There was color in Hudson's cheeks when he threw back his whiskey. Don Juan wanted so badly to touch him, dubious claim to privacy be damned. Fortunately at least one of them was thinking, flustered though he might have been. A change of venue. Sensible. It was jarring to hear that Hudson had a new residence, after Don Juan had become so accustomed to picturing him in the last one, but that was hardly the most pressing issue to think about at the moment. "I'll be there," he agreed as Hudson fled the garden. He had some wine left in his glass, but less than no interest in finishing it. The only thing that kept him lingering on the patio another minute was that he didn't want to be observed following too hot on Hudson's heels — it wouldn't have done to have caught up to him on the way to the floo.

While he found a place to abandon his drink, said his goodbyes to the hosts, fetched his coat, and headed to the floo, he imagined how the conversation might go. He mentally sketched out some snarky comments he could make: so, what do I have to do to prove to you I want it, hm? You want me to beg you for it? You want it in writing? Should we put all the sordid details in the contract, or shall we stick with the umbrella term of 'sodomy'? He fantasized about that intensity he'd seen from Hudson just a moment ago spilling over into physicality — the sort of kisses that could leave bruises on the inside of your lips.

Through the floo and into an unfamiliar house. Don Juan didn't have time to appraise his new surroundings; Hudson wasn't far from the fireplace and as soon as he'd spotted him he was incapable of looking anywhere else. "Nice place," he said, though he hadn't had a chance to verify that yet. "You going to offer me a drink, or will you only fuck me if I'm sober?"

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   Dean Hudson