September, 1887 — House Party

Later this month, Don Juan Dempsey was turning twenty-four; tonight he was celebrating with the only person he really cared to. He hadn't been able to clear his actual birthday of plans. Friends from Excalibur had essentially planned the entire day for him in absentia and merely announced what they intended to do for his birthday. It was the same sort of thing they did every time they went out: drinking alcohol first in lavish places and then in progressively shadier and less wholesome environments until they crashed out either at the club or somewhere along the way. It wasn't Hudson's sort of thing, so Don Juan hadn't invited him. His compromise had been to pick another night to celebrate, just the two of them. Tonight was one of the few that had lined up on their calendars, although there were party invitations to be dispatched with before they had the rest of the night to themselves.

The party tonight was exclusively men, tucked into a London house. Cards and dice, cigars, nursed glasses of scotch — that sort of affair. Don Juan was mostly disinterested in the party for its own sake, but he was enjoying occasionally making meaningful eye contact with Hudson from across a room. He'd already been abuzz with anticipation when he showed up tonight; if he squinted, he could consider this whole house party as a kind of elaborate foreplay. Their plans for the night were of the less conventional variety — Don Juan's suggestion, because even after a few successes with this sort of thing Hudson had made it very clear he would never pressure Don Juan into another one. Don Juan was alight with nerves — the good kind, mostly. Hudson had had ample time to prepare for tonight; Don Juan was looking forward to seeing what he'd come up with.

He lost a hand of cards, finished his drink. The fellow sitting next to him offered to go outside for a cigarette with him and he agreed. Out on the garden patio the conversation meandered while he occasionally glanced to the windows, wondering if Hudson had spotted him heading out and might join them. No such luck, though; he was nearly finished with his cigarette and the window for less crowded conversation was closing. Or it was, until two other men joined the group and struck up a new topic of conversation. Don Juan was absently fishing out a second cigarette when one of them asked if he wanted anything stronger. He obviously wasn't looking to get wasted tonight — he had plans. But he also had nerves, only mostly the good kind. Maybe something small, to take the edge off, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Twenty-six minutes later, Don Juan emerged from one of the downstairs bedrooms in the house. His skin was tingling pleasantly, and he had been briefly so distracted by the feeling of smooth metal against his hand that he'd fumbled the doorknob as he slipped through the door. He was accompanied by a pungent cloud of cannabis smoke from the room behind him and a chorus of laughter briefly audible through the open door. As it closed behind him he turned and nearly ran into Hudson, of all people. "Hey, stranger," he said with a languid smile.

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