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?