try me [charlie]

He could tell that look wasn’t genuine, but that was probably what offended him more—of all people to judge him—but then, she had just said she’d at least managed one relationship without cheating (barely). Still, it wasn’t a competition. Charlie grinned lopsidedly. “Mm.” He slid his hand around to the small of her back, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin material of her blouse. If he was being honest, he had been seconds away from Honey being more than a barely a couple of years ago — but he kept that thought to himself, unsure if it would help or hinder his cause with the redhead.

She didn’t react visibly to Bellamy, which he decided to interpret as a good sign. Victor, between them, she said, and Charlie had a swig of his whiskey (that hadn’t been the mental image he’d needed). Hector, next. Charlie raised an eyebrow at her. Roger, in school — Charlie nodded; he remembered the older Slytherin, a prefect and a wanker (as if the two weren't mutually exclusive). Nora, who wasn’t gay. Charlie laughed. “Just curious, was she?”

But what were people naming their kids? He'd teased Honey about having a fetish for that sort of thing once but maybe he'd hit the nail on the head. Admittedly, they had been born in the seventies, and in Britain, so there wasn’t about to be a bunch of Britney’s and Tyler’s. And he was a Charles, but nobody ever called him that — even when he was in trouble his mum still called him Charlie (unwarranted, Kate’s shrill Charles needled into his train of thought and he had another drink of whiskey, emptying the glass).

But back to just the one; he deduced that given she’d been cheated on by Harlan, she hadn’t cheated on him. Absently, Charlie rubbed his thumb softly against her spine. If he'd tried a little harder, this time last year, would she have given in? Sounded like it. But would things have turned out like this if he'd been the cause of their breakup? He brought his eyes up to meet hers and wet his lips.

He was thinking too much. Perhaps this was why they never talked. He set his empty glass on the table and looped his other hand loosely around her waist without overthinking that. “Have you been having affairs since you were sixteen then?” he smirked — and he was being generous, assuming she hadn't had a boyfriend until then (he was fairly certain, at any rate, because that had been around the time he'd started keeping tabs).

Honey finished rolling her eyes, her gaze landing on Charlie’s lips as he laughed. “Can you blame her?” She smirked, giving herself far more credit than she was due. She blinked as she realized--rather late--how close they were; had he really pulled her closer when she was going on about her past relationships? She smirked again-- again giving herself too much credit.

Charlie finished his drink and Honey had another swallow of hers, just barely not finishing it. (A cider and a whisky in thirty minutes, on an empty stomach; she could do worse.) She raised her eyebrows as his thumb moved against her and she tightened her hand around her glass as he rested his other hand on her waist; she regretted not leaving herself more alcohol so she could drain her glass dramatically. This was too comfortable, almost, and that should have made her more uncomfortable. She considered suggesting more drinks so they had an excuse to move, but she got distracted by his question-- accusation.

She rolled her eyes again, hearing his smirk as much as she was seeing it. “‘Course no.” Not technically, anyway. She had kissed someone else while dating Roger, but that was it. It wasn’t cheating if she hadn’t slept with anyone--and she hadn’t slept with Roger, either, because she had limits once--and-- ah, fuck. She thought that counted as cheating now anyway, having been on the other end of it, but she wasn’t about to clue Charlie in to any of that. “Didn’t have emotions ‘til I was twenty-eight, at least.” That was a good save, anyway, because that was when it counted, per Charlie’s rule that it was when emotions got involved.

Honey picked up her glass and drained it--not dramatically--keeping hold of it as she set it back on the table. “What about you, then?” She raised one eyebrow, squeezing his side again as she hoped he would skip over the obvious answers, Kate and Alannah. But just in case he was that thick, she added: “The other three.”

“You know I don’t,” he said with a grin, talking as much about his present feelings—not feelings—attraction—as the crush he’d had on her as a thirteen year old. She hadn’t known then, obviously, but he’d made the mistake of admitting to it during a drinking game and he didn’t think she’d ever let him live it down.

Charlie laughed — not for any real reason, what she’d said wasn’t that funny. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he wet his lips. He was drunk, now — that whiskey clearly having been the tipping point for the three (four? He’d lost count) beers he’d had while waiting to finally take effect. Plus the one since she’d joined him. Honey said she had only acquired emotions when she was twenty-eight. Without any subtlety whatsoever, Charlie frowned, trying to do the mental maths to work out when that had been — got as far as realising it was between them, before he realised she was paraphrasing him. He grinned lopsidedly. Then remembered that he was twenty-eight. “I—”

His mouth hung open slightly for a moment before he let out an amused noise. The other three.. He brought one hand up to rub over his mouth and jaw, then shrugged. “Erm, Maisie, in school,” he said. “Not that we got up to much,” he smirked. “Only lasted like, three months or something but—” first girlfriend was first girlfriend. Charlie had unceremoniously dumped her before Christmas and promptly moved on come the new term in January.

Honey was still looking at him, waiting for him to go on. Charlie shifted, putting himself slightly between her and the table. “Steph. Stephanie,” he elaborated, unnecessarily. “She were a muggle though and it— weren’t going to work out.” The promise of bigger and better things, namely: “Hilary.” He didn’t linger on her, assuming Honey would know about his on-and-off again affair with a member of the popular girl group thanks to the tabloids. He supposed she wasn’t really a girlfriend, but everyone else had called her one so it had kind of stuck.

“Meghan, after her. Or, well, there was a little overlap,” he admitted. He was gazing off to the side, all the better to focus on the other women he’d slept with consistently over the years. “God, she was fit,” he lamented. “But she was a fucking nightmare,” he laughed then, lowering his gaze before bringing it back up to meet Honey’s eyes. She had been next, chronologically, in his mind, but she’d excluded herself just a few minutes ago. Charlie wet his lips, holding eye contact for a moment before shrugging. Kate had come after her, but he didn’t think they needed him to bring her up, nor the overlap there, either. The more he thought about it, he didn’t think being his barely would make up for it.

It did beg the question though: he’d listed four, without thinking about it, and she’d excluded herself, Kate was a persona non grata — so who did she think the fifth was? It clicked less than a second after he’d asked himself the question. “You don’t think Fflur and I…?”

There was Maisie, in school, he said, so Honey assumed—hoped—he wasn’t starting with the most recent and working his way back like she had. But it lasted three months and nothing happened, which only reminded her of Charlie’s other three months when nothing happened; Honey smirked before she could catch herself. She quickly rearranged her expression and looked at him to keep talking. Steph--Stephanie--was next, and a muggle, and it obviously hadn’t worked out. Honey’s latest attempt at that was Janice, and she grimaced sympathetically, vaguely wondering how Charlie got women without being able to really use the rockstar route, not really realizing that that wasn’t why she was still hanging around; he went on before she could ask, at least.

It was Hilary next, and it took Honey a second but when it clicked--she remembered caring more about that rumor because it was attached to a is Spellbound going to break up? sort of headline--she raised her eyebrows. She wanted him to drop some sort of hint about where he was on his timeline, where he was in relation to sleeping with her, but that was three already, so next were Kate and Alannah. Or Meghan. Honey’s eyebrows were already up, or she might have looked more confused. At least she was fit, and a nightmare, and Honey could sympathize--”Been there.”--though of the ones she had mentioned, she didn’t think any of them qualified as nightmares, really. Fit? Yes.

But she was back to being confused after another second, trying to remember what he had said about Alannah last year. He said he was breaking up with her, right? She assumed that meant they were dating, but maybe she had been reading into it, for whatever reason. Honey met his eye when he spoke again, her mouth falling open slightly at his question. Fflur? “What? No.” She had been the last person on her mind, but now that he mentioned it-- “I mean, didn’t you?” She wasn’t talking about dating now and she assumed he knew that.

It had been obvious he wanted to, if they hadn’t already, whenever Honey met her in Paris; at the time she had thought it was rude to invite her--Honey--to a party he knew another woman--who he was also sleeping with--would be there, but she had had fun with Grace after ditching said party, and Charlie. Now, she realized, there might have been something more to the annoyance, but it wasn’t the time or the place to get distracted with worry about that.

“Not that it matters,” she added quickly, smirking softly, though now it was occuring to her that he might have brought Fflur up to see if she was jealous. (She wouldn’t put it past him.) “I slept with Robin,” she said, casually, her hand much closer to Charlie’s backside than she imagined it would be, telling him that.

Honey gaped softly up at him and Charlie smirked at her quick denial—had he thrived a little off the obvious jealousy between them back in the late nineties? Absolutely—though the smug expression was wiped off his lips just as quickly by her follow-up question, because he could tell by her tone that she wasn’t asking about dating anymore. He really should have thought through bringing up Fflur in the first place. “Erm,” he hesitated — long enough for Honey to say it didn’t matter, and he might not have believed her if it weren’t for the smirk on her lips; his shoulders relaxed.

Charlie was a fraction less composed when Honey told him she’d slept with Robin — thankfully, the hand on his backside served as a decent distraction. Still, this was not how he’d imagined having this conversation — if he’d imagined it at all (mainly the Fflur part, he hadn’t considered Robin would factor at all). But Honey’s admission was enough to prompt him to be equally honest; “I— Yeah, we shagged once.” The once seemed important. “It were…” he half-grimaced, half-grinned; saying it was bad without saying it was bad out loud (which was an exaggeration either way, it had been more awkward than awful). He could have been gentlemanly about it and taken the blame, rather than be vague and hope Honey would read between the lines, but he was trying to reassure her — not like she was that kind of jealous but— and he was still bitter that Fflur had thrown him under the bus with Michel (all those years ago), so he was allowed to throw her under it just this once. “Don’t think I’ve been that drunk since,” he said with an amused noise; he’d definitely been drunker and Honey probably knew that, but what else was he supposed to attribute it to?

Speaking of, they both needed another drink. “You want another?” he asked, pointing at Honey’s empty glass. He waited for her to accept his offer before turning away from their spot at the table and leading her through the growing crowd to the bar, his hand taking hers; fingers linking on muscle memory.

He dropped it when they reached the back of the ‘queue’ at the bar — though, to be fair, people were still being reasonably orderly this early in the evening. He glanced sidelong at Honey, aware that he’d cut that conversation short, but more aware that this was probably the only chance he had to talk about this without it being weird. And he couldn’t help but want to know: “When did you sleep with Rob?” he asked, in as casual a tone as he could muster (too casual, if anything).

Charlie’s hesitation was enough answer, and Honey’s smirk widened as she reassured him that it didn’t really matter either way. He didn’t say anything about Robin, but she didn’t miss the little change in his expression; Honey lowered her hand just that much more. That—and her offering a name, too—led to him admitting what she already knew, though she wouldn’t have gone as far as to say she thought it would have been just the one time. She raised her eyebrows, not exactly believing him—never mind he didn’t have a reason to lie because it wasn’t like she was about to get jealous. She nodded like she understood—they had already established she had had bad sex before, anyway—when he didn’t quite finish the thought.
 
“She must have ambushed you,” she said matter-of-factly, once he had declared he hadn’t been that drunk since. That had been his explanation before and she thought it only fair that he knew she remembered.
 
But did she want another? “Aye.” A few more, at least. No work tomorrow, no one to try and impress—Charlie knew what to expect, at least. She had half a thought to suggest they try to save their spot at the table, but one small glance at their surroundings was a good enough indication that it was a lost cause; they were getting crowded out. Charlie turned and Honey moved to follow, looking down at their joined hands, as if she might get lost on the way to the bar--she would need four more drinks for that, at least—or maybe he didn’t want to get lost. She didn’t know how many he’d had before she got there.
 
Or maybe they didn’t know anyone here, didn’t think anyone would pop in and recognize them, could hold hands like she would with any girlfriend in a crowded pub. She was just starting to overthink it when Charlie let go of her hand, and Honey met his eye as he glanced at her. She nearly laughed at his question but settled for rolling her eyes instead. “Last week,” she answered casually, shrugging the shoulder farthest from him.
 
There was a jarring sound of bow on strings as a fiddler tuned up across the pub, quickly followed by a second one not tuning, rolling right into their first song. Honey rolled her eyes at that, too, though at least it gave her a good excuse to lean a little closer to be heard. (She snaked an arm around his waist, too, to anchor her in place.) “It was ages ago,” she said, a half-hearted attempt to set his mind at ease. “You were probably still in school.” She smirked softly.

Charlie scowled petulantly at Honey, the expression fading after he realised he probably deserved that. Had they been talking about anyone else he might’ve gone with the excuse she’d given him—being ambushed—but Fflur didn’t deserve that. He hadn’t ambushed her, either — it had just been a mutual fuck up.

Last week, she said, preluded with a roll of her eyes that Charlie missed, and he almost missed the joke too — was torn between being mad at Rob for sleeping with Honey and being mad at Rob for doing that to Fflur for all of three seconds before the preposterousness of it made him second-guess. He was saved from having to respond by the band loudly tuning their fiddle(s), then launching straight into their set, just as loudly.

Charlie glanced back at Honey as she clarified. He shuffled forwards in the crowd as the line to the bar lessened. “I’m only two years younger than you,” he reminded her, raising his voice to be heard over the music — as if he hadn’t reminded her how she was a whole two years older than him more than once, to wind her up. It was easier to think the gap was larger, with the way the school years had worked, but he was more likely to forget there was any gap at all most of the time — like he did with Fflur. When they were just hanging out it didn’t really come up, wasn’t glaringly obvious — he figured that said more about their maturity than his, though.

Another person was served, leaving only one more before it was their turn. “Cider?” he asked, leaning in to be heard—and maybe to get a little closer, personal space becoming less of a priority—figuring she wasn’t particularly enchanted by the Jameson’s. “I’m not ordering Scotch for you.” Not in Ireland. Not on St Paddy’s Day.

Honey took a step as Charlie moved forward, keeping her arm in place around his waist, just barely tucking her thumb into the waistband of his jeans. She was only two years older than him, he reminded her, and Honey rolled her eyes. “I know.” It wasn’t the first time he had mentioned it, though it was usually to remind her how old she was, not give any substance to how old he was. But really, it--Robin--had happened so long ago and ended poorly-- but she wasn’t about to tell Charlie that. She liked this reaction better.

She nodded her head once when Charlie asked her about the cider, adding an “Aye,” after another second. She might have been distracted by how close they were now, letting her mind wander, but she was quicker on the uptake when he said he wasn’t ordering her Scotch. She rolled her eyes again before she looked up at him, considering kissing him to shut him up. “I can order for myself,” she said instead, but looking at that selection: she wasn’t ordering Scotch here, anyway. (Never mind that she knew where she was and what day it was.) She gave herself a second before she moved between him and the bar, face-to-face as she wrapped her other arm around his waist.

But then it was time to order and Honey untangled herself from him and turned to the bar, ordering herself a cider, letting Charlie order a whiskey before asking for “Two of those.” She had a point to make now, after all.

Honey turned around, leaning back against the bar and reaching for Charlie’s hand to pull him close again. She glanced over to their table, now full of other people, which was on par with how the rest of the pub was filling up. They could go upstairs or enjoy being out of the(ir) house(s), or-- she looked around Charlie and spotted a dart board on the far wall. “Darts?” She nodded her head toward it, just in time for another group to move in and ruin that idea, too. “Never mind,” she said with half a laugh.

Charlie smirked, the expression fading just slightly as he was distracted by Honey’s thumb slipping into the top of his waistband.

Right, cider. He gazed at Honey, and his lips pulled into another soft smirk when he realised where she was gazing. “Alright.” A gentle grin slipped onto his features as she moved to stand between him and the bar — she wasn’t going to be ordering much facing him, but he wasn’t about to complain about the proximity— But it didn’t last: it was their turn. Honey spun around and ordered her cider. Charlie ordered a “Jameson’s,” and he rose an eyebrow at the redhead in surprise as she made that two; he wasn’t confident that the second one was for her — it was that or she was just trying to get him (even more) drunk.

Drinks ordered, Honey was back to facing him. Charlie’s line of sight dropped to their hands as she took his in hers. He smiled and stepped into her obediently, curling his fingers around hers— It was bad pub etiquette to start snogging at the bar—they’d just be blocking everyone’s access—but it wasn’t like they knew anyone here to make any sort of lasting impression—

Darts? He followed the direction Honey was looking in just in time to see a group start to use the board. He grinned as he heard her say nevermind and glanced back down, then around the room again — she was obviously thinking about what they were going to do next, if going upstairs was ruled out (not entirely, obviously, but for a little longer at least), and their old table had been taken over — and talking wasn’t exactly their strong suit.

Charlie shifted his weight to peer over a few heads — there was a smaller (quieter) adjacent room that had a pool table that nobody seemed interested in right now, too occupied with the band and getting drinks as the business end of St Patrick’s Day got going. He turned back to Honey — had somehow forgotten just how close their faces were, even with their arms looped around one another, and blinked in mild surprise; “Pool?”

There was half a second of eye contact between Honey taking back her suggestion of darts and Charlie looking around for (she assumed) something else to do. They were both creative people; they would figure something out, she concluded with a soft smirk to no one in particular. But he was still looking around--with a bit more effort, even--so maybe going upstairs was out of the question (for now, at least). She let go of his hand to wrap her arms around his waist again, keeping him close, because they could definitely think about going upstairs.

Honey raised her eyebrows when Charlie came up with an actual suggestion. She turned her head to look for the pool table, turned back to Charlie when it wasn’t there right in front of her; she was still leaning back against the bar and she didn’t want to straighten up to look around anyone or risk changing how close she and Charlie were standing now, all pretense of someone might see right out the window.

She liked playing darts; or, she liked when her dates felt compelled to show her how to properly hold and throw a dart when she did poorly (and which she only did on purpose about a quarter of the time). She would probably be worse at pool, which wasn’t an altogether bad thing. She smirked again. “Can you teach me?”

Their drinks were delivered before Honey could get much further along with her thoughts (which was probably for the best). She turned and pulled the cider toward her with one hand, picked up one of the whiskeys with the other. She downed the whiskey in a few swallows, setting the glass back down on the bar as she glanced at Charlie with a little shrug of one shoulder (and another smirk after she got over how bad the whiskey had tasted). She lingered for another second before she wandered away toward where she figured (and hoped) the pool table was: away from the band.