[bloomsbury] this is why we can't have nice things. [harlan]

It was a grey evening in London but the inside of the townhouse was warm and cosy. With soft lighting and laughter echoing through the rooms, it was hard to hear the driving rain that smacked against the windows. With worn leather sofas and mismatched picture frames, it was a haven, especially on chilly nights like this one.  Will liked gatherings of this size, of twenty or so - it was more intimate, no one missed out on conversations that were being had and everyone had a drink to hand. He didn't mind hosting and he wished he could do it more often. It was definitely easier to keep track of people.

Normally for a book launch, it tended to be a bit more grand. By request of the author, he'd only wanted a handful of friends and family present and Will could respect his decision. Having a party carried the weight of expectation and as he casually leant against the doorframe, he found himself smiling as he watched Colin animatedly tell his grandchildren all about his glittering career at the Ballycastle Bats.

Undoubtedly, they'd heard the story all before but to see him reading aloud to the group filled Will with a sense of pride. This was why he became a publisher for - to help tell stories. The pay was fine but nothing remarkable and Will wasn't a glory hunter. Write Hand Press was grassroots, like his father and grandfather had designed it to be, and that was how he wanted it to stay. He'd always had a fascination with autobiographies and he'd admit that he didn't know much about Colin before they started working together but he was sure the book would be flying off the shelves in no time. Besides, everyone wanted to know the inner secrets of the Ballycastle Bullet.

"No, you stay," Will laughed, extending a hand to get the main man to sit down. "I'll go. Keep going," he encouraged Colin with a bright smile. The kids had some food on paper plates on the floor and he'd even gotten some colouring books and pencils just in case but luckily, they were hanging on their grandfather's every word and hadn't noticed when Will turned and disappeared further into the house to fetch more wine, stopping in the kitchen to steal a mini risotto ball.

It was a little after eight in the evening and he was going to get two glasses but thought it was more efficient to take the bottle, so he tucked it under his arm before he adjusted his glasses and looked up, the smile slipping from his face as he saw a familiar figure.

He was shorter in person, Will realised fleetingly. His dark eyes bored into the Quidditch player, a mix of anger and disbelief swirling like a maelstrom in his gut. Harlan Bellamy was a persona non grata in these parts and the fact that he was standing here, in his hallway made his skin prickle. Will inhaled sharply, a reminder to him to calm down before he said something he might regret. They hadn't met before and Will was half hoping he'd be able to escape the other man indefinitely but of course he'd be here. Colin Taylor had been Harlan's mentor, many moons ago. It would make sense that he'd want to celebrate with the man but Harlan had balls stepping over Will's threshold. And he definitely had not invited him.

The writer blinked, his eyebrows arched. "I think you might be lost," he voiced to Harlan, his voice taking on a steely edge as he offered a tight-lipped smile. "Mate."



@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan found himself grinning along as Colin recounted one of the tales from his glory days with The Bats.

What an idiot, he thought to himself, about himself. He'd heard the story what had to be a hundred times over the course of the years that he'd known his mentor, but there was a particular sentimentality it carried as it shone on the faces of the kids in the room, their cheeks shiny and red from the cold outside. They had been playing out there prior to the event kicking off and before the rain had settled firmly in.

Harlan arrived on time, though not on time enough to mingle, and at the same time they had been called in.

He didn't know the details of the launch but he knew Colin was immensely proud of his work on the book. That seemed to matter far more. The question lingered, of course, what was life after Quidditch? It grew louder as he approached the townhouse to see people meandering through the warm-lit windows. Would he be writing books about his life in fifteen years? What a thought.

The night had been more pleasant than imagined. Even with the mingling. "Ah, right," Harlan nodded to where the older woman— she worked in publishing in some capacity— had indicated the drinks were located. Both of their glasses of red had gone mysteriously dry in the haze of the conversation.

Harlan hadn't noticed the other man until his voice rang out and immediately he got a bad feeling. He didn't know the man, he thought, though his face might have said otherwise. He was looking at Harlan like he'd just killed his puppy, or burned his books, or something equally as damning. Mate? His face pulled into an unbothered grin. Not a Griffins fan, perhaps.

"Just after the bar," He explained, inclining his chin in the direction of the kitchen. "Harlan," He extended a hand, a sucker for the formality.

Unbelievable. This had to be a fucking joke. Someone on his team was pranking him because this just wasn't cricket. The laughter in the other room seemed warped and muffled and there was a ringing in Will's ears that he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He wasn't a violent man usually but when faced with who he deemed to be the conductor of all of his nightmares, it just might tip him over the edge.

Harlan's grin did nothing but stoke the anger in his stomach, poking and prodding, and his lips set into a thin line. Of course he was jovial - he must be used to swanning in and being perfect and fabulous and everything else in between.

Will was too old to be getting jealous but that didn't stop the ugly emotion from rising up and settling uncomfortably in his throat. It was pathetic, really. So he'd apparently stolen not one but two of his girlfriends. That wasn't a reason for Will to hold a grudge. For all he knew, he could be a really lovely man but when Harlan's hand loomed in front of his vision, the writer stared at it dumbly for a second.

The Quidditch star didn't know who he was and Will wasn't sure why that had come as a shock. After all, why would Nice or Honey mention him? Instead of accepting the invitation straight away, Will simply smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes like it usually did. "I know," he replied vaguely before he reached his hand out and squeezed Harlan's with more force than was necessary.

"William Dasher," he announced before letting go of the other man's hand as though it had caught fire. "I own the publishing house," he went on, his eyes still firmly on Harlan. It was bad enough that he'd turned up but the fact that he was drinking his wine was only making Will more and more irritated. He needed to stop. He forced himself to take a breath and try to forget the fact that once upon a time, he'd had a picture of Harlan's face on a door in the office upstairs and had casually been throwing darts at it. So had Pamela. Catching sight of her behind the Quidditch player, Will simply arched an eyebrow at her before she blushed and scurried off. They'd have to talk about this in the morning.

"I don't mean to be rude," Will lied, "but I am just wondering why you're here. It's invite only," he stressed. "And I don't remember issuing one to you."

Decidedly not a Griffins fan Harlan thought to himself as the other man announced that he did, in fact, already know who he was. It wasn't rare, of course, but there was an inherent air of hostility that felt disproportionate to a simple matter of quidditch preference. Maybe he'd dated his sister or something, the thought came fleetingly and with what he hoped was an internalized smile. He was entirely unaware that he wasn't far off base in his assumption.

William Dasher was quick to announce that he owned the publishing house and Harlan, despite the previous few moments, didn't hide that he was impressed. He appreciated someone who loved the written word as much as he did, and enough to help facilitate it. "Ah," Harlan hummed thoughtfully. "I'm sure Colin's mentioned that," He said politely.

If he had, Harlan had forgotten.

Anytime a statement began with something such as 'I don't mean to be rude but—' Harlan knew the opposite would be true. It was painfully obvious that he meant literally anything other than what he had not even half-heartedly said. Surely he knew that, right? Then again, maybe not. "I'm with the author," Harlan couldn't help but smirk. He had zero intention of wasting his time procuring said invitation from his mentor, or wasting his breath explaining himself.

"Must've missed the doorman..." Harlan continued to tease, good-naturedly enough, his eyes widening briefly in mock fear.

William Dasher could take up his golden ticket invitation snafu with the said author. Harlan knew enough about the business to know that the launch party was to be funded by the future sales of the publishing house client in question. "Lovely party, though, mate," He said more earnestly, glancing back to the full room of close friends and family enveloped in the cozy environment.

"Really," He resisted the urge to clap a hand to his shoulder but still shifted to make his way toward the kitchen again.

Harlan was being polite and Will was being a little bitch. That alone should be enough for Will to relax a little, maybe stop being so rude but then the Quidditch player had the audacity to smirk at him and the writer simply saw red. Something had struck a match inside of him, twisting his stomach into knots and making his blood course through him a little bit hotter. Harlan didn't know who Will was. Harlan didn't know what he'd done but he was sure as Hell was about to find out if he continued on with his smarmy ways and drinking his wine.

Must've missed the doorman, the other man had quipped and Will blinked impassively. Oh. Harlan made a joke. Will didn't find the decency to laugh. Of course, this wasn't Harlan's fault. Or Colin's. Will couldn't police who the author wanted to attend his celebration but crikey Moses, Colin had to invite the one person that Will thought was the root of all evil.

The party was lovely and Will was missing it, simply because he refused to let things go. People got cheated on all the time. With modern dating, it was expected somewhere along the line.It happened so long ago now that everyone involved was at the point where they could laugh about it.  It was so much easier for Will to loathe Harlan Bellamy from a distance, with his blonde quiff and his broad shoulders and the way he was so charming but most distressingly for Will, he was turning out to be an actually decent bloke. The bastard.

Harlan moved but so did Will, his arm shooting out to block the other man's way into the kitchen by putting his arm across the doorway. "I'm Honey's ex," Will finally confessed as he stared at Harlan, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't know the ins and outs of his and Honey's relationship but the fact that it seemed to have messed her up something ruthless was concerning. Also, what kind of psychopath cheated on Honey Flume?

Against his will, he'd briefly been dragged into some sort of bizarre love quadrangle - Will dated Honey. Honey cheated on Will with Harlan. Will dated Bérénice. Bérénice cheated on Will with Harlan. And everyone had sort of...cheated on each other? Except Will, who was left standing in the middle like a lemon. The sheer mechanics were mind boggling.

Will heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in mild despair. "And Bérénice's," he finally admitted, letting the confession hang in the air for Harlan to realise the levity of the situation. "So please forgive me if I'm not your biggest fan," he replied with a tight smile.

Harlan let out a laugh before he could control himself, his eyes narrowing, entertained, on where Will had blocked his passage. If he didn't know better, he thought he might—

I'm Honey's ex. It wasn't an audacious statement that would cause pause, though he got the feeling that the other man had meant it to. Honey had plenty of those, and they weren't of any interest to him, but why was this one any different? Harlan racked his brain when it dawned on him all once. Will was Will, and Will was the librarian.

The bookman, rather. The nickname shared between he and Nice wasn't mean-spirited— Harlan was a bookman himself— but the memory caught him in his chest. He could recall when Nice started dating him, bringing him up around their families. Distinctly, he remembered his mother's face when it came up at dinner. Harlan's brow quirked as his grin settled into thought.

"Most aren't," He lamented— a fan, that was. Harlan's jaw set as he eyed Will's hand on the doorframe. What, did he want a fucking apology? As far as relationships were concerned that was for the people involved to deal with, and as much as he knew, the two of them weren't in any semblance of that.

"It's good to meet you, then," He decided on, realizing after it left his mouth that maybe it wasn't the right thing to say. What was, anyway?