It would be naive to think the baby shouldn't change anything. "Right," Ford repeated dumbly. His ears were buzzing. Was this the last time that he would see Macnair? The last time that he would see him like this, anyway — of course they'd still pass each other at social events or at the club and maybe sometimes even be forced to talk to each other. (Maybe Macnair would even go out of his way to talk to him — the summer all over again. Damn it all). But was that what he meant when he said of course things would change? That all of this was over?

Ford had just told Macnair he loved him, and Macnair had just said it back. Ford wished he wouldn't have, if it was just going to be followed by this. If things were over, he thought he'd rather not know that his feelings were reciprocated. At least then he could just feel sorry for himself in isolation.

He took half a step back, putting a sliver more distance between them. When he spoke there was a lump in his throat he had to work past. "So, congratulations, I guess."

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Set by Lady!

When Greengrass moved backwards, his heart leapt in his chest for all the wrong reasons. He didn't want to overanalyze body language or make assumptions, because from his experience that never went well, but how could he not?

"I—" he began, but he forgot what he intended to say as soon as he started to speak. Congratulations? It was not a response that went well with Greengrass' expression. Instead of a genuine comment it seemed like the way to end the conversation—or a way to end a relationship. And yet he found it impossible to ask if that was the case, because what if the answer was yes?

"—Thank you," was what finally came out, despite that it wasn't at all what he wanted to say.

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The words fell flat in the air between them, but Ford felt keyed up regardless. What was he supposed to say now? If this were just a conversation in a club with an acquaintance he could ask the usual questions, but did he want to know the answers? Would his brain even be capable of holding on to any information about things like when the baby was due or how his wife was feeling or whether they'd picked out a name? Good god — picking out a name. Ford pictured it for a second, despite himself: Macnair and his wife cuddling in the bed in the London house, the bed where Ford and Macnair had been together for the first time, cooing over how to name the baby. He felt sick. His ears were still buzzing.

"I, ah," he fumbled, entirely unsure where he was going to go with this but feeling as though he couldn't keep silent and wait it out any longer. He moved his hands to the pockets of his trousers. "Could — could I maybe have a drink, please?"

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Set by Lady!