[nyc] don't stop me now [party boys]

Charlie was a twig, so it wasn’t all that horrible to be supporting him halfway as they tramped together through New York— ugh, it was so hot— except that they were drunk, and it was so hot. It was almost a relief to get into the weirdest bar Sam had ever seen and to be hit, immediately, with miserable chill, which did wonders for the so hot bit and almost made him feel better with the drunk bit. “Christ,” he complained anyway, flattening one palm on some kind of animal skin draped over a stool to see if it was totally freezing (it was) and leaning against it anyway. “Cold.” Fflur’s jackets had been a great idea, evidently, that everybody had ignored.

At least everybody else had ignored it too. Except Robin, who was reaping the benefits; after Charlie’d gotten them drinks, dragging Sam along for warmth or holding-upright services or something, he shouted over at him and Fflur, who were cuddling a little bit away. As Charlie passed shots around, Sam thought about making another toast, but the only thing he could come up with was “Jesus, fuck this bar,” which seemed too pointed, so he just tossed it back, then put the shot glass vaguely behind him on what he hoped was the bar.

“Stand By Me?” he said. “That’s not Stevie Nicks.” He couldn’t think who it was, though— Lennon’s version had been a cover, and he’d liked the original better. Old. Fifties or sixties.

“Oi,” he added, leaning back into the bar, wondering if it was going to get his shirt sodden and cold. Maybe that’d be a blessing, later, but at the moment it was a uniquely terrible prospect. “Can we leave yet? ‘sfucking cold an’ I wanna do karaoke.” And he hated vodka. He detached from the bar, patted his hands across his lower back to make sure his shirt wasn’t wet, and reattached, took the other drink he was being offered.

“Don’t even reckon we’ll make it to karaoke, this rate, mate,” he said— Charlie was very drunk, and Charlie had a pretty good tolerance usually, which meant he was very drunk. “How many stops we got left?” Strip clubs were off the cards, lucky them— but if they had to stop at a bourbon bar or some shit before they got to karaoke, he’d go mad. He tried to catch Liam’s eye, in the party, trying his best to at least look less pissy and sour than Liam did, and probably failing a bit. To cheer them both up, he said, “Oi, Lee, Banshee does a song, whenever we get there— Charlie’d do a great Cyndi Lauper, I reckon, eh?”

Charlie laughed as Liam referred to Robin as Fflur’s girlfriend – and it was as if the inky green liquid he’d drunk a few moments earlier suddenly kicked in, and the laughter turned into more of a drunken giggle. He gave Sam a little more of his weight, hugged him a little tighter (he was so warm), and smiled at him with a sort of glazed-over look. Charlie lowered his voice to talk directly to his best friend – one of his best friends, the one he’d known longest, the one he’d passed over in favour of avoiding in-band drama. “Mate, I’m sorry about—”

“Stand By Me!” Charlie scoffed and whipped his head in Ken’s direction, immediately distracted by such a terrible suggestion. “She can do better than that,” he almost put his – and potentially Sam’s – back out as he sharply leaned to spot Fflur, flashing her a grin. “Do an old favourite?” he asked, hoping she knew exactly which song he meant.

The bartender had by now finished pouring the drinks he’d ordered, as Charlie was handed yet another shot from an unidentifiable hand – well, it was a man hand so it wasn’t Fflur, or… he hoped not anyway. He knocked it back before Sam – or anyone else – had the opportunity to take it from him. Rather than burn down his throat, the bright red liquid had an odd, cooling sensation. A cocktail was handed to him next, and he peeled himself off of Sam for a moment as the other man used the bar as a rest.

“What?!” he looked at Sam, confused. “Don’ worry, karaoke’s next,” he slurred, then patted him on the shoulder, grinning like an idiot. Charlie weaved between his mates, stroking Liam’s face on his way closer to Fflur and her tall glass of something (in her hand, not Robin). “Fuck me, I’m freezing my bollocks off,” he announced, rather unnecessarily as he nudged into her. “Finish those quick so we can get out of here,” he nodded at Fflur and Arkasha, who had apparently found something in common (vodka). He glanced back at Sam across the group, “I’m not fucking doing Cyndi Lauper,” he laughed, wrapping his arm around the nearest person who could take his weight. “If someone does a good Like A Virgin I’ll give them fifty galleons.”

Ben fell into step beside Ken as the party migrated to the next locale, cracking a grin at his drunken exclamation. The blond was somewhat relieved to learn it was an ice bar. He was often called a portable heat source, as he was always pleasantly warm to the touch and rarely felt cold or chilled. The same, unfortunately, could not seem to be said for Ken – the Obliviator was apparently not quite intoxicated enough to feel immune to the noticeable temperature decrease. Chuckling at his expression, Ben clapped him on the shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze.

“I think you need something to warm up, mate,” he grinned. Ben moved to the bar and was about to order a round of drinks for everyone when it appeared that one of them had already taken care of it; shrugging, he bought a shot of whiskey for Ken and one for Charlie, for the time being. He’d pick up the next round.

posting for the FPP claim haha, thread is being dropped