last mile home | harlan

She met his gaze after what felt like a lifetime of staring at her lap and Harlan immediately paused— somewhere between rashers and coffee. It was evident the moment she apologized that she wasn't just talking about that night, either, there was a deeper-seated connotation that came with the weight of her words. She had no reason to so sorry for getting drunk at a wedding party, after all, he wasn't her handler.

And he knew immediately what she was truly apologizing for.

Harlan watched intently as Bérénice fiddled with the lip of her glass, her own eyes drawn again downward. There was a part of him that was begging her to just look at him again, then they could figure it out, but the bigger part of him knew better. There was too much there between them for it to be that simple.

"I know," Harlan breathed. It wasn't that he was his father it was that he was becoming him— somehow that felt worse. He chewed the inside of his lip for half a moment before remembering how bad a habit it was. Swiftly, he turned on his heels, running both hands through his hair. "You don't— you shouldn't— apologize," He said, finally, exasperatedly.

Harlan knew. Bérénice swallowed, then brought her glass of water up to sip at it. She lowered it to her lap again and watched as he chewed on his lip. They were both quiet for a quick moment, then he turned abruptly away and threaded his fingers through his hair — she was too drunk to be able to tell if it was from frustration at her, himself, or (less likely) something else entirely.

Nice blinked up at Harlan when he spoke and a muscle in her jaw twitched. The logical side of her brain said she should apologise—she had been the one out of line when she had said that to him—but the drunk, emotional side was trying to overrule; there was an indignant part of her that agreed with him — why should she be apologising? He was the one who had put them in this position, wasn’t he? He had always been the one to run away—

Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind she felt guilty for thinking it. They had been so young — she couldn’t really expect anything different of him then. Now, perhaps, she expected more— and that was their problem. Or hers, possibly. She was staring into a point in mid-air, her line of sight just to the left of his hip. "I don't know how to say it without sounding— without sounding like a silly little girl," she started quietly, still gazing into nothingness.

"I thought— We were so young then, I thought I hated you after what you did," she admitted calmly, slowly — almost emotionlessly. The silence of the room compared to the cacophony of the party downstairs was sobering — though only to a degree, her head still felt light, her thoughts swimming. Nice stroked the pad of her thumb over the half-empty glass she was cradling in her lap.

“I thought you hated me.” Her dark eyes flicked up to meet Harlan’s light blue, wondering if he had. She wouldn’t blame him, but he had never mentioned it — never asked about it at all. She supposed even without doing so it had been obvious what choice she had made; there was no way a teenage pregnancy would have gone unnoticed in their circles. Still, after New Years it felt like maybe he still hadn’t forgiven her. “I had to do it. You know that, don’t you?”

Harlan had intended on looking away for another moment— allow himself time to think— but then Bérénice began to speak in the past tense, and not just New Years'. He turned to lean against the back of the plush velvet chair pushed against the unused vanity, his eyes narrowing on her curiously and brimming with something. He wasn't sure where the line of conversation was going but something about it settled uncomfortably in his chest.

Instinctually, he wanted it to stop. 

Their history had been complicated, but they had been kids back then. And they had addressed it a decade ago, he thought, had thoroughly moved on. That is, of course, until their latest bout of questionable decision-making had come into play. The latter of which seemed more relevant. 

He opened his mouth to speak, considering moving closer to sit beside her, but thought better of it at the last minute. He closed his mouth and clasped his hands tightly in his lap, anchoring himself. The space between them was what he needed to keep his mind clear. It would be all too easy to brush things over without talking at all, but he was actively trying to get better about that.

"You didn't have to do what?" Harlan wasn't following her train of thought and as usual, made it no secret.

Bérénice smoothed a manicured hand down her thigh anxiously, then stopped moving abruptly and became very still in the same moment Harlan brought his hands together — closing himself off. She gazed up at him, a soft furrow in her brow. “I—” Her frown deepened; was he being intentionally obtuse—in which case she was growing closer to being rightfully angry at him—or did he really not know what she was talking about? Surely he couldn’t have forgotten, even if he’d pushed it aside—like she had tried to—the acknowledgement had to be there somewhere.

“When we were sixteen,” she started tentatively with a soft drop of her chin, then corrected herself: “Well, you were fifteen.” He had always loved reminding her that she was a whole year older, though now wasn’t the time for that sort of thing. And she was being vague if only because saying it aloud had always been impossible, but not so vague that a man of his intelligence wouldn’t be able to work it out. Nice studied Harlan’s expression, and he still didn’t look to understand. Her eyes went round in delayed shock.

Her chest immediately became tight and her breathing shallower. If he didn’t know— but how could he not? She had written to him to ask—or to check, perhaps—that the decision she had been leaning to was the right one. He had never replied— She had assumed because he was a teenage boy, and she had forgiven him eventually because of that.

Nice gripped the glass tightly in one hand, the other came up to press her fingertips to her lips as tears welled in her eyes. What if he had wanted something else? But surely not — he had wanted to go on and play Quidditch professionally, and he had done that. A child would have almost certainly derailed those plans. She pulled softly at her lip, fingers shaking, before lowering her hand determinedly to her lap in a fist. “Harlan, I— J'étais enceinte,” she said in French, as if it was easier to break it to him in a manner that would require him to decipher it. “I had to…”

As if out of instinct, Harlan shifted from where he had been half-sat back on the vanity so that his hands, previously anchored in his lap, were pressed to the counter on either side. There was something that he needed to brace for. He could feel his knuckles tighten under his grip on the marble though he couldn't bring himself to look away as Bérénice continued her line of thought.

When they were sixteen? The question on his face faltered on briefly when she attempted to tease him despite that goddamn look on her own (another he figured he could do without remembering). The flash was gone in the blink of an eye and he steeled himself forward again.

With a nod, Harlan prompted Nice to continue, capitalizing on her looking up from her lap momentarily. He knew as well as she what they had gotten into when they were younger, but that was it, wasn't it? They were kids. And it had been so long. Harlan considered then that perhaps there was a lot that she held onto from then— another blow to the chest.

The French words hit him just as hard— harder even, because it was her— than they would have in English. She had been pregnant.

Harlan took a breath through his nose.

"You had to what?" There was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before, threatening to crack. It came across almost harsh, despite himself, and purely from the place in his chest that had started to burn with a feeling that he wasn't familiar with— a dangerous mix of anger and sadness. "What did you have to do?" Harlan repeated the questions, even though he already knew the answer.

Even drunk, Bérénice could recognise that reaction for what it was: he hadn’t known. Her chest felt like it was cleaving in two as she watched the lines in Harlan’s face tighten and furrow. Her first instinct was to want to comfort him, but how could she when she was the one causing his distress? She remained still on the bed, the hand she held in a fist tightening until her nails dug into the flesh of her palm.

Tears spilled silently from her eyes when he finally spoke. She didn't want to say it aloud — even now, almost eighteen years later— and how sobering to realise if she had kept their child—their child—she would be older now than they had been then; an adult, where they had been teenagers.

He asked again and Bérénice blinked through more tears, her eyes shiny and reflective of the dim light in the room as she kept her focus on him. Desperately, she wanted him to understand it hadn’t been something she had done without trying to consult him. Her tone was almost pleading when she did speak; "I wrote to you before I— You never—” she inhaled sharply, “—You never wrote back and I had to make a decision."

She had relied on logic, then. It hadn’t been so impossible a choice to make at the time compared with how she had felt even immediately afterwards — and with every passing year she had felt more sorrow; she suspected—again, logically—that that was because with each year she was more prepared to have a child, unlike she had been at sixteen. Nice swallowed softly, her eyes still on Harlan’s. "I couldn’t keep her or give her away," she told him in a whisper, hoping that would suffice to make things clear.

Harlan tore his eyes away when he saw the tears almost shining under the flattering light of the suite. It was almost mocking, he thought, the fucking beauty of it all. He could feel his chest rising and falling but could hear only the sound of his breath and the distant sensation of something ringing— a warning sign. He knew he had no right to be angry, so why was he gripping the sides of the vanity like it might fall out from under him?

"I never got that letter," He said sharply, looking back to Bérénice after a moment.

There was a fleeting moment to explain himself further, but Harlan paused.

How could even be certain if he had gotten a letter from her, all those years ago? If he had—

The thought sent an unpleasant feeling surging through his chest and across his limbs that suddenly felt hot and ready to move. He stood up, but it did little to mitigate the feeling of losing control. Taking a step toward the balcony, Harlan ran both hands through his hair then over the back of his kneck. "Her?" There was no hiding the hardness in his voice when he turned on his heels to look at her.

A daughter.

"I think you should go," Harlan said. Either that, or he was walking out the door.

He never got the letter — that much had become abundantly clear, hadn’t it? Bérénice was still trying to work through it all — if he hadn’t been the one to tell his mother, then how—

Bérénice caught the look on Harlan’s face and was distracted from that line of thought, too eager to hang on every word he might care to utter instead. He stood, and she got to her own (bare) feet; moving to stand awkwardly near the spot he’d just vacated. The brunette put her half-drank glass of water down on the vanity with a quiet clunk and brought her hands together in front of her, squeezing the fingers of one with those of the other, as she edged nearer to him in the manner one might approach a cornered lion.

Harlan spun to face her quickly and Bérénice flinched, his tone hitting her just as sharply as a strike across the cheek. She hadn’t said it to cause him more pain— It had just slipped out, and she had never been able to not think of her in that way—

Tears were streaming down Nice’s cheeks—her usually smooth, even skin becoming blotchier by the minute—and she stepped closer with desperation. “Harlan, please,” she begged softly, reaching out to grasp at the material of his shirt. There was a pause, and for the briefest of moments she thought she could fix this somehow— before Harlan shrugged roughly out of her grip.

Bérénice swallowed thickly, her eyes swimming to the point she could barely make out his expression — not that she needed to see the look she knew was being directed at her in this moment. She exhaled shakily and nodded once, sniffing as she turned towards the door. She stooped to collect her shoes, not bothering to step back into them to return to her room, then turned to look back at Harlan again. “I’m sorry,” she told him quietly, before she slipped out of the door.


[ out ]

She said please; vaguely his own name had intermingled with her plea, but Harlan was too far gone to take any particular notice. As with most things, once his mind was made up there was no going back. Shrugging off her touch, he offered only a shake of the head to satiate whatever was going on between them. More than anything he wanted to take a step away from it all.

"I—" Eventually Harlan said after seeing the tears swimming down her face as she collected her shoes distractedly. Another pull at his chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what it was that he wanted to say. After another breath, he thought it might be wise if he didn't say anything at all.

The door closed behind her with an annoyingly soft clink– mockingly so. Harlan finally let out a full exhale as both hands wove tightly into the tresses of his hair. "Fuck," He breathed, instinctually grabbing for her foregone glass to throw it at the balcony window. There was something dangerously fulfilling about watching the broken glass shatter and scatter the carpet.

fin