I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Printable Version
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I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 2, 2021
April 5th, 1891 - Just after midnight - An Iffy Muggle Bar
Art had broken into Fitz's empty house on the third. He couldn't ease up into something approximating sober functionality if he was staying with Ester, because in addition to generally having a lot of drugs around, she sort of served as a walking advertisement for the benefits of burning your life down. He took advantage of her heading off to — some party, he didn't know which — to find Fitz's London home. Fitz wasn't home, but surely he wouldn't mind — besides, Art would be long gone and at home by the time his break-in was discovered.
Or not; he'd just managed to jimmy the latch on the back window when the face of Fitz's butler appeared in the window. Art had a series of cheerful excuses on his tongue, but before he could use any of them the butler was letting him in through the back door and steering him towards a guest bedroom. It turned out, or so Art supposed, that Fitz's butler was still under instructions to let him crash here if he turned up looking a mess. Maybe everyone in his life had really just been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and hadn't told him —
— and he couldn't even be too angry about that, couldn't be offended, because they'd been right. And because it was easier to stay in Fitz's house if he wasn't there illicitly. The butler was feeding him more regular meals than anything he'd dredged up at Ester's. He didn't really have to make any decisions here, one of the maids had laundered the clothes he'd worn to London. He was able to find paper and to access an owl, and finally responded to a few notes — Irish first, and on the fourth he knew that he finally had to face Ben, because dropping off the face of the Earth like this was something he was supposed to have outgrown.
His letters were maudlin and he knew it, but it was hard to scrape something else together when he still had to face the wreckage of his own life and when he was coming down from days of consistent laudanum usage.
This, this was why he didn't regularly take laudanum — certainly it was why he didn't spend days at a time in a cloud of it. He'd forgotten what it was like to fully come off of it, all of a sudden — there was a pervasive shake in his hands and he felt as if he was running a fever. It was lucky that he didn't have a game this weekend, because he would have been lucky just to take a bludger to the skull. He looked shit, too — something drawn and twitchy and overtired about him in Fitz's mirror. At some point he'd mangled his fingernails by chewing on them, and the skin around them was a little raw. His beard was overgrown as to what he generally preferred but he wouldn't be able to shave until he got rid of the shakes, and that didn't seem like it would be a high priority for a while. None of that was the worst part, either — the worst part was the plummeting sense of nothing interspersed by deep waves of anxiety, and he knew, he knew that at some point he would recover himself to where he'd been a week ago, but that was no help now when he sat curled on the couch in Fitz's sitting room, paralyzed by it.
It was on one of these waves at nothing that he scrawled a letter to Ben he knew he shouldn't send, the Well, at least someone is, and instead of crumpling it into a ball as he should he attached it to the owl and sent it to Irvingly. And he should have expected a note back, should have expected Ben to ask to see him. He wasn't ready for this, he wasn't ready to actually face anyone, and he was certainly in no condition to. But. The alternative was to sit in Fitz's darkened house and wait to see if he could sleep tonight, and so maybe he should take this for what it was, a lifebuoy thrown from a raft he couldn't see. He could not think of going to anywhere there would be other wizards, because that would mean reopening himself to scrutiny without the protective shield of a laudanum haze. Certainly he could not go to Irvingly (casino) or Hogsmeade (Desdemona) and so he arrived at the muggle bar via process of elimination.
He'd almost written off the possibility of it happening at all when he got Ben's final note. For a second, Art considered not going at all: but he could face Ben or he could be alone here, and in the moment the latter sounded much worse.
He couldn't apparate like this so he'd taken Fitz's floo to the closest floo point in wizarding London and scurried out of it even though no one else was around. The early spring air seemed more chilling than it should have, either because it was so late or because of the physical aftereffects of leaving the laudanum, and Art scurried through the streets until he saw the glow of the bar's front door.
The crush of sound when he first entered the bar — and maybe it wasn't really a crush, maybe it was just the sound of a few conversations because it was so late, and maybe he just hadn't been prepared for the sound of people again — was almost enough to send him scurrying back out into the dark. It was easy enough for him to spot Ben, and Art took a breath in to steel himself before he slipped into the other side of the booth.
"Hey," Art said, unable in the moment to muster anything else, because talking himself into coming here had been difficult enough.
Reuben Crouch
Or not; he'd just managed to jimmy the latch on the back window when the face of Fitz's butler appeared in the window. Art had a series of cheerful excuses on his tongue, but before he could use any of them the butler was letting him in through the back door and steering him towards a guest bedroom. It turned out, or so Art supposed, that Fitz's butler was still under instructions to let him crash here if he turned up looking a mess. Maybe everyone in his life had really just been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and hadn't told him —
— and he couldn't even be too angry about that, couldn't be offended, because they'd been right. And because it was easier to stay in Fitz's house if he wasn't there illicitly. The butler was feeding him more regular meals than anything he'd dredged up at Ester's. He didn't really have to make any decisions here, one of the maids had laundered the clothes he'd worn to London. He was able to find paper and to access an owl, and finally responded to a few notes — Irish first, and on the fourth he knew that he finally had to face Ben, because dropping off the face of the Earth like this was something he was supposed to have outgrown.
His letters were maudlin and he knew it, but it was hard to scrape something else together when he still had to face the wreckage of his own life and when he was coming down from days of consistent laudanum usage.
This, this was why he didn't regularly take laudanum — certainly it was why he didn't spend days at a time in a cloud of it. He'd forgotten what it was like to fully come off of it, all of a sudden — there was a pervasive shake in his hands and he felt as if he was running a fever. It was lucky that he didn't have a game this weekend, because he would have been lucky just to take a bludger to the skull. He looked shit, too — something drawn and twitchy and overtired about him in Fitz's mirror. At some point he'd mangled his fingernails by chewing on them, and the skin around them was a little raw. His beard was overgrown as to what he generally preferred but he wouldn't be able to shave until he got rid of the shakes, and that didn't seem like it would be a high priority for a while. None of that was the worst part, either — the worst part was the plummeting sense of nothing interspersed by deep waves of anxiety, and he knew, he knew that at some point he would recover himself to where he'd been a week ago, but that was no help now when he sat curled on the couch in Fitz's sitting room, paralyzed by it.
It was on one of these waves at nothing that he scrawled a letter to Ben he knew he shouldn't send, the Well, at least someone is, and instead of crumpling it into a ball as he should he attached it to the owl and sent it to Irvingly. And he should have expected a note back, should have expected Ben to ask to see him. He wasn't ready for this, he wasn't ready to actually face anyone, and he was certainly in no condition to. But. The alternative was to sit in Fitz's darkened house and wait to see if he could sleep tonight, and so maybe he should take this for what it was, a lifebuoy thrown from a raft he couldn't see. He could not think of going to anywhere there would be other wizards, because that would mean reopening himself to scrutiny without the protective shield of a laudanum haze. Certainly he could not go to Irvingly (casino) or Hogsmeade (Desdemona) and so he arrived at the muggle bar via process of elimination.
He'd almost written off the possibility of it happening at all when he got Ben's final note. For a second, Art considered not going at all: but he could face Ben or he could be alone here, and in the moment the latter sounded much worse.
He couldn't apparate like this so he'd taken Fitz's floo to the closest floo point in wizarding London and scurried out of it even though no one else was around. The early spring air seemed more chilling than it should have, either because it was so late or because of the physical aftereffects of leaving the laudanum, and Art scurried through the streets until he saw the glow of the bar's front door.
The crush of sound when he first entered the bar — and maybe it wasn't really a crush, maybe it was just the sound of a few conversations because it was so late, and maybe he just hadn't been prepared for the sound of people again — was almost enough to send him scurrying back out into the dark. It was easy enough for him to spot Ben, and Art took a breath in to steel himself before he slipped into the other side of the booth.
"Hey," Art said, unable in the moment to muster anything else, because talking himself into coming here had been difficult enough.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 2, 2021
Ben had first heard about the article when he'd come back in to work on Tuesday, March 30th. At this rate, it might have been worth it to invest in a copy of Witch Weekly, just to stay abreast of whatever Watchword was pulling out next. He'd gone to Art's house as soon as he got off of work, because that was what Art would have done for him (or rather, what he had already done for him, when Ben had been featured earlier that month), but the floo was locked and he'd had to come to the front door and then he'd been informed that Mrs. Pettigrew is not accepting callers with no mention whatsoever of Art. Which was — not good, but maybe not bad, either. Maybe Art was just out and the servant was stupid enough to think Ben would ever, in a million years, have been trying to visit Desdemona. Ben had asked the servant to tell Art he'd come by, and then had gone home and tried to wait it out with as much patience as he could muster. Maybe Art needed space. He'd run out of patience by Thursday and had tried again, to be met with the same response. So either Art was avoiding him, for some reason, or he wasn't at home. Ben wasn't sure which was the worse option, but neither were great.
Friday he'd written, with no answer. Writing was difficult, because he didn't really know what to say. He wanted to apologize, but he didn't want to make Art forgive him. Ben didn't really understand the scope of what was happening yet (though he had an inkling, thanks to the article — he knew Watchword didn't just pull things out of thin air, because she hadn't done that with him), and so he didn't know how much to apologize for, and he knew if he just put it on paper that Art would probably either brush it off or forgive him but that wasn't right unless they both knew how much forgiveness Ben really needed.
And he was worried, but he didn't know how much of that he could put in a letter. Maybe he was overreacting, because of Art's history. Maybe Art was fine. Maybe he was at home with Desdemona and they were working through things and they didn't need Ben butting into the middle of their business and making this about him with his apologies and his guilt and his concern. Maybe Ben should have had more faith in Art, and should have trusted him more — and maybe Art could pick up on that and maybe that was why he was avoiding him.
So after several failed drafts, he'd eventually sent something very brief on Sunday, a full week after the article had come out. Art's response had sent him pacing around the mostly-empty room that had previously been his study, and would presumably someday be a nursery. He felt like he was at the bottom of a dark cavern clawing at a rope that might not support his weight. Give me more than that! he thought desperately, but what else could he do but return the letter? He'd stared at the blank parchment for at least ten minutes, quill in hand, before he finally scratched out a one-sentence reply. Affirming, maybe, but in the sort of way that might sound like a joke, so Art could brush it off if he wasn't interested in Ben offering him support.
And then nothing, until the evening. There was no way Ben could have sat through dinner with Melody while he was feeling like he wanted to pull his own hair out, so he'd gone for a drink at the Irvingly Arms instead, and he'd meandered around the front of the Casino and thought about going in but decided against it. It wasn't as though he wanted to gamble. He wanted to look for Art, but he knew he wouldn't be there, and if he went in he'd have to pretend he'd had a purpose other than looking for Art, and he'd have to lie about it if someone asked him and pretend he wasn't spending all of his time just worrying and pacing and waiting for an owl to appear.
The letter he finally got was confirmation that he'd been right to worry, which was — almost sort of a relief, if he was being honest, because at least now he felt like he was justified in doing something. Even if doing something was just writing another desperate letter, at least he didn't have to sit around with another drink and fret over whether he was infantilizing his friend by assuming the worst (Ben had been on the other side of that too often with his brothers; he knew what it felt like and he didn't want to do that to Art). At least he knew that something needed to be done, and that he wouldn't be overstepping by trying to insert himself into the middle of this when maybe Art didn't want him to, when maybe it wasn't his business — when Art could have brought this up at any point and he hadn't, so maybe that was a not-so-subtle hint that he didn't think Ben had any rights to have an opinion on it. Ben knew what to do if Art was spiraling, because both of them had done that before on countless occasions. He'd had no idea what to do if Art was icing him out.
Technically he had to work in the morning, but there was no chance at all that Ben wasn't going out to meet Art. He could call out, if he needed, or he could pretend he was working from home and not drag himself out of bed until the afternoon, or — whatever. He'd figure it out. This was more important. He'd found the bar without much ado, after flooing to the Leaky Cauldron and navigating his way around the dark London streets, and he'd settled in with a drink before Art arrived.
Art looked a mess, but Ben hardly noticed. He was so relieved that he was here that the state he was in seemed irrelevant. Ben hadn't been sure, right up until the moment he'd walked through the door, whether or not he would actually come.
"Hey," he responded cautiously. He pointed at his beer and then at Art, with a raised eyebrow: should I get you one?
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 3, 2021
There was a part of Arthur — a large part of Arthur — that already regretted sitting down, because he was not at all prepared to navigate this conversation. He could have hidden out at Fitz's for at least a few more days without anyone knowing where to find him; he could have slinked home to Desdemona and maybe found a way to right the sinking boat of their marriage. He could have gone back to Ester's and spent another week underneath a haze of opiates. But he'd chosen to come here, instead, because his nerves were so paralyzing he could not stomach being alone, and because he remembered well enough from his spinouts at a younger age that he'd be unable to sleep tonight.
Ben's tone didn't make him feel better, although it didn't make him feel worse, either. Art glanced at Ben's finger pointed towards his beer, and then at his raised eyebrows — it took him a second to get it. "Oh," he said. Was it better or worse to throw a beer into his system when he was feeling like this? He couldn't remember. A beer wouldn't get him drunk or anything, though. Maybe it would even help to steady the shake in his hands.
"Um, sure," Art said, hoping his hypothesis was right.
Ben's tone didn't make him feel better, although it didn't make him feel worse, either. Art glanced at Ben's finger pointed towards his beer, and then at his raised eyebrows — it took him a second to get it. "Oh," he said. Was it better or worse to throw a beer into his system when he was feeling like this? He couldn't remember. A beer wouldn't get him drunk or anything, though. Maybe it would even help to steady the shake in his hands.
"Um, sure," Art said, hoping his hypothesis was right.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 3, 2021
Ben nodded, ignoring the hesitant way Art had answered. He was ignoring a lot, at the moment, in order to just focus on the fact that Art was here, which was good. Well, ignoring was the wrong word. Ben was noticing all of it, and cataloguing it; collecting evidence and trying to deduce just what had happened and how bad things were. He wasn't responding to any of it, though. Not the weird energy or the disheveled look, not the slight shake he noticed in Art's hands, not any of it. His approach tonight had something in common with the way he'd handled frightened animals when he'd been abroad in America and pretending to be writing a book on magizoology. One wrong move, and Art might spook and bolt.
He went to the bar and put down a Muggle coin in exchange for another pint of the same nondescript beer he was drinking. He glanced back at the booth more than once while he was waiting for it to get poured, just to make sure Art hadn't thought better of this and decided to leave. He was too focused on that to think much about how he was actually going to start the conversation, once he returned with the beer. Ben could just keep ignoring things, he supposed. He could tell Art about fighting with Melody and how he was right that Ben should have told her before the duel, and about the weird cryptic book thing, and he could just wait it out and see if Art wanted to bring something up on his own. Art might not, though. He hadn't for months, and Ben knew it had to have been going on at least since he'd walked the wrong way out of their parlor in January. Maybe longer, maybe not.
"It's not great beer," Ben said a little apologetically as he set it down in front of Art and slid back into his side of the booth. "But it's something to drink."
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 3, 2021
Art strongly considered bolting when Ben went to get him a beer, but a side effect of picking somewhere in muggle London was that he couldn't flee as quickly as if they'd been in magical London, and apparating wasn't legal. Normally this would not have stopped him, but if he was arrested for breaking the Statute of Secrecy by apparating, they would presumably contact Desdemona. This was the last thing he needed to get caught doing if he wanted to go back to her, which — he did. He did want to go back to her. He just didn't know how. And he couldn't walk out without Ben noticing.
Ben came back before Art could come up with a third escape route, which meant that he would be staying here for at least a little longer. "Thanks," Art said, accepting the beer. He picked it up carefully and took a sip, and maybe Ben was right and it wasn't great beer, or maybe this tremulous feeling in his chest was keeping him from really tasting it. It didn't matter. The beer was at least partially because this was what you did, in a bar, this was what they did.
Ben came back before Art could come up with a third escape route, which meant that he would be staying here for at least a little longer. "Thanks," Art said, accepting the beer. He picked it up carefully and took a sip, and maybe Ben was right and it wasn't great beer, or maybe this tremulous feeling in his chest was keeping him from really tasting it. It didn't matter. The beer was at least partially because this was what you did, in a bar, this was what they did.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 5, 2021
Ben moved his left hand to his lap as Art took his first drink. His left arm wasn't really back to its full strength yet, and while it looked fine most of the time it was sometimes noticeable in the way his fingers didn't quite move as quickly as they should, or when he tried to close his fist forgetting that they wouldn't be able to manage it. He didn't really want Art to notice, though, because in another situation Art might be inclined to worry about it, and there wasn't enough room at the table for both of them to be worried. Ben's worry about Art was already taking up all of the air between them; it was so thick it was difficult to say anything at all, because in order to do so they had to push through this haze to make space for the words.
"I'm glad you came out tonight," Ben said. It was a genuine statement, but also a bit of a calculated one. He wanted to telegraph to Art that this wasn't a dangerous situation; they could talk about it or not talk about it and either way, Ben was going to be here.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 5, 2021
Ben was glad that he had come out today, and Art was — Art didn't know how he felt. He didn't think he was ready to actually face people, again, but here he was, trying to face people. And facing Ben was easy, it was much easier than facing Dezzie would be, he just — didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to write," Art said, glancing down at his beer, and at the shambles of his nails. He was sorry for a lot of things, but that one was the most obvious.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to write," Art said, glancing down at his beer, and at the shambles of his nails. He was sorry for a lot of things, but that one was the most obvious.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 5, 2021
"It's okay," Ben responded easily. And it was. Now that they were here, now that Ben knew Art was going through something but he was alive and coming through it, and he was willing to talk to Ben (or at least to meet him in a pub, which was a step towards talking), it was all okay. The first letter that Art had ignored, and the second that he'd barely replied to, and the cagey responses. It was all alright, or at least: it was inconsequential, at this point.
"You've been going through stuff," Ben said with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink. That was probably a mild way of putting it, based on the way Art looked, but that was all Ben needed to say to convey the message: I get it, I know. Sometimes you just can't write, and that's fine. They were here now, so he was coming through it. Things were going to be alright again.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 5, 2021
"Yeah," Art said, a little lamely. He was going through stuff but it was all self-constructed, wasn't it? He was the one who started gambling again, he was the one who was making bets, he was the one who had — left Dezzie without a word, even if it was temporarily. They'd both gotten caught by Meredith Watchword, but that wasn't much of a consolation now.
He took another sip from the pint of beer. "Dezzie and I got in a fight."
He took another sip from the pint of beer. "Dezzie and I got in a fight."
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 5, 2021
Ben listened, then nodded. He'd known there would have been a fight, after that article, so on one level this wasn't news. The question, really, was how big of a fight. Ben was well versed in the varying degrees of marital spats, by now. Some were the sort of thing you could recover from in a few minutes or a few hours; some took days. Some passed on their own, once the initial anger had burnt out. Some took concentrated efforts and apologies to mend. Some just stayed, festering like open wounds, and maybe eventually they killed you — he hadn't gotten to that part yet, so he didn't know, but he felt like maybe this marriage to Melody could kill him, sooner or later.
Art hadn't really specified, but the fact that he'd said it at all, and that he'd said it in response to Ben talking about how he was going through stuff, meant that the fight had to be a big one. It had to be a significant part of the stuff Art was going through. Not that that was necessarily news, either, because Ben had kind of known that as soon as Art walked in. He wouldn't have looked the way he did if he'd had Desdemona in the thick of things with him.
"That's why you weren't home this week," Ben said, more a statement than a question.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 5, 2021
Art exhaled. "Yeah," he said. There was some sense that that wasn't all of it, that he was oversimplifying something very complicated — but on the face of it, if he made things as clear as possible, that was it. He'd gotten in a fight with Desdemona and so he'd left and went on a spiral. And maybe it had gone way further than he'd meant, because if he'd been asked on the night of Easter he would have said that he'd be back a day or two ago.
He brought his hand up to his face to chew on the edge of his thumbnail again. "She doesn't deserve this," he said, again sticking to the simplest thing — Desdemona didn't deserve this because she hadn't signed up for this, she had never agreed to be married to Arthur Pettigrew on a Self-Destructive Spiral, and he didn't think that she would have if she was given the option. And she had always been too good for him, but now — now, he could ruin them both.
He brought his hand up to his face to chew on the edge of his thumbnail again. "She doesn't deserve this," he said, again sticking to the simplest thing — Desdemona didn't deserve this because she hadn't signed up for this, she had never agreed to be married to Arthur Pettigrew on a Self-Destructive Spiral, and he didn't think that she would have if she was given the option. And she had always been too good for him, but now — now, he could ruin them both.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 5, 2021
Ben's mouth set in a hard line. This wasn't the first time he'd heard Art express a similar sentiment, though he could not recall whether or not Art had actually used those words. He remembered on New Year's Eve, though — sometimes I think I ruined her life, and that was close enough. And Ben knew what it felt like to be in that seat, because how often had he thought the same thing about Melody over the past few months?
He could have said you're a good husband. He could have said that and meant it, because Art may have lost some money and he may have fought with Dez and he may have left the house for a week on a depressive drinking binge, but Art cared. And it wasn't that Ben didn't care for Melody, because he did, and he always had, but — Art cared in a way that was different, he supposed. Art cared in a way that should have been enough.
So it would have been true, but Ben didn't know if it was worth saying. Art had said something similar to him, the day before the duel, but he wasn't sure it had helped. It hadn't made him believe it, and it hadn't prevented the fight with Melody the next day. Art had said Ben was a good husband because he was trying, which was just the same sort of nebulous thing that had come to mind for Ben, thinking that Art cared. But if Ben trying wasn't enough to save his marriage with Melody, what was to say that Art caring was going to do any better for his?
Ben let out a huff of breath and looked down at his pint glass, letting his thumb rub some of the condensation off the outside of the mug. Things were different for Art and Desdemona, Ben knew that. He just didn't know how he could convey it to his friend in a way that was constructive, in a way that Art would hear. Of course there were so many differences between the two, so much so that they weren't even really comparable — Art had proposed, for one massive, glaring difference — but after a moment Ben's mind settled on one that seemed the most significant. The reason he thought that Art and Desdemona still had a chance, when he was starting to lose hope for himself and Melody.
"That's not really up to you," he said quietly. "That's her call."
And that was the difference, the biggest difference. Ben could try all he wanted, but if Melody was already gone there was no way to save anything, because there wasn't anything left to save. Desdemona had been at home this whole week — at home waiting for Art, presumably. She'd be there when Art got back, and sure, maybe they'd fight, but she'd be there in a way that Melody hadn't really been in their home since January.
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 6, 2021
He bit the skin around his thumb because of the shake in his hand, and lowered his hand, biting back a swear. It was Desdemona's call. It was Desdemona's call, and she'd proposed what was — a very reasonable course of action when he got over himself for a few minutes. Except that it still felt impossible to him, it felt impossible even removed from the blanket of laudanum, and — he could not stop gambling before his life had entered freefall because he had never stopped it before.
He could tell Ben the things he knew that Ben at least expected, or he could sit here talking morosely about Desdemona, trying not to think about the conversation they would have when he was sober and fine and able to drag himself home.
"It's like there's a hole," Art said quietly. He gestured at his chest with the hand he'd had on his pint of beer. "And it's always been there, and I don't know why. And I was done with it for a while. I thought I was — I thought things were different." He was supposed to be a different person. He had been a different person. He was the sort of reckless where he was fun at parties and sometimes a little too hungover; the sort of reckless where he could stay out too late and still build jigsaw puzzles with his daughter the next day; the sort of reckless where he proposed very publicly on a broomstick and people were like 'oh, okay.' He didn't gamble. He didn't make bets. He had wanted to, after the miscarriage, but he'd shied away from it for months, and now —
"It's like there's a hole," Art said, and he was talking more to his pint glass than he was to Ben. "And gambling fills it."
He could tell Ben the things he knew that Ben at least expected, or he could sit here talking morosely about Desdemona, trying not to think about the conversation they would have when he was sober and fine and able to drag himself home.
"It's like there's a hole," Art said quietly. He gestured at his chest with the hand he'd had on his pint of beer. "And it's always been there, and I don't know why. And I was done with it for a while. I thought I was — I thought things were different." He was supposed to be a different person. He had been a different person. He was the sort of reckless where he was fun at parties and sometimes a little too hungover; the sort of reckless where he could stay out too late and still build jigsaw puzzles with his daughter the next day; the sort of reckless where he proposed very publicly on a broomstick and people were like 'oh, okay.' He didn't gamble. He didn't make bets. He had wanted to, after the miscarriage, but he'd shied away from it for months, and now —
"It's like there's a hole," Art said, and he was talking more to his pint glass than he was to Ben. "And gambling fills it."
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 6, 2021
Ben listened in silence, his eyes moving from Art's hands to his face to his pint glass and back again. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know if there was anything to say to that. A hole that had always been there — always? always? A hole Art didn't understand, a hole that gambling filled.
But how could it have always been there? Ben had known Art most of their lives. They'd been friends since Hogwarts. And yes, both of them had done their fair share of self-destructive shit, and things had gotten pretty bad for Art for a while. And yes, on some level Ben knew, and had known for a long time, that when Art gambled it wasn't really the same as when Ben gambled or when either of them did semi-legal drugs or went several days drinking so much they weren't ever really sober. It wasn't something they talked about, and it wasn't something Ben even tried to think about, because he didn't understand it, but in the back of his mind he knew.
But still: always?
I'm sorry I'm such a shit friend, Ben thought, but he wasn't going to say that. Art didn't need to hear that, because this conversation wasn't about Ben. And if he said it, Ben knew Art would protest and try and reassure him, and this conversation wasn't about Ben. Rather than saying something like that he should just try and do better — and it would have been difficult to do worse. All it would have taken was for him to follow Art out the front door in January. Art had practically come right out and asked him, with that look, and Ben had let him walk out, and then he'd let Art not talk about it later because Ben was too much of a coward to come right out and ask. It wasn't hard to find a thousand things he could have done to have been a better friend, and that was just in the past few months. If he looked a little further back...
(Always?)
This conversation wasn't about him. Ben felt frantic, he felt desperate, but this wasn't about him. This was about Art, and what Art needed right now, and — shit, what did Art need right now? What did you say to something like that? A hole that had been there always, and Art didn't know why, and gambling filled the hole...
"Does it?" Ben asked quietly, after taking a long moment to do nothing but stare at his beer and try to work through what he was thinking and feeling. "Do you feel... filled up, now?"
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Arthur Pettigrew - April 9, 2021
Art had a sense that maybe he hadn't described what he meant the way he meant to; this was no surprise, seeing as he was coming down from having been strung out on laudanum for almost a week.
There wasn't that much space between his simile and the excuses laudanum addicts conjured for their behavior, and sometimes Art thought it was just luck that had him landing on gambling instead of a drug. He'd found gambling first and the habit set up a home in his brain and insisted that he come back to it, and he was lucky because it wouldn't kill him, not like liquor and opium killed people. It just made him do things like — bet on a house and lose a whole fortune and probably lose his wife and daughter, too.
He bit down on his thumbnail while he waited for Ben to say something and released it only when he finished, with a question. And Art didn't know if he was filled up now, didn't know if the gaping need in his chest would be there when he came down from the laudanum or not — except he did know, didn't he. He knew because he had tried this before.
"Not really," Art said, with a hollow laugh. In a rush, he added, "Which means I've fucked up my whole life for no good reason, doesn't it? I just — when I start it, I can't stop. And I thought I was different now but I'm not."
There wasn't that much space between his simile and the excuses laudanum addicts conjured for their behavior, and sometimes Art thought it was just luck that had him landing on gambling instead of a drug. He'd found gambling first and the habit set up a home in his brain and insisted that he come back to it, and he was lucky because it wouldn't kill him, not like liquor and opium killed people. It just made him do things like — bet on a house and lose a whole fortune and probably lose his wife and daughter, too.
He bit down on his thumbnail while he waited for Ben to say something and released it only when he finished, with a question. And Art didn't know if he was filled up now, didn't know if the gaping need in his chest would be there when he came down from the laudanum or not — except he did know, didn't he. He knew because he had tried this before.
"Not really," Art said, with a hollow laugh. In a rush, he added, "Which means I've fucked up my whole life for no good reason, doesn't it? I just — when I start it, I can't stop. And I thought I was different now but I'm not."
RE: I'm mastering the art of disappearing in the middle of the night - Reuben Crouch - April 13, 2021
Ben let out a heavy breath. He was looking at his pint glass rather than at Art, and used the edge of his thumb to rub some of the condensation off.
"Well, not your whole life," he said with a shrug. Ben was still here, anyway, though he supposed that didn't count for much. And while Art and Desdemona might have been fighting, Ben really doubted that they were fighting in the same way that he and Melody were, so that was something, too. Not that he could say that, because he didn't know what Art and Desdemona were fighting about. But Art and Desdemona were different than Ben and Melody were, and when they fought it must have been different, too. Not quite so hopeless, Ben imagined. They were actually in love with each other, whereas he was starting to think that both he and Melody had always just been pretending.