September, 1887 — House Party

Later this month, Don Juan Dempsey was turning twenty-four; tonight he was celebrating with the only person he really cared to. He hadn't been able to clear his actual birthday of plans. Friends from Excalibur had essentially planned the entire day for him in absentia and merely announced what they intended to do for his birthday. It was the same sort of thing they did every time they went out: drinking alcohol first in lavish places and then in progressively shadier and less wholesome environments until they crashed out either at the club or somewhere along the way. It wasn't Hudson's sort of thing, so Don Juan hadn't invited him. His compromise had been to pick another night to celebrate, just the two of them. Tonight was one of the few that had lined up on their calendars, although there were party invitations to be dispatched with before they had the rest of the night to themselves.

The party tonight was exclusively men, tucked into a London house. Cards and dice, cigars, nursed glasses of scotch — that sort of affair. Don Juan was mostly disinterested in the party for its own sake, but he was enjoying occasionally making meaningful eye contact with Hudson from across a room. He'd already been abuzz with anticipation when he showed up tonight; if he squinted, he could consider this whole house party as a kind of elaborate foreplay. Their plans for the night were of the less conventional variety — Don Juan's suggestion, because even after a few successes with this sort of thing Hudson had made it very clear he would never pressure Don Juan into another one. Don Juan was alight with nerves — the good kind, mostly. Hudson had had ample time to prepare for tonight; Don Juan was looking forward to seeing what he'd come up with.

He lost a hand of cards, finished his drink. The fellow sitting next to him offered to go outside for a cigarette with him and he agreed. Out on the garden patio the conversation meandered while he occasionally glanced to the windows, wondering if Hudson had spotted him heading out and might join them. No such luck, though; he was nearly finished with his cigarette and the window for less crowded conversation was closing. Or it was, until two other men joined the group and struck up a new topic of conversation. Don Juan was absently fishing out a second cigarette when one of them asked if he wanted anything stronger. He obviously wasn't looking to get wasted tonight — he had plans. But he also had nerves, only mostly the good kind. Maybe something small, to take the edge off, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Twenty-six minutes later, Don Juan emerged from one of the downstairs bedrooms in the house. His skin was tingling pleasantly, and he had been briefly so distracted by the feeling of smooth metal against his hand that he'd fumbled the doorknob as he slipped through the door. He was accompanied by a pungent cloud of cannabis smoke from the room behind him and a chorus of laughter briefly audible through the open door. As it closed behind him he turned and nearly ran into Hudson, of all people. "Hey, stranger," he said with a languid smile.

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Going home? Was it that time already? Don Juan thought the night was still early, but he hadn't looked at his pocket watch since getting up from the card table. Had he lost track of time in the bedroom just now? It was possible, but he didn't think it that likely. He really hadn't had much to smoke, and hadn't loitered too long afterwards — just long enough to feel the high hit him, to know he'd had enough. It couldn't be late enough for Hudson to be leaving yet — and leaving too early might draw attention, moreso than having skipped the night entirely. Maybe something had upset him and he didn't want to stay any longer; there was something in his tone.

"Something happen?" he asked, though the answer was obvious; what he really needed to know was what. And what he could do about it. Don Juan didn't care about most things in life and tended not to get involved in society drama; he'd let an insult roll off his back without flinching, or even lean into it with a grin... but if someone had said something that had upset Hudson he was quite prepared to go track them down and make them look and feel foolish. Even if no one was to blame per ce he could try and do something to make Hudson feel better. If they hadn't been in someone else's hallway, he would have already leaned in to smooth that crease in Hudson's brow with a kiss or ten.

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It took Don Juan a long beat to parse the implications of that statement. At first he was merely confused, then realized Hudson must have been talking about something for later... but it seemed odd that he would need to leave the party early to prepare anything when he'd had time to do that beforehand, and he had tacked on the word apparently, which meant he hadn't been planning to do this. So he must have meant... cleaning up, putting things away, not getting anything ready.

"What? Why?" he asked. His confusion was apparent on his face. He reached for Hudson's sleeve in the same way he might have reached for his hand, if they were somewhere else and Don Juan was in a more romantic mood. "Are we not...?"

---

Don Juan's forehead creased. "I don't understand," he said plaintively. They'd had plans tonight, and now apparently they didn't — it was hard not to take it personally when Hudson hadn't offered him any explanation as to what had changed. And Hudson wasn't giving him much to go on at all, with these clipped answers.

"Can we go outside?" he asked, hoping a change of scenery would be enough to get Hudson speaking more plainly.

---

"Then I'll come, too," Don Juan insisted. Hudson was angry with him, he was beginning to realize. Probably he was right to be angry; Don Juan could very easily believe that he'd done something wrong. But he still didn't understand, and it didn't seem like a good idea to let Hudson walk away angry without having the faintest idea how he was meant to fix it. If Hudson wouldn't tell him here then he'd just have to follow him home. There was nothing at the party that he wanted to do, anyway; it had just been killing time until the main event... which had apparently been canceled.

---

Don Juan watched him go, expression like a kicked puppy. Once Hudson had disappeared around the corner of the hallway Don Juan fished out his pocket watch and squinted at the time, trying to decide what a reasonable guess was for a few minutes. Obviously it was on his mind and he wanted to go immediately, but Hudson was already angry with him — best not to blatantly ignore his request for time. He decided on ten minutes — but then proceeded to check his watch every forty seconds or so for the first eight, then get distracted by a conversation someone started with him. The next time he looked at his watch, thirty-seven minutes had passed, which was probably stretching the definition of a few very generously.

The floo was in the still-crowded parlor, so he said the Dempsey address first — but barely stepped out of the floo before he was back in and off to Hudson's.

---

Thirty-seven minutes plus some travel time, but in that time Don Juan had given no consideration at all for what to say. He just wanted Hudson to explain why things had taken such a hard turn. They had been flirting from across the room all night, and then the next time Don Juan saw him he was angry and didn't want to talk about it. Needed a few minutes. He couldn't think of any other time that Hudson hadn't wanted him around right away — not unless one counted the night last year where they'd fought and Don Juan had left feeling jilted, but since he still didn't remember the specifics of that night Don Juan tended not to count it.

"So...?" he asked Hudson, eyebrow arched. "What the hell happened?"

---

Don Juan made a face at the pronunciation that he was not sober. It wasn't as though sobriety was a binary concept — and Hudson knew that, because Don Juan knew he'd had a drink or two at the party. Cigarettes left people buzzed, too; why did only some forms of sobriety seem to matter? And Hudson said Don Juan knew how he felt about it, but that wasn't exactly fair. Hudson had said before that if Don Juan came by entirely inebriated, all he'd get was tucked into bed... or something along those lines. He didn't remember the wording. But he was clearly not out of his mind.

"I'm practically sober," he argued. His posture shifted to a more defensive one; arms crossed over his chest, weight on his back foot. "I barely had anything. This'll burn off in a hour, tops." Before Hudson's sudden announcement that he was leaving, they probably would have been at the party at least long enough for the high to have worn off. Don Juan really didn't see what the problem was — unless Hudson was just keen to invent one.

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