It couldn't be said that Bentley was a stranger to pubs - on the contrary, he often could be found within one on the weekends when his friends (few, though they were) convinced him to go out drinking with them. He had never managed to get smashed enough to follow in their footsteps and bring someone home with him as they did. Instead, he took ages to down whatever drink he decided to dive into. Where alcohol made some people into criers, or where some became the giggling drunk, liquor actually made Ben open his mouth for once and allowed him a decent chat.
Because he was well aware of this after so many years of discovering this trait in himself, his intake was dramatically lower than those around him. He never wanted to find himself at the point where he would be willing to talk about his past, his new "parents," or his problems. No, he was content enough to handle all of his issues on his own. If anyone ever tried to fix him, Ben was fairly certain he would go mad. He didn't need people trying to get to know him.
On this cold, white winter night, though, Bentley was avoiding the Ashfords and work, even refraining from his typical stress-relieving methods of smoking, reading, or catching up on the latest news in Quidditch. The deal he had been working so hard for had suddenly been washed down the drain thanks to an incompetent employee (who had, afterwords, been sacked with haste) and Bentley couldn't remember the last time he had been so furious. That deal would have immediately skyrocketed AEP's income, and the company could have easily been helped. That was his job, after all, and he was damn good at it, if he did say so himself. The CEO seemed to think so as well, he joked without amusement.
After having bundled himself up sufficiently, Bentley chose to waste his evening at the Leaky even though he knew full well that he - in all probability - wouldn't come out of it feeling any better or even with any interesting stories to tell if he ever let himself. His perch at the bar became tedious more quickly than he cared to admit, so Bentley nodded subtly to the bartender and plucked his glass of scotch off of the counter.
With the opening of the pub's doors every few minutes, Bentley had quickly realized how horribly positioned he was. Every opening meant a burst of cold air that he didn't appreciate. He was one who preferred to be inside in the winter. He rather hated winter, actually. Christmas had never been something he cared about or participated in, and he found that snow bothered him to no end. All it managed was to get his socks wet and freeze his toes. Instead, Ben preferred to stay inside, maybe glance out at the snow every now and then, and put a fire on to warm his house and pretend it wasn't cold at all. Thus, his feet sent him, immediately, in the direction of the fireplace.
Although he registered the younger man's presence in the other arm chair, Bentley hardly found it in him to care, as he usually would. Instead, his eyes watched the first for a minute before he downed a good portion of the drink and glanced over at the other chair. He certainly looked a little trashed, whoever he was, Bentley mused. At the rate Ben was drinking, though, he would probably be in the same position in no time. He was probably nearly there anyway.
He couldn't say why he chose right then to become talkative, but something about the male to his right caught his attention. Maybe it was the alcohol causing all of this. Or maybe it was just that Bentley recognized the look in the eyes of the young man, and it made him curious. "Rough night?" He asked in his usual low, heavily accented voice.
Bentley caught sight of the butterbeer in the guy's hand and figured that the Leaky hadn't provided whatever drink had caused his seemingly-off demeanor. If the boy's day had been as bad as Bentley's had, he had a feeling the drink was well-earned, and Ben wasn't about to patronize him.