Arthur rested his chin on one hand and studied Ben's hands, and did some mental maths. It had been seven galleons (with some exaggerated wiggle room) when he had last talked to Dez, but he had also spent a not-insignificant amount of money on drugs and alcohol in the last week, and hadn't exactly been keeping careful track of it.

Merlin, he was fucked.

"Like, ten galleons," Art said, sliding his hand up to bury his face in it because he could feel himself flushing red, because he hated admitting this, hated — all of it. "I think."

---