December 31st, 1890 - Zoo NYE Party

Ben and Art were, naturally, at the slightly trashier New Year's Eve Party. Neither of them had the standing (or the petty cash) to attend the other one, and Art was sure that this one would be more fun - for some definition of fun. He was having a hard time lately with things like this - not the party bits (that he could manage) but the small talk. Accordingly, he had taken to hovering around Ben for most of the evening so far in the hopes that grouping up would discourage acquaintances from talking to him.

Happy New Year.

He was buzzed now, though, and they were nearing midnight, and that was good. There was sound and people were happy or at least drunk, and there were fireworks and animals. He ought to be having a lot more fun than he was having, in short, but that was not so much because of Ben as it was because of the nagging sense of guilt and sadness in his belly.

"No Mrs. Crouch this evening?" Arthur asked, although he probably would have slunk off if he had seen her, because of the whole 'not liking her' thing.

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Reuben Crouch

  

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Having survived Christmas and Boxing Day, Ben had considered himself more or less a professional at smothering his feelings and pretending to have fun. He was planning to do exactly the same for the New Year's Eve celebration, which should have been easier. Art wasn't going to call him on any of his bullshit if he slipped and said something depressing, Ben thought, and even if he did he wasn't going to particularly care that Ben was unhappy. Though apparently they couldn't make it to midnight without bringing up Melody, which was the last thing Ben wanted to talk about.

"Can we not?" he asked, finishing the drink in his hand and casting around a wide gaze to locate another.

  

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That wasn't what he'd really expected; Arthur finished his own drink in a large gulp before he responded to Ben. "We can not," Arthur said. After his conversation with Melody a few weeks ago - which had been both weird and bad - maybe he should just let it lie. There were only so many directions that 'your wife is a bitch' could go, and none of them were good.

"There," he said instead, pointing to a platter of drinks a waiter was handing out.

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Ben retrieved the drink as Art pointed it out, and took another large sip even though he hardly needed more alcohol so soon after finishing his last. He told himself it was the standard practice of taking a bit off the top of any new drink so you were less likely to spill it; in reality, he was putting off having to say anything for another few seconds. Melody's accusation from their argument before Christmas was ringing in his head: he knows. Ben peered at his friend over the top of his mug as he drank and wondered whether he really did, or whether Melody was being crazy and paranoid. Either were possible. Ben was sure he hadn't told him, but Art wasn't as stupid as some people believed him to be, and he knew Ben well. He and Desdemona had a front row seat to the entire charade that was the Crouch's marriage, so if anyone were to put the pieces together, it might have been him. On the other hand, Melody had a long and proven history of being crazy and paranoid.

Even if Art did know, however, this was not the time or place to bring it up. Too many people here who might overhear, and Ben had learned his lesson from his slightly-too-public conversation with Melody at the Pettigrew Christmas Party. He ought to change the subject, but the first thing that came to mind was No Mrs. Pettigrew this evening? which was just cruel.

He swirled his drink around his mouth, ostensibly savoring the taste but really trying to buy himself time to think of something appropriate to say. He didn't usually have this much trouble making conversation with Art. He didn't usually have any trouble making conversation with Art.

"Why are we even here?" he finally asked, glancing around. "Parties are typically for talking and dancing and we haven't really been doing any of that. We could have done this in my backyard," he pointed out. Though, of course, that would have meant contending with Melody, so... perhaps it was better that they were out, after all.

  

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He desperately wanted something to do with his hands in the absence of drink; Arthur greeted the arrival of his second drink with multiple levels of relief. He took a large gulp of it. The more he drank - or so the thinking went - the less he could manage thinking about. And the further he spilled into the bottle, the harder it was to get into his real vice.

Arthur needed desperately to avoid gambling, or he could really ruin himself. He knew it. So - alcohol.

"Parties are also for drinking," Arthur suggested helpfully, although they could have drank for free at Ben's house. "And background noise."

That was as close as he could get to the truth. He had wanted to meet here because he could not stand the silence, anymore; things were so silent once he got home that he tried to avoid it as much as possible when he was out. Here there was chatter and life and no one was silently disappointed with him - no one cared about him at all. It was better this way.

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Ben knew that background noise was code for something, and with everything that had happened with him and Melody over the past few weeks he assumed that what it was code for was the ability to avoid Melody. Which was fair — Ben had just been thinking the same thing himself. It wasn't as though the atmosphere between the two of them was jubilant, or anything, but it would have been significantly more tense had they been chatting and drinking underneath the storm cloud that seemed to follow Ben's wife around these days.

He had an itch to self-destruct, all of the sudden. This was hardly an unfamiliar feeling for Ben, but it was not particularly welcomed tonight; everything was too volatile right now to get sloppy-drunk, because he might say something he shouldn't or let on more than he should or give someone the wrong sort of idea. Besides, Art was also Not In a Good Place, which meant part of Ben's duties tonight were preventing him from self-destructing, which he could hardly do if he was blackout drunk and making very poor decisions himself.

"They reinstated my portkey privileges but only if I requisition one through work," Ben said, apparently connected to nothing at all — in reality this was incredibly relevant because the last time he'd gone on a bender had been in Paris, and it had occurred to him that that was the only way he could scratch this particular itch; if he was overseas and no one was around to know his name or care what he was doing. The portkeys were the logistical barrier to that — but there were always illegal portkeys, which were much quicker to get a hold of anyway. Of course, if anyone caught him with an illegal portkey he'd lose his portkey privileges again, but — just don't get caught, right?

  

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Portkey privileges.

There was something alluring about it, something about the concept of it - Ben could cut and run if he really wanted to, and that was what Art wanted, too. There were dozens of reasons he shouldn't, the most compelling of which came down to his love for Dezzie and their daughter, but he wanted to leave and -

a portkey offered people the option of leaving.

"You could go anywhere," Art said, wistful, "Anywhere at all." His hand was tight on his glass. A single look at him would convey the meaning - he wanted to go anywhere. There was something about the concept, Anywhere But Here - he could not be held prison by his broken family if he was somewhere else, could not be held prison by his own addiction. He could be anyone.

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Anywhere sounded nice. Anywhere sounded better than here, lately. And if he went far enough away, then nothing was likely to follow him back home. Of course, if he waited to get a portkey through work he would have to have some work-related business to go about while there, which would limit him to only the sorts of shenanigans that alcohol purveyors wouldn't bat an eyelash at (which was not incredibly limiting, really — people who worked in alcohol for a living would let you get away with quite a bit, particularly if the things you were getting into could be traced back to alcohol, which Ben's bad decisions usually could).

"Any plans for the off-season?" he asked, another comment apparently disconnected from anything else they'd said, except that of course it wasn't at all. The Quidditch season was almost over — Art had a long window of very few responsibilities right around the corner.

  

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"None at all," Arthur said, still thrumming with that pent up energy - the desire to check out.

They were supposed to be too old for this. Art had been too old for this - six months ago he would have tried to tamp down this plan, make the excursion a little less insane, a little shorter, more planned. But now he was on board - there was nothing he would rather do than physically check out during the off season.

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Ben nodded, considering. It was feasible, then, going away. The two of them. To anywhere. To do anything.

He took a drink and watched the crowd for a moment. Some pretty young woman was batting her eyelashes furiously at a Quidditch player Ben had recently seen playing against Art. A pair of fellows Ben had known from Excalibur were talking too loudly and sloshing their drinks.

"Mrs. Pettigrew would probably worry," he said eventually.

  

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"Maybe," Art said, after a beat. There was a part of him that wasn't convinced Dezzie would even notice. And additionally - well. Dezzie had wanted Quidditch, not children; she had wanted a late retirement and the World Cup team; she was rather close with her (largeish) family; she could likely have been content as a spinster.

"Sometimes I think I ruined her life," Arthur admitted, because there were fireworks crackling to drown out the noise and he was talking to Ben, keeping these things in had never been his strength.

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Ben was surprised to hear such a sentiment from Art — who had chosen to marry, who was in love with his wife and whose wife presumably loved him, too — but he could relate. He'd always thought Melody would be terribly unhappy married to him, even before they'd wed, and given their last fight he didn't have any reason to believe he'd been mistaken. He couldn't give her the lifestyle she'd been accustomed to, or the place in society that she should have had. All of that might have been alright if they were really as in love as they tried to pretend they were, but Ben wasn't even capable of giving her that.

"Yeah," he agreed, quiet enough that he voice wouldn't carry past the two of them so long as the background noise kept up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

He hesitated, wondering if he ought to leave it there. He took a long but uncomfortable drink. "I don't know if it's... I don't know if it's going to work out. With Mrs. Crouch."

  

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"Oh," Art said, because what did you say to that, really? "I'm sorry." He was; Mrs. Crouch was terrible but Ben was in love with her for whatever reason, and once they were married he had stopped wishing for bad things to happen to their relationship. Sure, he found her incredibly vexing and when they were around each other the hatred between them seeped out - but Ben loved her. So he had not been rooting against them, even if she'd said some very fucked up things about his marriage to Dezzie the other week.

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"Yeah, me too," Ben muttered, surprised to find he meant it. This entire situation was a mess no matter how it was resolved; divorce was going to be hell, but staying together might have been even worse. He still wasn't sure which way the house of cards was going to fall, but it seemed obvious it would fall. He wished things had been different, from the beginning and every day since. He wished he could have given Melody the things she deserved. He wished the two of them could be happy together.

"You and Dez are going to be alright," he said firmly. Their marriage was different; they loved each other. The two of them weren't living in a house of cards, and it would take more than a stiff breeze to knock them over. They had a foundation. "Sooner or later. You'll get through it."

  

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The fireworks were crackling and it was almost midnight, and Ben believed that the Pettigrews would get through it. That meant a lot, actually - Art valued Ben's judgment, and Ben knew him better than almost anyone else. If Ben thought they would get through it, then maybe they would.

Sometimes love was not enough.

Maybe this time, though.

"Want to set off fireworks?" Art asked.

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   Reuben Crouch

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Fireworks. It was perfect; it had that sort of chaotic, let's wreck everything vibe that Ben had been craving, but was unlikely to see either of them seriously injured or en route to jail.

"Yes," Ben said. He finished his drink and moved to set it down, but didn't quite managed to get it on the nearest ledge. As a consequence it fell and shattered on the ground, and for some reason — maybe the way the sound combined with the noise of the party and the crackle of people getting ready to light fireworks and the general atmosphere and his mood — Ben laughed. "Yes, let's go set off fireworks."

  

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