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

“Hold still. Jesus.” Fflur’s words were muffled by the pen cap between her lips, but her intentions were perfectly clear. She held Charlie’s right wrist steady with her left hand as she scribbled a few words onto the inside of his forearm: if lost please return to and more scribbles with their hotel name. She dropped Charlie’s wrist and replaced the cap on the permanent marker, keeping her volume a couple notches higher than the music. “You’ll thank me later.” She smirked and took a step back, admiring her handiwork for a few seconds before turning and handing the marker back to the bartender with a sharp, “Cheers.”

She quickly found her momentarily-discarded glass and brought it up to her lips, only remembering that she was holding gin after it had passed her lips; they were at a literal gin joint now, some place specializing in numerous varieties of gin, much like the whisky bar they had spent the last hour at had specialized in all types of whisky. Fflur was going pretty slow, relative to her usual pacing, had even topped her gin with tonic. Mostly she wanted to wait for Robin to be there -- he was busy having a job -- so he wouldn’t have too much to catch up on, but she wasn’t holding back completely. Plus, there was still more than enough time; it was pretty early and she was far ahead of roughly half the group anyway.

There were plenty of possible places left on the list for the night: a vodka place to appease the random Russian bloke, a karaoke bar in an abandoned library to help make the ‘less fun’ part of their party feel more at home, the Blind Pig if it was finally decided that a burlesque club was not the same as a strip club (it wasn’t, but it seemed like her arguments were falling on deaf ears). Fflur had been working at the last place -- as a bartender, mind -- the past few weeks since school had gotten out and she was feeling rather attached to it now. But for now it was this very muggle bar in a very muggle part of the city and Fflur was feeling very much at home.

Wherever they ended up was no big deal for Fflur; either way, Charlie was footing the bill for the whole thing. She was pretty sure this wasn’t how bachelor parties were supposed to work, but then again she wasn’t the typical best man -- she was better, really. There were matching jackets involved but they were left back at the hotel because July in this swamp town was enough for even Fflur to ditch the leather and throw off her aesthetic; now her shirt seemed a little too festive without it.

She caught Charlie looking at the note she had left on his arm and she smirked again. From somewhere off to her left, Sam made another -- she was pretty sure he was still a tad upset this whole thing wasn’t his responsibility and was trying to show off -- toast, but Fflur had already finished off her glass by the time he had finished speaking. She tipped her empty glass anyway, her attentions on the group for only a few seconds before turning to order another round.

@Charlie Baker @Robin Byrne-Davidson @Kendrick Silverman @Ben Fletcher @Arkadiy Malenkov @anyoneelseiforgot

this reads really boring but please pretend that it’s not idk how to write about parties

“I am!” Charlie said defensively with the hint of a grin. He turned his head back to watch the rest of the group whilst Fflur drew on his arm, his left hand holding his drink a little less naturally than he would with his dominant right. A small part of him thought he ought to pay more attention to what she was doing with that pen, given their childlike tendencies he might end up with something inappropriate marked into his skin for the rest of the night, but he was too interested in what Liam and Sam were upto. When Fflur finally released his wrist the musician pulled his arm back and glanced down to read the surprisingly neat scribble that ran all up his forearm. “I’m not gonna get lost,” he said with far too much confidence for someone on their stag night, “Ye of little faith.” He grinned mischievously.

The brunette held his forearm away from his body until the ink was definitely dry, not wanting to rub it off on his shirt; amazingly he had avoided being dressed by Fflur, or any of the boys, because Fflur’s biggest expense that had thus far been revealed to him were matching leather jackets for every member of the party, and July in New York was too hot for the majority of the attendees (Brits abroad and all that) to wear leather jackets all night, so they’d left them back at the hotel. He had a very strong suspicion that she had just needed a new jacket and this was a great excuse for Charlie to fit the bill. When he’d asked Fflur to be his Best Man, and therefore given her the job of organising his bachelor party, he’d told her he’d cover the cost because it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. Putting her, or any of the others, out of pocket seemed unfair for someone in his position. He knew that wasn’t the usual way of doing things, but neither was having a woman for a Best Man, or getting married and then having a wedding -- though of course, that was his and Kate’s little secret, which so far he had managed to keep.

Charlie swapped his glass back to his right hand and drank deeply as Sam toasted him, pulling a face as the alcohol burned down his throat -- he’d been treated to a ‘special’ by the bartender, and by special Charlie assumed that meant ‘especially strong’. “Christ, get me something decent to drink.” he requested of Fflur, sliding his empty glass along the bar at her and flexing his tongue out of his mouth as if airing it might get rid of the taste . “Should’ve stayed at the whisky place.” He commented, though he knew if they’d stayed there much longer he’d be a lot more drunk than he was right now. Perhaps that was why Fflur had started them there -- lull him into a false sense of security, and get him in and out of the place he was likely to drink the most. Smart. Too smart.

While he waited for a new beverage to find its way into his hands, Charlie appraised their group, or the ones he could see at the present moment: Sam and Liam, of whom the latter he would need to keep a sharp eye on -- he’d already seen his bandmate checking out their lone female group member; Kendrick and Ben, who he’d almost expected to both bow out because of ‘work’ but was very glad had made the effort to come; and Arkasha, who Charlie had wondered if he would ‘fit in’ but seemed to be doing an alright job with his limited English. Thankfully Fflur knew enough French to act as a sort-of translator, but Charlie wasn’t sure how long that would last as the night wore on. He’d hoped Robin would be here by now, and wasn’t sure if the delay in his arrival was a genuine work commitment that he couldn’t get out of, or just didn’t want to because he was still miffed. Charlie figured if Fflur’s boyfriend was still mad at him about the golf thing then he’d be here already, keeping a close eye on them, so if he was disgruntled it had to be about Charlie picking Fflur as his Best Man; that made three of tonight’s attendees, well, as far as he knew.

Robin had poked his head in at @Luc Bastien’s first just out of pure hopefulness. The Blind Pig was his favorite of Fflur’s prospective bachelor party venues, many of the rest being No-Maj bars and places that reminded him of being a sad drunk. But even under a silly feathered headband he couldn’t find his girlfriend’s distinctive hair. Nor Charlie’s slightly less distinctive hair, nor any leather jackets like the one he was wearing at Fflur’s request. So he apparated near to the next place and looked there, and then tried another, and another, and another.

“Motherfucker” Robin muttered as he ducked into the alley behind the fifth bar, and consulted his list again.

There were still three more locations. Evidently Fflur had been exploring the local liquor selection since she’d been here. He’d been trying to cut back himself since his birthday, and he’d been hoping she’d do the same. But what could he ask of her, when he was leaving her alone all day? Not to mention when she had Charlie asking her to plan a party.

Robin paused for a second, eyes going a little unfocused as he looked down at the half-page of Fflur’s scrawl, then retrieved a little blue vial from his jacket pocket and downed the contents.

He’d taken potions to boost his mood intermittently for several years, but he’d been fine without them until recently. He was glad he’d though to pack some. The last few months had put him through the wringer. His appreciation for the nuances of his layered and philosophical play couldn’t hold up to a month of stepping into those emotionally draining shoes every night—and twice on Fridays and Saturdays. Fflur and Bertie were in New York now, but he was gone more often than with them. And then Charlie, like an idiot, was marrying his on/off teenage girlfriend after two months of engagement and expecting people to be happy about it.

Interestingly, it didn’t seem to bother Fflur. She actually seemed sort of chuffed about it all. Charlie had put her in charge of whatever best men did, and she had taken to the job with (an aloof, cool, Fflurish) vigor that Robin didn’t think was just excitement to have something to do. He’d expressed his skepticism to her, of course. All Robin had heard of Charlie and the American was red flag after red flag, mostly from Fflur’s own mouth. She shrugged it off. The idea still rubbed him the wrong way afterward, but Robin trusted her. He figured she must just know something he didn’t. Charlie was closer to her, after all.

Or maybe she just hoped it’d stop him trying to molest her again. The potion was clearly helping now: Robin found the thought funny enough to chuckle.

The next venue on the list was a gin bar back in Manhattan. Thankfully, thankfully, he could spot Fflur and some of Charlie’s other mates before he even got in the door. There was no bell to announce his entrance, so Robin moved stealthily across the room, made a shh gesture at @Kendrick Silverman who happened to look the right direction, and snuck up behind his girlfriend to brush her hair behind one ear and cheerfully kiss her jaw. “‘Evening,” he said. “Love the hearts, they suit you.” Settling one hand around Fflur’s waist, Robin raised the other to salute Charlie. “The man of the hour,” he said. “Getting your stag do in before you finally admit this’s all just been a big prank. Right on.”

He might have crumbled under the awkward beat of silence afterward if he hadn’t banished his post-show funk. So it might not have been the smartest joke to make, alright. But even Charlie had to have a sense of humor about how unlikely a husband he seemed. Surely. (Surely?)

Robin craned his neck back around to see if he recognized anyone else in the bar. What he did recognize was that no one else was wearing their specially procured leather. “Did none of you lot wear your jackets?” he asked the room incredulously. “Bloody hell, what’ve we even got them for? Oh—no, nothing for me,” he added to the bartender, and lowered his voice. “I’ve just been apparating up and down New York City for half an hour, you see,” he muttered pointedly, amusedly, to Fflur. “Don’t know that my stomach could handle it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; can you not handle your alcohol?” Fflur raised an eyebrow as Charlie slid his empty glass toward her, the look of pure distaste apparent on his face. She had one of the same to start -- it was something made with American gin but it was certainly still drinkable -- and she knew it was strong, but it wasn’t bad. She rolled her eyes as he mentioned the whisky place again. “I think you’re just forgetting my excellent party planning skills.” It was the understatement of the century: she was a horrible creature of habit who frequented one, maybe two bars, and only ever changed her course for the promise of free drinks. It was only slightly different when she had her own bit of fame, but she had definitely figured it all out after booting herself to Paris.

The bartender stepped back into her eyeline with the five drinks she had ordered -- one for everyone with an empty or near-empty glass -- and she nodded as he asked if it was all on the same tab. Fflur handed a drink only to Charlie (and herself) and offered the rest with a blunt, “Help yourselves.” She reckoned this drink would better suit Charlie’s tastes, and it even had a splash of vodka to make Arkasha -- who could apparently understand her accented French better than her accented English -- feel better. it had some other things in it, too -- lime juice, mainly -- so she couldn't be accused of drowning everyone in oversized shots of alcohol this early into the night.

She had managed only one large sip of her own drink before holding her arm outstretched in an attempt to save the liquor as she jumped, startled at the sudden physical contact. While she could tell it was Robin, she was still focused on her drink, thanking her preserved quidditch reflexes for avoiding spilling a drop. She shifted her excitement for the saved drink to excitement for her boyfriend’s appearance, with just a side of relief that she wouldn’t have to explain away his absence. Lowering her voice, Fflur offered a more personal, “Mmm, fuck off,” before kissing his cheek, snaking her arm around his waist as he did the same.

He was wearing the jacket -- had she forgotten to send him a note that they had all decided to ditch theirs? Oops -- but he was wearing it well and Fflur wasn’t about to ruin that for herself so she decided not to say anything. Besides, he was too busy making things awkward all by himself; of course, she had said nearly the exact same thing to Charlie about how his next stag night would be even better than this one, but still. She bit her lip before sipping her drink,buying herself a few more seconds before interrupting the silence with introductions or whatever.

“Yeah, er,” Fflur took a step back and pulled on one of Robin’s lapels, “Looks good, though.” She smirked, about to add that it was basically a million degrees out when he leaned forward a bit. “Oh--” she bit her lip again and offered half an apologetic shrug. She hadn’t figured out a better way to let him know where they were -- smoke signals seemed significantly less helpful at night -- but to be fair, they were only at the second bar on the list. Besides: “I know there’s at least one subway map in the flat,” assuming Bertie hadn’t taken them as snacks.

Fflur took another swallow of her drink and stepped back to Robin’s side, now pointing at the few people in the crowd she didn’t know if Robin knew. “You’ve met Liam--” who now had a perfectly sour look on his face after Robin’s arrival “-- and Sam? And this is Arkasha. First time in the States, y’know.”

“I think Charlie’s about done with this place.” Fflur nodded toward the groom-to-be in question, who she assumed wasn’t enjoying this next drink either, with her voice loud enough for him to hear. His loss, really, though she supposed she had only been attached to this venue when she was still waiting for Robin to show up. “Am I right?”

Arkasha might have thought this a pity invite if he didn’t think he and Charlie were genuinely friends, rather than being forced together because they both knew @Florence Malenkova. But they had spent time together on their own without their (soon-to-be, in his case) wives, and he and his own wife were even planning the rest of their summer around the need to be in California for the wedding. But now, he was starting to think it was payback for something. He was drawing a blank on if he had done anything wrong, anything to deserve a bachelor party quite like this. Arkasha hadn’t had a party of his own, considering he went from single to married in a matter of months, but he had certainly attended plenty to know what to expect.

The last party he had attended had been for his cousin, and that one had lasted until well past sunrise -- and it was winter in the northern reaches of Russia, so it wasn’t exactly early. Sure, he wasn’t expecting this party to match that last one; after streaking through a meter of snow, they spent a good hour lighting each other on fire, literally. Dip a finger in alcohol, light it, then light the next guy’s finger, and so on. That had happened at every bachelor party he had been to, now that he was thinking about it. Not the snow, but mixing alcohol and fire. There had only been one minor mishap, but considering they were all also wizards, it wasn’t anything to worry about. Again, he wasn’t expecting this party to match, but he had been expecting more than hanging around for a nice chat. Anyone who had followed quidditch in the nineties knew Fflur Blevins’ reputation for drinking and partying and he was a little disappointed that she wasn’t living up to this image that he had crafted thousands of miles away.

And sure, he didn’t go to America expecting good alcohol, but he had assumed he could at least get a beer when the vodka selection was subpar. Wine, at the very least. Drinking gin was just like drinking the cheap vodka when he was young; he had practiced long and hard to not make a face, just laugh at the ones who did. Of course, this would all be easier if he was also allowed to smoke indoors, but apparently that was also too much to ask of this fine city.

Conversation had slipped toward the World Cup a few times but Arkasha was too new and unfamiliar and sober to get involved with all his reasons why Bulgaria and @Viktor Krum were going to win, especially after reckoning Blevins would take her support for Wales to the grave.

Arkasha finished his drink and grabbed another, not hating the gin enough to not drink it. But he was glad for the excuse to stop paying attention to his drink for a moment as someone else joined them. He missed most of what was being said -- his English was getting worse the more he drank -- but didn’t miss being introduced. He held out his hand for the rest of the introduction, before downing half of his new drink. He would have had more if he hadn’t needed to answer Fflur’s question before Charlie could. “You are right. Not his drink.” Arkasha shrugged and finished the rest of his, his shoulders shuddering just a bit with the tartness of the lime juice. “Or his,” he motioned to Robin, who hadn’t ordered anything.

There was one more thing he didn’t quite understand about this party:  why there was a woman at all? He shouldn’t have to be tiptoeing around someone’s feelings all night just to get a drink that he actually enjoyed. “More options and less gin, don’t you think?” He finished asking in French, wanting to make sure he got his point across without upsetting her quite yet.

“I think you’re just forgetting my excellent party planning skills,” Fflur said to Charlie.

It was true that Sam could have planned a smarter and less all-over-the-place party than this. It was also true that there was a part of him still hurt that Charlie, rather than ask him, had gone the path of most resistance to snub him and Liam. Most of all, though, it was the part of him that preferred whiskey to gin that drove him to say “Mmph. He’s right though. Whiskey place was better,” after both Charlie and Arkasha had commented.

Felt a little like he was ganging up on Fflur now, though, so he relented and raised his glass to Charlie again, silently this time. At least for Charlie’s sake he could enjoy the party, if not the mixed drink. He was grateful when Robin came into their group, even though he giftedly brought the mood down instantly.

Maybe it was because he was drunk, but it bothered him. Robin didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, Charlie and Kate had been together for a lot longer than Robin knew and they felt more strongly for each other than Robin knew, too. But none of that was particularly prudent to say, since having known each other since Kate was seventeen wouldn’t help this image much. Robin was just sour, though, and even though Sam himself was too, he rolled his eyes to himself and had some more gin, as Fflur smoothed Robin’s lapel.

Sam looked sideways at Liam and Charlie and said in a politely biting undertone, “Excellent party, mate.” With luck they’d all had too much to drink to read too far into that comment; he added with humour “Have another. We’re doing karaoke later.”

So he’d heard, at least. He couldn’t say he’d ever thought of karaoke as a bachelor party thing, and couldn’t decide whether it worked because they were musicians or whether it didn’t work for the same reason. Whichever it was, he wanted to be drunk for it. Hopefully he and his friends would all make fools of themselves, and he would feel better about being excited for it if he wasn’t planning to remember it.

Kendrick was clearly the tipsiest person at this party. He really was trying very very hard to be good and not get actually drunk when they were shepherding Charlie around to his party (was it a party if they weren't staying in one place?), but it was so difficult when hesitating felt like it was met with rolled eyes from the fearsome best woman, even if not actually directed at him. Or best man, he supposed, as they were insisting; Kendrick had decided not to use labels so as not to piss off his old Quidditch Captain. Nearly fifteen years did not, apparently, abate that old instinct. In any case, the only reason that Robin's shushing gesture worked on him was that after all the squinting he'd done at the approaching figure, his processing speed was too slow to both recognize Robin and figure out what that thing he was doing with his finger meant.

"Oh hullo, nice of you to join us," he said, his grin lopsided, his brow then furrowing again at the 'big prank' thing. "This would be such a terrible prank," he complained, missing the undertone of skepticism entirely. "In my day pranks were a lot cheaper. Not that you don't have the funds for it, Charlie--all of you, I guess," he gestured at the Banshee members, "but still." Kendrick had noted with a certain sense of awkwardness that apart from Fflur, which was sort of different, he was the only one not from the band on Charlie's side. The press was certainly not invited, Charlie had explained, but a few whispers of that sort of thing, at least, might get out. Kendrick had never really been in the paper, except for the one time he'd shown up to fix things when the head of the Floo Network Authority's kid had accidentally sent a big explosion of green through the fireplaces of a tenth of Wizarding Britain. It was a weird concept to him.

Robin's comment about the jackets made Ken start. "Oh my god," he said, emphasizing the syllable in a very terrible imitation of an American accent. He'd gotten in trouble at least four times tonight for saying 'Merlin' in Muggle bars so if he couldn't remember that much about the last place they'd been to at least he remembered what he was supposed to say instead. "I bet I can summon mine from the hotel. I'll just go outside and wave my arms around and do some magic." His wink was exaggerated and terrible and he was self-possessed enough for a moment to be glad his wife wasn't there, even though she probably would just laugh at him. He made three steps towards the door, too, before a semi-alarmed interjection from the groom turned him around again. "Fine," he pouted. "I wanted to try, though."

"None of these drinks we've had are sweet enough," he added after taking a drink from his glass, contributing helpfully to the discussion of whether they were going to go somewhere else or not. "I got Charlie to admit that fruity drinks can be good last time we were out. Just sayin'. He might like those more. It goes with karaoke, you know?" he said, jerking his head in Sam's direction. The weirdest thing about this party was definitely that there were so many strangers. It was hard to get all excited when no one was comfortable with one another. They all needed more drinks, he decided. The Russian bloke seemed less unapproachable now that Kendrick had downed a few.

Having momentarily forgotten about any potential issue between himself and Robin, Charlie grinned widely as Fflur’s other half joined the party, lifting his fresh drink to his lips for a sip. “Yeah, where did you get that shirt?” He quirked a tell-tale eyebrow at her, his expression making it clear he recognised it. Of course, he wasn’t upset about it – in all honesty he was glad to be shot of it. It had come into his possession as one of many stage outfits, but it was very much not his style.

Charlie’s grin faded. He could interpret Robin’s comment as a lighthearted joke, but he had the distinct feeling there was a sincere thought behind those words. The musician decided to let it slide, this once, and turned his attention towards Ken and smiled forcedly. “Yeah, mate, I just wanted an excuse to get you all in one place for a piss up.” He laughed and grabbed at the older man’s forearm as Kendrick moved to wander off. “Don’t you fucking dare – your wife’ll kill me if you get locked up over here.” He rolled his eyes and lifted his glass at the older man, “Come on, drink up.”

Charlie coughed as he lowered his near-empty glass. “Oi, I did not.” He glared at Ken, still smirking, with a pointed finger outstretched from the vessel he was holding. "I said it weren't bad, there's a difference." He licked his lips and finished whatever it was that he was drinking. Lime, something. He was already thankful they'd booked late checkouts for the next morning because he had a feeling he was going to have one hell of a hangover from mixing his drinks so much. At least, he supposed, he wouldn't be the only one.

“Karaoke? Christ.” His lips stretched into a wide grin as he leaned into Sam, “Half of this lot won’t know the words if it’s in a muggle place.” He glanced over the party and giggled to himself at the mental image of Arkasha belting out Dancing Queen or something similar. When he’d first met the Russian he hadn’t expected to end up inviting him to his bachelor party, but after getting to know him over a smoking break on the Malenkov’s Paris balcony and then subsequent catch-ups, it turned out the poet was a lot more fun than he’d initially let on. The language barrier was a slight inconvenience, but nothing they hadn’t been able to work around. 

And it seemed Arkadiy knew Charlie better than he’d thought. He nodded in agreement, “Yeah, what’s next on the list?”

Fflur looked down at herself, at her shirt, and furrowed her brow, thinking hard about where she had found that shirt. “Oh,” she said as she looked up and over to Charlie, grinning sheepishly as it dawned on her. It wasn’t exactly a rare thing, for her to take clothes from friends -- or barely-acquainted strangers -- and this shirt was no exception. She was sure it wasn’t for some seedy reason, but for something like spilling her drink down her front and needing to borrow (and never return) a change of clothes. “You want it back?”

Oh my god. Fflur grinned at Ken over the rim of her glass, not minding in the slightest his insane overcorrection to keep himself from being quite so obvious. She was about to intervene -- by telling him to make sure he waved his arms in big circles -- but Charlie got to him first. Fflur rolled her eyes at Charlie’s little scolding, but she had to agree with the last part: drink up. She handed off her glass, about half full, to Robin, figuring he could just hold onto it until he felt like he wanted it, and moved to fetch herself another one.

“No, no, I’ve heard him say the same thing,” Fflur nodded along as she leaned back against the bar, grinning in Charlie’s direction. “Something like, ‘if it ain’t got an umbrella, I don’t wan’ it’.” She did her best impersonation of him and offered him a shrug, only turning her back to grab her new drink. “Karaoke,” she confirmed, stepping back to Robin’s side by way of nudging Charlie’s side with her elbow. It wasn’t that she was expecting everyone to want to sing -- not everyone could do justice to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ like a very drunk Charlie could -- but it was an experience all in itself. But none of it would be acceptable if they weren’t drunk.

“It is in a muggle place because what it is, is any magic one would probably have some Banshee nonsense and who the fuck wants that?” Fflur grinned quickly before taking a long swallow of her drink. “No, no, got another place. Vodka.” She looked to Arkasha with a nod before looking back to the rest of the party in turn. “But they’ve got lady drinks, too.”

She grabbed Arkasha’s elbow and motioned him to bring his ear a bit closer. “Make sure you tell him that it’s bad luck not to finish the bottle, right?” Her request was in quick French, and she returned his grin as he agreed.

They were getting drunker, something that could have made Sam nervous had he not also gotten drunker. Sure, probably half the assembly didn’t know any Muggle songs. “So?” he said to Charlie. “Half the fun, not knowing the words.” He used one elbow to playfully nudge his friend in the back and added, “Not like anybody’s sober enough to really sing, anyway.”

He decided not to voice his next instinctive thought—vodka is vile—out of respect for Fflur’s best-manliness and party planning. Jeanne always said he was a stupid drunk—and he always said, isn’t everybody?—but he was usually a nice drunk and this was Charlie’s stag party, for Merlin’s sake. Sam knew it was sort of judgmental of him, but he’d always assumed he’d be the first one in the band to get married. Both Liam and Charlie had a lot of whirlwind romances that ended quickly, and while Sam knew it was hypocritical to believe that his own whirlwind romances had been better than theirs, he also believed that they generally were.

But he was getting in his head, which meant he probably needed to drink some more. Get as drunk as Kendrick. Maybe a little less drunk, to be safe. “Toast to karaoke, then?” he suggested, and held up his glass half-jokingly. “Here’s to Kate not having to hear us sing tonight, and then to Kate having to listen to this bugger singing for the rest of time, after the thirty first—” He jostled Charlie’s shoulder playfully. There was just enough liquid in his drink to tilt into his mouth as a sort of conclusion.

That made three toasts—four if you counted the ironic “Well, here’s to the first migrating stag party I’ve ever heard of” right at the beginning of the night. He wasn’t drunk enough or stupid enough not to know that he was being annoying, but what were friends for? At least he wasn’t bagging on Kate the way Liam did sometimes, not that he thought Liam was rude enough to do that at the bachelor party.

If Ben was being honest, he might never have believed he’d be at a Muggle bar across the pond in New York City for a bachelor party for Charlie Baker organized by a female “best ‘man’”. Really, the most personally surprising piece of this was Charlie; not because he was a big-shot musician, but because – having him as a long-time friend – Ben might never have fathomed that Charlie would be content enough to settle down with someone long-term. The two friends were about as opposite as humanly possible when it came to relationships, to boot. Kate was clearly special, and Ben applauded the both of them for it.

He’d known about the festivities far enough in advance to schedule most of his shifts around the trip, and had swapped with a co-worker for the one rogue shift that hadn’t lined up with his initial request. The nature of his work had his hands tied more often than not, but he was not about to miss this.
And here he was, sipping on a Tom Collins (though he did wish he had another Old Fashioned from the whisky bar they’d just left) in the company of quite the motley crew: three famous musicians, a Quidditch-player-turned-professor, an Auror, a well-known voice actor, and a writer. He had previously met everyone except the writer – who’d been introduced as Arkasha – and so far the group had meshed quite well. Ben was a social creature, albeit more of a listener than a talker, and had enjoyed hearing about the latest-and-greatest goings-on in everyone’s lives.

Ben had been playing the part of “responsible drinker” thus far. He had a pleasant sort of buzz going on, punctuated by the occasional shot when Charlie was toasted. His head felt lighter, though not so much as to float away entirely.
However, ever sensitive to slight shifts in body language and tone due to the nature of his work, his attention was redirected at the sound of masked dissention regarding the drink choices at this particular establishment. He was just debating on whether or not to interject and redirect the conversation when Ken piped up, and Ben fought to stifle laughter. This was the drunkest Ben had ever seen him, and he certainly wasn’t disappointed. Ken moved to wander off and Ben moved to block him, but fortunately Charlie had a similar thought process and grabbed hold of his arm before Ben could so much as shift his weight. He grinned at the musician with a casual lift of his shoulder that effectively said: ‘What are we going to do with him?’ Belatedly, Ben was impressed by how acutely aware Charlie still was of his surroundings, despite having drunk perhaps almost triple what Ben had. Which, of course, worried the Healer, as that meant Charlie must drink at an alarming rate to build that kind of tolerance. His poor, overworked liver…

He was brought back from his medical musings when Sam proposed a toast, and Ben raised his glass heartily.
“Karaoke? Christ, I’d have the bar cleared out faster than you can say ‘shut up’.” He laughed. He was a terrible singer, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. “Don’t put me up there unless we’re prepared to apologize for driving out the other patrons.”
But the nearly-tangible sentiment of dissatisfaction remained; he’d thought he heard it again in Sam’s final comment, and saw it on the faces of a few others. Ben frowned slightly. Ultimately nothing was truly set in stone, and Charlie had the final say in what they did anyways – it was his night, and they’d spend it how he liked.

Charlie laughed, “God, no,” he gave her, and the shirt, a quick once-over, “consider it a gift.”

He rolled his eyes at Ken and Fflur, particularly at Fflur and her comedy Yorkshire accent. “How come you give me shit but not him?” he asked, nodding his head in Ken’s direction. They both had a Northern drawl, though admittedly Charlie’s was a lot stronger. He wasn’t sure how he’d pulled that off, exactly. Stubbornness? Or perhaps Ken’s had just been watered down over years of being a professional. One had to be intelligible in a job like that. Charlie only had to be understood when he was singing, nobody really gave a toss what he said otherwise.

A grin spread across his lips. “You just don’t want to have to admit you actually know all the words to our records,” he teased Fflur, before turning back to Sam. “Yeah, true,” he laughed, “probably for the best that we’re not. Don't wanna show you lot up,” he smirked, then turned to Ben, "You know, Sam's got a killer falsetto. Drives the girls wild."

He shoved back at his bandmate jovially, “Fuck off.” He smirked and took a sip of whatever shot it was he’d been handed by Liam for the toast – it didn’t taste like gin, anyway, he reflected as it burned its way down his throat with enough ferocity to make his eyes water slightly. He coughed lightly and looked back to Ben, voice hoarse from the shot; “That’s the point mate, you’re not doing it right if you’re singing in tune.”

“Vodka, wonder who put that request in,” he mused as he nudged Fflur in the side. Charlie placed his empty glass on the bar and slid it towards the barman, turning back to wrap an arm around Sam’s shoulders as they made for the exit – partly to ensure his oldest friend wasn’t feeling put out by Fflur usurping his position as Best Man, but mostly to try and hide the fact that the many drinks of many colours were finally starting to impair his motor functions somewhat. “Vodka, let’s do it.”

Fflur and Robin led the way to the next locale, though it became evident upon descending the steps down to the bar that there had been an original purpose to the matching leather jackets other than for Fflur to update her wardrobe; it was an ice bar. The walls, tables, booths, stools – even the glassware was all hewn from ice. There were hides of some kind (Charlie doubted they were true Reindeer pelts) on the seats, but that was all they had in the form of protection. He set his jaw and huddled closer to Sam subconsciously, pulling the Irishman with him up to the bar like his own personal heater – he counted himself considerate for not appropriating their sole female companion for this very same purpose.

He turned quickly and popped up on his tiptoes to do a quick headcount (muttering under his breath, using his fingers) before turning back to the waitress, “Eight shots, and eight… whatever the fuck will warm us up.” His teeth chattered involuntarily as he handed over the cash. “Oi,” he called at Fflur and Robin, “No canoodling, if we’ve all gotta freeze so have you.” 

That was Charlie’s stupid shirt. Or at least he had one just like it, but Liam wasn’t dumb enough to pretend it was a coincidence. He’d said this to Sam. Sam, being Sam, said he hadn’t noticed. Liam had only noticed it because that particular shirt wasn’t black and boring as hell. It made him wonder if Charlie and Fflur had been swapping jeans for months without anyone the wiser.

Liam watched her paw at Charlie’s arm and sourly sucked down the rest of his second gin. The way they were flaunting this whatever-it-was was honestly sort of tasteless. Normally Charlie was far better than Liam about subtlety. He wasn’t usually dumb enough to run around in public with his mistress of the hour, not that that kept it out of the papers. Just hanging out in daylight was a stretch. But making her the best man in his wedding was pettier and more obnoxious than anything Liam could have ever come up with.

Now, he did kind of like Fflur. Liked her far more than Kate, anyway, because she wasn’t trying to tell Charlie what to do with his life as if she were older and wiser and knew jack shit about anything. Fflur was older, debatably wiser, and she just liked to party. But on the other hand, though, Kate was undoubtedly more attractive. If it were Liam he’d have done all this the other way round: he’d marry the woman he could stand to live with and fool around with the pretty young one on the side.

He’d formed a number of conspiracy theories about the whole affair over the last couple months, but none of them had made any more sense. The most obvious thought was that the marriage was a publicity stunt. Liam loved Tony Duenas, but he wouldn’t put it past him to shuffle together some business arrangement that put Charlie in his family. And Kate—no shit, right, what girl wouldn’t? And Charlie... There was no denying he did like Kate, in some kind of way, no matter how much Liam didn’t get it. He’d sung enough ooh-las of that stupid iced tea song to know.

But that one fell apart when he couldn’t figure out what part was beneficial to the Banshee image. Liam couldn’t ever remember being more favorable toward a star after they married, and he couldn’t imagine the young women they depended on would feel much differently about their frontman. Kate had gotten a variety of anonymous threats over the years, some more worrying than others. Maybe having one face to direct rage at would help? But if that was the point, he couldn’t see Tony letting his precious daughter take the brunt of it.

Liam had raised the threats angle to Charlie, when he finally thought of it after a month or two. It seemed to have been the only point he had that gave Charlie pause. Not much pause, of course. Charlie could see right through Liam at the best of times, and had eventually realized it was just his mate trying to get him to call it off again and told him to mind his own fucking business, Lee.

Liam was good at a number of things, but not minding his own business. To his credit, though, he’d been trying. So here he was sulking with Sam, while his best friend celebrated the worst decision of his life with his girlfriend and her boyfriend at the other end of the bar. It took a far greater effort than it might have looked. But at least he wasn’t as drunk as Ken. (Who the hell was Ken???) Charlie had too many stupid friends. This party done right would have just been him and Liam and Sam and a few bottles of Firewhiskey and they all knew it.

That said, talk of karaoke didn’t sound bad. Maybe Charlie and Liam and Sam and a few bottles of Firewhiskey and the trashiest great Muggle hits of the 1970s. That felt right.

At his side, Sam made another toast. Finding himself without a shot in reach, Liam summoned the most interesting-looking green bottle behind the Muggle barman’s back to pour one. That was the only bystander he thought to take note of before doing it—he might not have been as sloshed as Ken, but he was a little too sloshed to worry much about getting taken in for Statue of Secrecy.

In thanks for the drink, Charlie ignored him and draped himself over Sam. Smarter, probably, in that Sam at least was far more solid than Liam was, but he felt a bitter taste in the back of his mouth anyway. Maybe he should have tried to be nice about this whole stupid charade. Made twenty toasts like poor sweet dumb slighted Sam. But he wasn’t that kind of friend. He wasn’t going to pretend this was a happy occasion when it wasn’t, and Charlie would thank him for it, someday.

Liam stalked down into the ice bar staring darkly at their backs, and the backs of the others up ahead. It barely crossed his mind to notice the cold. Charlie’s voice cut through, though, and Liam grinned a little to hear him admonishing his best man. “This is why there’s no girlfriends allowed!” called Liam, up toward Fflur and Robin being disgusting. He cupped a hand around his mouth. “That’s you, Rob—get lost!”

He might have preferred hanging around Robin to Fflur seven or eight years ago, but his old friend felt different now. In fact—Liam might have preferred it be seven or eight years ago. That felt right.

"Not bad, half decent, pretty good, truly delicious, it's a slippery slope you've set foot on, you know," Kendrick grinned as he obeyed the groom's command to drink up, somewhat reluctantly. Just because he was scared of Fflur didn't mean that it tasted all that good. It helped that she was backing him up. He was just sober enough to recognize that she was only making fun of Charlie, but making fun of Charlie at his stag party was a thing he could get behind being united on. "Shh, they're not lady drinks, they're prove-you're-a-man drinks," he insisted.

Kendrick was disappointed they weren't going straight to karaoke, and that they were headed to vodka instead--no matter Fflur's reassurances, he suspected that any place that was selected to appease the Russian guy would be staffed with a bunch of other gruff Russians who would give him a you-deserve-a-head-bashing look if he didn't want to actually taste anything they were serving--but he got excited when he saw the ice everywhere. He nudged Ben, who he'd known mostly as one of Briony's yearmates and later Healer colleague, and pointed at a shiny ice lamp. "Look, rainbows!" he exclaimed in a stage whisper, drawing out the second word like the drunk person he currently was. His mood lasted all of twenty seconds before the cold hit him and he adopted an aggrieved expression. He wasn't made for the cold.

Liam wasn't smart enough to be scared of Fflur, apparently, even though she would probably just spit out some retort and ignore them all. From what he'd gathered in the last few hours, which he would be the first to admit was not necessarily terribly reliable information, Liam would probably never admit he was scared of anything. Or maybe that he liked anything, either. Kendrick was vaguely aware--he was too much of a people person not to be unless he was truly, absolutely hammered--that there were a number of off feelings around the group just now. He couldn't describe them much more than that at the moment. But as soon as Charlie had told him he was engaged, Kendrick had done his best to let go of any misgivings. All he could really do was share his experience and advice. And his optimism, which was an easy responsibility for a drunk man. "Wow, you mean we're going to be warm again someday? Within the next half hour? That's the best thing I've heard all day." Okay, maybe that was more sarcastic than optimistic, but there was hope somewhere in it. "Of course I could hear a better thing. Like if Fflur said she was going to sing that Stand By Me song."

How many people went to karaoke to like, sing well? Jesus, the point was to be drunk and make a fool of yourself. She made a mental note to never invite these people to another party (never mind that she wouldn’t have invited them in the first place if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s insistence). Ben said something about having to apologize if he had to sing; she was too annoyed to even bother with a comment about how if anyone needed to apologize for singing, it’d be the groom-to-be they were all celebrating.

“Wonder who put that request in,” Fflur mimicked, rolling her eyes. She looked to Arkasha to back her up -- she wanted just an ounce of support, that vodka was the best decision of the whole evening -- but he was too busy making a face at his drink to pay her any mind. “You’ll survive,” she started again, but Charlie had already turned back to Sam. She finished her drink in another swallow, took Robin’s half finished one -- he hadn’t touched it since she had handed it off to him in the first place -- and drank that, too.

Walking to the next bar was easy enough, considering she had Robin to prop her up, keep her mind (mostly) off of the annoying men following them down the sidewalk. Getting into the bar and realizing there was a reason she had insisted on matching jackets for stag swag: it was an ice bar. Fuck. She pulled Robin closer, her arms now inside his jacket and around his waist; the cold probably didn’t warrant the closeness, but damn, if she was going to pass up the chance.

“No canoodling,” she repeated with a laugh, canoodling closer. She ignored Liam, mostly; her “Fuck off,” was probably lost in the noise.

She was handed a shot and she didn’t wait for Sam’s next toast before tossing it back and ordering herself a real drink to follow it up. “Stand by Me?” Talking-- rather than just being annoyed -- seemed easier with a drink in her hand, even if that meant she had to sacrifice some canoodling and some warmth. “Rubbish.” She took a swallow and wiped her mouth with the inside of her forearm. “Stevie Nicks,” she said without further explanation. “But--” she started again, grinning towards Ken, “If you want to make that a duet I”ll see what I can do.” He was the only other mutual friend in the whole bunch, wasn’t he? She really only needed to make sure he had a good time at the party.