the holly and the ivy | harlan

23 december 2003 | margaux, haut-médoc

Number four ibble dibble with six dibble ibbles calling number eight ibble dibble with no dibble ibbles.

Bérénice scooted forward on the plush armchair on which she was sat and took the blackened cork from Harlan, their fingers brushing a little longer than was probably necessary--nor safe, in present company--and tried to stifle her grin, doing a shoddy job of it.

She inhaled, attempting to hone her attention on the cork held out in her hand and not on Harlan’s blackened face beyond, grinning out of focus. The fire was crackling in the hearth but otherwise the room was silent. “Number eight ibble dibble with no dibble ibbles, calling number five ibble dibble with sss--ix dibble ibbles—”

The room erupted, she had called Audrey instead of her husband, and thus said the wrong number of spots, and finally lost. Bérénice’s smacked the heel of her palm against her forehead and winced. When she opened her eyes again she met Harlan’s and grimaced. With a small shrug, Nice took the cork and pressed it firmly to her forehead to brand herself with a black smudge. Simon handed Bérénice her wine--he’d been very good at topping her up the last thirty minutes or so--and took the cork from her to continue the game.

Nice stood, wobbled, and smoothed her dress down. “Excusez-moi,” she smiled, and stepped out of the circle of chairs, sofas and ottomans, huddled in a hodge-podge formation in the grand lounge of the chateau, out to the hall.

The brunette returned from the bathroom and stopped suddenly in the foyer upon seeing Harlan waiting for her— or waiting, in general, she couldn’t be sure it was for her. They hadn’t discussed this--the annual Bellamy-Bonaccord Christmas gathering that Harlan hadn’t been to in a few years because he was too busy--other than to confirm they were both going. It was as much her fault as his that they hadn’t gone into details -- she wasn’t sure she was ready for him to disappoint her yet.

“Have you given up?”


@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan hated Ibble Dribble.

The game had no tact— there was nothing physical or mental to stretch himself against, and yet, his family always ended up playing it at the holidays. And he always finished with the most char on his face. It had become something of a running joke with his siblings, both of whom seemed to have had gotten the drinking game gene no doubt passed down from their mother. She was usually the grandmaster of such shows of sportsmanship, relishing in the fast-paced banter.

That night, and that holiday, the matriarch of his family had bowed down to Mrs. Bonaccord, the matriarch of another, their oldest friends. It was their event and despite what Harlan assumed was an insatiable urge to take control she had miraculously reigned herself in (bar those few comments about the place settings).

Harlan handed over the cork to Bérénice after slowing down the game in his own mind, speaking as thoughtfully as he could as to not brandish another loss. His fingers dropped over her palm in the process and he caught her eye just as Simon had filled up her glass. His jaw tensed. The fucking nerve of that man. After his not-so-subtle warning about Harlan being careful (with her) earlier in the evening. The mention of The Prophet photo miraculously was left unearthed aside from that.

Nothing like the holidays to bring a family together.

Deep grey eyes were more silvery, an effect the fire crackling opposite, and they narrowed at the exchange before turning back to the rest of the room. Nice hadn't seemed to notice, or maybe she didn't mind, but either way, something about the way that Simon was watching her, and him, didn't sit well with him. Harlan waited a safe amount of time to excuse himself after she had, not bothering to glance over his shoulder for any questioning looks.

"Hi," He'd been half-pacing in the foyer, the subtle sound of Christmas music lingering in the cooler air absent of the warmth from the fire. His face felt hot, still. "Yeah, have done everyone a favor..." He smiled over his glass, voice a fraction lower than it had been before. "I haven't spoken to you all night," Harlan glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were as alone as they could be, but stopped short of touching her side, despite how much he wanted to.

Hi, he said simply. Bérénice smiled in reply and crossed the room slowly, her hands folded in front of her, heels clacking on the hard floor and echoing in the cavernous hall. She stopped just in front of him, tantalisingly close. “Hard to get a word in,” she joked quietly, matching his volume. He was right though, they’d been around one another all evening but unable to get a moment alone, until now. But it was easier not to overthink every movement, every glance, when they weren’t in such close proximity. She had thought she had caught Audrey giving her that look at least once over dinner, but then Audrey was always giving her that look.

Nice gazed up at Harlan, her eyes flickering across his face and the many black circles dotted over it. She broke out into a grin, her cheeks flushed from the wine. “You're still awful at this game," she told him, reaching up and cupping his jaw with her palm, immediately feeling better for breaking the invisible barrier that had been between them all night. She let her thumb stroke over his cheekbone, smudging the charcoal, absently moved her body closer to his—

A loud yell and more laughter came from the open door to the lounge and Bérénice dropped her hand; her eyes darted to the door, then back to Harlan. She was staring at him, breathing slow. “Harlan, I—” The French witch lowered her line of sight, turned her head to the side and gazed instead at the twelve-foot spruce occupying the hall, lit from top-to-bottom with twinkling lights. She needed to ask, needed to know. The fact that their families were just a few paces away made this risky--as if it weren’t at any other time--but then maybe, she thought, them being nearby made this somehow safer. Bérénice faced him again, more resolved. “What are we doing?“

"It's not my strong suit," Harlan agreed, his mouth pulling into something of a smile, a twinge of a grimace. He had never been great at losing, at being bad at things, but with Ibble Dribble he had come to expect it. It didn't help, of course, that both Simon and Audrey were fucking flawless at it. There was no real skill to it, he reminded himself darkly, allowing the indulgence of stepping toward Bérénice just as she had him. From the sound of things from the sitting room where cheers were erupting, no one would be stepping away in the immediate future.

But then she dropped her hand.

Harlan could feel the heat leaving his face, from his cheek that was charred and rosy from being near the fire for too long, from drinking too much wine. Nice started and paused, but he could tell from the sentiment the direction that it was heading. The question of them had been lingering for a few weeks, but both had done a damn good job at avoiding it at all costs. It was only a matter of time before one of them had enough, he figured.

"I don't know," He answered honestly, distractedly glancing over his shoulder to where their families were just a stone's throw away. It wasn't that he was embarrassed, or that he actively wanted to keep it a secret (the Prophet article had put an end to that, anyway), but he still wasn't ready to bridge that gap. Harlan swallowed, scanning the deep brown of her eyes and skin that shone under the lights from the tree. All he could offer up was a shrug and he hated that he couldn't pull together something more concise or deliberate. The truth was, he had no fucking clue what they were doing.

Well, that was disappointing. Not unexpected, she supposed, and if the question had been asked of her, her answer might have been much the same. Nice’s heart, which felt like it had been lodged in her throat, fell through her chest. Harlan looked over her shoulder to where she knew the doorway was, and it was easy to think he was wishing he had stayed in there, rather than be here, being asked about them -- but he had answered her honestly, she thought, and that was better than previous responses, shrugging anything remotely serious off as just a bit of fun.
 
Bérénice nodded and let her gaze fall, feeling somehow smaller for it all the same. She hadn’t thought he would suddenly confess a desire to make things between them official, but there had been just the tiniest bit of optimism that just maybe...

She sighed (aloud, thanks to the wine), and nodded again. “Neither do I,” she admitted, glancing back up at him openly. She smiled after a moment, hoping to communicate that it was okay that they didn’t know -- though the expression didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I just—” She shook her head softly, looking at the Christmas tree again, her dark eyes picking up the light from it. “Not talking about it—acknowledging it—was just...“ she trailed off, letting him fill in the blanks. More than anything, she thought she had wanted him to make some sort of decision about it all -- save her the trouble of wondering.

There was a brief, painstaking pause before Bérénice finally let out a sigh. His own breath, which he hadn't realized he'd been holding, followed. It wasn't the kind of sigh that he was expecting. It wasn't disappointed but almost agreeing, commiserating with the fact that she was just as lost as he was. The sentiment didn't quite meet her eyes, she had the kind of look that made his heart heavy with guilt all over again.

Harlan had no question that what they, namely what he was doing, was neither fair nor sustainable.

Then Nice said that she didn't know what they were doing either and there was a moment of reprieve from the ache in his chest. "I know," He confirmed before she let her open-ended statement linger in the air for too long. He wasn't sure how else to fill the silence than to simply agree. Because, it was true. They couldn't keep going on not addressing whatever they had become that was certifiably beyond old family friends.

Harlan bit into the side of his lip, his brow pulling up in thought. "What—" At some point, he touched the inside of her wrist with the pads of his fingers. He was going to ask her what she wanted but stopped at the sound of shoes on marble. Fucking Simon.

His brother strode by with a smug grin. Harlan had already pulled his hand back to himself and was grimacing something of a smile in return. "Just like old times seeing the two of you sneaking off..." The man cooed over his shoulder as he rounded the corridor and out of sight. "Think he's enjoying keeping your drink full," Harlan mused with a scoff, nodding to the glass in Nice's hand that hadn't been unattended to for even a moment.

Just like he always did, Harlan knew. Bérénice kept her eyes on the fairy lights, thinking it was easier than looking at him right now. He wasn’t biting her head off--and she was glad, it gave her hope that they were getting to a more mature place, it had only taken them the best part of fifteen years--but at least if he had, she would know how to feel towards him. This was different; she couldn’t be mad, nor mourn something that wasn’t.

And was he behaving this way because he truly was growing up, or because she just hadn’t done enough to spook him yet? She couldn’t deny seeing Will earlier in the month hadn’t made her think -- reconsider, however briefly, what she was doing with Harlan. She had no intentions of rekindling anything with Will, it wasn’t that -- but if Harlan hadn’t settled for her before now, what would make this time any different? What would happen when she did tell him what she wanted from him?

Nice turned her head to gaze up at Harlan with wide eyes--falling into his, more of a ghostly grey in this light--and leant into his touch because she couldn’t help herself—

She was slow to react, thanks to the wine -- but it was just Simon. Bérénice’s brow furrowed softly and her bottom lip jutted out in a gentle pout upon realising Harlan had created space for them. Before she could work out what to say to his brother--tell him they weren’t sneaking anywhere--the elder Bellamy brother had already disappeared. Nice lifted her face to peer up at Harlan again. “What?” she asked, then looked down at the glass in her hand— had she really taken that to the bathroom with her? Merde. She blinked back up at Harlan. “He knows.” It wasn’t a question.

Bérénice glanced down at her drink then back up to him, her deep eyes alit from the tree and the floating candles in the foyer. It was clear that she genuinely hadn't noticed his brothers' vigilant-fucking-quest to get her drunk. Harlan had worked out it was for one of two reasons; the first (and lesser likely) was that he couldn't stand that his younger brother was seeing Nice and he was openly trying to snake, or the second (and more likely) that he was trying to get her drunk enough so that she might slip up.

"He does," Harlan affirmed, his voice short as he scanned the corridor for any sign of Simon returning. With any luck, he'd gone off to bed, that the night was too young for that, especially for him on a holiday. "He mentioned it, earlier," He continued with a brief exhale of breath.

"That photo in The Prophet," That, and Simon just always seemed to know. Harlan supposed that was how the man had gotten so successful in his career. Very little got past him and his intuition.

The sound of footsteps approached again after the distant click of a door closing down the hall and Harlan instinctively straightened up, eyes set deeply on his brother as he approached again. Somehow, he looked even more smugly than he had before just moments before. "Planning on rejoining, or will you hide out in the library all night?" Simon said as he clapped a hand on Harlan's neck, then not-so-affectionately slapped the side of his cheek.

He does. Bérénice inhaled and exhaled slowly, feeling a little like the air in the room had somehow been made thinner. She was torn between curling into Harlan’s chest for comfort and keeping her distance, lest she make things worse. He didn’t seem mad, but nor did he seem particularly pleased that his brother knew -- whatever it was that ‘he knew’, exactly.

Nice would have known precisely which photo Harlan meant even if he hadn’t said it had been the one from The Prophet; it was the one her mother had interrogated her on, that one she had received an out of the blue owl from an old friend politely inquiring about, the one that she was sure was the cause of the looks she was getting from some of her students. The brunette nodded, keeping her eyes downcast. She almost felt like she should apologise, but hadn’t he known what he was doing in inviting her in the first place? She glanced back up at him, considering his expression; perhaps not. She didn’t think she was the only one who had become wrapped up in whatever this was -- the ease of it.

More on alert now, Bérénice heard Simon’s footsteps before he approached this time and she watched Harlan stand taller out of the corner of her eye. She glared at the older man, tempted for all of three seconds to throw the remainder of her Bordeaux in his face and be done with it, but she didn’t think that would help diffuse the situation any -- and at this point, it seemed Simon was content to keep everything between them, but Bérénice knew that would only be for his benefit somehow in the long run.

Nice stepped forward and slipped her arm around Harlan’s lower back, gently gripping the material of his shirt on the opposite side of his waist -- part gesture, part tactic to keep him from lunging at his brother. “I’m sure we’ll be back in time to wish you goodnight,” she said with a warm smile, “I know Pippa likes you to have an early bedtime, we wouldn’t want to keep you two up.”

Simon, unsurprisingly, didn't seem all that fazed by Bérénice's quick-witted rebuttal, though Harlan recognized a familiar look in his eye. It was like a fire being lit. His brother was notoriously bad at letting things go once that particular kind of flame had been stoked, the kind that made him feel like he had something to prove or win. He watched as the man reentered the sitting room with a grin on his face. Trouble.

"Wanker," Harlan glanced over at Nice, his gaze dropping briefly to where she had her arm wrapped around his lower back in a way that felt verging on protective. He didn't think he needed that but most of the time he didn't know what he needed.

"Sorry for that," For Simon, he meant, but deep down he knew it went deeper than that. Harlan had been avoiding the subject of them for far too long, hoping that they could continue with everything being easy and simple. It was an unfair assumption but he figured the moment it got too serious was the moment that things would go awry. If his recent track record was any indication—

He had to remind himself it was Bérénice, though, a fact that somehow made things less complicated and more at the same time.

"We should go back," He nodded to the open double doors that went as high as the raised ceiling, the warmth of the light and the fire inside cascading out into the foyer in waves. He could hear the drunken laughter and chatter distantly. Harlan sucked in a breath and almost suggested that they finish their conversation before the instinct to run kicked in again.

Wanker. Nice brought her gaze up to meet Harlan’s, smirking. Her fingers loosened their hold on his shirt material, though now that she had brought herself closer to him she wasn’t overly eager to put space between them again.

“You don’t have to apologise for him,” Bérénice told Harlan quietly -- unsure if she was trying to make a point that he could still be sorry on his own behalf, for not making a decision already. She had been (barely) more okay with things remaining undefined before she realised Simon knew -- and that undoubtedly meant Audrey did too. Had Harlan already been confronted by his siblings and played this down to them? Had they been snickering about this all night, with her none the wiser? Nice’s hand slipped around Harlan’s lower back, lingering with the lightest touch on his hip.

She glanced up at him, then followed his gaze to the door to the sitting room. She nodded, reluctantly agreeing -- they should. Harlan barely moved an inch before she grabbed at him, long fingers wrapping gently around his wrist. “Before we do,” her hand fell to his, loosely holding his fingertips with her own and finding comfort in the familiarity of his callouses.

“I got you something, for Christmas.” She offered him a small smile, her cheeks a little rosier than they had been a moment before; she had a sip of her wine to drain her glass (and hopefully be able to blame that for her warming complexion). “It’s not— anything big I just,” she shrugged one shoulder, wishing she didn’t have to worry about explaning why she wanted to get him a gift. “And we probably won’t get a chance tomorrow.”

Harlan knew that he didn't need to apologize for Simon and in some way that made it worse. His brother wasn't his responsibility but he was a welcomed distraction. In truth, Harlan was saying sorry for his own actions, which, while not malicious in nature, were undoubtedly unfair to Bérénice, to both of them. Instead of dwelling on that, though, he leaned into her touch with his hip, his hand instinctively moving to the place between her collarbone and the back of her neck.

"Did you?" He was genuinely surprised to hear about a gift at that moment in particular. A grin crept over his features all the same. "That's alright—" Something big hadn't really appealed to him, anyway, when it came to gifts. Harlan ventured a glance up to where he knew her room was located, and only half because he imaged that was where she was hiding it.

"Do I get to see it tonight, or are you just letting me know?" His eyes narrowed on Nice at his side, his fingers twining her own. There was little chance they could exchange gifts the day following so he figured they may as well indulge while they had the chance. With any luck, their families were just drunk enough and lulled by the warmth of the fire that they might not even notice that they were gone.

Her eyes closed softly at Harlan’s touch; whether it was the wine, or the cooler air in the hall versus his warmth, or just a natural reaction to the lack of contact they’d had all night, she leaned into it.

Nice peered up at him. "I did," she grinned back, all of her concerns about them swiftly cast aside by something as simple as that look. When he turned his head towards the stairwell, her focus was drawn to the little patch of silver hairs around his ear as they caught the light from the tree. She smirked, more to herself this time.

She had only mentioned his present because she’d wanted to delay going back to the party for a little longer, spend just another few minutes alone, but; “We can go now," she offered, "... Unless you’re in a hurry to get more black on your face," she teased, reaching up to cup his jaw affectionately. Her thumb stroked across his cheek before she let her hand slip down over his chest with soft pressure, making the most of it before they were under Simon’s scrutiny again.

The healer took Harlan’s rough hand in hers, entwined their fingers and tugged him towards the sweeping stairs (using said hand for balance when the wine kicked in again). The climb was mostly silent, and that only got her mind whirring again -- she had thought Harlan had been about to say more before Simon inserted himself into their conversation. Bérénice hesitated just barely before opening the door to her room for the night. Harlan followed her in and she gestured with a muted flourish at the large box on the desk, wrapped in mirror-like gold paper. "For you."

"I'd rather not," Continue to lose, he meant. Harlan's voice turned into something of a mumble as his eyes involuntarily closed under the touch of her nails on his jaw, then her palm down his chest. In some way, it felt worse indulging after they'd nearly just addressed the elephant in the room. But she had gotten him a gift. And it was in her room. And all at once, he forgot all about feeling guilty. "Let's see it, then," He followed her gaze upstairs after narrowing on her.

The sounds from the sitting room went farther and farther away and Harlan felt more and more comfortable in brushing aside the fact that their families were just downstairs as they made their way up to the second level of the estate that was decidedly less soaked in Christmas light. There was a subtle hint of real-life that nagged at him, but he pushed it aside as easily as he slipped into her room after her, closing the door with a soft clink.

He and Bérénice had miraculously avoided each other's rooms up until that point in the trip. His eyes canvassed the space that somehow she'd already made her own— it smelled like her and it was warm and neat. Harlan grinned at the box on the desk, his eyes flashing back to her as he strode over to inspect it more closely. "I can open it?" He wasn't entirely sure why he was asking but he waited for her approval before doing so.

Carefully, he peeled back the wrapping paper and set it aside just as delicately. He'd never been one, even as a kid, to rip open his gifts in haste. Inside was a pasta machine, clearly handmade and of value. "Is this a hint?" He teased, referencing when he had subjected her to hand-cutting their pasta. "Thank you," He said more thoughtfully, running his fingertips over the silver.

Harlan closed the door and Bérénice somehow managed to relax and tense all at once. They were properly alone now, safely tucked away from their families. But he didn’t know what they were doing, and she was reluctant to remain in this undefined purgatory with him -- but it was so easy to just push that aside for now, continue to pretend—

Nice blinked at him. “Yes,” she smiled warmly, striding slowly over from where she’d been lingering near the door to stand slightly behind and to the side of him. She watched with a smirk on her lips as Harlan methodically unwrapped the paper -- she had anticipated him tearing it off carelessly, but this was somehow more endearing. Her chest grew tighter with the anticipation -- it wasn’t an exciting gift, but one she’d tried to put some thought into. Too much, probably -- it couldn’t be too much.

He opened the box and revealed the pasta machine. Was it a hint? Nice grinned. “Maybe,” she said, stepping nearer again. “You’re welcome,” she replied, her volume closer to a murmur. “I thought it might be a good hobby,” she explained, standing almost under him now, flicking her eyes up to meet his and then away again. “De-stressing,” she smirked, more confidently now that she was focusing on the machine rather than his piercing blue gaze.