and further back, when they had still been at school and Harlan had used some muggle ingenuity to get into his father’s locked liquor cabinet, where he kept his ‘private collection’. Bérénice wondered if Harlan had inherited his tastes (not just the whisky) from his father and if she ought to be a little more concerned about that.

Her fingertips continued to play with his dirty blonde hair, a gesture she wasn’t recognising as being a little out of place -- for them, yet -- as they ran down the back of his neck, then up again. She sipped at her whisky, then lowered her cup when Harlan spoke. Her breath caught in her throat as she arched her back, torn between being closer -- chest-to-chest -- and closer -- his hand on her. “So, a good surprise?” she murmured, her warm brown eyes drifting from his light blue ones down to his mouth and back again. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” she admitted.

He watched carefully as Bérénice took her first sip, awaiting the inevitable reaction. Years ago it would have been a frown, a cough, nose turned up at the idea of a whiskey, but now it was a different story. Something about acquired tastes, he supposed.

"No," Harlan answered definitively as a small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, eyes firmly on her. The conversation, if he were being honest, was an afterthought. His father, god damn him, had far more an expensive palate as it pertained to his private collection that, once upon a time, Harlan had worked his way carelessly through. It was the pinnacle of every sleepover at the Bellamy house, his little trick, unlocking the chest, and replacing what they drank with a potion of similar color.

The tension left in his shoulders dissipated as Nice's fingers worked their way into the wet tendrils of his hair, her nails running over his skin in such a way that made him move without meaning. He held onto her hip for a moment, still, but then returned to the slow procession he'd been making down her back.

"Was a bit drunk..." Harlan teased with a grin, pulling her just that little bit closer. His hand reluctantly moved to Nice's face to push her hair, wet from the sea, back from where it had pressed to her skin. Running his thumb over the place where jaw met neck, he chewed the inside of his lip in thought. "Look, I'm not—" He was going to say that he wasn't looking to jump into anything so quickly, after everything, but he before he knew it his mouth was on hers and shutting him up.

Bérénice rolled her lips inwards, a weak attempt at hiding the smile there. “Drunk,” she repeated, slowly. “So should I be flattered?” she teased back gently, the smirk that had just taken place on her features quickly wiped away as Harlan brought his hand up to her face, his rough fingers brushing over her skin and sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. The way he was holding her jaw – and her gaze – had her almost forgetting who she was, where they were and how they had gotten here. She hung onto his words, few as they were, silently egging him on but—

His lips met hers and Bérénice kissed back readily – a part of her wondering what had taken them so long, part of her just grateful they’d finally given in. She tightened the hand in Harlan’s hair to cup the back of his head and keep him close, the hand holding her plastic cup held awkwardly aloft, tipping dangerously close to emptying the contents into the sea.

…

She plucked another strawberry from the fruit platter and bit into it, gazing at Harlan (all of him) as he rejoined her on the bed. She had lost track of time while they had been in the ocean, kissing like the teenagers they had once been. The night had grown darker, they had made their way back to the beach – she thought neither had missed the look given to the other, questioning if they waited to get back to the hotel room or just make use of the daybeds, but maturity (wherever that had come from) had won through.

It was morning now, but what time exactly she wasn’t sure – she was only sure she didn’t care. They had fallen asleep, at some point, and upon waking it had taken Bérénice a minute to remember where she was and with whom.

Nice set the stalk from her strawberry back on the tray and licked the juice from her fingers, careful not to stain the crisp white sheets where she lay, half-covered, head propped up with her fist. “How long are you staying in Croatia?” she asked, hinting at the possibility of them avoiding the real world for another day or two – longer, if he wanted.

He wasn't sure what time it was when he'd extracted himself from the sheets, out from under legs that didn't belong to him, and onto the plush carpet. Somehow he was only just aware of how nice this place was. Running both hands through his hair and stretching back in the process, Harlan glanced over his shoulder, to the bed. Bérénice. It ought to be more strange, he thought, seeing her there— but it wasn't.

The shower was good, a bit spacious with only him in it, he noted while pushing soap off of his face, rubbing his eyes. Before stepping out he draped Nice's bathing suit that had been discarded on the floor over one of the showerheads. The marbled floor of the bathroom was warm, enchanted to heat up while the shower was on. Another quiet perk of the resort that he had somehow missed in the days leading.

It seemed Bérénice had woken up (properly this time, not like they had when the sun was only just rising), just in time for room service. A fruit tray, coffee, tea, toast, perfectly curated. Harlan pulled a pair of linen shorts over himself, half-dry, all too aware of her watching from the bed.

Harlan had never been one for the whole morning-after kiss you on the forehead and make your breakfast type of thing— but this, this he could get used to, he thought as he watched appreciatively while she licked strawberry juice from her thumb. Distractedly, he plucked one for himself and bit into it, still standing at the side of the bed. "Meant to leave tomorrow," He said after swallowing, hand reaching to her leg that was half-covered by the sheet and running his hand over it.

"How long are you staying in Croatia?" Was the better question, he thought, discarding the stem in the process. He tried not to read into the fact that he, selfishly, hoped she might stay the day.

Her eyes continued to roam over him hungrily, flitting from moisture drop to moisture drop as his skin (muscles) glistened in the warm morning sun. She tried to think why she had never appreciated this (muscles) so openly before, but she supposed there had always been something holding her back; their timing had always been a little off. Now, after last night, there was no need to be shy about it. Her chest felt lighter, head clearer, in his presence than she remembered it being for— well, for as long as she could remember.

Bérénice shifted – just, careful not to dislodge her sheets – and reached for a triangle of pineapple. She paused, mid-nibble, as his fingers slid along her exposed calf. For a man so strong he could be surprisingly gentle. She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, teeth still on the flesh of the fruit, and finished taking her bite before she swallowed and licked her lips. “Meant to.” She hadn’t missed that choice of words, figured it meant what she thought it did.

She set the skin on the tray with their stems and twisted around to lay half on her back, one knee propped up out of the covers, facing him and squinting a little in the light. The brunette shrugged. “My room reservation—” the one she hadn’t yet slept in, “— was for one night,” she told him. “Late checkout. Maybe I could extend my stay,” she offered with a small smirk. “Unless you have more relaxing to do?”

Even from under the sheet, Harlan admired the way that Bérénice moved. She'd always been graceful, as if every one of her limbs was made of water, but filled with direction. He could see the curvature of her figure and it made him think, briefly, that he might have acted too hastily in getting dressed.

Pursing his lips, he pretended to think on the matter. What was another day or two anyway? He had nothing at home keeping him, not after the finals, not after everything else. Shaking that thought, Harlan's mouth pulled into a slight grin before, "What, you've got a room?" He teased, pretending to be surprised. His hand that had subtly worked it's way to her upper leg gave a playful slap before he stepped away from the bed to look through the shirts he had hanging in the wardrobe.

"Well, you know how I like relaxing..." Harlan gave a nominal roll of his eyes, casting a glance over his shoulder back to Nice, wondering again why the fuck he was putting clothes on instead of taking them off. After the night, and morning, though—

"Good idea," He said definitively, pulling a loose, silk-like button-down from the hanger before approaching the side of the bed where she faced, her chin in her palm and looking up at him. "You've not actually seen the beach— in the day," He, ever-the-homebody, explaining how beautiful it was would be hard for her to believe he imagined so he didn't. "Your suit is still in the shower," He couldn't fight the smirk, leaning over her for a few raspberries, the other hand running up her shoulder, then neck, in the process of standing back up.

Eventually, his hand met her chin, thumb running over her bottom lip in a quietly affectionate way. "They've got boats for rent," He explained, thinking that might be something she would like. "The paddle type," He almost frowned. Certainly, there was a nicer option, but it felt authentic.

fin

For a brief moment Bérénice wondered if she might be pushing it – whatever it was. She wasn’t stupid, she knew what Harlan was like, but it was nice to live in this delusion a little while longer, until someone came along to burst her bubble, at least.

But Harlan was playing along, and that was all she needed – wanted – right now. She rolled her eyes, bit back the thought that crossed her mind (she had had to be prepared – she didn’t know if he already had someone else to share his room with) and settled for: “Not as nice as yours. If I’d known I wouldn’t have wasted my money,” she smirked. Her expression faltered as his palm smacked softly against her thigh – not from any pain, but from surprise at the familiarity of it – before coming back stronger. She could get used to this. Him.

“Mm,” she hummed, twisting onto her front, facing him, and propping her chin on her open palm. Her eyes slid up his back as he perused his options, watching his shoulders flex with each movement. “You’re getting very good at it,” she teased, pulling the sheets up around her chest while she watched him slowly dress – if he was covering up, so was she.

Harlan turned to face her and came closer, buttoning his shirt and hiding more of himself from her; Bérénice peered up at him with warm, wide eyes. “The beach,” she echoed in agreement, one eyebrow rising sceptically – she had never known Harlan to be particularly fond of beaches on the whole, but how well did she really know him? Her suit. She had almost (almost) forgotten about that. The suit, not how it had ended up in his shower. “Is it?” Nice’s voice had grown quieter as he leant over her. Her eyes closed briefly and she let out a breath at his touch, her shoulders pulling together to try and keep under his palm.

His calloused fingers lifted her chin and Bérénice blinked her eyes open again, her lips parting under his thumb; she thought she possibly couldn’t care less about boats right now, with him looking at her like that, touching her like this. The hand that had been propping her head up (and had since been rendered surplus to requirements) wrapped around his wrist, anchoring him to her. “After breakfast,” she suggested with a small smirk, her full lips pulling his thumb between them before she gave his forearm a tug.


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