A torrent of emotions hit him all at once, as if he was a barbaric primate rather than a man capable of controlling himself. Irritation, anger, emptiness, all spurred by the sudden interruption. Greengrass handed over the bottle, and when Valerian dared a glance back in his direction he felt a tightness in his chest. He was looking in his direction, the words next time, a spoken promise, hanging in the air as if all he would have to do was name a time and place. The irritation and all that encompassed it faded almost immediately, replaced by very different, but far more intense emotions: longing, desire, and an urge to say fuck it all and lean across the chairs to capture Greengrass' lips in his own, something only the presence of the dozen or so men in the club prevented him from doing.
It was his turn to mirror Greengrass' body language was he leaned just a fraction closer. "Next time," he repeated, a promise if he'd ever made one. There were lots of uncertainties to face in the next month—his wedding date, whether or not he'd be living at home between the time the new of the engagement broke and the wedding, if Macmillan was planning his death right now or if he'd accepted Tatiana's decision and given up—but none of those uncertainties included whether or not he would seek to resume this conversation at a later date.
He would have Greengrass; it was just a question of when and where now.
It was his turn to mirror Greengrass' body language was he leaned just a fraction closer. "Next time," he repeated, a promise if he'd ever made one. There were lots of uncertainties to face in the next month—his wedding date, whether or not he'd be living at home between the time the new of the engagement broke and the wedding, if Macmillan was planning his death right now or if he'd accepted Tatiana's decision and given up—but none of those uncertainties included whether or not he would seek to resume this conversation at a later date.
He would have Greengrass; it was just a question of when and where now.
