25 September 1891 — A Classy Opium Den Somewhere in Britain
When he'd slipped out of the bed he had shared with Angelica and stolen upstairs to find a fresh set of clothes, he hadn't entirely decided where he was going. It had become apparent to him that sleep was impossible, at least under the current circumstances, and he couldn't stand to lie there staring at the ceiling and waiting for her to wake up and start talking to him again. He wasn't sure which tone the conversation would take once it started, but anything he could imagine was equally unpalatable. Even if he hadn't had the conversation looming overhead, he felt uncomfortable lying beside her, in a way he never had before. The air was too thick in the room. He was distracted by the littlest things. He was seized by the conviction that sleeping with her had been a mistake — possibly even a trap — though he couldn't articulate why he felt that way, even to himself. He had to get away, and by the time he was in a state to leave it was far too late to turn up at a friend or relative's house without being badgered with questions.
Which was what had brought him to the opium den. These sorts of places never turned anyone out, and they never asked questions, and at the moment that was precisely what he needed. He booked a private room, ordered some opium he didn't particularly want, and tried to clear his head. When that didn't work, he sent a letter to Art Pettigrew. Emrys hadn't been sure if he would come — they'd limited their interactions so far to the aftermath of parties, and Pettigrew's status as a man with a career and a family meant he might not be available for spontaneous liaisons. The stars seemed to have aligned in his favor, though — that or Pettigrew sensed that there was some urgency to this, even though Emrys had been trying almost too hard for casual in his letter. In any case, here they were. There was some exchange of small talk, as there always was, but Emrys' mind wasn't in the right state to hold onto any of it after it had passed. Pettigrew seemed settled in, which meant there was no reason to keep stalling. Despite how little he'd put in his letter, Emrys did have a purpose for having asked the other man here.
"Have you ever tried to tell anyone?" he asked — maybe abruptly; he hadn't been keeping track of the conversation well enough to know. "That you do things like this? Not opium," he clarified, with a quick shake of his head. "You know. With men."
Which was what had brought him to the opium den. These sorts of places never turned anyone out, and they never asked questions, and at the moment that was precisely what he needed. He booked a private room, ordered some opium he didn't particularly want, and tried to clear his head. When that didn't work, he sent a letter to Art Pettigrew. Emrys hadn't been sure if he would come — they'd limited their interactions so far to the aftermath of parties, and Pettigrew's status as a man with a career and a family meant he might not be available for spontaneous liaisons. The stars seemed to have aligned in his favor, though — that or Pettigrew sensed that there was some urgency to this, even though Emrys had been trying almost too hard for casual in his letter. In any case, here they were. There was some exchange of small talk, as there always was, but Emrys' mind wasn't in the right state to hold onto any of it after it had passed. Pettigrew seemed settled in, which meant there was no reason to keep stalling. Despite how little he'd put in his letter, Emrys did have a purpose for having asked the other man here.
"Have you ever tried to tell anyone?" he asked — maybe abruptly; he hadn't been keeping track of the conversation well enough to know. "That you do things like this? Not opium," he clarified, with a quick shake of his head. "You know. With men."
Lou made this! <3