Don't Go Drinking without Company
1993 February ~~~
The wizard stepped into the bar, lights were on, dimly lit, they’d been on since four pm given the state of winter, leaving everyone hunkering in early and staying longer for their pour of butterbeer or firewhiskey. A long coat hung off his shoulders, though the man didn’t need to duck his head entering the doorway, the beret floated off his hair and fell on the coat rack; he pulled off the lapels of the winter coat, comfortably dressed in burgundy and warm beneath. His breath fogged up as the door closed and he ran his fingers across the edge of the collared shirt, beginning to fix his hair, before pausing and ruffling it up instead, loosening the button on the collar underneath the sweater and allowing his neck room to breathe in the sudden warmth of the bar. Pulling the sweater sleeves up his forearms haphazardly, he nodded towards the wizard behind the bar.
“One pint of butterbeer,” he told the bartender, tapping the seat-back twice before sliding up to someone in the middle, the wix beside him turned to him and gave a shit-eating grin.
“Fancy seeing you ‘ere, mate, ” She called, slapping him on the back in exuberance, pulling him in for a hug, “I haven’t seen you out for a while, how is the end of the internship going?” The wix’s green coat hung off the back of the barstool chair, much like herself, he declined hanging his coat on the rack, preferring to bring it with him to the table or booth. The bartender advised it their first week at the establishment two years prior. “ Careful of your pockets here, it may be a nice town with all those university students, but we get our fair share of stolen wallets and watches. Even heard last year a visiting wizard ended up with a cursed thumb in his pocket, poor guy couldn’t stop dancing ”. When Manon explained it had to be more than just hags to blame, the bartender rolled his eyes, assuring them very few vampires came in the hall, no one mentioned the “batty blood brew” on tap in the far corner, or the too red pinot noir in casks at the bartender’s feet. Since then, the wizard in burgundy always kept his coat on his person or within reaching distance; it never hurt to be careful, even away from the harrows of Paris.
He leaned over and looked at the half empty cocktail before his companion; a double fire-drop, he raised his eyebrows at it, unusual to go for elf made mixed drinks, side eyeing the bartender; the bushy bearded wizard only winked in his direction, mimicking drinking a few cups as he moved back down the bar away from the two. The wizard sighed, looking up at the drinks on tap; the “Goblin IPA” hadn’t been in stock last week, Tris had raved about it for most of the season ever since it came on tap, they’d all been in last Tuesday only to see the bartender scratching his chin, apologizing that they were out. Tris gave him such a volley of complaints that he should’ve kept it in stock for her birthday that the bartender scrounged up a volley of East Europe goblin shots for the group, the act officially became the start of a night . Everyone involved awoke the next day, bleary eyed slumped in awkward positions on couches and sofas, headaches all around.
He leaned down a bit, squinting to get a better look at the wix, her eyes cloudy, her grin just a bit too manic as she twirled the drink around in her hands, rings gleaming on fingers.
“Manon, you did give a call, have you been talking to those Aussie friends again? Stop calling me “mate” like an uncouth, would you… mate .” At the stupidly timed joke she roared with laughter, cackling long enough some customers further down the bar glanced at the two of them for a bit too long.
“Must’ve had a number, I bet you have. Never seen you laugh at that one, just how much–”
“That phrasing has moved over from the wix to the muggles in Australia, you know? And remember when we saw Michael spar with Henri? I was always fascinated why our Australian friends preferred to teach offensive spells first in their schooling, wouldn’t it make better sense to be able to defend against attack? Unless they assume their society is so volatile that they need to be ready to defend against anyone at all, who they’d be up against is beyond me, not like China is waging war or anything, or …” she kept going even as he opened his mouth multiple times to get a word in.
“– Anyway , Manon, Manon , first drink of the night?” He interrupted, raising an eyebrow, meeting her eyes as he cut her off, reaching over to pat the wix lightly on the back. That glare could cut glass, her lip curled up, tsk tsk .
She cursed under her breath, “Don’t you dare interrupt me Bastien, I’ll have you know last week Professor Barbier—”
The bartender leaned forward conspiratorially, answering for her, “First drink here at least,” Bastien’s eyebrows disappeared into the fringe of his dark bangs, eyes widening perceptively, choking a moment on his drink. In the sputtering coughing fit after, Manon patted him on the back. The bartender nodded to the customer in question and said, “Manon, sweetheart, came in here after having a few, haven't you now?”
The wix curled her lip up again, “I’ve told you before, don’t call me sweetheart, I’m definitely not your sweetheart, it’s rude,” she snapped, turning to face the wizard beside her, hand raised to rub the back of her bare neck, short hair sticking in many directions as though she hadn’t had time to style it before heading out. The curve along the edge of her neckline was less clean than usual, she must’ve had no time to get it cut recently.
“Don’t blame me! I haven’t seen another soul outside of my room in a week now, I had to finish ten pages of my thesis, another ten on my first draft,” –she’d slumped down over brunch a few weeks ago, complaining about her thesis and her part time work, but never mentioned any other written project– “and additional preparation for my…” the pause was long as she scrunched her eyebrows in thought, “ renwu, bushi, xiangmu, bushi, progetto , projet… projet! ” Clapping her hands in glee as, finally, the French made it to her tongue, one of the perks of drinking as a bilingual wix; Bastien himself couldn’t remember the word for “spoon” the week before, hunched over beef noodle soup, went through German, English, Taiwanese, and Mandarin before the French made it off his lips, before promptly taking another long sip of a butterbeer, already fuzzy on the number he’d had that evening as though it would fix his linguistics problem.
This wix though, more and more often in the last few months, struggled to find words in just the same way . A few days prior Bastien dropped off an assignment to her apartment and happened to glance at a calendar on the wall as he left, noticing a set of tally marks with curiosity, then the hidden bottles under the cupboard when he went to grab a towel for a spill that wasn’t wand safe. When he’d asked about the number of tallies her face remained blank as she cracked open a second beer from some non-magic store down the road. Her eyes barely flickered, remaining steadfast in meeting his; for her that was unusual, leaning towards the possibility of “downright suspicious”. Those tally marks on the calendar kept going up and down: one, three, five, two, two, three days without, six ; it showed no signs of halting anytime soon. Not like it was even wine, which the French would’ve seen as no issue, he himself regularly drank a bottle of wine or two or three among friends when they went out.
But, that cupboard held harsher things than a simple bottle of red.
“I was dying for some form of company. And you make a great conversation partner, Bartholomew.” She finally finished her statement, leaning against Bastien as she tipped her head to the bartender walking to aid a hag who just entered the bar area.
The man in the burgundy sweater beside her winced, “Bad bout of depression was it? Or something else? You said you’d come to us next time it happened.”
Her lips pursed together, “Among other things, yes. I just… everything was hard. I didn’t want to dress, officially my essay sits only half finished, my clothes have piled up, I’ve barely been applying to new positions, and no way in hell am I asking Tipsy to do my laundry. My brain was a whirlwind of activity, a swirling dervish, a hurricane of haggardness, a typhoon of treachery.” Her head ended up pillowed between her arms as a rush of emotions cracked over her.
He took a regulated sip, “What is a Tipsy?”
She shook her head furiously, waving a hand in exasperation, breathing deeply through her nose looking for a moment she might cry, “Oh, well, The Boss’s friend has a house elf, said I could call on her once in a while if I got stressed by classes.”
“Has The Boss been thinking about anything in particular?” He leaned in, taking a larger sip of butterbeer, handing her a napkin, she proceeded to fold in back and forth, smoothing the edges subconsciously looking down at it, he took the chance to pull her drink away from where it teetered on the edge. All the floors were spill proof, all the glasses held anti-fragility charms, but it never hurt to avert things early, he should take his own advice and start on that project for his internship.
“Bollywolox, just afraid I won’t get a job after school, you know? Sure I’ve been doing things outside of class, but my grades haven’t been the best.” He had seen her report card last quarter, an E as in Exemplary, not an O of Outstanding, but an Exemplary, and yet she’d furrowed her brow, doing calculations as though her scholarship needed an Outstanding. Most of his own courses were at an E or A for Acceptable, and his professors still glanced at his essays before handing them back, marked in far more red than Manon’s, as they tapped on the indicated grade before handing back the others. Bastien sighed, “Manon, I’ve got a brilliant friend who got a full blown scholarship this academic year, you know who?”
She leaned forward eagerly, “Who? I need to know how they did it.” Sloppy grin lighting up brown eyes. Bastien just stared down his nose at her in lieu of an answer, her nose now wrinkling in distaste.
“ Merde , fine, fine . I get your point, I’m doing perfectly well .” She muttered scathingly, finally realizing the friend to which he referred.
The two soups he’d ordered appeared on the table, and he slurped on his in silence, listening as she told him in a great deal of ramblings, and no details, the troubles in her mind, still coherent enough to not talk about the really weird things, like what happened one time they got drunk in Italy last summer, or the time when he accidentally slept with a convicted murder on the run, yet her words remained much more loquace than usual.
“Stop thinking Manon, you don’t need to think yourself to the moon or back.”
“Easy for you to say,” she snarled in his face, finally realizing throughout the conversation he’d been pulling the cocktail away wandlessly and she moved to snatch it back, raising it to her lips for a long sip before he reached for it again, eyes narrowed in his direction in distaste.
“We’ve talked about this before you know, Manon, you cannot control the outcomes of these things, whether a job will accept you, the way French political standards will change, you have no way of controlling or predicting the damned future so just live like you do day by day, you know that. How many times have I told you, can’t you just calm down for once.”
She rolled her eyes, “ Joan save me ,” she swore, curling a lip up in his direction, “Never tell me to calm down, it doesn’t work that way, Monsieur Sunshine. You’re infuriating, Bastien. Let me wallow in my misery for once would you? Nothing is going right, I have no direction to my life, and… And…” –Yvonne tried to explain the concept of “catastrophizing” to Bastien a few times, and watching Manon spiral the phrase finally clicked– Manon sighed, putting her head on the table briefly, “ Godric dammit , I need to stop drinking. And find different ways of dealing with these feelings.”
“Oh come on, don't say that, I’d lose your lovely business,” The bartender vanished the dregs of her drink, refiling it quickly before either could protest. “Finish your soup first Manon, you don't look like you’ve been eating enough the past few days, did you drink before you left the apartment today?”
“Yes,” a pause “three?” her voice rose at the end in a question, "shots of fire whiskey, I’m almost out of it by now, on a—” she caught herself, breathing deeply through her nose as she considered the phase about to exit her mouth, he knew it too, “it just makes the thoughts less infuriating, it’s not like I binge.” Despite her assurances, Bastien deftly switched their drinks, giving her the low alcohol content butterbeer in favor of the spicy fire whiskey cocktail, she still noticed, and flipped him off, “As your friend I’d rather you drink the butterbeer at this moment, save the you of tomorrow from an even worse headache.” he said, she still suddenly turned to the wizard on her other side and started in on a conversation about the recent electoral scandal, moving her hands wildly enough to nearly knock over the butterbeer, the taller glass in the way of her hand waving.
“Manon, on a serious note would you like my help? You’ve mentioned this a few times before, we can talk about it again when you’re sober.”
Manon finally turned back, slurping the soup, “Yes I would. I need you to help me get all the alcohol out of the apartment first, let’s fire call Tris and Henri, I’d like to catch up with them while we clean the apartment tomorrow, it’s a day off after all, I’ll make you guys some tea, and, and…” she trailed off, pulling her fingers up in front of her face, moving her fingers as though counting or calculating something. She shook her head, putting her hands back down to hold the warm bowl of soup.
“Anyways, I need to find different ways to get my needs met, the alcohol would take the edge off my thoughts and worries, but I want to move to a different, less destructive, method of coping with these emotions.”
Bastien nodded, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. “Good, let’s do it, work on it tomorrow.”
“It’s only because I have you all that I’ve kept my head floating above water this long.” She said, voice turning down again at the end of the sentence, stirring the soup, suddenly fascinated by the texture of it on the spoon in her hands.
“Of course, Manon. Thanks for calling me.” Bastien reached over to finish her drink for her as she stood slinging an arm around his waist as pulled his own around her shoulders to steady her as she walked, neither pulled the other in close as a couple might, though more than one person had asked about it throughout the time they’d known one another.
“Said I would when things got bad, better to meet you out here than at my apartment, you don’t know the state of it” she said, a faraway look crossing her face, lips forming words under her breath, running over some situation she’d decided was a problem as she threw her coat over her shoulder, not bothering to put it on. “Thanks for answering and stopping by. I’m glad I have friends to trust, who I can reach out to, when I’m feeling stuck like this.” Manon leaned forward, handing over the shillings and knots, pulling on the green cloak, they snuck past the full tables, it was amazing they could even hold the conversation with how full the place had become in the last hour, “Tell the witch in charge of warding the place she did an excellent job at keeping the noise level down.” She called back to the bartender.
“Can do, I’ll let Madame Igoroph know.”
She scoffed, “Igor,” snorting in laughter as Manon grabbed her own burgundy beret where it sat next to Bastien’s, “What’s so funny?” Bastien asked, she only shook her head in response, “A right git I once knew back in my younger school days.” He shrugged, pulled on a beret in the same style as they stepped out to apparate across town, praying neither would lose their stomachs upon arrival.
They made it to the door on the second floor, walking up since apparition straight in the building was strongly frowned upon, if rumors were to be believed you’d be half splinched as a warning the first time you did it. Manon snapped out her wand, waving it a number of times near the top, middle, and lower edge, once, twice, three, four times. “Do you need that many locks Manon? Did you steal the bread recipe from the bakery down the street and fear they’ll send the dragon from the kitchen after you?”
She fell against the door, holding a gloved hand across her mouth, laughing uncontrollably, “Bastien please stop, please.” She begged, arms tucked around her sides in mirth. Leaning back she stumbled into him and pulled the door open, he saw now why she’d declined to ask him to come over and chat.
Turned out Manon had had more fire whiskey before apparating to the bar than he initially thought, a bottle sat half empty near the desk, when she started he wasn’t sure, maybe she’d been drinking it all day, or if he was lucky all week. He glanced around, dishes stuck in the sink overflowing to the counter, coffee stains here and there sat uncleaned, excess papers tumbled out of drawers onto the chairs or bed of the small one bedroom apartment, and an array of clothes burst from the small closet filling over half the side of the bed. Her telltale red leather shoulder-bag sat askance under a desk covered in papers a full meter high, black cloak thrown across the chair back. The clock on the wall was glaring at all the mess, he hated his own charmed clock at his parent’s place back in Paris, it frowned and screeched everytime he dropped his socks on the floor instead of the hamper, it was an incentive to keep his place moderately clean at least. Looked like Manon had charmed hers silent, leaving the face and eyes a disgusted blue, beady eyes and hands expressing the level of affront at the sight of the room.
“Let’s fix this together tomorrow,” Bastien said, picking his way carefully around piles of clothes and books, tens of books , he turned his head at an angle to read a title on the top, unfamiliar with the author Isabelle Grancher, the book easily bookmarked within an inch of its life, and Bastien squatted down peering around after hearing the grumbling of a devilish Magical Creatures book squashed unceremoniously at the bottom of the pile.
Manon lazily waved a wand, but her attempt to pull papers back to the desk only succeeded in exploding them across the bed. “ Merde ,” she cursed, running a hand across her face, mittens tucked under her arm, one hanging loose and pulling the other towards their position on the wall hooks.
“No worries,” Bastien waved his wand, and the piles floated carefully off the bed enough to sleep on, he set them to the side, careful not to shuffle them too much. He sat them down, conjuring a glass of water and handing it to Manon as she leaned against the wall, she thankfully drank, “What’s the time?”
“Midnight.”
A hum in response, “Thanks for coming, it helped, really.” He patted the wix on the shoulder, “We’ll come by tomorrow at eleven, how’s that?”
“Great,” she groaned, yanking at the coat, pulling it off a shoulder, struggling to get it the rest of the way off, finally tossing it to the far corner. The wall behind the desk shimmered briefly, night sky shifting to the clouds as they rolled into the city.
Bastien got up and closed the door behind him apparating outside his own apartment across town, “It’ll take all day to get that cleaned and organized,” there went his Sunday of homework, but at the thought of writing more of his final paper, the wizard shuddered and looked forward to extending the cleaning to a whole day event. It would get written eventually, why do it now when he could put it off ‘til later?
~~~