The glance was as good as being told; he should go, because Melody Crouch might just be able to keep up this glaring thing she had going otherwise. (Was she always like this? Art couldn't imagine.) He didn't, really, want to leave - there was a belief still lodged in his chest that the moment something terrible was going to happen, and he could not get the image of Ben in his living room out of his head.

He felt like he was going to let Ben make a wreck of his life, if he left. He felt guilty. But.

Art cleared his throat. "Alright," he said, audibly reluctant. He was looking at Ben, not Melody; after today, his willingness to speak to her was at an all-time low. It was hard to be in the same room as her, after today, and after their conversation in December; her presence made Arthur feel stressed in a way he had not anticipated.

"Write me later? Or come over?" Ben could come over any time, and he still wasn't sure that Desdemona would notice, right now. Art turned to look back at the fireplace behind him, but as he reached for the little pot of floo powder, an alternative occurred to him, like a firestarter sparking in his brain.

He let his hand fall, turned instead towards Ben and Melody's doors - still didn't acknowledge Melody, but nodded at Ben once more.

Ben would be okay. He'd be okay. And if he wasn't, Art had to believe that he'd tell him.

Art let the front door swing shut behind him.

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