last mile home | harlan

algarve, portugal | friday 30th january 2004

Luisa could tell something was amiss, and Bérénice wished now that she had been honest four weeks ago -- but she’d delayed for the first week, hoping something might change and he would seek her out. The second week, she had still been oscillating between denial and the desire to be the first the apologise. Then it had only been a week out from the wedding, and now it was the night before and they had just stiffly gone through the motions of what had to happen the next afternoon.

Nice excused herself from the dinner table after the plates had been cleared and the conversation began to get louder and more jovial -- sufficiently enough that they wouldn’t notice her absence if she failed to return.

The moment she had left the dining room she let out a shaky breath, her eyes on the floor as she headed for the balcony -- for fresh air. Her heels click-clacked down the tiled corridor at a quickened pace, desperate now to put some distance between herself and the people in that room. She turned the corner as she came up to the arched doorway that led to the balcony, then stopped suddenly.

She hadn’t seen him leave the table, and here he was -- glancing over his shoulder in time to catch her standing there. There was no slinking away now. The witch stepped out into the night air, her dark hair whipping gently around her face in the sea breeze. She wrapped her arms around her middle as she strode to the parapet, eyes on the moonlit ocean beyond -- too stubborn to admit defeat and go back inside.

Bérénice came up beside Harlan and stopped, gazing out at the waves as they crashed below. Her skin felt clammy beneath the thin silk of her dress despite the cold air; she had intended to escape him in coming out here, but now had no immediate desire to leave. They had barely said more than was truly necessary all evening -- less, probably. She had no idea what to say to him now.

“We should—” she started in the same moment he did. She paused, as did he. “We should work out tomorrow,” she suggested in a measured tone. “Before our families get here.”



@Harlan Bellamy

The winter wind from the sea—unsettled and dark under the veil of the night—whipped at Harlan's face. His eyes fluttered closed and his breath steadied along with the sound of the waves as they crashed against the rocks below the balcony from which he stood looking down on them like some kind of fucking false god. Vaguely he was aware of the sound of the ocean sinking back into the abyss but it did little to satiate the unease growing in his chest.

In fact, he felt worse.

He knew that the wedding was going to be uncomfortable, given the recent circumstances, but he hadn't anticipated it to hit him at once, so quickly into the weekend. James and Luise were mutual friends, from a long line of family friends, and two months prior Harlan had found himself uncharacteristically looking forward to their nuptials in Portugal. Both he and Bérénice had. It was an excuse for a trip. An excuse to get away for themselves.

It hadn't been difficult to avoid her leading up until the point though he had found himself watching her from the opposite length of the table where he had planned his seat as far away as he could manage. James caught on quickly, and Harlan could only be honest about the demise of whatever it was he and Nice had forged and lost in the haze of the holidays.

The footsteps that approached broke his trance. Harlan already knew who it was before he even looked over his shoulder. "Hi," His mouth threatened to curl into something of a smile but stop at a straight line, terse with his jaw. "My family won't say anything..." His eyes narrowed on her before flicking back out to the endless sky they overlooked. It was the Bellamy's worst nightmare to cause a scene at a social function.

Bérénice had turned from the sea to gaze up at Harlan -- and wished now that she hadn’t. Who had given him the right to look like that? His dark blonde hair perfectly dishevelled and windswept (and that patch of grey behind his ear, noticeable still in the bright moonlight); his shirt collar undone with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms.

Nice could feel her defences crumbling like a castle of sand at that look.

Harlan glanced away and she continued to stare up at him, her bottom lip jutting forward in a soft pout. Was that really all he had to say? “Well, thank Merlin for that,” she snapped angrily, turning away from him to head back inside—

She stopped sharply at the feel of his warm hand through the material of her dress, a similarly hot sensation rippling up her spine. The witch glanced up at him over her shoulder, brown eyes wide and pleading as they met the stormy grey-blue of his. She hadn’t come out here to vex him -- she hadn't come out here in search of him at all, but she had been willing to be civil, for James and Luisa if nothing else.

“You told them?” Nice asked uncertainly. She hadn’t told her family -- and what did it mean if he had told his? What had he told them?

As quickly as she arrived to the balcony it seemed Bérénice had turned on her heels to leave— and could he blame her? The answer, certifiably, no matter what way he cut it, was no. Harlan opened his mouth to stop the procession but found that his touch beat him to it, his fingers at her side and running over the fabric of her dress at her side. He stopped short of pulling at her but lingered for a moment either way.

"H—" He wasn't sure what he had started to say but the moment she turned back to face him he lost his train of thought. All he was able to conjure up was an exhale of a sigh through his nose, his eyebrows inclined where his brow would usually be furrowed. There many things he knew that he needed to say but he wasn't sure how.

"They always knew," Harlan stated plainly, an ironic chuckle escaping his lips that had been set in a straight line moments prior. His parents always seemed to know those things, much to his dismay. It didn't help, of course, that his name was splashed across most of the gossip columns any time he was seen with anyone. But with Nice it was different. And they had picked up on that too.

Thankfully it seemed that she had second thoughts about leaving so abruptly, anyway. "They wouldn't dare cause a scene," He offered a nominal roll of his eyes, his voice a hint posher—intentionally—as he tore himself away from her to look back to the sky and settle his racing thoughts. "Are you alright?" It seemed that he was questioning the stars before he turned over his shoulder to catch her eye again, making it more clear who he was addressing.

They always knew. Bérénice’s eyes opened a fraction wider in realisation -- he hadn’t told them anything. Of course. After all, what was there to tell? Telling them would make it something it wasn’t -- to him, at least. And if Christmas Eve had told them--her--anything, it was that Harlan’s siblings, at least, were more attune to her feelings.

Nice turned slowly to face him, not immediately retaking the place at his side. She found herself frowning softly -- though wasn’t sure exactly why. With his back to her, Bérénice’s focus had drifted from Harlan’s face to some nondescript point in mid-air between them that just so happened to be in line with his broad shoulders. “Of course not,” she agreed absently; their families were so alike in that regard, weren’t they?

She flicked her eyes up to meet Harlan’s, startled more by the nature of his words than the tone. The breeze whipped Nice’s dark hair around her face, strands clinging to her lips and in her eyelashes, and she brought one hand up to vainly attempt to tuck the loose wisps behind her ear. “No,” she answered honestly, holding his gaze and deciding it was about time she was -- honest.

The brunette stepped forward and folded her hands in front of her, then turned her chin towards Harlan without re-meeting his eye until after she turned the question back on him: “Are you?”

Bérénice said no and he knew that he had no right to be surprised. In truth, he wasn't. When the question was turned to him, Harlan's gaze narrowed on the fixed spot he'd honed in on in the abyss of the sea, where the whitecaps emerged and disappeared like the flicker of stars in the sky.

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider it. Another wave of guilt swiftly crept in. Did he have the right to even begin to answer that? And if he did, would his answer be the right answer?

"I'm alright," He eventually said. Even if he wasn't, it wasn't in his nature to admit those kinds of things so openly. He had been taught from a young age to internalize and deal with those pressures alone. Either way, he wasn't sure what he was if he were being honest with the both of them.

Sucking in a breath, he turned to glance over at Nice and was caught by her looking right back. Another moment later, he tore his eyes back to where they were safely focused on the coastline. "Should probably get back in..." He offered but made no real attempt at a sudden movement.

I’m alright, he said. Bérénice kept her eyes on Harlan expectantly -- hopeful that he would take it back, or offer some further elaboration. Anything, really. He didn’t, and where she had initially thought to doubt his words, suddenly she wasn’t so sure herself.

He turned to meet her and Nice held fast. The pull to move closer--close the gap, end all of this ridiculousness--was almost painful, the way it burned through her— Then he looked away and she felt like all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs in an instant. Her brow furrowed lightly and her jaw set; why stop her from leaving if only to encourage her away moments later?

Because it was Harlan, and he never did know what he wanted.

Nice chose to make the decision for him. “Oui,” she said simply, pausing for a long second before turning away and striding back inside.

…

The brunette poured herself another glass of champagne and teetered lightly on the spot. She should have gone to bed an hour ago--they all should have--but the music was still playing, drinks were still flowing, and (almost) everyone was still having a good time.

Some more than others; Alicia--one of the other bridesmaids--had seemingly noticed Harlan was no longer off-limits and had barely left his side since they’d all finished dinner and moved through to the lounge. Nice had tried to slip off to her room rather than stand here and have to try and ignore it, but Luisa had spotted her and expressly forbidden (her word) anyone from going to bed until she was ready to do so. As a sort of silly, ill-thought out defence tactic, Bérénice had effectively glued herself to James’ brother Caleb.

Bérénice kept her head down, to focus on where her feet were going, as she made her way back to the party. She stopped suddenly as a pair of dress shoes came into view. He had seemed like a good plan at the time, but she had also been a few wines deep when she’d thought he had seemed like a good plan. She was more wines deep now, but she also didn’t want to lead him on any more than she already had. “Caleb, I—” She glanced up and her initially weary expression quickly fell. “Harlan.”

Harlan knew he should have gone to bed.

The bitter taste of lemon in the sparkling water he had been nursing for most of the night sent a shiver down his spine. Though, the hand of the half-stranger that snaked around the inside of his leg, well above his knee, was more likely the real culprit. Alicia— that was her name, wasn't it?— hadn't shied away from her intentions over the course of the rehearsal.

What was it about weddings that brought out the animal in people, he wondered?

"Sorry," He wasn't, really. Harlan extracted himself from the woman's grasp and eyed the exit. While he was in no mood to admit it his attention had been wholly consumed for most of the night. Subtly, he liked to think. Bérénice, by the looks of things, had been drinking to avoid him and while he wished he could do the same he didn't actually want to.

Like muscle memory, Harlan perked when James' younger brother stumbled after her toward the exit. The kid had seemed nice enough and Harlan knew he had no right to even be concerned. But then again—

It was on his way out— whether to investigate further or to leave on his own, he still wasn't sure— Harlan saw Nice making her way back to the hall where the lingered crowd was just behind them and singing blindly to a bad cover band. Caleb. He let out an exhale of breath somewhere between a sigh and dry chuckle that was in no way actually amused.

"That's the one," His tone was harder than intended (and warranted) when she eventually landed on his name.

Nice gazed up at Harlan with wide eyes and red cheeks, feeling caught out. “I thought you were—” she stopped abruptly at his expression, realising the explanation was redundant -- she had just said the other man’s name instead, after all. Bérénice tucked a loose section of hair back behind her ear and in the same motion lowered her eyes slowly and (not very) subtly over him, wondering how on earth she could have mistaken the two wizards (wine, and lot’s of it).

She took a wobbly step backwards, turning to rest against the wall and move out of his way; her upper back slumping against the plaster with a little more force than she’d intended as a result of inebriated misjudgement and stiletto heels on flagstones. In an effort to seem blasé and focus on something other than him, the Healer lifted the glass of champagne in her hand to her lips and downed it almost in one, pausing to eye the sliver left in the glass before tipping that back too. Now empty, she held the flute loosely in her fingers—

Harlan was still standing there, almost expectantly. “What?” she asked sharply as she met his light blue eyes -- irritated that he had the audacity to stand there and judge her, when he had done far worse far more often. “You can’t have come looking for me,” she told him, a hint of hysteria in her tone, remembering what he’d said to her in Chamonix; I'm not ever going to be what you're looking for. Bérénice twirled the glass in her hands slowly, and her usually warm eyes darted to the doorway that led into the kitchen.

"Caleb," Harlan finished the sentence for Bérénice, mildly amused though not unkind. He fought the subtle grin that pulled at the corner of his mouth but his efforts were made ever more futile as she tilted back what little was left of the glass of her champagne. It seemed she was in search of the very last drop.

His company certainly had some effect, Harlan noted, whether that was a good or a bad thing He knew it wasn't meant to be entertaining, per se, but he couldn't help the natural reaction. Every way she was moving was just so inherently unlike her— well, unlike the Nice as of late. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the person he knew when they were teenagers, manually refilling the bottle of gin they'd stolen from his parents. His idea, of course.

The more Harlan was around drunk people whilst sober the more nuances he had started to pick up on. The little, long-forgotten behaviors always made their way to the surface. It was as though a different world had been opened up to him in the weeks leading to the present.

What? Blue eyes flickered back to Bérénice. "That's what Caleb is for..." Harlan thought aloud without fully thinking through his comment. The kid had followed her out there after all— where the fuck was he anyway? With any luck, he had gone to pass out somewhere. Someone else's problem. "As it happens this is also the way to my room..." He sucked in a breath to a half-wince, pointing down the hall to the staircase.

Of course, it was a stretch of the imagination considering he very much had been checking on her.

A hiccough threatened to bubble up and Bérénice raised her fingertips to her lips, as if pressing them closed would keep it in -- her eyes went a little wide as she gazed up at him, and the telltale soft jerk of her head was the only sign of it, at least.

She scowled, next, at his words, and lowered her hand back to press flat against the wall behind her for support in an attempt to seem less tipsy than she was (which was quite). “Don’t,” she warned him -- in anticipation of what exactly, she wasn’t entirely sure, but he better not be making out like she had put them in this position.

Slowly, she followed Harlan’s pointed finger (lingering on his hand a little longer than was probably seemly) to gaze down the hallway, swaying every so lightly as her eyes tried to focus. Nice turned back to look at him -- he was easier to focus on— because he was close, not because of any other reason— and the childlike scowl she had adopted a moment before returned. “Not taking Alicia with you?” she asked, echoing his own accusation.

She hated herself for saying it, but he’d started it -- and what did she really have to lose?

It was clear that Bérénice was drunk— he knew her well enough, and with sober eyes, it wasn't all that hard to tell. Harlan lingered somewhere between affection and annoyance (as usual) but landed softer than he knew how to grapple. There was something so earnest and sincere about her in such a state that made him forget entirely about the conversation from hours before. In fact, he could hardly even recall the details looking back.

He cocked an eyebrow at the start of her statement as if to ask don't what? He eventually reigned it in, just as her scowl had turned to something more calculated. Alicia? "Who is Alicia?" It took Harlan a moment to comprehend where the line of conversation had jolted toward. Alicia, of course, one of the bridesmaids. Jealousy didn't look good on most people, but again, he found himself second-guessing when it came to Nice.

"Ah, she's already there, waiting," Nonchalantly as possible, he glanced to the staircase, then back to Nice as a grin creased either side of his mouth, already evident in his eyes. "You should have some water," Harlan decided, moving swiftly on. He knew that even drunk, she would be quick to keep up pace with the conversation. "Eat something," He added, glancing back to the party.

None of those things seemed abundant in there. "Do you want—" He paused, glancing back to the staircase. Inviting her up to his room seemed crass, given the circumstances. "Room service?" That was a safe enough way of phrasing it, anyway. A white flag, even.

Who is Alicia? he said, and Bérénice scoffed quietly. That might have worked on the others, but it wasn’t going to work on her. She wasn’t about to believe he’d truly forgotten, either, even as it clearly dawned upon his handsome features (they could both be stubborn). “Is she,” Nice retorted -- in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t a question; for once, Harlan’s charm was irritating her rather than mollifying her.

She blinked up at him, her brow furrowing again. “I don’t need water,” she told him defiantly, “or to eat.” She pushed off the wall and almost lost her balance in less than three seconds standing under her own steam— She slouched back against the cool plaster and gazed up at Harlan, not currently in a state to overthink how obvious about it she was being.

She swallowed, watching his face expectantly. Room service? Her jaw tensed, then she looked away down the hall, to the staircase. She shouldn’t—because of how it looked, and because of the risk—but she didn’t want to return to the party, and she couldn’t stay here, either. The brunette inhaled deeply and held it in her chest for a moment, trying to clear her thoughts and—if anything—muddling them some more. “Fine,” she tried to snap, though the soft slur in her voice slowed it to a less threatening pace. “Water,” she told him warningly with an upheld index finger, before automatically grabbing his arm for support.

Harlan half-guided, half-carried her along the hall and up the stairs, along the carpeted corridor to his room. Nice stepped out of her heels—dropping a few inches—and made her way over to sit on his bed. She occupied herself with looking around the room, lingering on his freshly-pressed suit hanging ready for tomorrow. Harlan reappeared in her frame of vision with a glass of water from the ensuite and she took it in two hands, her toes curling together. “Merci,” she mumbled, then sipped at it. Harlan stepped away again and she almost called out for him not to leave her— but he had only gone so far as the desk in the corner, scribbling something on a slip of parchment before rolling it up and shoving it into a tube that sucked it away.

He turned back to face her and the French witch cradled the glass of water in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

There was a fraction of a moment in which Harlan surveyed his room before remembering it was Bérénice who was seeing it with fresh eyes— what did he have to hide, really? Aside from his suit that was pressed and hung for the wedding, and his case at the opposite end of the room, nearly tucked away, there was really only just the one towel out of place and hung up after magically drying post-shower. He was an impossible creature of habit when traveling, both personally and professionally.

Once inside (and out her shoes, he noticed with a suppressed grin), Harlan made his way toward the glasses at the wet bar, filling two with water. She would thank him tomorrow, he thought. And selfishly, getting her out arms way of whatever-his-name-was seemed like something she would thank him for as well. But then again, he was getting ahead of himself.

"Water," He repeated her earlier dictation as if to prove a point, holding it between them as he took a step in front of her, watching her curiously. A pang of guilt struck him when the question of why she had gotten so drunk became evident. He turned away almost as fast as the feeling hit, running a hand through his hair, eventually adjusting the sleeve of his shirt.

Bérénice was sorry. Harlan metered his reaction. She had nothing to be sorry for. Not truly. Sure, she had said some things that cut him deeper than he cared to admit, but more than anything he was grappling with the fact that there had been some truth to it. He was exactly like his father. And that was all the more reason for them to go back to whatever it was they were before.

What was it, that they were before?

Sucking in a breath, he brushed aside her apology. "I sent for waffles, eggs, rashers..." He was aware that he was rambling.

Nice had another sip of water, her eyes a little rounder than usual as she tried to focus her vision; the room swam in her efforts not to look at Harlan, darting from the desk, to the plush armchair, to the window with the drapes half-drawn. She gave in and gazed at him instead, breathing slowly and deeply through her nose as he stood there with his hands in his pockets. She smoothed out the skirt of her dress.

Bérénice nodded, feeling every bit the teenage girl who had tried to impress the English boy all those years ago — drinking straight scotch where she was used to one glass of wine with dinner. Look where that had got them. Bérénice exhaled shakily and lowered her gaze. “Thank you,” she mumbled belatedly, her eyes welling against her wishes.

She brought one hand up to wipe—rather than delicately dab—at the tears, sniffing softly. “I’m sorry,”  she said, again, but it was clear this apology was for something other than being jealous and getting drunk, trying to make him jealous (she wasn’t foolish enough to think Harlan couldn’t tell). She was sorry for what she had said the last time they had seen one another, for likening him to the one man he wanted to be nothing like — but she had been hurting, and didn’t a small part of her think it, as much as she wished she didn’t? “I didn’t mean it,” she ran one fingertip around the lip of her glass slowly, absently, her eyes still downcast.

She stopped and looked up at him, admiring the sharp line of his jaw, the deeper blue of his eyes in this light. “I—” Nice faltered, lips parted; the way he was looking at her now was different, and she didn’t feel reassured by it.

“Harlan, you are not him.” Her tone was almost pleading — but wasn’t she pleading with him? To make the conscious decision to be better than his father, like she knew he was capable of.