[hvar] ungodly fruit [harlan]

hvar, croatia | 26 june 2003

I hear Croatia is nice this time of year. She could practically hear him say it, see the smirk playing across his lips and then the who, me? expression that would follow, to absolve himself of any guilt. Part of her recognised the risk in this -- a greater part didn’t care. He’d picked up on her subtleties and one-upped her, sending his reply on hotel paper so she knew exactly where to find him. Harlan was an intelligent man, he hadn’t done that by accident.

In coming when he called, was she accepting her role as ‘the other woman’? But the fact that he’d invited her (in his own special way) brought up the question of if there was still another woman to compete with at all -- shouldn’t she be here, with him, if there was?

The brunette strolled along the sand barefoot, her eyes on the beachfront villas rather than the sea that ran parallel, waves crashing quietly just to remind her they were still there. It was almost sunset, the sky brilliant hues of pink and peach and purple. The French witch was too proud to ask Harlan for his room number outright so she was hoping to simply spot him as she walked past his exclusive resort, but most of the balconies and patios were occupied by couples, or else empty, their occupants inside.

Then, just as she considered she might need to go to the concierge and persuade them to tell her where one Mr Bellamy was staying, she spotted him -- not from a balcony or lounging on a patio, but reclining on a bed on the beach ahead of her, a bottle of something in hand. She smirked to herself before readjusting her features into something more neutral (she hoped).

“Bonsoir,” she called from a few paces away so as not to sneak up on him entirely. Her dark hair whipping around her face in the breeze. He sat up to greet her and she didn’t bother pretending to not look at his naked torso this time -- he knew why she was here. “You look well rested.”


@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan sat back on the cushion of the daybed (which was surprisingly pristine, despite being parked on a beach). He held his arms casually behind his neck in search of a spot of breeze from the ocean. In truth, the idea of lounging on the beach in Hvar with his oldest friends for week straight hadn't immediately appealed to him when the idea had been tossed into the ring for their celebration post-finals. And in true Harlan fashion, he hadn't been shy about it.

Yet here he was. And he was actually kind of enjoying it.

After a particularly unsettling moment in the form of a stranger with red hair on the street who looked just that bit too familiar, he was reminded of all of the things that he had been avoiding. He had to deal with it eventually— the breakup— but no time felt like the right time. Especially since he had gone and dropped the hint to Bérénice after one too many rum somethings from the beach bar. He hadn't invited her per se but he knew what he was doing. And apparently so did she.

Shielding his eyes under the setting sun, he watched as she approached. It seemed that she came out of the very sand itself. How she had found him here, on the beach, was a welcome surprise. He took another drink, studying her, not concerned about any lingering glances behind the cover of sunglasses.

"What a surprise," He folded his arms over his chest and sat up. "The chances of you staying at the very same resort..." Harlan teased, his faux-shocked voice dry and not-so-subtle. "....slim to none," He clicked his tongue before a mischievous grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"And I sure as hell hope so, I've spent two days like this now— " He gestured around them, in awe of his own ability to endure being still for so long, before half-standing to wrap an arm around her. He wasn't exactly clear on what level of physicality that he should be going with now, but it felt appropriate. Friendly, nothing to see there. "What, did you pay of the concierge?" Harlan wasn't sure why he lowered his voice into her ear, it wasn't like there was any press, it was an exclusive property.

“Slim to none,” she agreed with a smirk, ”but it was the only beachfront property with any rooms,” she lied, not being shy about it being obvious, matching his grin. She was sure if she had looked, she could have found plenty of other hotels to stay in -- perhaps not as luxurious as this one, but she could slum it a little if she had to.

Her warm brown eyes cast around, following his sweeping gesture, and took in the beach beds, the waves, and the sunset. “Wow,” she cooed, “two whole days. Who are you?” she smirked as he rose to his feet. He pulled her into a loose hug, and her hands slid up his back unabashedly, cool against the warmth of his sun-kissed skin. Guilt rose up unbidden in her gut suddenly, and the witch had to remind herself that there was nothing to feel guilty about anymore -- she had ended things with Will.

Harlan’s breath was hot in her ear when he spoke in an undertone, and she lowered her own; “You know I wouldn’t need to pay them,” she replied in a sultry tone. Bérénice pulled back after a moment -- just enough to meet his gaze, then glanced down at his drink. “May I?” she smirked again, helping herself to a sip after giving it a cursory sniff: rum. The brunette licked her lips and handed it back to him. “Did they run out of whisky?” she smiled teasingly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your final,” she apologised. “How was it? Other than winning, of course.”

Harlan paused for a moment in their embrace, perking up as she spoke. Well, that was certainly surprising. He supposed he'd asked for it by inviting her— and he was single now— but he felt uncomfortable with the forwardness given she was still in a relationship. Wasn't that why things had gotten so complicated to begin with? Brushing that sinking feeling aside, he tried to get back to the place where he was when he'd sent her the letter in the first place— the one in which not seeing her right then and there wasn't an option.

"You will either way, I imagine..." He teased but willingly handed over the cup that was emblazoned with the name of the resort. "I"m trying to diversify my palate," Harlan explained. In more ways than one, if he were being upfront with himself. None of this vacation— or anything he'd been doing in the last week— had been the norm for him. "There's a bar—" He glanced over to see that an employee, dressed head to toe in white, was already making his way over.

"We'll get you something not quite as strong..." Harlan cast a glance back at her with a smirk before turning to nod at the arriving member of staff, now smiling. "Thanks, mate, whatever she would like, and another for myself," Croatia Harlan was much more friendly, he was finding.

Once they had ordered, Harlan gesture to the daybed, but sat on the edge as opposed to fully lounging back. That was a recipe for a bad decision. "It was great," He let out a breath. It was more than great, really, it had been one if not the highlight of his career. "Tough, but we managed," He continued. "And what pressing matter kept you from attending? I sent tickets to your family," He commented, trying to not come across as offended. He appreciated that there were complications, of course.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “It’s only taken you, what, thirty years?” There was a jibe in there somewhere about him diversifying his palate too much in the past, but Bérénice was not trying to dissuade Harlan from anything right now -- she hadn’t come all this way for a friendly cocktail on the beach. She still didn’t know exactly what she had come here for, just knew that it was something and she had finally given in to curiosity -- or temptation, whichever it was. Both, perhaps.

There was a bar. “Is that why you booked this resort?” she smirked, glancing at the man in white approaching them and then back to Harlan. Her brows shot up and her mouth fell open in mild offence. “Oh, really?” Challenge accepted. The brunette smiled widely at the travelling bartender as he came close. “Do you have any Cointreau?” she asked, he nodded. “With two cubes of ice, please.”

The other man left them and Bérénice turned her attention back to Harlan, a small smirk still playing across her full lips. He wordlessly invited her to sit, so she did, smoothing the floaty fabric of her dress and crossing her leg over. Her warm eyes sought out his and she smiled again. “You deserve it,” she told him. He’d worked long and hard, she had no doubt that this was as overdue as it was well deserved.

Ah. She lowered her gaze. She had debated over it, but in the end had made a decision based on preserving Harlan -- so she told herself.  “I didn’t want—” Nice frowned softly. “I didn’t want there to be any distractions.” She didn’t think she was a sufficient distraction on her own, but she’d just broken up with Will, she didn’t want to be sat beside his girlfriend again, she certainly didn’t want her parents involved in any of it — all of this, and it was one of the biggest games of his career so far. She felt guilty for not going, of course, but there was that unshakeable feeling that things could have gone differently -- badly -- if she had.

Bérénice lifted her line of sight cautiously; he was a year her junior but he somehow managed to make her feel like a schoolgirl. “Harlan, I’m sorry about—” She could hear footsteps in the sand approaching. “I didn’t tell him it was you,” she admitted quickly before they were interrupted by their drink delivery. She turned and took the two glasses from the waiter, then twisted back to face Harlan, holding his rum out like a peace offering.

Distractions.

Bérénice wasn't wrong. Even now, his gaze lingered on her legs as she down next to him, unaware of anyone else down the beach. They weren't close, not really anyway, but it felt like they were. Harlan tried to imagine what that could have meant for his game. It wasn't that he could really focus on anyone in the crowd, but he caught glimpses here and there as he flew past the VIP boxes— friends and families of all the teams cheering them on from the best view in the house. He wasn't sure how it would felt to see her there, beside her parents.

Harlan, lost in that though, hadn't noticed the sound of approaching footsteps as they squeaked in the soft white sand. Then she said it— she didn't tell him it was Harlan. Steel colored eyes flicked immediately and sharply to hers, working out what she meant by that. His heart, though, that had started racing proved that he had figured it out without having to ask.

Fuck, did he even want to ask?

"Erm," He cleared his throat and offered the waiter an appreciative nod. If only he'd known what he just walked into. "So... you told him?" He wish he knew the bloke's actual name. Harlan took a mouthful of his drink and licked the rum from his lips, giving her a moment to expand on it. They hadn't spoken— there were no plans for them to leave their partners and ride off into the sunset together— but it seemed like that guilt plagued them both.

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He hadn't been as vague about the who in the equation when he'd come clean.

The waiter left them (after a lingering pause in which Bérénice got paranoid that he was trying to eavesdrop -- did he recognise Harlan? Or was she just imagining things?) and Harlan took his drink from her, avoiding their fingers touching, somehow. Nice’s dark eyes met his, then fell to her own glass. She had a sip -- blinked at the sharpness -- before explaining. “I told him,” she echoed.

“I had to,” she admitted. Really, she hadn’t had to have done anything, but it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

“I’m not—” She rolled her lips inwards, trying to work out how to word this in a way that didn’t sound like she was trying to trick him into anything. “I’m not expecting anything,” she told him softly, her eyes drifting back to his from where she’d been staring out at the gently crashing waves on the shore. If that left the door open for other discussions, she wasn’t mad about that either.

“I just couldn’t—” She sighed. “It was going to end anyway,” she said quietly, partly to make herself feel better, and hoping it would help Harlan, too. “But I didn’t tell him who, or...” she trailed off, had another sip of her drink -- the ice had melted a little now, watering it down just enough to make it more palatable -- tucked her hair behind her ear. Her eyes sought out his again, gazing up at him through her thick eyelashes; “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

As Bérénice spoke, a subtle wave of guilt crept over him, crashing down on his chest and making it hard to think about anything else The more that she went on about how she had been looking out for him by not exploiting him in whatever the fuck it was that they had got themselves into, the worse he felt, the heavier the weight was. With Honey, it hadn't been that simple. He told her what had happened, and of course, she asked who it had been. Harlan wasn't sure what was worse, some Quidditch groupie or someone that he had an actual relationship with that was not at all sexual. Before...

"Nice—" He stopped her, his hand instinctually touching her knee and venturing north before pausing to clear his mind. He pulled the hand away and ran it through his hair that was dry from the salt of the ocean, windswept. "—I," Harlan could have laughed at the irony of it all. "I told Honey, too..." He trailed off, the inevitable tidbit of just how much detail he shared on the tip of his tongue.

He turned to face her again. "I couldn't..." He started to admit, a bit more quietly now. "...I told her it was you," Harlan felt the sting of the words as he said them out loud. Not exactly the conversation he imagined when he first sent that drunk owl, but he figured it was bound to happen at some point, some way or another. This kind of thing, talking about his feelings was certainly not in his wheelhouse. "That's over, too, by the way," He said, as an afterthought, though his eyebrow quirked only slightly in her direction.

Harlan’s touch sent a jolt of electricity up her thigh, paving the way ahead for his rough fingers to follow in its wake. Bérénice’s eyes searched out his immediately. He withdrew his hand and ran it through his dirty blonde hair, her gaze following. He hesitated, and her stomach dropped. Harlan was a man of few words, but he wasn’t usually the type to struggle with getting them out. Nice waited, second guessing her decision to come here -- was she ready to do this?—

“Oh,” she said simply, staring at him again. The sinking feeling in her gut had already jumped up into her throat, lodging uncomfortably. He faced her slowly and— “Oh,” she said again, a little quieter, “I see.” Nice lowered her attention, staring into space -- though it looked rather like she was softly frowning at his knee.

She supposed she didn’t have the same things to lose that Harlan did from being the known party, and she supposed she didn’t really know how these things usually went -- were you meant to tell the other person who it was? She tried to think back to how her last relationship had ended, and if it would have been worse not knowing who Henri had picked over her -- but it would have been nice to remain anonymous, maybe.

But she couldn’t be mad -- it had been her fault in the first place. She swallowed softly, about to tell him as much, when he told her it was over, too. She lifted her head quickly, eyes a little round in surprise. Bérénice hadn’t thought much of Harlan’s girlfriend when she’d met her, and had convinced herself that Harlan deserved someone more… her, but she hadn’t really thought about the consequences at the time. “I’m sorry,” she managed to get out, reaching out to touch his knee, leaving her hand there. “That wasn’t my intention when…” she trailed off, her focus drifting from his eyes to his mouth.

He couldn't bring himself to meet Bérénice's gaze, not after what he'd just admitted, that he hadn't afforded her the same anonymity in whatever this was. The selfish part of him couldn't bear to watch her genuine reaction, in the moment— he knew the way that her body moved— the skin around her mouth and eyes—enough to know what she was thinking without having said a word. It was the kind of thing that only came with having known each other for that long, intimately, even if just as friends.

But then her hand was tucked into the inside of his leg and his eyes snapped back up. Not exactly how he'd imagined that going... but nonetheless Harlan felt an involuntarily shiver run up and down his spine as he bolstered his hand over hers. Half of him thought he might have done it for the sake of the closeness—sentimentality, was is?— but the better part of him knew this was his need for control seeping in.

"I know—" He began, giving her hand a squeeze, more tight than intended, before letting out a breath. "That wasn't your fault..." He was just as much, if not more, to blame— he had known, somewhere, what he was getting himself into the more time he spent around her. Perhaps it was a lack of something, was there always going to be something he was missing? Part of him wondered if he had been seeking this whole thing out.

But she deserved better than that.

Instead of dwelling on it, though, Harlan pulled her hand up the length of his thigh, pausing before moving ahead with the various things he had in his mind— his hand on her mouth, her hand somewhere else. "Can we just celebrate, now?" His shoulders dropped along with her hand, back to her. "Have you got swimmers?" Harlan touched the cotton of her dress, glancing at the ocean drenched in the sunset before taking another drink. They might as well have enjoyed what time they had, away from their real-world problems.

Harlan’s hand closed over hers and Bérénice lifted her eyes to meet his, unsure what exactly she was seeing there but knowing what she hoped it was. Her brow furrowed for a fraction of a second when he tightened his grip, smoothed out as he released her -- or, softened his hold, at least. His hand was still on hers, anchoring them together.

She was about to politely disagree with him -- it had most definitely been her fault, she had kissed him first -- but he offered a distraction in the form of sliding her hand higher up his thigh. Nice focused on not lessening nor increasing the amount of pressure with which her palm was pressed to his skin for fear of what it might communicate -- which was silly, because she hadn’t come here to—

“Celebrate?” she repeated at a whisper, her eyes back on his from where she’d been subtly admiring the warm glow of his tanned legs and stomach and— Harlan dropped her hand and she pulled it back into her lap, balling it into a soft fist and clutching her drink tighter in her other hand. “I— yes,” she admitted, her attention quickly and easily drawn to his fingers again as he brushed them against the material of her dress, before focusing on his light eyes while he stared out at the ocean; the pink and gold of the setting sun giving them a wolf-like quality.

Bérénice sipped at her Cointreau -- then sipped again, trying to finish it quickly and give herself some liquid courage. She had known Harlan for years, had holidayed with him and his family since she was small, but they hadn’t done this as adults, and it was embarrassing how girlish and giddy she felt at the prospect of simply going for a swim (just a swim). She drained the rest of her glass and set it down in the sand, getting to her feet and slipping the shoulders of her dress down, shimmying gently out of it to reveal her swimwear beneath, letting it fall to her feet.

After a brief pause, the brunette witch stepped out of it, picking it up and throwing it onto his sunbed. “Another drink?” she asked, trying to keep the smirk from her lips and mostly succeeding up until she turned on her heel and headed for the water, glancing back over her shoulder at him.

Bérénice's pause had not been lost on him. He couldn't blame her, though— the two of them were in unchartered territory here, somewhere between knowing eachother so personally, while not at all in the innately intimate way that his hands pulled for. Harlan was unsure how he was supposed to act so instead he mimicked her and finished what was left of his drink.

When she stood up, he did his best to not stare, gave in to temptation the moment he saw her tan lines exposed just under her hip. Nice tossed her dress onto the daybed (an action only vaguely ascertainable) to expose even more of her skin against the shimmery light olive of her bathing suit. Harlan sat back on his palms with his empty cup now discarded somewhere that he had no intention of paying any mind to. That, he could take care of that later.

Another drink? As if he wouldn't have done anything she suggested at that moment. He nodded, standing up to follow.

The water was warm. Nothing like he imagined it was anywhere at home. Harlan had never been much of a beach person, but at the moment, he thought he could be. Diving into a lofty wave at waist level, he emerged with a smile, the bar in view That's right, they were meant to be getting drinks. "What would you like?" He waded forward, looking over his shoulder at Nice and pushing the hair from his forehead in the process. Without a thought, he wrapped a hand around her hip and pulled her toward him as he settled into the barstool planted into the seafloor.

Bérénice beat him to the shoreline, but Harlan crashed in against the waves much quicker (and much less delicately) than she did, getting waist height before she’d even made it midway up her thighs. The water wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t bubble bath temperature either and she hadn’t been lazing in the sun, soaking up the warmth until the point she needed to cool off. Good thing there was a carrot at the end of the stick to motivate her.

Harlan ducked under and Bérénice took the opportunity -- while he couldn’t see her -- to dip her hips quickly under the waves, screwing her face up. She let out a breathy exhale and a shiver, clenching her hands into fists. Harlan’s head popped back up and the French witch returned his smile, doing her best to act like she hadn’t just had to count to three and cheat herself on two to duck deeper.

But she was past the worst of it now; Nice followed Harlan in deeper, more determinedly; her fingertips draping across the surface of the water. She smiled back at him, almost coyly. “Hmm,” she hummed, pretending to think about it as she came in closer. He sat sideways at the swim-up bar and Bérénice felt his hand smooth across her hip and pull her into him, between his knees. She smirked softly, unable to help herself; “Whisky,” she murmured, gripping his forearm gently.

The attempt Nice had made to pause before moving that step toward him would have been laughable if Harlan weren't so intent on it happening the moment the thought had entered his mind. As with most things, he was painfully determined. Presently, his hands on her was the direction that was taking him. Following the track laid down, he touched her side. Her skin— the side of her bathing suit under the ocean water— softer than he thought possible. He figured he could have been a bit gentler, more subtle himself, but that wasn't in his nature.

Unsurprisingly (he thought, at least, which said more about him than anything else) she followed suit and tucked into the place where he'd deliberately left open. If he hadn't been so used to places like this, a luxury of traveling for Quidditch, he would have been more in awe of all the resort had to offer. Aside from the amenities of which it seemed they were going to take full advantage of, the view was second to none.

"Oh, a whisky for the lady," He raised an eyebrow at the man behind the bar, flicking his blue eyes that mirrored the color of the ocean back to Nice. This bloke had no idea what that drink, that word really, meant between the two of them, and that was probably for the best. That's how they'd ended up here in the first place, wasn't it?

Either way, Harlan had no intention of questioning it. "Balvenie, Port, if you've got it," He commented, making that two.

Once the bartender was out of earshot, Harlan refocused his attention on Bérénice. "Seems like you've acquired the taste..." He teased, referring to the drink of course. He remembered not all that long ago when it hadn't been her first choice. He flexed his hand against her hip and fought the urge to get any closer. While they were worlds away from home, further now that they were in the ocean, essentially alone at the bar, he still had his reservations.

“Mm,” the French witch hummed quietly in response, holding Harlan’s gaze as he met hers. Her mouth stretched into a wider smirk and he glanced away to finalise their order; Bérénice continued to stare at him for a minute, admiring the glint of his light eyes and the line of his jaw, and the fine lines that flattered rather than aged him in the light of the golden hour. She looked out at the horizon before he could catch her – not that it wasn’t obvious she was staring, but...

If she knew how much that particular brand of whisky would set Harlan back she might have felt a little more guilty about it – she wasn’t a connoisseur, she was drinking it because of what it signalled, now. This was their gateway drug, allowing them to dive into whatever they’d been holding back from before. And maybe, a little, because it would free up her hands sooner than glass after glass of wine.

She flicked her dark eyes back to his and smiled – the expression faltering as Harlan adjusted his hold on her – a physical reminder of just how close they were beneath the surface. Nice lifted one arm out of the water and draped it around his neck, twisting her body to face him, drawing in closer. “I’m still acquiring it,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on his before letting them drift down, leisurely – appreciatively. Now that there were no obstacles – for either of them – this ought to be plain sailing, but this was still uncharted territory, and what, exactly, was their port of destination?

And, for that matter; “What are we celebrating?” she asked as their drinks were set down on the bar. Bérénice picked hers up, holding it out ready for a toast. His Quidditch win was the obvious answer – the safe assumption – but a small part of her was holding out that they could be celebrating something else, too. She moved the arm around his broad shoulders just enough for her to be able to play idly with the hair at the back of his neck. It was shorter than she had seen him with in years – she wondered if that was another hark back to another time.