1886 — Pub in Seedy Magical London

"Can I tell you about the shop?" Monk asked hopefully. He and the older man had settled into the booth just a moment earlier, and Ewan had already fetched them both a pint. Ewan rolled his eyes. Can't we even order dinner first? Monk deflated slightly. He'd been keen to tell his partner about his first day at a new job — one he thought he maybe liked, though it was too early to tell — but this was his third failed attempt, and he was beginning to think maybe he'd better drop it. The first time had been right when Ewan walked through the door — Monk's fault, really, because in hindsight he knew better. Ewan never wanted to talk about anything right after he came home, and today was no exception. Christ, give a man five minutes, would ya, before you start in? I'm stressed. Monk had been with Ewan long enough to understand what stressed meant: he was in a poor mood for the foreseeable future, unless Monk did something to put him in a better one. So he'd given Ewan some puppy-dog eyes and put his head in Ewan's lap and prattled on about how grateful he was for everything Ewan did for the pair of them — which he was, genuinely, because living with Ewan was better than living in the labor boarding house. And then when Ewan seemed a little less rough around the edges Monk undid his belt buckle and took him first in his fingers and then in his mouth, until Ewan finished and his bad mood disappeared.

After that Ewan was doting, as he usually was after he came. He ruffled Monk's hair and kissed his forehead and offered to take the pair of them out to dinner so neither of them had to cook, and Monk readily agreed since he was a shit cook. They'd been walking to the pub when Monk had brought his day up a second time, and Ewan had scowled. You want to stop in the freezing street and tell stories? C'mon, knucklehead, let's get to dinner. Once they'd been settled at the table Monk had thought it safe to ask again, but now he was kicking himself — he should have known to wait until after dinner was on the way. After dinner had been ordered, but before it arrived was the ideal window— if he waited until the food was here Ewan was liable to complain that all the chatter interfered with his digestion.

But now he didn't think he'd bring it up again. He'd already struck his third match, as it were, and it had fizzled out. If he brought it up a fourth time he would probably be accused of nagging. He didn't want to get Ewan into a bad mood again, and ruin dinner — particularly because Ewan's bad moods weren't so easily addressed when they were out in public and Monk couldn't get on his knees to fix them.

I need to piss, Ewan said, and left the table. Monk, left alone with two pint glasses, heaved a sigh and ran his finger through the condensation on the side of his glass.

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