do you not think so far ahead?

"It's fine, it's fine, leave it, mate, c'mon," Harlan groaned, swatting Rob's hand out of his immediate vicinity and taking a step back to safeguard his wand.

How was it they always ended up drunk in Hogsmeade?

Nothing better to do, a more sober him would have come back with.

In hindsight, Harlan should have thanked his ex-teammate for sparing him a mistake made, but in the moment there was no stopping him. Where he and Honey had left things at his sister's birthday was open-ended— impossibly so— and he couldn't bear another night wondering. It didn't help, of course, that Nice was in France and he was on the precipice of the rest of his career— zero pressure. "I'll see you this week," He wouldn't, but it sounded right, and Harlan left the bar to the inaudible sound of Rob's eyes rolling back into his head.

Honeydukes wasn't far, the cobblestoned path was familiar in all of its unfamiliarity, and he had arrived before he knew— before he had time to gather his thoughts. Harlan paused at the door, instinctively reaching for the door, not bothering to knock.

It was locked. He tilted his head, studying the knob, perplexed. That was a first. It was then that it was clear that he better go and he promptly turned on his heels to make his way anywhere else. With any luck she would be well asleep and unaware.

@Honey Bea Flume

Honey tapped the end of her quill against her chin, in time to the numbers she was counting as she double checked her arithmetic. It was pretty easy math, at least, just going over what did and didn’t sell on the Hogwarts Express trolley with a side of planning what adjustments to make for the trolley for the trip in December (and make room for that mince pie fudge she’d been working on).

She set her quill down to have another bite of shortbread--after a quick dunk in her coffee--and glanced out the window as she chewed. The Unicorn and Thistle was situated diagonal across the street from her shop but that was just one reason her gaze drifted that way; it was a fairly slow night in the village and Honeydukes had been closed for a couple hours but that didn’t stop someone from approaching her door. Honey blinked a couple times, leaning forward across the table to get a better look because she could almost swear that looked like--

Was he trying the door? She’d locked it, for once, but she didn’t have time to enjoy the thought before he turned, catching the light of the streetlamp. Honey’s eyes went wide--it was Harlan, shit--and she scrambled out of her chair, snatching up her quill and parchment and moving out to the street in about three seconds. (Thankfully it wasn’t the first time she had run out on a meal, remembering she’d left something on the stove, or whatever.)

He was heading the other way but she stopped trying to catch up. “Harlan?” Did she sound out of breath? She was. They’d left things… somewhere after the party and she was torn between wanting him to keep walking and wanting to finish what they had started. He stopped and turned to look at her and she smirked softly, forgetting any reasons she might have had to want him to leave. “Good thing I locked it.” She tilted her head toward the door to her shop.

“You, er--” She paused, swallowed, switched her handful of parchment to the other hand. “Hi.”

Harlan.

He heard his name, paused, then closed his eyes as if he might be able to make himself unseen. Eventually, he turned on heels and put a face to the all-too-familiar voice that had called out. Honey. She had something in her hands that he couldn't make out from a distance and she was drenched in the dim light of the street lamps. All of it made her look vaguely threatening. He was probably just pissed—definitely was— but it felt like some kind of omen that he should be reading more into.

Had she been running? Harlan laughed, his eyes drawn to her mouth. It had been a good thing she locked the door, he thought, but then again, there they were either way. "You really ought to get better about that," His gaze followed her nod to Honeydukes as he took another step closer so that he wasn’t shouting from across the pathway.

"Hi—" He ran a hand over his mouth then up to his jaw and through his hair, languid and drunk. “—sorry,” He had no excuse for turning up unannounced but still he searched. “Was just looking for, a gift,” He lied. He couldn't very well say he was shopping for himself, anyway, Honey would know better. The reality was he needed to see her, to find some way to clear the air so that he could sleep without the way that her hair smelled and the way that her skin tasted that night plaguing his dreams.

She had figured that she’d run into him sooner or later--she always did--though she had almost hoped it’d be later rather than sooner, once she’d had a chance to clear her head a bit. But it was sooner. Now. Here.

Harlan laughed and Honey was suddenly very conscious of what she was wearing--jumper and jeans, nothing Harlan hadn’t seen before--and what she had looked like last time she’d seen a mirror. Decent, she hoped. Nothing to laugh at, anyway. Why it mattered was beyond her level of critical thinking skills, but thankfully she didn’t have much time to think about it. He glanced at the shop and told her she ought to be better about locking the already locked door; she had kept her gaze on him, eyes narrowed, close to asking what he would have done had it been unlocked. She didn’t think she needed to ask, all things considered.

Honey took another few steps closer, smiling--nearly smirking, just barely resisting--when he apologized. She knew what drunk Harlan looked like, had plenty of experience with him, but she was typically also drunk and not confused as to where they stood in the grand scheme of things. “A gift?” She didn’t bother asking who the gift was for, assuming he was just making excuses anyway. It was almost believable that he needed to save his shopping for off-peak hours for reasons of privacy but it was still a bit of a stretch. Showing up drunk, unannounced, was how Honey had initiated their relationship in the first place; it was almost fitting.

“Well, I can help with that.” That, other things, whatever. Closure on what happened at the party, maybe. (Audrey hadn’t even been upset she’d left early, which said something about her opinions on the whole matter). “I’ve got gin,” she said, fingers grazing his elbow as she nodded to her shop again.

Honey was less than convinced about his tale of gift-giving and he couldn’t blame her. When was the last time he'd stopped by to casually shop? Never, he thought. Harlan only bought the one thing at Honeydukes by choice, more or less for Arya, and he had done so far more discretely in the last two years of actually knowing the owner— even more once he really knew her. His mind was racing and it made it hard to focus. The alcohol, her, everything— it seemed he couldn’t hold on to any one thing for too long. As much as he knew he should go, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

“I don’t—“ He began, then paused when he heard his voice out loud. It was heavy and light at the same time. He could feel the stupid grin on his face but tried to suppress it all the same. He meant to say that he didn't think it was a good idea. Drunk, sober, regardless, going inside was a bad idea. Being there at all had been a bad idea. Yet there he was, still.

Harlan ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were dim in the street light as they ran the course of her face, finally, a sigh. Gin. "I shouldn't have come," He explained with just the right amount of exasperation. But then he felt her fingers as they traced over the fabric of his shirt on his elbow and his eyes briefly closed in thought, or something like thought. "Just the one," He said more seriously, following down the familiar path. It seemed darker inside than before. Harlan leaned agaisnt the frame of the door, watching as she unlocked it. "Fuck," He muttered under his breath as he tucked into the familiar interior.

He didn’t… finish his sentence and Honey was glad of it. It wouldn’t do to have him being the voice of reason in his condition.

Honey rolled her eyes when he said he shouldn’t have come. “You’re already here,” she said with a soft smirk, pointing out the obvious. Fingertips still on his elbow, she nudged him toward the door. “Just the one,” she repeated, looking him over for a second before she turned to walk to the door. She resigned herself to just making it one big drink.

She pulled her wand out to unlock the door, grateful that it wasn’t any wider, glad he could lean on the doorframe and still be quite close. She considered going for it right then, somewhat emboldened by his agreeing to stay (even though he’d more or less invited himself) but for once she was mindful of still being visible to whoever decided to look out their window. The bell rang jarringly as she pushed open the door and Honey quieted it with her wand, needing the extra silence to help her decide where to go, upstairs or down.

“I don’t have any downstairs.” That might have been true but she didn’t want to push her luck finding out it wasn’t. “Gin,” she clarified, looking back over her shoulder with another small smirk before she turned back to the stairs, just enough light coming in from the windows to see where she was going. Pushing into her flat, she dropped her quill and parchment on the table and lit a fire on her way to grab a bottle of gin and a couple glasses, figuring Harlan could settle in on his own.

“That’s all right,” It wasn’t, really, but Harlan followed her up the stairs anyway. He ignored the smirk she shot over her shoulder as if that might make him less culpable. The one drink which he already knew might miraculously turn into more (she was persuasive on a bad day) had worse optics from her living room as opposed to the downstairs kitchen. With their history, neither was the particularly safe option, of course.

Inside it was as cozy as it had been only a few months prior— rugs splayed over the wooden floor, a few too many decorative pillows draped over the couches, the familiar sound of the fire sparking up. It was almost enough to lull him into some kind of false sense security. Like the outside world didn’t exist.

Harlan watched as she made her way to the kitchen and wasted no time himself comfortable, falling onto the armchair, his legs over the arm and broad shoulders squeezed into the area where he should have been sitting. As he studied the ceiling he considered his options. In truth, none of them seemed all that wise. “Shit,” He cursed and ran both hands roughly through his hair.

"That’s the one?” He propped himself up on his elbows as Honey reentered with two glasses as big as his head. Rolling his eyes with a hint of a smile, he sat up further but hadn’t moved to immediately peel himself from the armchair. Too much effort at once. “I didn’t take you from something, did I? Harlan was drunk, sure, but he hadn’t missed the parchment she’d discarded on the table when they arrived.

Honey turned back to her cozy lounge, bottle of gin tucked under her arm, bottle of soda in one hand and glasses in the other, her wand tucked into her pocket instead of using it in any useful sort of way (a reason to get close to hand him a glass, probably).

He’d made himself comfortable—Honey smirked when she saw him—and she shrugged off his question. Was she that easy to figure out? (Had she genuinely forgotten that he probably knew her better than anyone?) “You weren’t specific.” She set everything on the table and took a seat on the sofa, as close to Harlan as she could get. She nearly offered to put him to bed—he almost looked too comfortable—but he’d either take her up on it and fall asleep or say no and leave; the drink was the safe inbetween.

She started with the gin, pouring as she glanced at Harlan, to the kitchen table, then back to the gin, which was a rather hefty pour by then. “Work stuff.” She glanced at him again before pouring more gin—just as much—in the other glass. “Do you want to check my sums?” She was unsure how that could be taken in any other way but she smirked anyway.

Honey topped off the glasses with soda and chilled them quickly with her wand; she held one glass out to him until he had sat up enough to take it from her. (She had hoped their hands would brush against each others’ when she passed him the glass and she wasn’t disappointed.)

“You alright?” Honey lifted an eyebrow before taking a sip of her drink. “I’m—“ happy you’re here wasn’t the right way to start this. “I hope you don’t feel bad about Audrey’s.” That wasn’t the right way, either, but it was better. She set her glass down and leaned forward a little, elbows on her knees. “I don’t.”

If ever there was an opportunity for a loophole, Honey was sure to find it. Harlan shook his head. He should have known better than to be even a fraction vague about the definition of just the one drink, but then again, he grappled with the idea that perhaps he didn't mind. There was some small part of him— the one that he was trying desperately to ignore around her— that might have even hoped for it. Truthfully he was in no position to keep drinking but he couldn't say no. And he'd gone there with a mission: clear the air, and his mind.

Work stuff. He should have figured. She was always working even when she wasn't "Not that important, then, " He teased, eyeing her pour as she went in for more gin. "Do I look like I'm in any state for maths? Harlan grinned, sitting up on the armchair and twisting slightly so that he wasn't looking at her so upside down. "You wouldn't want me as your boss—" He clicked his tongue. "—I'm very particular."

That wasn't wrong, even though he knew that wasn't what she'd implied.

Honey mentioned Audrey's and he wondered to himself if he had been that transparent or if she had read his mind. Most likely the former. Harlan took more than a sip of his drink, hardly noticed the taste of the gin, and leaned his head back against the arm of the chair with something of a sigh. "I don't feel bad," He didn't, anyway, he didn't think. "I just couldn't stop thinking about it," Harlan paused, eyes still on the ceiling and deep in thought, a glance over his shoulder to her.

He shifted to sit normally in the chair so that he could look at her while he spoke. He wasn't sorry for that night, but he was for turning up then with no actual plan as to what the fuck he was up to. "—I shouldn't have just turned up like this," He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against the chair, hands pushing back his hair.

She wouldn’t want him as her boss. He was right, but— “Wouldn’t I?” She smirked. Maybe not for work, anyway. She could think of a couple things, at least, that she didn’t mind him being particular about.

Honey took a drink, glancing down at her glass as she stuck a finger in to swirl the contents a little—she hadn’t tasted any gin in her first sip—and seeing as Harlan wasn’t paying her any attention, she wiped her hand on her jeans. She had another sip, and then another, keen to catch up to Harlan.

He didn’t feel bad, at least. That shouldn’t have been a relief but Honey had a hard time not overanalyzing it; he might have felt bad if he’d been seeing anyone else at the time (not unlike what he’d done to her, but she wasn’t thinking wisely now) so his not feeling bad must have meant— Harlan spoke again and kept her from falling any further into her thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and honestly, neither could she. She had tried to distract herself and it had worked at the time, but she kept coming back around to the party.

He glanced at her and she set her drink down, less interested in it now. He shifted and looked at her properly; she held his gaze and shrugged. “Why not?” There were plenty of reasons why not, of course—there could have been a visiting distraction, for one—but she supposed she didn’t really want an answer. “You turn up here or I turn up there,” she said. “I’ve got a knack for it.” Showing up drunk and unannounced, that is.

“Plus, it saves me the trouble of finding an excuse to invite you up.” She shrugged again, as if she wasn’t completely serious.

"Right," Harlan stopped short of rolling his eyes. It was always the way with him and Honey regardless of whatever complicated situation they found themselves in. And there had been a few. Someone was always showing up somewhere, trying to find words that never came, trying to explain the complicated nature of their own feelings. They were always chasing something. If he weren't drunk, he figured he might have been able to come up with a reason, something to placate the uneasiness in his chest, but he had no such luck. The only thing that struck him was another question, the question— had that been all they had to begin with?

Find an excuse to invite him up. He let out a laugh and just as quickly all of his thoughts dissipated.

"Why don't you hate me?" He'd said it before he had a chance to stop himself, the laugh he was in the middle of faltering only slightly. Honey should hate him, he thought, she had every right to. The sinister part of him wanted her to as well. Harlan reached for his drink and shook his head to say as much. "Fuck, you ought to..." He clicked his tongue before taking a drink and settling back into the chair once more, that time not as seriously, a grin at his mouth. Either way— "Glad you don't, anyway," He backtracked, catching her eye, fully away that he was floundering.

There was something about her that made him go around in circles.

Right. He didn’t have anything to counter with, and Honey just barely kept herself from frowning. This wasn’t the way of things, him not matching her word for word. That was how they worked; they weren’t the type to sit in silence; they would find something to occupy that silence, but Harlan wasn’t doing that, either. She tried to save face, say he’d saved her from needing an excuse to invite him up, which was really only the half truth. She would have found an excuse, one way or the other.

Harlan laughed and Honey smirked, though it faltered almost as quickly as it had appeared. “What?” Why didn’t she hate him? If anyone wanted the answer to that question, it was Honey. It should have been easy to--Harlan said as much the next second; she ought too--and it didn’t escape her that she couldn’t even do a proper breakup, not with him, not with Will, never mind she couldn’t do a proper relationship either. But maybe that was part of it-- it had been different this time, the relationship, not the breakup (though it was a first for her, being dumped). She had tried--Merlin, how many times was she going to say that to herself, as if she should be congratulated for not cheating on someone, for once--and it had felt different, otherwise.

Why the fuck was he smiling, though? She couldn’t assume he was replaying everything like she was but asking why she didn’t hate him--and all the implications behind that--warranted at least some thinking, didn’t it?

“Are you?” Her mouth felt dry and she reached for her drink again, though she held it in her lap instead of having a swallow. Of course he was, she told herself; he wouldn’t have shown up here if he thought she hated him. “I tried,” she said, her eyes still on him. “For what it’s worth.” She swallowed, her mouth still dry, her glass still in her lap. “It’d be easier if you hadn’t apologized, remember?”

Harlan was still grinning when Honey asked— what— he figured it was less of a question and more of an attempt to give herself a moment to think.

They were similar in that sense, internalized.

He faltered as he caught her eye and then again when he watched her move to grab her drink. She had actively tried to hate him, and wasn't that what he wanted to hear? In his alcohol-soaked brain he couldn't be sure one way or the other. Instead, he opted to bide his own time. He shifted so that one leg was propped over the arm of the chair with his elbow opposite and propping himself up. It should have been a crime to be so comfortable there, with her, but Harlan couldn't help himself.

"Sorry for being sorry, then," He looked up at her from where his chin was placed precariously in his palm, a grin in tow, sardonic in tone.

There was a moment of tension as he studied her and Harlan knew that the night had only two outcomes— neither of which were a given. He cleared his throat. "Maybe that's what I came here to say, anyway..." Sorry. But there was more to it than that. After a moment— "Come here," It was barely half of a question. He reached forward to run his fingertips over her leg just outside where her drink was held in her lap. Harlan had no idea what the implication was but he knew he wanted her closer.

He wasn’t saying anything, just shifting instead, and Honey watched him, still holding on to her glass (though maybe she should have been drinking as quickly as possible so she wouldn’t have to think as much). He was sorry for being sorry and it took her a few seconds to wrap her head around that, what that was supposed to mean; he wanted her to hate him but if anything, that just made it twice as hard to do now.

Honey didn’t say anything, watching him watch her; it was a long minute. Her gaze drifted over him, sitting so comfortably in her chair, almost as if the past three months hadn’t happened— rather than him just being drunk and not being certain how chairs worked.

“Is it?” She was pretty sure he was supposed to be there for a gift but she didn’t want to give him a reason to get off track, to stop looking at her like that. Sure, he was clearly pissed and she didn’t think he would have showed up if he wasn’t; she lifted her glass to her lips to have another drink, stop herself from overthinking— come here. Honey stopped before she had a sip, lowering her glass back to her lap as she lowered her gaze to his hand, fingertips grazing her leg.

Her breath came faster and she set her glass on the table without a second thought—there was something profound there, that Harlan had the same not-thinking effect on her thay alcohol did but she didn’t have enough mental space left to consider it—before she moved to perch sideways on the edge of the chair. She had one hand on the back of it, leaning toward it (and over Harlan) as she looked at him, her eyes searching his face for some indication this should go one way or the other.

“I don’t—“ she paused, already aware how cheesy she was about to sound and more aware she couldn’t blame it on the gin— “I don’t want to hate you.” Maybe it didn’t sound as desperate as she thought it did.

He said it without thinking— half of him imagined that he might have said it only to himself until Honey got up and actually came over. Harlan moved to accommodate her as she propped up on the edge of armchair (how did they always end up like that?), and twisted to face her from where he was sprawled out below. In a way, it felt like she held all of the power from that vantage point, but that sort of thing always fluxed. Honey began a thought, paused, but Harlan was too preoccupied by the way that her mouth moved from that angle to notice.

It wasn’t unlike Harlan to take his time to process things. He was only quick to speak without thought when he was angry, and he was feeling further from that as the night went on. He figured he could have been able to be angry at himself for doing it again— not letting her just be— but that was a distant thought with her so close.

His hand made its way around her torso, an elbow rested lazily on top of her upper leg then absently ran over the place where her jumper met her jeans at her back. It was such a natural, easy, movement that he hadn’t given it thought. Harlan let out a groan that somehow morphed into a laugh. None of it was funny, but he was drunk enough to imagine that it could be. Ironic.

"I'm not going to tell you that you should again," Hate him. She knew that already, and he wasn't in the business of telling her how she should and shouldn't feel about him post-breakup, not in a serious way. "Guess we just weren't cut out for that, were we? A relationship—" A real one. They'd forged the way of their relationship in such a way that it seemed impossible in hindsight. Harlan's hand crept up under her jumper to her familiar skin, tracing up and then back down again. It was strange to have that kind of conversation so close, but it suited them, after all.