easy to find [harlan]

10 feb 2004

Back home tonight. Honey reread those words a few times; it was a small part of a small letter, but it wasn’t the first time she’d seen those words in that same handwriting. She chewed on her lower lip, trying to figure out if she ought to be reading into it as much as she was. If she was right, it was something of an invitation; if she was wrong-- well, she had managed to avoid seeing Harlan for nearly three months now. She could go right back to doing that.

But it had to be an invitation. She wasn’t so sleep deprived (she was) to be making this up. Harlan was smart; he knew what he was doing. It was just like him asking how’s business? when the last thing he wanted to talk about was the shop. They’d known each other long enough now, had danced around conflicting schedules (and conflicting personal lives) enough that back home tonight wasn’t just him catching her up on his life.

Unless, of course, that was all this was. He had replied to her letter--the one wishing him a happy birthday--and things hadn’t exactly escalated. But they were better in person, anyway. He would certainly be easier to read in person. She lifted her gaze from the hotel parchment and focused on the clock above the window; it was late, but it wasn’t so late that he was guaranteed to be asleep, and if it was an invitation, she ought to act on it tonight, not let it lie until daylight.

She wiped her hands on her apron before she took it off and looked down at herself; jumper, jeans, exactly what he was used to. She reached up and pulled her hair out of its knot, bending over quickly to tousle her locks before she straightened up again. She didn’t want to run upstairs to change or fuss with her appearance any more, so sure that if she saw her bed she would change her mind and call it quits for the night instead.

Honey turned on the spot, apparating to the familiar spot around the corner from Harlan’s building. The friendlier doorman was there, and Honey wiggled her fingers at him in a little wave as she let herself in. It didn’t take her long to reach Harlan’s door, and she only hesitated for a second before she knocked.

“Hi.”

@Harlan Bellamy

It had been a long couple of days.

Harlan, though he did his best to avoid it, was exhausted by the most mundane parts that came with his career; the events, and the galas, and the bloody press junkets. Those things had become more frequent after The Griffins won the championship, effectively breaking away from their long-held, rough, and tumble underdog trope. He liked to think they carried that with them still, what made them them, but there was no denying the shift of axis.

His home was as inviting as usual, which wasn't saying a whole lot. Lights magically flicked on one by one as he made his way to his bedroom to unpack his impossibly neat case of clothes. "Aslan," He addressed the cat formally as he approached the bed like he owned the place. He nudged Harlan's shin briefly with the top of his forehead and Harlan ran his fingers lightly over the top of his long mane.

He would never admit it, but he had kind of missed the bloody thing.

With his things back in their rightful places, Harlan started to make himself more comfortable— marginally. He kicked off his shoes and flicked on the gramophone, the swell of classical music lightly treading against the walls as he made his way toward the kitchen, opening the buttons at the neck of his crisp white button-down in the process. He was halfway through pouring a glass of red when a knock on the door stopped him.

Honey.

"Honey?" He repeated the name out loud. He hadn't been expecting anyone, but certainly hadn't been expecting her. Harlan remembered then that he mentioned he would be back that night in their letters and a smile crept over his features despite himself. "Is everything alright?" He quirked an eyebrow, mildly smug in an entirely unjustifiable way. Of course, it was.

The way he said her name, the way he looked at her— ah, that hadn’t been an invitation. The corners of Honey’s mouth turned down as it hit her, mentally scolding herself for not figuring it out sooner. But she was there now, and it would be more embarrassing to leave than to pretend she knew that’s how it was, had decided to ignore it anyway. “Hi,” she said again, feeling a bit more confident once he had returned her smile.

She thought his smile might have led to him inviting her in (for real this time) but he kept standing there, not letting her by. He knew what he was doing, and Honey’s expression shifted to a soft smirk, slipping quickly back to their usual.

Unless— Honey pulled her gaze away from Harlan’s face, glancing behind him as if any guest he had would be standing there, right in her eyeline. She blinked as Harlan asked if everything was alright. “Aye, just—” She met his eye again, fixing her smirk firmly back in its place. “In the neighborhood.” He wouldn’t buy it, and she wasn’t expecting him to. She shrugged one shoulder, suddenly feeling rather empty-handed.

“You said you’d be back home, and I didn’t want to bother Madeline.” That much was true, at least. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “You gonna invite me in, or…?” This was bordering on desperate (because she refused to believe she had already passed that point).

Harlan watched the familiar gears turn as Honey spoke. It seemed that time hadn't change that much, at least. God, how long had it been? He tried briefly to do the mental math but was distracted when she caught his eye and he forgot what it was he was thinking about. Harlan half-leaned against the frame of the door, his brow quirked to beg the question of just what it was that she was doing there.

She was in the neighborhood.

He figured he should have seen that one coming.

"Of course," Harlan didn't exactly try to hide the hubris in his every expression but he was doing his best. At Honey's question, his mouth pulled into a more genuine smile. "Yeah, go on," He stepped (only just) out of the way to hold the door open. "I'm actually avoiding someone, so..." His eyes flicked to the doorway teasingly, as if that were actually the case. He touched her shoulder (only just) in the process of turning to direct her in.

"Here to return the button, I take it?" He wondered as the door clicked behind him— a reference to the gift that he had sent back.

Honey shrugged at his of course because he clearly didn’t believe she was just in the neighborhood and there was no point trying to convince him otherwise.

But there was that smile; it wasn’t a smirk and that made all the difference; she wasn’t feeling quite so desperate anymore. He allowed her in—or as much as she thought he would—without affording her space, which wasn’t exactly a problem. (She had wanted to brush up against him anyway, desperation or not.) But his next words halted her— avoiding someone? Honey arched an eyebrow, looking at Harlan for a second before she caught onto the joke and belatedly rolled her eyes.

His hand was on her shoulder in the next second, and time seemed to slow down as Honey stepped around him and into the flat, with no other contact. The place was as neat and spotless (and seemingly unlived in) as ever, which was somewhat reassuring— she hadn’t talked to him in three months and had been doing her best to skip to the next paragraph anytime she saw his name crop up in The Prophet. “Hmm?” She turned to look at him again, having been so busy looking around (to try and spot signs of another woman, or something) that it took her a second to process his question. The button— she assumed he meant the Griffins button, the one he had sent when he returned the Portree one she had so lovingly gifted for his birthday. “Oh, no I’m keeping that,” she said, smirking softly.

(She had a Griffins button once, but she had pinned it on Charlie; it was a long story she didn’t want to focus on now.)

Honey eyed the bar in the kitchen, the glass of red wine, before she glanced at Harlan again, giving him a quick once over. He hadn’t made himself comfortable yet, must have just gotten home (but had probably unpacked already rather than leave his bag sitting there for weeks on end, as Honey would have done). “Don’t let me interrupt.” She tilted her head toward the kitchen and his drink before she turned her attentions to the rest of his selection. She had been so busy the past couple days she hadn’t paused for a drink, and she figured that was what her next four days would look like, too— and she wasn’t quite to the point of assuming she could make herself at home, again.

She turned back to Harlan with a small smile and an arched eyebrow, backing herself onto a barstool. “How was your event?”

Harlan figured it might as well have been the first time all over again as he watched Honey take a few not-so-hesitant steps inside his home. The memory of the actual first time she explored the painfully ornate living area was seared into his mind and was flashing together with the present, dizzyingly so, though no less or more uncomfortable. What did she make of his place now, he wondered?

That night, however many years ago it had been, he hadn't intended on getting so used to her being there, but then again—

That memory, along with a handful of others, mingled with the present and made it harder to think straight.

"Good," She was keeping the Griffins pin. "About time you got a bit of taste..." Harlan added, more to himself than to her as he made his way toward the kitchen that he had made his way into before the knock on the door had interrupted. "I hadn't intended on it," Harlan retorted. He ought to feel more uncomfortable with her there, but he didn't let himself dwell on that fact.

He didn't ask, but poured another glass and slid it over the counter where Honey had slid into a barstool. "I take it you want something sweeter?" He teased, wondering if three months was enough time for her taste to have evolved into actually enjoying a glass of Pinot. "It was an event," Harlan eventually settled to lean back against the opposite counter, offering a shrug of one broad shoulder. Nothing new. 

Honey looked to the ceiling, not quite rolling her eyes but getting close. There was something there about not having taste—and having dated Harlan despite it (or because of it?)—but she was too close to being sleep deprived (or just not clever enough) to point it out. So she shrugged instead, doubting she would get any actual use out of a Griffins button as long as they were like.. this. Or whatever they were prior to this, her showing up here.

“Good,” she repeated, more pleased than she should have been that she hadn’t interrupted anything.

He didn’t ask if she wanted wine—she didn’t—but poured her a glass anyway; Honey pulled it closer to herself along the countertop, stalling before she had a sip. And he knew that— how could he forget? “Aye, but—“ she picked up the glass, her pinky outstretched as she swirled the liquid around, taking her gaze off Harlan long enough to watch the little whirlpool she had created— “I have taste now.” She met his eye again before she took a sip, trying to be as casual as ever.

It didn’t last long; Honey wrinkled her nose as the taste hit her tongue, before she had even really pulled the glass away from her mouth. “S’good,” she managed, smoothing out her expression before she grinned. “Really,” she said, before she stuck out her tongue. She glanced away before she turned on her stool, moving to stand and look at literally any other option. “You mind?” He did or he didn’t; either way she had gotten past her hesitation to make herself comfortable as she grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the shelf. She settled back on her abandoned stool, looking expectantly at Harlan, waiting for him to pass her another glass, all talk of the event pushed from her mind.

"You're certain about that?" Harlan watched Honey as she pulled the glass up to her mouth as if he could be the true judge of character based on her reaction to the wine. Unsurprisingly her face pulled up into something of a grimace. He found himself shaking his head, grinning. Whatever taste it was that she had alluded to, he couldn't ascertain.

Did he mind? Harlan nodded a confirmation to the question. He might have—minded— but Honey was already halfway to her feet and making herself entirely comfortable as per usual. There was a strange amalgamation of awe and frustration that came with dealing with her. He gestured vaguely to where she was stood in front of the bar, a belated allowance.

Honey approached with a knowing look on her face, but Harlan paused for good measure, as if he didn't know exactly what it was she was looking for. "Oh—" He stood up from the counter he had leaned nonchalantly back against. "—assumed you would get your own glass as well..." Harlan's brow quirked before grabbing his wand and conjuring two glasses. Something stronger than wine had become more appealing.

"Anything else I can get you?" Harlan grinned as the glasses floated over to land on the counter with a soft clink.

Honey has already grabbed the Scotch when Harlan (finally) gave her permission but that was fine— she was taking advantage of the few seconds spent not looking at him, trying to figure out what she was doing. She hadn’t been invited, hadn’t been turned away, and now she was helping herself to 18-year-old Scotch like she lived there. She was certainly teetering on too familiar, but anything less felt too foreign for them, even after— she realized with a soft pang that they had been broken up longer than they had been dating (if you didn’t count the years of whatever they had been doing before that, which she did. Sometimes.)

He didn’t say anything for long enough that she nearly thought he had changed his mind about her being there, but he was just being Harlan, keeping her hanging (and damn, if she didn’t love it). He assumed she would get her own glass, and Honey smirked. “Thought I’d just drink from the bottle,” she said with a small shrug. She hadn’t, but she could. She would, and he knew that well enough; he’d seen it happen more than once.

Harlan gave in after another second, conjuring two glasses. Honey arched an eyebrow at the second one, glancing at his wine, then at him, deciding to not read into him switching to liquor even though he had taste. She shrugged again when he asked if she needed anything else. “No, I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way,” There was a small smirk at the end of that, though she was conscious of not twisting his question in a direction he definitely hadn’t been hinting toward.

She popped the cork and poured them equal measures, close to a double. She hesitated very briefly as she raised her glass to her lips— What would she do if she drank and didn’t stay over? Was that even her plan? She had shown up at this time of night, so it had to be— she would figure that out when she got there.

Honey had a sip and set her glass back down, not letting go of it as she looked at him. Really looked. It hit her then that she couldn’t get a good read on him, or maybe she had just forgotten how, his little tells. She swallowed—mouth full of nothing—and glanced down at her hands, turning her glass around in its spot, before she looked back to him. “How.. are you?” It was a genuine question this time.

Honey reached for a bottle, and Harlan hadn’t paid it much attention until he realized the shelf from which it came— the one nearest the top. As with most things, Harlan was meticulous in his organization and his bar was no exception; tiered in terms of value from lowest to highest from the bottom up. An impossible habit to break from the family home. One of more and more that had turned up in this thirties.

Evidently, Honey hadn’t forgotten that, either.

He offered a nominal roll of his eyes after a brief moment of panic. She hadn't picked that bottle, thankfully; the one from Nice that was coincidentally also aged 18 and the same as Honey's selected scotch. That particular bottle was left unopened and in the very box it had arrived, tucked away under the bar so that he didn't have to see it. Harlan had no intention of opening it anytime soon. If ever.

Their glasses were filled before he could identify the procession of time— still distracted— but eventually he pushed himself from the counter to lean against the one she sat opposite. “Thanks,” Harlan wrapped a hand around his own and absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the base. The wine behind him, a few mouthfuls short of full, was easily forgotten.

"I'm doing well," He inclined the glass to his mouth, thinking. "Busy," Honey knew that all too well. "Arent you meant to be—" Up to her tits in work, using her own words. Harlan paused, thinking twice about the banter he was accustomed to as it pertained to them.

Was that allowed anymore?

"What are you doing?" He asked after a mouthful of his drink through something of a chuckle and exhale. For someone who had very pointedly told (not asked) him to leave her alone. The what are you doing here, was implied.

Harlan said he was doing well and the corners of Honey’s mouth pulled up in a small smile-- a smile that wasn’t immediately returned, so she tried to soften her expression just as he went on to say he was busy. Cagey was more like it, but what had she really expected? It had been a while since they had talked, ages since they had talked.

Her eyebrows went up at his half-asked question. Wasn’t she supposed to be working? She assumed that was what it was-- still, she couldn’t help but thinking he could have been asking her something else, something along the lines of aren’t you meant to be avoiding me? Her lips parted as she started to answer, but she wanted to be sure she knew what the question was first.

Harlan drank, so Honey drank.

She swallowed again, though she had already swallowed her mouthful of Scotch. What was she doing, indeed. “I--” she glanced at her hands, wrapped around her glass, looked at the glass as if she were looking for an imperfection in his conjuring; she pulled her hands into her lap, folding them together, and met Harlan’s eye-- “Don’t know.” She pulled her lips between her teeth, unsure what to say next, but well aware that he was waiting for something.

“I should be working,” she said after another second. Really, she should be doing anything except sitting anywhere close to Harlan, never mind doing it here. “You said you’d be home.” She had already said that, but she was much less cocky about it this time. This time was more just… admitting her mistake, her lack of reading comprehension skills. She was all but saying she should go, hoping he wouldn’t figure that out.

It wasn't that Harlan had expected a succinct and outlined answer to his question that had, admittedly, carried a bit of weight— most of their conversations lately had been as such. There was a time when they spoke more freely, usually under the cover of night and in a room far away from the rest of the world. That had made opening up easier, in some way. And God had he opened up?

Harlan nearly shuddered at the thought.

"I did," He agreed with a single nod, setting his drink down to settle both palms on the edge of the marble counter that separated them. His eyes narrowed on Honey, trying to read what the lines on her face might give away. She no longer seemed angry— that was positive— but he got the feeling that she was holding back, which gave him pause. If they were moving on amicably, and platonically, there was no need for that.

"It's just you made it very clear you wanted me to..." Harlan paused to recall the exact phrase, his eyes shooting up to the ceiling as he went back to that day in the lobby downstairs. "Stop inserting myself into your life?" His gaze flicked down to her again, less of a question than it ought to be. He ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something too harsh.

"So which is it?" He shrugged, letting out a half-exhasperated laugh. He was too old for that.

He agreed, and there was no but that followed after. That was a start-- though she wasn’t trying to start anything (or that was what she would say if anyone asked what she was doing there). Honey mirrored Harlan’s expression, narrowing her eyes as he narrowed his, finding him no easier to read than a minute before. He wasn’t giving her any hints to what she should say next, or if she should offer to leave before he could ask her to go.

But when he spoke, it wasn’t to shoo her toward the door. She figured she knew where he was going with that, kept her eyes on him when he looked up. He was talking about their last conversation here--or downstairs--and she grimaced slightly when he met her eye again. It sounded worse when he said it, worse than she remembered it. It didn’t sound like her--the words; the self-importance was definitely her--but she was well aware she had told him to stop inserting himself into her life.

She had felt good about it at the time, but it wasn’t for any good reason. It could have been a mature request, the only way for her to make sure he’d keep himself away for long enough for her to get rid of any lingering attachment she felt. But he had sent her those quidditch tickets, and her attempt to make Harlan jealous had backfired, and he had apparently taken her request to heart. She thought he might have followed after her, or maybe written. She wasn’t expecting an apology, but--

So which is it? Honey glanced at her Scotch briefly before flicking her gaze back up to meet Harlan’s. The truth of it was: it had been effective, not seeing him. “I kept thinking we--” she paused to swallow, buy herself a second-- “Audrey’s party, you drunk in Hogsmeade. We kept running into each other like we used to, before we dated, so it was almost like we could--” She picked her hand up from her lap and waved it gently through the air. “That was stupid,” she finished bluntly. “You were with…” She trailed off and looked at her drink again, addressing her next words to the glass. “Saw your photo from the quidditch gala.”

Honey glanced up again after a second, waiting for him to say something along the lines of I’m still with her so she could have a good reason to leave, but she opened her mouth again before he could get the chance. “Am not trying to date you now.”

Harlan tried to follow her train of thought despite the unfinished nature at each turn. Annoyingly, he knew exactly what it was she was trying to say and in fact, he probably did before she even opened her mouth. There was something to be said about hearing her say it, out loud, to confirm whatever confusing feelings had plagued him at that time. It felt like a lifetime ago, that time, standing in his kitchen at present.

"Right," He didn't flinch at the mention of the photo in The Prophet. As with most things in his life, his private life was never really all that private. No matter how hard he tried to make it so. And she was, right— whatever line they were treading had been stupid.

Am not trying to date you now. Harlan let out a bark of a laugh that was perhaps a bit out of tune given the nature of their conversation thus far. Either way, he felt a slight release of tension that had settled somewhere between his shoulder blades since she turned up. It wasn't hard to identify that he had been holding back something— doing his best to adhere to her not-quite-request.

"What a relief," He shook his head through a mouthful of his drink. "So that's it, then?" The Scotch emboldened him, it seemed. "I'm free to interject myself into your life again?" Harlan wondered. His tone was verging on teasing but the question was far from it.

Right. If that was the only thing he had to say-- she hated that the next thought she had was so he’s single because he didn’t immediately confirm or deny what she had hinted at, but as soon as he laughed, she was drawn back to the moment. That was one way to handle things, she supposed, and there might have been worse reactions to her saying she wasn’t trying to date him.

(And the fact that Honey had properly asked Harlan out just a few feet to her left wasn’t lost on her.)

It was a relief. Harlan said it, and Honey had to agree. She pulled her glass toward her, though she didn’t pick it up. It was a relief, she realized belatedly. “That’s it,” she said, though she didn’t know if it was. Was it? What was it with Harlan? She was still sitting there, uninvited.

She could laugh at his next question though. “Seems that way.” It was on the tip of her tongue to warn him off dropping by unannounced--he’d done it before--but she finally picked up her glass and had a sip instead. “Unless you’re--” she lowered her glass back to the counter, catching Harlan’s eye again-- “I don’t want to ruin anything for you.” She was thinking about the photo she had mentioned, the same one that Harlan hadn’t acknowledged.

“Am realizing I came here to--” she paused to have another drink, try to figure out why she could piece together a full sentence, sure he had figured out by now why she was there. “I can leave, if you…” told someone else you’d be back home tonight.