[geneva] absolute beginners [honey]

“Probably,” she agreed with a slight shrug, realizing a second too late that she was only agreeing with him agreeing with her. They’d really honed their conversation skills. But she didn’t mind the walk; she’d worn comfortable shoes, at least. Of course, she’d prefer she didn’t sober up too much--she liked the failsafe excuse of alcohol--but there were worse things, she supposed.

It wasn’t a bad silence; they both knew where they were headed--or, more specifically, where the night was headed because she wasn’t convinced they weren’t lost--and that’s what made this so nice. She didn’t need to think of something to talk about or pretend to laugh at his stupid jokes because she wasn’t trying to impress him or get the invite into his pants. She could push him against the wall right there and he’d be fine with it. It was nice. Easy. Distracting. What she wanted.

They got a little closer to the clubs and more and more Honey started recognizing street names and other little landmarks. It wasn’t nostalgia that hit her but it was close. She looked at a few of the places across the street, trying to pick out which one was where she’d snogged Grace for the first time, smirking as she didn’t remember so many of the details about the night but knew well enough it had been a good one. She had no idea which building it was--or why it mattered--and wasn’t about to figure it out just by staring at the neon signs above the doors. It’d been over ten years since, anyway (and fuck, she was getting old).

“What?” She’d been distracted (but not in a bad way, really) and it took her a second to realize she’d heard his question perfectly clear. She raised her eyebrows, gaze flicking from him to across the street and back. Whisky or summat; Honey assumed the summat was open to interpretation considering they’d done an awful lot of looking and minimal touching so far that night. At least this way they could have a drink and not have to deal with a pesky table between them--win win. And when was the last time they’d done anything in public (that one kiss at her birthday party because that hardly counted)? She smirked, nodding about the whisky or summat without elaborating on her train of thought. “Yeah, let’s.”

She wasn’t dressed for a club--clean white trainers were still trainers--but the one a few doors down seemed to have less of a dress code, considering the women who had just spilled out the door. (Her skirt was short but not club short, but she guessed she wasn’t technically trying to catch anyone else’s eye.) Honey grabbed his hand--without thinking but without lacing her fingers through his this time--and crossed the street after their potential taxi had passed.

It was darker and louder and more crowded inside and Honey had to press herself against him, one arm around his waist as she leaned in to get her lips close enough to his ear to be heard: “Buy you a drink?”

Honey smirked, Charlie smirked back at her. She took his hand in hers and tugged him across the street with her. She picked the club playing europop, which he wasn’t thrilled about but he’d cope – coped even better the minute they were inside and she pressed up against him. Charlie felt Honey’s hand slink around his waist and he mirrored her, glad to no longer be hindered by furniture. She leaned in close and he'd say he was only mildly disappointed when it was to speak into his ear.

Charlie nodded, didn’t remove the hand on the small of her back – in fact dropped it lower to cup her backside. “Yeah, alright.” After the price he’d paid for some melted cheese and chocolate and a few cocktails she owed him at least one drink. As he followed her to the bar he couldn’t help but glance around, as if someone might spot them here in a muggle nightclub in Switzerland. And why did he care if they did, anyway? Proving a point, maybe.

Honey leaned up on the bar, using her best assets to grab the attention of a bartender. Charlie smirked – couldn't say he wouldn't do the same if he had tits. She ordered for him – he presumed, because he couldn’t hear and he wasn’t great at lip-reading – and turned back to face him while they waited for their drinks. “Didn’t order scotch, did you?” he drawled, knowing she more than likely had. It was growing on him – or, rather he was learning to appreciate the subtle difference between it and his usual (cheaper) option. Couldn't admit that to Honey (or her brother) of course, he'd never hear the end of it.

Honey arched her back just enough to see Charlie nod. She smirked, reluctant to move now that he’d repositioned his hand, never mind that she had just offered to go do something else. “Alright,” she repeated after him, lingering for another few seconds before peeling herself off of him, her hand trailing down his arm to grab his hand--barely holding onto his fingers, really--and pull him along behind her.

She dropped his hand when she got to the bar, leaning onto the bartop (after tugging on the hem of her shirt again) to get the bartender’s attention (and with a slight bend at her waist to give Charlie something to look at, too). She probably should have asked what he wanted to drink, only realized she hadn’t when it was too late; she figured he could manage, ordering a beer for him and a cider for her because those were quicker (and cheaper) options in a club.

Drinks ordered, she turned back to Charlie, smirking when she had another proper look at him. She took half a step closer to hear him properly; “Did you want Scotch?” Honey made a face, expecting that maybe the least--who ordered whisky at a nightclub?--but she didn’t have time to puzzle it out. The bartender was back with their two bottles and she turned back to him, her bag on the bar so she could fish for francs again. She pulled out the note with a chocolate glommed on, found another one to replace it. That all taken care of--no wasting time trying to charm the service staff, this time--she handed Charlie his beer and had a swallow of her own.

She hesitated maybe half a second before she stepped back into him, taking them a couple steps away from the bar, arm around his waist again. (She figured she ought to take advantage of being somewhere no one cared about seeing them together, or something.) “Y’know,” she started with a small nod, “I’d give you my phone number.” She shrugged, her expression somewhat serious before she ruined it with a smirk. “If I had one, anyway.”

Did he want Scotch? Charlie let out a short, sharp laugh; “No.” He shook his head softly, as if his derision hadn’t made it obvious enough. He shoved his hands in his pockets, immediately thought better of it and pulled them back out to cross his arms over his chest while he waited for Honey to pay for their drinks—

He caught sight of the bottles and raised an eyebrow at her. That's how it was then? He could fit the bill for cocktails and she'd splash out on bottled beer (and cider)? Charlie bit back the comment on the tip of his tongue and unfolded his arms to take his beer from her, not being shy about a little more skin-to-skin contact -- even if it was only their fingers brushing one another. "Cheers," he mumbled, tipping the bottle towards her before having a swig.

Honey took the opportunity to get cosy, Charlie stepped a little closer himself; they were sort of in everyone’s way but most people were just trying to dance, not drink, and since when did he care if he was inconveniencing someone else? Charlie had another sip of his beer, wrapped his free hand over her opposite hip, stopped short of doing anything close to dancing (he wasn't that drunk, yet).

He'd been half-heartedly scanning the room when Honey started speaking again and his eyes darted back to her a little too quickly to be cool and casual. He went one step further away from it by letting out a merry giggle at the idea of exchanging phone numbers. His eyebrows rose in appreciation and he grinned lazily. "I’d give you mine if you knew how to use one."

Charlie laughed--drunkenly giggled, more like--and Honey bit her bottom lip as she grinned. She had been serious (mostly) even though it’d be about five years too late. He raised his eyebrows and she did the same as she shrugged again.

She laughed again, rolling her eyes because disparaging her abilities aside, it sounded like he really was bragging about knowing how to push some buttons to ring someone up. Never mind that the one time she had a phone--living in Geneva--she had waited for people to ring her. Still. “I know how to use one.” In theory, anyway. She’d still owned a phone at one point; they had a phone in Majorca and they called her grandparents on Christmas but it wasn’t like she was the one responsible for the dialing.

Honey didn’t need his phone number--it wasn’t like she could pop round to Ferg’s to borrow his phone for a little chat with Charlie (what would they even talk about, anyway?)--but she was feeling a bit indignant now. She got a little sidetracked thinking this might have been good to give the owls a little rest but now that she and Charlie were seeing each other more often (before the tour, anyway), they’d been sending less mail. They didn’t need the letters to stand in for physical interaction, now.

What was her point with all this? Right-- she didn’t need his phone number but now she kind of wanted it. To prove a point.

“Really, I do.” She nodded again, detangling herself from him and stepping back to the bar and leaning over it once the bartender was looking the other way. She’d seen a pen earlier and it was still there; she grabbed it and turned back to Charlie, holding it out. “Assuming you know it.”

Charlie furrowed his brows disbelievingly at Honey. “Do you?” He remembered Fergie asking him, once upon a time, how to use a phone (and then how did the phone itself work, which was beyond Charlie’s repertoire), and so didn’t think his sister would know how to use one -- unless it had been a fun little sibling bonding exercise? He smirked to himself at the thought of it.

Honey confirmed that she did know how to use one -- again -- and his smirk widened. “Alright,” he said, unsure what else he was supposed to say— She promptly peeled away from him and he thought maybe he’d offended her somehow -- he began to roll his eyes but stopped in time to see her returning with a pen. Charlie grinned lopsidedly. “I know my own bloody phone number, yeah,” he told her, plucking the pen from her grasp pointedly.

He hesitated for a moment before putting his beer bottle between his lips, gripping the little ridge around the mouth with his teeth precariously as he used one hand to grab her wrist and the other to write his phone number along the inside of her forearm. He had briefly considered drawing a giant phallic image instead (she’d probably still appreciate it) but a part of him wanted to see if she’d do anything with his number (other than wash it off).

Charlie let go of her wrist and took his beer back in his hand, reaching past her -- crowding her space -- to toss the pen on the bar. When he stood back up straight he was closer than he’d been pre-phone number exchange. He held Honey’s gaze through another sip of his beer, licked his lips, placed his free hand on her waist and gripped softly. Fuck it, they’d been delaying this how long? Charlie leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, pulling her body flush against his.

He knew his own phone number, or said so, at least; Charlie took the pen from her and promptly did nothing with it (Honey didn’t think through the logistics of finding him something to write on and certainly wasn’t concerned with it now). She needn’t worry about that, anyway; he had hold of her wrist soon enough, though she could hardly focus on the new (to tonight) skin-to-skin contact as she was much more concerned with what he was doing with his beer bottle.

She looked at the rest of his face--snuck a chance while he wasn’t paying attention, more like--but her gaze drifted back to his mouth after another second. She blinked, looked down at her outstretched arm to look for something else to distract her.

Charlie’d written a few numbers on her arm and she watched him write a few more. She had some idea how long a phone number ought to be but she didn’t know enough to know if she was looking at the right amount or not. That seemed like something he’d do, test out her knowledge after her insistence that she knew something; he’d done that ‘letting’ her buy her Underground ticket first. Maybe she could ask Grace later but then she’d want to know why she was asking and considering the last thing Honey had said about Charlie to her was ‘I’m done with that’ the plan seemed a little less than ideal.

She thought there was a slight hesitation between him finishing writing and moving to toss the pen aside; he was nice and close and she’d have been able to feel his breath on her neck if not for the bottle getting in the way; he moved before she could think of anything to say. He was crowding her space a bit more cozily now and Honey raised her eyebrows expectantly, wrapping her arm around his waist one more time.

He had a sip. Honey had a sip. She didn’t want to be the first to say anything now.

Charlie grabbed her waist and Honey held her drink low at her side, not taking her eyes off his, expecting what came next. She didn’t care that they were still close to the bar or in the way of anyone else or-- she’d had enough drinks to not care about anything, really. She tightened her grip on him, tried to pull him closer, dropped her hand after a few more seconds to give his bum a squeeze. She kept kissing him as someone brushed past them, only parting for air after it happened a couple more times (and only nudging one person back with her elbow).

She ought to suggest they leave and get back to the hotel but it’d be easier to move farther into the club, somewhere with less foot traffic, find a nice wall to lean against. She took half a step back and grabbed Charlie’s hand before turning to retreat toward the back of the club.

Honey responded to him immediately -- not that he’d anticipated anything different. They might have spent the entire night so far doing everything but this but they both knew this was where they were going to end up -- maybe not here, but this. He felt her hand slide over his backside and grinned into their kiss, slipping his own hand down the curve of her back to repay the favour as he reached lower.

Charlie had thought he was doing a decent job at shielding them from the worst of the jostling, but perhaps he’d just been too preoccupied -- no, too drunk -- to notice. Honey tugged him deeper into the club -- which was the opposite direction of the hotel, but he supposed they’d manage -- her fingers entwining with his in a way he didn’t mind so much, here.

She weaved her way between the crowd, Charlie walking side-on behind her to squeeze through the small parting she’d made in the sea of people, until they popped out near the short hallway to the bathrooms. He smirked at Honey, the strobe lighting illuminating his face just long enough for the expression to be visible, and had a quick guzzle of his beer before ditching the bottle (not quite finished) on the nearest flat surface.

Hands now free, he picked up where they’d left off; backing her up against the wall with his fingers digging into her hips and his mouth back on hers. Behind him Charlie heard what he imagined were words of encouragement in French, but he wasn’t particularly interested in anything -- or anyone -- but Honey right now. He slid his hand down over her hip, encouraging her to wrap her thigh around his, pressing his chest to hers and tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

Honey laced her fingers through his and pulled him close to her backside as she maneuvered—elbowed—her way through people, half of them dancing, the other half just thinking about it. She had other priorities, though, and her current one was keeping Charlie close, making sure he didn’t get lost. (She might have tried a sneaky grab, too, that would have been more successful if she hadn’t been holding his hand.)

It took another minute to push her way to the back hall; there were some people milling about but it wasn’t like this was a posh club so they had no right to be offended by how they were about to utilize that bit of wallspace. Honey turned and smirked back, biting her lower lip as she waited for him to be finished with his beer. She was still holding hers but only because she’d been distracted with other things. She still had a free hand, more than enough.

He had barely set his drink down before Honey leaned in—lunged—and grabbed the front of his shirt in her fist. She pulled him toward her as he pushed her back against the wall, drink held low at her side as she worked her other hand around Charlie’s waist (she was a little limited so she was just pulling him to her as much as possible). There weren’t any questions at the hand on her thigh and she hooked her leg around him after some unnecessary encouragement; it wasn’t a super successful move; her corduroy skirt didn’t give her much range of motion.

It wasn’t enough. She tapped Charlie’s shoulder twice and tilted her head toward the bathrooms when they parted for air. Getting a hand between them, Honey pushed back on his chest—she thought it a more eager than forceful gesture—and pointed more obviously to the bathroom just as someone came through the door. She let him go first; she dipped down quickly to ditch her drink on the floor against the wall before she followed him in.

She closed the door and picked right back up with things, her priorities far away from locking the door behind them.

Charlie felt Honey’s fingers tap on his shoulder and -- despite better judgement, which told him to just plough on -- arched his back enough to break off their kiss. He smirked, catching her meaning, though forgot to make it obvious that yes, he thought the bathroom was a good idea too, which meant she felt the need to push at his chest and point, to make it really obvious. Charlie rolled his eyes and peeled himself off of her to lead the way. He checked the coast was clear, turned back to face her, and returned the grin she was flashing him.

Honey’s hands were at his belt, his trying to tug the stiff material of her skirt up enough to not have to take it off completely. He had just succeeded when the door flung open—

Charlie pushed back on the door heavily, effectively slamming it on their intruder. “You’re meant to lock it,” he told Honey, one hand still holding the door closed (for now) and the other slinking around her waist, pulling her with him as he apparated them back to his hotel room.

He probably shouldn’t have done that, but Honey wasn’t screaming (yet) and it didn’t feel like he was missing any limbs (nothing important, anyway). The person on the other side of that doorwas going to open it again and see nobody standing there, which… Charlie would argue, they could chalk it up to being drunk (or otherwise -- it was Europe, after all).

But he had more important things to immediately concern himself with: he smirked at Honey and walked them backwards to the bed.

Honey had her hands on his belt until she moved to help with him hitching up her skirt—what had she been thinking wearing this skirt? (it was cute)—moving one thing out of the way at a time and making sounds progress when the door swung inward. Her eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised because she didn’t remember not locking it, though maybe it wasn’t the end of the world— Honey was halfway to another smirk when Charlie closed the door (literally) on that idea. “I was distracted,” she said with a shrug, sure she was quite a sight with her skirt bunched at her waist.

She was about to suggest he lock the door rather than hold it closed—he needed both hands free—when he pulled her to him again, only to apparate the both of them out of there.

They were in a hotel room; she assumed it was his but she was about to ask if he was sure because hadn’t they gotten that wrong once before? She opened her mouth to ask before she closed it again, realizing there was a very good chance it hadn’t been him, probably wasn’t, if she really thought about it (she wouldn’t). Never mind how drunk he must be, and then apparating? But that was a problem for a different day because there were clearly more important things at hand.

…

Her portkey wasn’t until ten and she’d pushed her get-out-of-bed time as far as possible, not slipping out from under the covers until twenty ‘til. She hadn’t really ever gone to sleep—that was her normal mode of operation in days (sometimes weeks) leading up to holidays at the shop because her diet would mainly consist of energy potions and takeaways—and she probably could have easily left once Charlie had fallen asleep. But she had stayed, drifting in and out of comfortable twilight-y sleep, enjoying the less-than-platonic snuggle.

She cracked open a bottle of water—so loud in the quiet room—and had a few swallows before she remembered she knew how to literally make water, never mind drink directly from the tap; sorry, Charlie. But she was distracted from worrying about his minibar tab as she lowered the bottle and caught sight of the writing along the inside of her arm. It took her a minute to think back that far, but she smirked softly as she remembered Charlie giving her his phone number. Probably. She hesitated for a minute—she was about to go shower and scrub it off—before she copied it down on the hotel-branded pad of paper, tearing off the relevant corner and sticking it in her bag for later, or something.

Her shower was quick—she still had ten minutes before her portkey—and Honey considered waking Charlie up to say goodbye but decided against it, in the end. That’d make this into too much of A Thing, much more than it already was considering she’d gone to the continent to spend a literal eleven hours with him (but that was easier to swallow when she just decided not to think about it). She left a note instead, using the same pad of paper from before, trusting him to figure out what’d happened.

[[ out ]]

Charlie stirred lightly when he felt Honey disentangle herself from him, but quickly fell back to sleep. He stirred again when he heard the shower turn on -- a little closer to being awake, but even the prospect of joining Honey in the shower wasn’t enticing enough to draw him out of bed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t utilised what time they’d left themselves last night (this morning?), once they’d finally made it back to his room.

By the time he woke up under his own volition she was gone -- or, he assumed as much because she’d said her portkey was in the morning and it was now almost twelve, if the digital clock on the bedside was right, and there was no evidence of her still being in the suite. He sat up and arched his back, stretching out his muscles without committing to the almost cartoonish arms-above-head flex. He spotted the half-drunk bottle of water (from the minibar… Thanks, Honey) on the desk and he padded over to it; condensation was still dripping down the plastic so it would still be cold (ish).

He picked it up and unscrewed the top, his eyes falling on the hotel notepad that had been beside it. thanks for the sex, kip xx. He smirked and knocked his head back, guzzling the rest of the bottle on his way into the ensuite.

[ end ]