Boys Just Wanna Have Fun

[Reuben Crouch]

October 2nd, Winnipeg

Perhaps it was just the knowledge that in a few short hours he wouldn't be so entirely alone out here, but so far, Ben thought he rather liked Winnipeg. It wasn't, as he had anticipated, anything like the far-West areas of the United States, at least in his experience. There were no cowboys here (and not really many horses, for that matter), but it did have a sort of rugged charm. The city was much smaller than Toronto, and the outskirts were smatterings of log cabins that seemed as haphazard as the things in the plains and deserts of the States, even if they were covered in snow instead of prairie grass and dust. He was finding, also, that his money went a lot farther here. He still didn't really know the conversion rates (or even the names of all of the strange monies in his possession), but when he'd thrust some amount of it into the hands of a local landlord, he'd been able to secure one of the aforementioned log cabins for a week for nearly nothing.

Winnipeg did have a hotel, but that was boring. Ben wanted to be a cowboy, and if he couldn't manage that in this frozen wasteland, at the very least he wanted to pretend to be a fur trapper or something suitably rustic.

He hadn't really given Art a very specific address, on account of he didn't actually know any addresses in Winnipeg. He'd never been before, and had picked the city out on a whim--it was the farthest west he could get with a train ticket, when he'd gotten the letter that Art was coming to visit, so he'd chosen it by default, really. That being said, he had no idea where he was going to find his fellow Brit when he did eventually portkey in. After having dumped his things in the cabin and put on a fur-lined parka that he thought made him look like an eskimo, Ben set about exploring.

Hopefully the portkey didn't drop Art into a predominantly No-Maj part of town; that could be trouble for them. Hopefully it didn't drop him into a snowbank, either. While Ben thought he'd made it very clear to everyone back home that Canada was cold, it was a much different kind of cold than one experienced in England, and he didn't fancy having to fish Art's frozen corpse out of anywhere and send him back home to Dez in a coffin.

@'Arthur Pettigrew' @'Cassius Lestrange'

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

Art had never been to Canada before. However, Canada was also far away from Witch Weekly, and had one of his best friends trapped in it, so he had pretty high expectations for it. He had with him a suitcase that had not only clothes but also a copy of Witch Weekly's Crouch article, and some firewhiskey.

He was wearing his winter coat and a scarf, which had felt rather silly when he went to the pick-up location just outside of Hogsmeade to get the portkey. The portkey was shaped like an old newspaper, and Art felt rather stupid when he held onto it, waiting for the object to depart. 

It left at exactly 2 o'clock, glowing blue, and Arthur had a whirlwind trip across the Atlantic (he did not look down for the duration) before he landed in what he could only assume was a Winnipeg snowbank. He sneezed.

Arthur stumbled out of the snowbank and shoved the newspaper into his suitcase. He took off down the street, hoping for something that was rather Ben-ish to come up so that he could find his friend.

He wandered for several minutes down the street, trying to shake the snow out of his sleeves as he went. It was fucking cold up here, and things looked awfully quaint, and he blew on his gloved hands to warm them up.

Wait! There was a Ben-height man who looked suitably bundled and suitably Ben-ish. Arthur bent down to scoop up a fistful of snow. He formed it into a snowball and chucked it at hopefully-Ben's back.

  

[Reuben Crouch]

The snowball that hit him in the back could really have only come from Art, he decided, and he was grinning as he turned to scan the area behind him. It didn't actually have to be from Art, but Ben wasn't planning on meeting anyone else at the far edge of Canada today, much less anyone who would think a snowball was a suitable greeting.

"Oi, you cad!" he called out as he spotted Art. The words implied a malice that was clearly lacking in his tone, and he was still smiling as he loped through the snow as quickly as the layers of clothing and slightly-too-large boots would allow him to. "Did I tell you I sent Roman one of those? In the mail. At least I think it got there," he said as he reached Art, tugging at the bottom of his parka to shake off some of the snow that had clung to his shoulder. "It was supposed to hit him in the face when he opened up his 'birthday present,' but I'm not sure if I got the spell right or not. He never wrote me back, which is, y'know, typical. He never could take a joke."

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

Arthur grinned widely and enthusiastically at Ben. "Oi!" he said cheerfully, "You didn't, but that sounds delightful. And like him. And speaking of - I have something for you." He reached with gloved fingers into the front pocket of his worn suitcase, and pulled out the copy of the Crouch article.

"Witch Weekly thinks you're staging a coup," Art enthused, "And it's fucking cold here." He was going to have to put on more layers. Or get used to it. 

  

[Reuben Crouch]

The idea of Ben staging a coup was, frankly, ridiculous, but he took the article anyway. He was a bit disappointed to immediately recognize that the picture was Roman, not him, but to anyone who didn't know them well the pictures were probably more or less interchangeable. They were identical, after all, and though Ben thought it was pretty obvious who was who at all points in time, they'd been mistaken for each other before.

"I told you," he said, re: the cold. "Either Aldous is hoping I freeze to death and never come back, or he doesn't know shit about foreign countries. But c'mon, I can get a fire up at the cabin," he said, glancing over at Art with a grin and waggling his eyebrows, as if to say what do you think of that, a cabin. Nevermind that people lived in cabins in England, too; in Winnipeg it seemed very much like a lumberjack thing to do, and Ben was determined to have as much fun as he could while Art was in Canada, despite the country's numerous shortfalls.

He made a gesture in the direction of the place he'd rented, then returned his attention to the article. He raised an eyebrow at the description of Aldous as the physically hampered, not an epithet he usually heard applied to his otherwise rather prestigious oldest brother. The reference in the next sentence to Nova as the infinitely forgettable second wife brought a proper scowl to his face, and he was about ready to commiserate with Art on the evils of stupid gossip rags and their made-up, mean-spirited nonsense, when he finally found a reference to himself which enticed him to keep reading.

"I know how to shave," he muttered in protest, his free hand moving to the edge of his jaw, which sported about three days of stubble at present. Well. He'd been on a train; no one could be expected to shave while on a train. The bathrooms were too small to get out a whole shaving kit. Whatever.

After the photo, the string of logic in the publication ran entirely off the rails. Him, masquerading as Roman? Why would he do that? First of all, he was sure that wouldn't help his brother's campaign at all--he'd never been good at politics and policy--and secondly... well, Witch Weekly didn't know him very well if they thought Aldous would ever stand for him stepping in and replacing Roman. Or maybe they did, because they did manage to describe him with some fairly colorful words.

"Erratic and amoral," he read aloud, tilting his head at the magazine article. "Well, that about sums it up, doesn't it? Though I think they're giving Aldous a little too much credit if they think he's the mastermind behind some sort of evil plot," Ben mused. "D'you think they'll send me a ticket back home, after this? Just to prove I've not got Roman tied up in a closet somewhere?"

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

"A cabin!" Art enthused. Cabins sounded rustic and adventurous, like they were on some sort of frontier. Which, Art supposed, they were. They were explorers, they were going to meet moose and maybe even bears. He wanted to get drunk and become a lumberjack. This was going to be a tremendous vacation, even if he was going to lose his fingers to the cold, first. 

He wasn't even sure what time it was; the portkey had taken longer than the in-Britain portkeys he'd taken before, and there was some sort of time-difference he didn't understand. This was fun. 

"They'll send you a ticket home and a new razor," Art suggested, "Or they better. Britain is garbage without you, you know." If Ben had been in Britain when the Witch Weekly article came out, they could have gone on a more local adventure.

Well. Maybe. They had accidentally ended up in a foreign country when they kidnapped that redhead, after all, and Art still would have wanted to Get Out. 

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   Ellory Pendergast

[Reuben Crouch]

Ben did feel slightly gratified to hear that Britain was garbage without him. He wasn't sure he believed it, because he tended to go abroad a lot and it couldn't possibly be that bad every time he left, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"Canada's garbage no matter who's here," he grumbled agreeably. "I still don't understand the money, and they all say things funny. It's gotten a lot better since I started drinking again, though," he conceded. After hearing the news that his twin was running for Minister and getting a little suspicious about how entirely convenient this whole Canada thing was for him, Ben had decided he didn't care what got back to Aldous about his adventures overseas. He probably would have run off with a girl for a little fun by now, too, if the only likely candidate didn't look too much like Ellory Pendergast.

(Ellory Pendergast had definitely gotten his letter by now, unless it had gotten eaten by a sea monster midway through the Atlantic, but she had not replied. Ben thought that was probably a Bad Sign, but Art was here and he was determined to have fun and so was doing his best not to think about it).

"Speaking of which," he said, glancing over at Art. "I hope you brought something, because the Canadian whiskey is decidedly sub-par. I mean, it'll do when you're already drunk, but..."

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

Arthur kicked at his suitcase. "I got some firewhiskey," he said, "The Scottish stuff, don't worry." Art did not fuck around with his whiskey. It probably wasn't enough to last the whole time they were here, but if it ran out in a couple of days they could always switch to some weird Winnipeg hallucinogens, or something.

"And it'll warm us up when we go to the cabin!" he added. This was why Firewhiskey was so important. The Canadians ought to invest in it. 

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   Reuben Crouch

[Reuben Crouch]

"This is why we're friends," Ben said appreciatively. They were almost to the cabin, and Ben moved to fold the article Art had handed him earlier and put it into his pocket so that he could unlock and open the door with his free hands. As he looked down, though, his eyes stumbled upon the last line, which he either hadn't read or hadn't really processed earlier.

With a loud laugh, he held the article a little higher. "Roman Crouch," he read, "'Would appear to be little more than an impotent tool.' I bet he loved that," Reuben said with a wide grin. "Maybe Witch Weekly's not so bad. I mean, I'm sorry about whatever they said about you, but--well, come on, this is funny," he said with another laugh.

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

Arthur snorted. "If they'd just stick to Roman, that'd be great," he said. The gossip rag could say whatever it wanted about Roman Crouch; Art would be happy to make things up for them if they ran out of ideas. Really, anything about the Ministerial candidates was fair game. 

He stepped into the cabin and set his suitcase down, then set about the business of kicking his boots off violently.

"I just wish they'd refrain from discussing my cock," Arthur said, mildly bitter even as he grinned. The article had hurt his feelings - and struck something that was starting to become a bit of sore spot with him. 

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   Reuben Crouch

[Reuben Crouch]

"You're looking at it all wrong," Ben said as he followed his friend inside and removed his parka and boots. "You ought to be flattered that the majority of British women apparently have such a lively interest in your cock," he teased with a laugh. He wasn't really sure what else to say other than making jokes. He hadn't read the article in question, though he could extrapolate from the letter Art had sent him that it had something to do with Dez and kids, and probably in particular the decided lack of the latter.

Reuben Crouch's experience with contraceptives extended to having seen a condom, once, and asking what the hell it was for. Someone had explained and he'd laughed uproariously, positive that they weren't serious. He'd certainly never used one, and had largely forgotten that they existed in the first place--so he didn't really know what to make of his friend's lack of offspring. He wasn't really about to complain about it, since he was under the impression that the addition of children made everyone boring (or at least more responsible, which equated to boring) and he liked Art not boring. Besides, the two possible reasons in his mind that Art and Dez might not have children was that either there was something the matter with his friend's equipment, or else Art really wasn't getting laid as often as he should've been--and neither of those were topics Ben was likely to bring up. Ever.

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

"You know, I hadn't thought of it that way," Arthur said. He shrugged. Boots off, he lined them up against the wall. He started unbuttoning his coat even though he was still rather chilled - that snowbank had not been a good place to land. He was going to have to file a complaint with the Portkey office. (He was probably not going to remember to file a complaint with the portkey office.)

He was really rather emo about the article, but perhaps that was a three-drink conversation. Which was why they had to get started on the drinking. That, and drinking would make this fun. "What about that fire?"

  

[Reuben Crouch]

"On it," Ben said amiably. He actually had been on his way towards the fireplace, and it already had logs stacked in it. That had been handled by the landlord who'd rented him his place, because whatever else Ben could say about Canadians, they did tend to be incredibly hospitable, he was finding. A quick spell saw it roar to life, and Ben tucked his wand into his back pocket again as he headed towards the kitchen.

"I didn't have time to check much of this out," he said as he started poking about in the cabinets. "But it's supposed to be fully furnished." He'd gone and gotten a few food items because that seemed prudent, particularly when it was likely to be snowing and dark later and he fully intended to be drunk, but he'd just left them sitting on the counter before setting out to look for Art, so he didn't know where anything was.

"Ah, here," he said, finding the glassware and pulling down two things that vaguely resembled snifters--in that they were shorter than pint glasses, not that they were (most likely) actually intended to hold whiskey. "These'll do. Where's the whiskey?"

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

"Ooh, furniture," Arthur said, a phrase that may have sounded snarky coming from someone else but was very genuine coming from Art. He unfastened his suitcase and pulled out the large bottle of firewhiskey, and held it up in the air as if it was a beacon.

"Ogden's Old Firewhiskey," Arthur said, "The very best." Well, it was the cheapest of Ogden's firewhiskeys, but in a very large bottle, and it was definitely going to be better than whatever Canadian not-Ogden's not-fire whiskey Ben was stuck with here.

  

[Reuben Crouch]

"The very best," Ben echoed with a grin. Merlin, he missed England, where you could get firewhiskey and have options. He could get firewhiskey in Halifax, but it was expensive and they only carried, at most, one type in stock at any given time. Art was a godsend.

Ben held the glasses while Art poured, then handed one over to his friend and clinked glasses briefly. "Cheers," he said, and took a drink. It was good, and he missed good alcohol. "Merlin, I'm glad you're here," he said, moving to the sofa and flopping down. He nudged an ottoman over with his foot and propped up his socked feet towards the fire. "Canada is the worst."

  

[Arthur Pettigrew]

"I am starting to see why you hate it," Arthur said, flopping down on the sofa next to Ben. He took a substantial gulp of the firewhiskey. "It's cold and - I don't know, what are there, lumberjacks?" Arthur really super hoped that there were lumberjacks, because that seemed like a tremendous adventure for when they were here together.

"I'm glad to not be in Hogsmeade, though," he said. Coming to Canada via portkey was better than crashing his flying carpet somewhere or going on a gambling binge; Art did not have the best coping mechanisms for stress.