Late Spring, 1893 — A week after Dean's letter — Dean's House, Bartonburg

He had been writing. At least he had after Hudson implied that he wasn't, because he wanted to be able to say he was writing in an upcoming argument and have it sound true, so he had to make it true. It was obvious what Hudson thought he'd been doing, and — well, he'd done that too, but he was still telling himself that he hadn't been planning it until Hudson had gone throwing out accusations and he'd suddenly had too many feelings bottled up inside and no other way to drown them out. He hadn't been planning on skipping out on his plans with Hudson to get high. He just hadn't had it in him to repeat the same fight from the night before, and it felt inevitable if he came back the next night. So yes, his excuse about the publisher had been invented, but he still felt Dean jumping to the conclusion he had was entirely unfair.

Not that he was going to say so. He hadn't responded to the letter and had stayed back from Hudson's house long enough to let the matter die, he hoped. If not — well, he'd prepared for the argument, but he also thought he was more than capable of distracting Dean tonight. He'd written first — briefly, just can I drop by tonight?, but he didn't want to risk catching Dean in a bad mood and making it worse by surprising him.

He arrived through the floo and went off in search of Hudson, tugging the sleeve on his jacket as he walked to keep his shirt from sticking to his swollen skin. "Hey," he said on finding him, finding a place to lean (he was always leaning on things rather than standing up straight). "Are you free on Thursday? I wanted to make plans."

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Dean was sat behind his desk, a document for work in English on one side and a second, half-complete under his quill has he translated into French. He mumbled under his breath in the same language, hardly aware he was doing it. He was halfway through his second glass of whiskey, trying multiple ways to keep his mind busy and to tire himself out so he could go upstairs and pass out shortly. Unfortunately for him, he could oscillate between the two languages he'd grown up speaking without much thought, so it wasn't working as well as he would have hoped. He was definitely going to have to proof read the second document tomorrow once he got to work, but he was getting the gist of it for now.

He took a swig of the whiskey, running the same hand through his hair after he set it down. His quill kept scratching (he really was going to have to do a cleaner version of this tomorrow, this was bad, even for him) even as Don Juan appeared in the doorway. He held up a hand for a moment, finishing the sentence he was halfway through before setting down the quill. "Non," he sighed, and because his brain was still in French, started the sentence first in French before he caught himself, "I leave for Paris that afternoon for my cousin's wedding." He was pretty sure he'd mentioned it more than once, but he couldn't pretend to know if anything he mentioned, things that didn't directly involve Don Juan, were even registered. "I'll be back Sunday night."

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God damn Hudson and god damn his French cousin. Don Juan had been going to suggest Paris as a romantic gesture, forgetting it was just another humdrum location for him. He vaguely recalled the wedding, but he'd forgotten the date, obviously, and he wasn't sure he'd known that it was in France. Well, fuck it; he had a few more days to plan something, then, and Hudson probably wouldn't have been keen on his method of travel anyway (a black market portkey — going to Paris wasn't illegal and he didn't intend to do anything illegal while he was there, but who had time to fill out requisition forms?)

He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Monday night?" A night on a work day wasn't exactly a getaway — but really he'd been kidding himself with that idea in the first place anyway. He was never going to convince Hudson to take a Friday off to spend time with him. The plans he'd been loosely formulating were getting less grand and less romantic by the moment. Maybe just dinner at a nice restaurant? He could have gotten a cabin or a flat for the night too, but he wasn't sure what amenities he could seek out in a day rental that weren't already available to them here. Maybe it was enough just to get Hudson away from his work for a second, though — Don Juan observed with buried exasperation that even though he'd come in the evening Dean was still working.

"Do you ever take a break?" he asked, gesturing towards the document. (Little wonder, perhaps, that Hudson begrudged him his fun).

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Leaning back in his chair, Dean shrugged. "Maybe," he would probably be tired from the weekend and what even was the point in making plans these days? Dempsey hardly showed up half the time anymore. Dean had said he would be patient, but maybe he'd overestimated just how deep the well ran. He could be more patient if there was any progress being made, but as soon as he thought they might be taking a step forward, things seemed to go sliding backwards.

His jaw tightened at the comment about his work. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, biting back the unkind retort that bubbled up first. He'd almost said it in French, but Dempsey knew enough that it was dicey. "Deadlines. And I'll miss Friday. I do like living here." He hadn't had any slip ups at work since skipping the event in December; he had very little wiggle room to fuck up.

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He'd already mentally downgraded from a weekend on the continent to an overnight in London, and still the best he could get was maybe. Don Juan sighed, disappointed and showing it. He could suggest another day farther out, but Dean hadn't even met him halfway and provided an alternative suggestion. All the signal he was giving was that he just didn't care to make plans. He was still angry about last week, probably. Don Juan ought to have expected that, or at least planned for it as a contingency.

He dodged the passive aggressive comment about living here. He didn't want to fight; that was the whole reason he'd canceled their night together a week ago.

"I missed you," he insisted. "Missed you and missed you and missed you and missed you." Five — one for each of the days he'd been sober in the last week.

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   Dean Hudson, Themis Lyra

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Dean sighed, more softly this time, less exasperated. "I'm always in the same spot." He wasn't the one who kept disappearing. The election this year was starting to eat up a lot of his free time, so he was busy, but he was always right here, every night. There were extra hours and long days, sure, but he hadn't the energy to be doing anything else but translating or Don Juan. He wasn't burnt out, but he was tired.

Maybe that was part of the problem. He always found his temper was shorter when he was tired, which wasn't Don Juan's fault. He forced himself to relax his muscles, to unclench his hands on his knees. The document was mostly done, he could finish at work in the morning, and clean up the first half. "Next Friday?"

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He might have always been in the same place, but some nights it was farther away than others. Tonight, for instance — there was a lot of distance to cover between them tonight. Some nights it was easy, but it seemed like less and less frequently. More and more often lately it was an uphill battle just to feel like he'd made a connection.

That wasn't entirely fair. Dean wouldn't be so distant if he'd been upholding his end of the bargain. The poorly defined, never revisited, never articulated bargain. He was supposed to be better. He still didn't know what that meant, in terms of practical steps to take. He'd thought it was some progress that he'd kept his drug habit soundly out of Dean's life — certainly an improvement over the last time they'd been together — but Dean still assumed he was at risk of overdosing every time he was out of sight, so what had it gotten him? Nothing much.

But he was trying. He was. "Next Friday," he agreed with relief, recognizing the olive branch for what it was. "Let's do something nice."

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Dean nodded, closing up the dossier on his desk now that the ink was dry. He pulled his whiskey to his lips and drained the rest in one sip. Next Friday; keep the weekend open, decline any invitations that came. He wouldn't mind a night or two of something low key. He had to hold out hope that Don Juan would show up.

Moving around to the front of his desk, Dean leaned back against it, the distance between them much closer, both figuratively and physically. There smudges of ink on his hands and he rubbed them off just for something to do with his hands. "What did you have in mind?" It would be nice to have something to look forward to. The weekend away in France was just going to be tedious. Much as he loved his mother, her side of the family could be a little... much. Mae would be in her element and he would just follow around on her metaphorical coattails so as to keep the conversation off of himself. He really wasn't in the mood for the questions he knew were coming; how's work going? When are you going to settle down? Any pretty ladies we should know about? He watched his older brother go through it the last time and he wasn't looking forward to having it aimed at him. It would be nice if he could bring Dempsey with him, but that felt like a stretch, and he didn't want them looking at him too closely either.

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Don Juan reached up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, and then the stretch made his upper arm rub against his shirt again. He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulder, trying to shake his sleeve away from his skin without being too obvious about it. He wanted to suggest the weekend, since the original idea had been to do something grand and romantic, but he was also cautious of asking for too much. He still had the sting of being shot down twice, and Dean's agreement here felt fragile and conditional. Might have to just come right out and apologize, he thought... but if he apologized it was like admitting that Dean had been right in his letter, and Don Juan didn't want to do that.

"Do you sail?" he asked hopefully. "I could rent one of the cabins on the Sanditon Terrace. Take the weekend...? Or just the night," he continued hastily, feeling insecure about the proposal when Hudson hadn't agreed within the first half-second of his having made it.

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"I haven't been in a while," he'd done some small ventures in the Mediterranean, but it had been when he'd spent some time abroad after graduating. He didn't often have time for things like that when he traveled anymore, which was a pity. It sounded lovely, honestly, but Dean wondered if it was plausible. It would be a nice change of scenery, something different.

Dean didn't often worry about what other people thought, but would this be conspicuous, just the two of them? "Can we get away with it?" A larger group, fine, but would anyone even look at them sideways? He had never tried something like this before. Dean tended to keep his indiscretions closer to home (though not often at home anymore, present company aside), so he wasn't sure how to go about it.

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Get away with it? Don Juan didn't see why not, and of course immediately wondered if this was Hudson's soft, reasonable way of turning him down. Killing the idea but being able to plausibly say he'd really wanted to (... while calling Don Juan out on his feigned excuse with the editor, the hypocrite). The Sanditon wasn't so easy as going abroad, that was true — if they'd gone to the continent they really might have gotten away with almost anything — but so long as they behaved while they were in public sight at the resort Don Juan didn't see why anyone would mind that they were sharing the bungalow. He'd shared accommodations with friends on plenty of occasions, even when the guest list outnumbered the beds and they had to draw lots to see who was sleeping on the couch and who was regulated to the floor. The bigger danger of Hudson sharing a cottage with him wasn't that they'd be found out for sleeping together; it was that someone would assume they'd holed up for the weekend to take hallucinogens.

"It'd just be under my name," he said with a shrug. "I'll even book one with separate bedrooms, if you want." He was still wary that Hudson would end up turning down the whole premise, and so was now wearing his best doe-eyed, pleading expression. "Please? It'll be three weeks apart, by then. Don't you think we could use it?"

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Biting down on his tongue, Dean hated that he had to keep checking his initial reactions. He hated the subtle, underlying tone that he was being unreasonable here. That it was his fault that it would be three weeks apart by then. It wasn't his fault he had a family function this weekend away that Don Juan had been warned about in advance. He didn't care for the fact that Don Juan was trying to make up for disappearing on him with this grand gesture. Dean wasn't that fussy of a person, he didn't need need to be placated like this. The best apology was a change in behavior and the steps forward were so small, he wondered if they even counted when they went sliding backwards every single time.

Saying no wasn't really an option though. Don Juan would take it far too personally and probably disappear for longer than three weeks this time. Dean didn't really feel like arguing either. There was always this underlying tension at moments like this that wore on him, frayed his nerves a little bit. Maybe he cared a little too much, but he said he'd be patient. "Alright." He agreed.

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Don Juan beamed, trying to pretend he didn't hear the reluctance beneath Hudson's tone and that he hadn't noticed the pause before he agreed. Trying to pretend that everything was fine and that they could sweep the last week behind them. And they could — Hudson had made him work for this agreement, but they were going to spend a weekend together. Don Juan would stock the room with elegant breakfast foods so they could stay in bed as long as they wanted in the morning. They'd go sailing. They'd stay up until midnight drinking and playing silly games that involved losing articles of clothing, then fuck and cuddle and fall asleep and come to bleary-eyed an hour later and fuck again. Dean would see his new tattoo. The past would be behind them.

"Will you kiss me?" he asked, finally pushing himself away from the doorframe and coming into the room properly.

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   Dean Hudson

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Another argument avoided. It was probably for the better. He didn't want to leave in a few days at odds. Plus he would enjoy having the following weekend to look forward to, even if he reserved a little spot in the back of his head to be disappointed. No responsibilities, just a weekend to kill however they liked. Maybe it would be good for them, especially after he was gone for a few days.

Letting the rest of the tension go from his limbs, Dean chuckled. As if that answer was ever no. He beckoned Don Juan over with one finger, reaching out to pull him in close when he was within arm's length. Searching Don Juan's eyes for a just a moment before leaning in, Dean found himself relaxing further. They always had that going for them. The kiss was low and slow, teasing out any lingering hesitations he might have had from a few minutes ago.

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Once their lips met it was easy not to think about anything else, to let this moment be the only thing on his mind. He wasn't planning to stay tonight (which he'd tried to make clear in his letter when he'd asked to just drop by) but even so he eventually found himself leaning in closer to Hudson. This always happened when they kissed. His arms had their own gravity; they pulled Don Juan in no matter the situation.

"— oof," he mumbled, breaking off their kiss with a wince when Hudson's hand brushed his sleeve, which in turn rubbed up against the new tattoo. "Sorry," he said, taking a second to shake his sleeve out again and then diving right back into another kiss.

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Dean both loved and hated that it was this easy to ignore everything else when they were like this. He took a deep breath as Don Juan leaned back, brows furrowed. He hardly registered what had happened, moving his hands away from wherever they'd been, when Don Juan shook out his sleeve.

He didn't have time to ask about it though, before he was pulled back in and Dean let it go for a moment, sinking into the feeling a little too far. He knew he was sleeping alone tonight, so he may as well make the most of it while he wasn't solo. Swinging their positions around, Dean held Don Juan against the edge of his desk, planning to hold him there for a few more minutes until things dissolved further or he went to bed frustrated.

Or he kept managing to aggravate something that Don Juan hadn't told him about. The second time there was a pause, Dean leaned back a little. "Everything alright?"

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