Don Juan had misread the letter. Not the words themselves, but the subtext. He'd connected the dots between making arrangements for a given day and time and the intimation that Hudson was looking forward to seeing him again after so long and thought their planned night was the first day Hudson was back; that he had set aside the first time he could for them to spend time together. Don Juan hadn't clarified (had never even considered that there was anything to clarify), just assumed. Now he felt rather like an ass for having assumed anything at all.
When he'd headed through the floo an hour ago he'd been quite aware that it might be locked, and that would have been fine. He'd decided to go to Hudson's presumably empty house on a whim. He intended to leave an unpublished manuscript he'd gotten his hands on that he thought Hudson would like — one of the adventure stories he was so keen on. It would have been entirely understandable if the floo had bounced him back, if the house had been closed off by the staff and not yet reopened, and he just had to leave it in his bedroom until tomorrow. On the other hand, if the floo was online, he could drop it at Hudson's desk and leave a little note. Something sweet, but short. Proof that he'd been missed.
The floo was open, and he fortunately didn't run into the staff right off. He was vaguely aware that he was breaking and entering, so he moved quietly on the stairs towards Hudson's study door — and heard that the bedroom was occupied.
He left the way he came in, but he didn't floo home. He went to the Broomsticks, and walked from there. He told himself he was getting air to clear his head, but after a quick circuit of Padmore Park he ended up loitering on the street corner across from Hudson's house, chain-smoking.
It had been stupid to assume that the first day Hudson wanted to see him was the first day he was available — stupid to assume there was no one else who outranked him when it came to people Hudson enjoyed spending time with. He hadn't even once thought to question it. Why had he leapt so confidently to the wrong conclusion? Don Juan tucked the manuscript into the back of his waistband, feeling foolish holding onto it on the street. Particularly while Hudson was locked away in his bedroom, doing the sort of thing Don Juan didn't. Don Juan hadn't hesitated at the door long enough to listen much; as soon as he'd realized what he was overhearing he'd made his escape. He didn't even know the gender of the person on the other side of the door with Hudson. But he recognized Hudson's voice, obviously, and he didn't need to hear more than the tone to know exactly what sort of thing they were about. He'd been thinking about it since the aborted trial run in February, and thinking about how Hudson had described it afterwards. Intimate trust, was that the phrase? And he could supply half a dozen more descriptors of his own: intense, passionate, primal, raw. And here Don Juan was, on the street corner with a manuscript for a novel and the quaintly charming idea of leaving a note.
He finished the cigarettes he'd had left in his case and paid a boy passing by a sickle to bring him more. It wasn't his usual brand and the only flavor they had was tinny tobacco, but they would have to do. He lit the first one and it felt cheap in his fingers. Enterprising boy — bought the cheapest cigarettes available and pocketed the overhead, probably. Don Juan couldn't exactly blame him.
It wasn't that he'd never reconsidered the idea, after that night in February. After Hudson had explained it Don Juan kept going back to the idea, turning it over and over in his mind. They'd been set up for failure in February for a multitude of reasons, but one of the chief one was that Don Juan hadn't been entirely sure of Hudson's motivation at the time. They'd parted on cool terms and not spoken for months; it would have been easy for him to have been resentful. He'd been flustered at the party before Don Juan came to his house; it could have been nerves or it could have been anger. They never discussed what they were about to do before it happened, at least not explicitly. So Don Juan had wanted to think Hudson was going to have fun with him... but there were at least even odds that he'd instead been trying to teach him a lesson. That he'd wanted to see Don Juan squirm and eventually break, so that he could then stand over him with a sense of superiority and say see?
He wasn't unsure about Hudson's motivations now. (Or, he thought wryly, if this was still part of some anger-fueled revenge scheme, Hudson had been playing the long game well enough that he deserved the point). He'd thought about what might happen if Hudson asked him to do something like that again — the ways in which everything might be different. But Hudson had never asked, probably too wary of being seen to pressure Don Juan into something he didn't want... and Don Juan was, frankly, too embarrassed about the way the last time had gone to conceive of bringing it up himself.
But this was what Hudson wanted, clearly. He was up in his room growling directives at someone else right now, while Don Juan smoked cigarettes he didn't even like. If Don Juan didn't figure out how to bring it up, then he could not pretend to be affronted when Hudson went and found it somewhere else.
A flash of green from behind Hudson's parlor windows brought him back to the present; he'd been watching the house without really taking anything in for some minutes. Someone had left through the floo, probably; Hudson was finished with his... fun. There was no point in standing on the sidewalk and watching an empty house, and this would only get increasingly more pathetic the longer he loitered (it had not yet entirely dawned on him how pathetic it was already). He stubbed out the cigarette and headed back to the Broomsticks, mind still in a haze. He was going to go home — except the address he said was a Bartonburg one, and then he was stepping out into Hudson's parlor. And Hudson was still here, because he'd called down right away. Don Juan froze for a second, panicked, and by the time he'd managed to think just leave again, idiot Hudson was already coming down the stairs. Hudson's smile made Don Juan's stomach do somersaults, in the worst of ways.
"Did I mistake the date?" he asked, pulling this pretense out of thin air but immediately deciding to latch onto it wholeheartedly. "It's not — which day is it?"
When he'd headed through the floo an hour ago he'd been quite aware that it might be locked, and that would have been fine. He'd decided to go to Hudson's presumably empty house on a whim. He intended to leave an unpublished manuscript he'd gotten his hands on that he thought Hudson would like — one of the adventure stories he was so keen on. It would have been entirely understandable if the floo had bounced him back, if the house had been closed off by the staff and not yet reopened, and he just had to leave it in his bedroom until tomorrow. On the other hand, if the floo was online, he could drop it at Hudson's desk and leave a little note. Something sweet, but short. Proof that he'd been missed.
The floo was open, and he fortunately didn't run into the staff right off. He was vaguely aware that he was breaking and entering, so he moved quietly on the stairs towards Hudson's study door — and heard that the bedroom was occupied.
He left the way he came in, but he didn't floo home. He went to the Broomsticks, and walked from there. He told himself he was getting air to clear his head, but after a quick circuit of Padmore Park he ended up loitering on the street corner across from Hudson's house, chain-smoking.
It had been stupid to assume that the first day Hudson wanted to see him was the first day he was available — stupid to assume there was no one else who outranked him when it came to people Hudson enjoyed spending time with. He hadn't even once thought to question it. Why had he leapt so confidently to the wrong conclusion? Don Juan tucked the manuscript into the back of his waistband, feeling foolish holding onto it on the street. Particularly while Hudson was locked away in his bedroom, doing the sort of thing Don Juan didn't. Don Juan hadn't hesitated at the door long enough to listen much; as soon as he'd realized what he was overhearing he'd made his escape. He didn't even know the gender of the person on the other side of the door with Hudson. But he recognized Hudson's voice, obviously, and he didn't need to hear more than the tone to know exactly what sort of thing they were about. He'd been thinking about it since the aborted trial run in February, and thinking about how Hudson had described it afterwards. Intimate trust, was that the phrase? And he could supply half a dozen more descriptors of his own: intense, passionate, primal, raw. And here Don Juan was, on the street corner with a manuscript for a novel and the quaintly charming idea of leaving a note.
He finished the cigarettes he'd had left in his case and paid a boy passing by a sickle to bring him more. It wasn't his usual brand and the only flavor they had was tinny tobacco, but they would have to do. He lit the first one and it felt cheap in his fingers. Enterprising boy — bought the cheapest cigarettes available and pocketed the overhead, probably. Don Juan couldn't exactly blame him.
It wasn't that he'd never reconsidered the idea, after that night in February. After Hudson had explained it Don Juan kept going back to the idea, turning it over and over in his mind. They'd been set up for failure in February for a multitude of reasons, but one of the chief one was that Don Juan hadn't been entirely sure of Hudson's motivation at the time. They'd parted on cool terms and not spoken for months; it would have been easy for him to have been resentful. He'd been flustered at the party before Don Juan came to his house; it could have been nerves or it could have been anger. They never discussed what they were about to do before it happened, at least not explicitly. So Don Juan had wanted to think Hudson was going to have fun with him... but there were at least even odds that he'd instead been trying to teach him a lesson. That he'd wanted to see Don Juan squirm and eventually break, so that he could then stand over him with a sense of superiority and say see?
He wasn't unsure about Hudson's motivations now. (Or, he thought wryly, if this was still part of some anger-fueled revenge scheme, Hudson had been playing the long game well enough that he deserved the point). He'd thought about what might happen if Hudson asked him to do something like that again — the ways in which everything might be different. But Hudson had never asked, probably too wary of being seen to pressure Don Juan into something he didn't want... and Don Juan was, frankly, too embarrassed about the way the last time had gone to conceive of bringing it up himself.
But this was what Hudson wanted, clearly. He was up in his room growling directives at someone else right now, while Don Juan smoked cigarettes he didn't even like. If Don Juan didn't figure out how to bring it up, then he could not pretend to be affronted when Hudson went and found it somewhere else.
A flash of green from behind Hudson's parlor windows brought him back to the present; he'd been watching the house without really taking anything in for some minutes. Someone had left through the floo, probably; Hudson was finished with his... fun. There was no point in standing on the sidewalk and watching an empty house, and this would only get increasingly more pathetic the longer he loitered (it had not yet entirely dawned on him how pathetic it was already). He stubbed out the cigarette and headed back to the Broomsticks, mind still in a haze. He was going to go home — except the address he said was a Bartonburg one, and then he was stepping out into Hudson's parlor. And Hudson was still here, because he'd called down right away. Don Juan froze for a second, panicked, and by the time he'd managed to think just leave again, idiot Hudson was already coming down the stairs. Hudson's smile made Don Juan's stomach do somersaults, in the worst of ways.
"Did I mistake the date?" he asked, pulling this pretense out of thin air but immediately deciding to latch onto it wholeheartedly. "It's not — which day is it?"
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3