chateau lobby #4 - robin

"Stick around for the weather, I guess?" Frank took another drag of his cigarette, face upturned to the evening sky that was spitting rain back at him in retaliation of the smoke he blew up with disdain. The question was more of a statement.

Pittsburgh was no fucking ray of sunshine early Spring either, but he was skeptical when it came to this mysterious wizarding village that was Hogsmeade. It sounded, and looked, like something straight off the pages of a fairytale. It left him feeling equal parts uncomfortable and envious. There wasn't really anything like this back home, not really, anyway. He'd only been there for half a day and he surmised (immediately upon arrival) that everything was haunted. As they strode through the village, damp from the misty rain, he peered inside each of the windows for a sighting.

In truth, Frank wanted to be a gracious guest, with manners and wit, general entertainment— but the task was easier said than done. Despite the fact that he was there of his own accord, he had his reservations about the UK. He imagined he would much prefer Italy, or Spain. Then again, it was his first time out of the country, so his opinion was baseless.

The wizard pulled his old leaf-green colored bomber jacket over his chest, hands-free once he vanished what was left of his cigarette.

"Where are you taking me then, big shot?" He asked pointedly, casting a glance at his old friend. Robin looked different—older, maybe, but certainly more put together than when they had first met back in New York. They had stopped near a tucked away pub, windows illuminated beneath what he imagined was a sunset hidden by clouds. A small sign with the words Three Broomsticks caught his eye. Of-fucking-course. He nodded to the door and gestured for his friend to lead the way. These wizards loved their wordplay.

“What’re you looking for?” Robin raised his eyebrows at Frank, who was lagging behind him to look in Mr. and Mrs. Beecham’s window. “If you want to know which neighbors are worth spying on all you’ve got to do is ask, mate.”

Frank looked distinctly unsettled, even more than usual. Robin watched him finish his cigarette and awkwardly chewed on his tongue. He could see how different this was from America. All-wizard towns were rare, but even Shackamaxon had a different vibe. Old, but not this old; magical, but not this magical. It might have just been that it was Europe at all, though. Frankly Robin thought his friend might find any other rural Scottish town just as bizarre.

“Big shot,” repeated Robin. He scoffed gently. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

They stopped out front the Three Broomsticks. “The most famous pub in Hogsmeade,” he declared, with a theatrical gesture at the sign. “Well, the Hog’s Head’s having a moment, but it’s dead depressing and their food’s rubbish. Rosmerta’s alright, though.” He led Frank inside and waved to the barmaid in question. “Butterbeer for me today, Ros.” Turning to Frank, he shrugged and gestured toward the bar. “Have at it, I s’pose.” Robin would put up with whatever Frank wanted. Drunkenness might put him a little more at ease.

They sat in a booth by the window to wait for their drinks. In the absence of something to fidget with, Robin bit at his cuticles as he watched Frank’s judgmental gaze.

“I know there’s not much around here that’s hip, or whatever,” he admitted eventually. He didn’t think the Three Broomsticks menu had changed in the last hundred years at least. “But I dunno, I’m fond of it. Don’t worry. We can go into London tomorrow.”

"Ghosts," Frank replied matter-of-factly, tearing his gaze away from what he swore was a curtain moving. He picked up his step to catch up to Robin, an unenthusiastic jog. It warmed him up a fraction. "Ghouls," He pulled a surprisingly effective (in his mind) accent as he made a spider-like motion with his fingers, dancing on the back the other man's shoulder. Spying hadn't really been on the agenda, but if it helped him in his newfound quest for the paranormal, that information would be useful. He would remember to pick that back up after a few drinks.

As they entered, the warmth stung his face that had been cut with the cold rain on their journey. Frank ran a hand through damp hair, pushing it from his forehead, taking in the new surrounding. He glanced to Ros, as he came to know her, with a quasi smile. "Hello," The harshness of his accent struck him when he called out. "Just a beer, thanks," He said more quietly with an appreciative nod.

Thankfully, Robin directed them to a booth, away from the bar. He was tired from his travels and small talk with strangers was even less satiable than it usually would be. And that was no small feat. Sliding into the worn leather, Frank pulled off his jacket and set it aside. He leaned back with a grin. "Hip is that last thing I want," He confessed. This was exactly what he was looking for— something he imagined felt like home to some people.

Their drinks landed on the table and Frank eyed the other glass suspiciously. "What the hell is it?" Butterbeer. There was a thick layer of what looked like foam sitting atop the honey-colored beverage. "Anyway, cheers," He held up his glass to Robin's before taking a drink.

"The blonde in the photos," Frank began as he picked up a worn cardboard coaster from the table to inspect it, referencing a few of the frames he'd spotted at the house. "—not the dog," Brown eyes shifted back to Robin. "She must be the mysterious..." What was it again? "Fflur," He recalled finally, almost certainly butchering the pronunciation. He tossed the coaster down. She wasn't home when Frank arrived, and he was curious if she would be joining.

“Ghosts,” repeated Robin, amused. “Ought to take you up to the castle, in that case. Or—” He recalled Fflur’s complaining about Peeves, that the Bloody Baron and the rest of the ghosts had disappeared to keep him under control. “Never mind, Hogwarts is missing theirs, at the moment. Might be a ghoul in the Blankenships’ basement, though.” He considered a little more, eyeing the end of the lane. “The Shrieking Shack’s supposed to be the most haunted house in Britain, obviously, but it hasn’t really done anything as long as I’ve been here. Bit of a letdown.”

He shrugged. “Has Ilvermorny got ghosts?” Every wizarding child in the British Isles had not only looked death in the face at the age of eleven, they’d grumbled when they unwittingly put their arm through it to grab a library book. Robin struggled to imagine a school without that. It might explain Frank’s apparent fascination, though.

The Three Broomsticks, unlike the weather, didn’t encourage that morbid sort of thought. Frank actually seemed pleased as he looked around. Robin smiled, but the second Rosmerta set Frank’s beer down he buried his face in his butterbeer. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had one!” he replied when Frank asked what he’d gotten. “It’s, y’know, hot and butterscotchy. Not bad with a bit of rum, if that suits.” He’d have offered a taste, but, though he was surely overblowing things, the thought of Frank’s beery lips on his glass made him nervous.

He laughed heartily at Frank’s dog joke. “Is she mysterious?” he asked. Robin was sure Fflur would like the thought. “Yeah, that’s her. She’ll be home after class.” It felt kind of strange, explaining his domesticity to someone like Frank. He took a long, warm sip of his butterbeer and licked his lips.

"Never even heard of it," Frank stated, bemused. He eyed the glass and tried to imagine the flavor— hot and butterscotchy, said Robin. The only hot drink he actually liked (off the top of his head) was coffee, and only at its most bitter— no cream, no sugar, and certainly no butterscotch.

Butterbeer, he decided, was not for him.

"Interesting," He said to himself over the lip of his beer, thankful for its vastly different flavor profile. He wondered why Rob hadn't added a bit of rum to it himself given his proclamation, but for once decided not to press the matter. The man across from him was miles away from the one he met in New York all those years ago. There were some things (very few) that even Frank knew not to delve into without someone leading the way.

Was she mysterious? He contemplated it for a moment. She wasn't, not in the traditional sense anyway, but Frank liked to think that she might be. Either way, he ignored the (in his mind) rhetorical question. "She works at Hogwarts, then?" He looked over the food menu and couldn't help but make a face at the mention of vinegar with hot 'chips'. "What's she teach?" He tossed the menu to the side and caught the eye of Rosmerta immediately.

"Some fries, please, madame," He used the American word on purpose. "Hold the vinegar," He cast a glance to Rob, allowing him the fraction of a second to protest his decision. "Anyway, thanks for letting me crash," Frank said once the barmaid had made her way back to the kitchen area. "I'll be out of your hair in a night or so," He explained. He had no set plan for where was next, but he figured it would just fall into his lap eventually.

“Really?” Robin snorted, denting the foam on top of his butterbeer. “I knew you came from a cultural wasteland, but my god.” It was nonsense, obviously—he’d met Frank while specifically attempting to break into American culture, and he wouldn’t argue butterbeer was that great—but now that he was an old rural homebody he figured the sort of joke he might have made then might help Frank feel more at ease. Drunk, depressive Robin drew a lot of his humor from insults.

Frank might have taken it to heart more than he’d intended, though, as he pointedly ordered a plate of fries. Robin gave Rosmerta an apologetic grimace.

“Oh, nothing boring,” he clarified quickly. Frank was giving him a look like he’d shacked up with Professor Binns. “Flying—she’s real good, used to play for the Catapults.” He didn’t think Fflur would’ve liked him to mention that; he moved on. “Course, it’s not glamorous either, mostly she just talks about which kid broke their arm today, but y’know.” He shrugged. "She might be more your sort than me these days, I think." Might've been just his self-esteem talking, but he always felt Fflur had kept a better hold on her cool self as they'd settled down.

He probably shouldn't have said so: Frank assured him he'd move on soon, which struck Robin as an apology. He emphatically shook his head. Robin hadn’t wanted his friend to feel out of place here, but honestly, he didn't think there was much he could have done. “Got a plan?” he asked. “Or just…wandering?” He felt he knew already, but wasn’t sure what else to ask.

Frank guffawed, unable to argue that America was not culturally lacking (for the most part). New York, though— god damn, Robin knew better. He shook his head. "You are telling me–" He began, paused to take another drink before dramatically setting down the mug. "– that the best meal you've ever had, was not from a cart, in the middle of Queens, at four in the morning, with me," He held a serious gaze, waiting for Rob to refute what he had decided was a fact.

"Best god damned hot dog on this planet," He sat back against his side of the leather-clad booth, dropping both hands that had been in the air as if to further express his adoration. Robin, he knew, would have to agree. At least he would have all those years ago. In no part, of course, because prior to their street-side find, they had been putting back all the canned beer that his local spot had to offer.

Thankfully, his other half didn't teach something boring, because Frank was certain he wouldn't be able to hold back his opinion. Not now, not that he was on a roll. "Impressive," He said, more earnestly. He hadn't imagined his friend would have ended up with a sports star, but he supposed stranger things could have happened. "The famous Quidditch, thing— not the kids," He immediately corrected with a furrow of his brow.

"Couldn't pay me enough..." The wizard thought aloud just as their fries arrived, sans any sort of vinegar. "Thanks," He nodded to the woman before turning back to Rob, at the mention of his plan (or lack thereof). With a flick of his wand, the top of the ketchup popped off and was pouring. Too late for Robin to protest that. "I've got a plan," He thought he did anyway. "Vaguely..." Frank paused to pop a fry into his mouth.

He was pleasantly surprised. It was the perfect ratio of potato and fried food. "I'm trying to find a place to open a new restaurant," It sounded more ambitious when he said it out loud, and he was almost embarrassed about it now, laid out right next to his lack of a gameplan.

“Fine,” said Robin, chuckling and unable to come up with a dish to defend more passionately than Frank had the hot dogs. “Cultural wasteland except for the sausages.” In truth he’d gotten really into the trappings of Americanism—mostly vintage, and even muggle—when rehearsing Cauldron Ridge last year. But the joke demanded the opposite, and besides—he didn’t intend on getting caught up in a discussion of how great New York City was when he was trying to show off his ancient Scottish village.

His instinct, even when the compliment wasn’t to him, was to blow it off—how many young wizards were there in the country, and how many full quidditch teams? But he couldn’t do Fflur like that, obviously. Not to mention, he’d been a witness. “She was a hell of a flyer, back in the day,” said Robin. “Won us the Quidditch Cup twice at school—I was the Keeper. Never took it seriously enough for her.” It crossed his mind that Frank might not know from Keepers; not that many American wizards did. Frank hadn’t ever struck him as the sportiest man around. But who was to say? They’d never spoken much about their youths. Frank could have been Ilvermorny’s top Quodpot star, for all Robin knew.

Frank seemed impressed with Fflur’s dedication. Of course, teaching had been sort of a last resort for Fflur, but Robin didn’t think that was prudent to mention. “I dunno, I’d have done it if I knew anything worth teaching,” he said instead, and took another sip of butterbeer. “Kids are great.” It would have been loads more fun to have a romance in the halls of Hogwarts as a pair of professors, honestly. There were so many more places he’d have liked to sneak about after hours.

He was drawn out of that train of thought by Frank’s next admission. “Here?” asked Robin. “Look at you, mister franchise man!”

A sausage. A fucking sausage.

Frank made a face that said exactly what he was thinking, but he didn't bother opening his mouth, mainly out of fear for the conversational spiral that would follow having to explain that a real hotdog, the kind that sat in lukewarm water in a stand on the side of the muggy New York street, was far from just a sausage. He figured it might have been gross, the concept, if the damn things weren't so good in all of their disturbing glory.

It was clear that Robin cared for this woman, Fflur, (seriously, where did these people get their names?), and it made his heart twinge uncomfortably in the way that he had been avoiding for about two years. He remembered, vaguely, that feeling of wanting to talk about someone more than anything in the world, using any excuse to bring them up, and it was nice to see from his friend, currently. He smiled for a breath before returning to his usual schtick.

"Sounds very prestigious..." Frank wiggled his fingers on the way to grabbing his mug, dark brown eyes lighting up with false hubris.

Nearly spitting out his drink, the wizard, slapped a hand to his chest. "Not here—" Suddenly he remembered whatever was left of his filter and sank a bit into the booth, his tall body hard to hide. "—I mean, here but not here," His pointer finger jabbed into the table. Somehow he always managed to continue digging his own grave. "Somewhere in London, I think," He shrugged, still unsure himself. "And don't you ever fucking call me that again," He warned with a grin, reaching a large arm across the table to affectionately fake-slap Robin's jaw.

fin

Frank had a funny look on his face, sort of like he regretted asking. Robin scrunched his mouth to one side and picked under one of his nails with another. He’d always hated to see signs of conversational disinterest, or worse, displeasure. These days he knew he was imagining them more often than not—as a teenager he’d imagined himself some kind of Legilimens, who could read people’s thoughts with nothing but a glance. Now he tried to remind himself that he couldn’t.

“Oh, it’s not,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “Doesn’t matter once you’re out of school at all. Bit stupid how much they make us compete and then the second you’re out no one gives a fuck if you were a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.” Sometimes they gave a fuck if you were a Slytherin—but given the state of the house in his years Robin felt that was a reasonable precaution. “Anyway, I could never get my head around the scoring, myself—it’s all about how much you win by in all your other matches, too much to keep track of. I barely knew what the score was in the ones I was playing.”

Frank choked in surprise and Robin gave him a snort. “Don’t go thinking you’re too good for Hogsmeade, mate,” he said, only half joking. At least Frank seemed embarrassed enough on his own. “Don’t worry,” said Robin. He tilted his chin in the direction Frank nudged it, grinning. “I’ll come up with something better to call you, if you’re going to be around.” 

[out]