Emrys had not been having a very merry Christmas. He had also not had an exceptionally happy new year, and now that they were on the other side of the holidays things showed very little sign of improving expeditiously. He'd tried to distract himself with work during the day, but there was nothing to do during winter that was suitably distracting. Most ships were out and not due to return for weeks or months. The art scene was in hibernation, ready to emerge in the spring and feed their newest creations to the hungry maw of society. He'd run out of things to do by early afternoon, and then he'd had to find other distractions, and none of them were sufficient to take his mind off things. If he couldn't be distracted he might as well be numbed, he decided, so by the time the servant announced he had company he was lightly intoxicated. Not really enough to noticeable, but enough that he had to ask for clarification on who was here to see him — he thought at first that he must have misheard.

"Mr. Pettigrew," he said as he came into the parlor. He said Mr. Pettigrew because the door hadn't finished closing behind him yet and he cared too much about his lover's privacy to risk even his exceptionally-discreet servants overhearing anything, but his tone said my dearest. This was unexpected; he didn't feel the need to say so. They didn't often see each other without having made plans first, and even when they did there was usually at least a letter first to warn of the intent. So something must be the matter, he thought, and Arthur's demeanor seemed to confirm this. His brows knitted in concern. "A drink?"

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