March 20th, 1891 - Moony-Wormtail Boxing Match

Boxing matches were dangerous for Arthur, and usually he tried to avoid them - he'd avoided them for years, even before he'd given up the rest of it, because unless he was fighting (he usually was not fighting) he desperately wanted to guess as to the outcome of the match, and to put money on it. A boxing match had once cost him the collateral of his house - that wasn't the sort of thing he was keen to repeat.

But he'd seen the match advertised in one of the London bars. He hadn't even planned on coming to it - (well, maybe) - until he was in London that day, and then he just planned on stopping by the venue, and then, oh, what was the harm in stepping inside? What was the harm in buying a ticket, to watch the match?

And if they were taking bets, which they were, with a one galleon minimum - what was the harm in betting five galleons?

Art stood near the edges of the stand, not yet finding his seat - he had a drink in his hand but had not taken any sips from it. He was suddenly finding it hard to focus, finding his brain caught on the fact of it - the thrill of the bet, and it was only five galleons, and he didn't even know much about either boxer, having realized ages ago that it was healthier for him if he did not track those things.

Five galleons was not a lot of money, in terms of the money he had once spent on boxing matches like this. There wasn't collateral involved. It was all done on credit. It was probably not the most money anyone was spending here today; hell, he was sure he wasn't the largest bet in the books.

Five galleons was also over half a week's wages, was more money than he kept on him, was enough of a chunk of change that he could not recall the last time he'd spent five galleons on something in one sitting. Five galleons was a significant amount of money to bet, frivolously - and Desdemona didn't work anymore - and he could not believe the venue had actually accepted his credit, because he didn't have any anymore. He'd ruined his life once. It would not be difficult to do it again.

Arthur found his chest constricting, his breath wasn't coming out right - the gravity of what he'd done, what he was in the process of doing, what he'd been doing since the end of January, finally hit him.

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   Poppy Crane

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set by MJ <3

With Mrs. Featherington having declared that she would spend the day with her sister in the countryside, Poppy had been able to accept her cousin's invitation to the boxing match.

Well, in truth, it had not been so much an invitation as a mention that he would be going, but for Poppy Crane, who had never actually seen a boxing match, it had sounded like a delightful way to pass her newfound free time—her presence would not be expected at such a thing, but neither was it specifically forbidden: a grey area in society's expectations.

Of course, Chester was not entirely well-versed in the art of squiring about a lady, even one who was only a lady's maid, and so had swiftly abandoned her to go place his bet. This allowed Poppy an opportunity to realize how...not suited this particular event actually was for the likes of the Cranes. The vast majority of the crowd was quite plainly gentlemen, and it occurred to her vaguely that the gambling stakes would likely be high and—

Not wishing to sit alone in the stands where her presence as a woman alone would be decidedly evident, Poppy had made her way to the floor, deciding to seek out her cousin once again.

"Excuse me," she voiced towards a man near the edge of the stand, blocking her way. Poppy's words were clear enough to be heard over the chatter, but not so assertive that he was likely to take offence.

  

Arthur wanted to hold onto something - the bars of the boxing arena, maybe, or his pocket watch, or something. He settled for pressing his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, feeling his pocketwatch and his coinpurse and the lint in the bottom of his pockets. There had to be some way to salvage this, to salvage everything - he only had to think of how to undig his own grave.

He didn't hear the woman's words - it was as if there was a rush of sound in his head instead - but rather heard a voice directed at him, like he was underwater and hearing someone shouting above the surface. Art turned towards her, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry, what?" he said.

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The following 1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post:1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post
   Reuben Crouch

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set by MJ <3

"I said, 'excuse me'," Poppy clarified, tempering the passive-aggression of her words with a benign smile. "Only, it is rather a narrow passage, to get through here, and rather a long walk to go the other way 'round."

As she spoke, though, expression shifted slightly—it was plain the fellow was miles away.

  

Arthur stared at the witch like she was speaking French, because her words were difficult for him to catch onto, like she was talking too fast. "Oh," he said, as if he'd absorbed it, and pressed his back against the wall of the passageway, as if that was helpful.

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set by MJ <3

He moved slowly enough that Poppy had to wonder if he was simple—and, if so, who was to be minding him. She oughtn't pry, she knew, but...

"Are you alright?" she asked after a moment's hesitation, tone concerned and apprehensive in equal measures.

  

His gaze focused on her and her question, fully, for the first time since she'd started speaking to him.

"Is there enough air in here?" Art said, which he would not have said normally, except the woman didn't seem to have recognized him, so maybe it was safe enough.

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set by MJ <3

Enough...air?

Poppy's features knotted in confusion. Of course, logically, she knew there could be a situation when there was not enough air; such situations typically resulted in death given, understandably, that one could not breathe. But this was, in her limited experience, a rather ordinarily sized boxing...structure? With all the usual doors and windows to allow the flow of air so that the patrons—and especially the athletes—didn't drop dead.

"Can you not breathe, sir?" Poppy asked with concern, placing her fingertips lightly upon his sleeved forearm. Where was Chester when she needed him?

  

Art took an experimental breath, his chest still feeling constructed. "Perhaps it's just me," he said, and attempted a thin smile in the woman's direction.

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set by MJ <3

"Perhaps you ought to sit down," Poppy returned, a less aggressive option than see a healer. Was he alone, she wondered? It would not do if he keeled over and died mid-match; that did seem as though it would be inauspicious.

"Have you a brother or friend that you are with?"

  

Arthur pressed his back more firmly against the wall. Finding a seat seemed a little beyond him at this exact moment. "No, I, uh -" he paused, thinking — it was likely that Fitz was here but if Fitz was here and saw Art then Fitz would know, and Art still could not handle anyone knowing. "Just me today."

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set by MJ <3

Poppy spoke gently, as though to a child.

"I do not believe you are well, Sir."

  

That could not be the case, for all that Arthur felt he was drowning on dry land. He was fine. He had to be fine, because if he wasn't fine, then he was just — ruining his life and it didn't even feel good anymore. He looked at the woman's face and chanced a grin, playing at his real self.

"No, I'm fine," Art said, "I just need to sit down."

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set by MJ <3

Her lips pursed, though only for a moment—people who were fine did not need to sit down. Somehow, though, Poppy doubted he would allow her (or any woman) to escort him to his seat; doing so would demonstrate the sort of frailty men seemed so repulsed to exhibit.

"Well," she offered awkwardly, with very little option otherwise, "I think that would be for the best."

She could, at least, mark where he sat, keep an eye upon him during the bout.

  

Art nodded at her. "I'll do that, then," he said, with another attempt at a smile. He pushed through the pain in his chest to find his seat. Maybe Moony would be able to pull this off — maybe things would be fine.

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set by MJ <3

Poppy made no move to follow, but her eyes did track him as he took (his?) seat, lingering for several long moments before she returned to her own. Even as she reclaimed her seat and was rejoined by her cousin, the witch could not shake the image of his face—and not in an oooh, how handsome! sort of way either. Would he be alright, she wondered?

Poppy knew she was destined to never know.