17th November, 1893 — A Muggle Theatre, West End, London
Nick was on one of his manic streaks, so he would rather do anything than sleep. Or work, for that matter. For the fourth night in a row, he had been too restless to sit at his desk and fight his way through some Sanskrit passages, so he had gone out seeking procrastination.
And he had been very successful at it. He had met friends at the club, and then they’d gone for dinner, and he’d had a headache, so he’d taken just a little cocaine. Then, to the theatre – one of the muggle ones – to see a new play by some muggle playwright. Oscar Wilde, was it?
It had been entertaining enough, never mind how much or how little Nick had taken in – he had had another brandy or two in the interval and was feeling delightfully breezy as the audience filed out after the curtain had come down. But the evening wasn’t over; he would just have to find something else fun to do.
Suddenly, though, a familiar face caught his eye. Or ought he say notorious?
“Evening, King,” Nick exclaimed suddenly, rather more jovially than any greeting to him should have been, given who he was known to be. But there was no one else left here who knew Nick – his friend had gotten bored and left at the interval, and would be all cosied up in a tavern or a brothel somewhere now – and he had to assume most people here weren’t magical... and Victory King’s scandals surely hadn’t made it to the muggle news.
So Nick found he was actually sincerely interested to see him; he’d known him in school, so to his mind King was still that boy before the disownment and the asylum visit and whatever activism nonsense he got up to nowadays. (And before the obvious, too... although probably he had been inclined that way even in his youth.)
So he shot him a smile, flashing teeth, as if to say don’t worry, I come in peace, and began to dawdle, strolling languidly along to better keep pace with King and and his cane down the stairs to the theatre foyer again. “Fancy seeing you,” he said casually, as if they had kept up a friendship in the intervening years. “How did you like the play?”
And he had been very successful at it. He had met friends at the club, and then they’d gone for dinner, and he’d had a headache, so he’d taken just a little cocaine. Then, to the theatre – one of the muggle ones – to see a new play by some muggle playwright. Oscar Wilde, was it?
It had been entertaining enough, never mind how much or how little Nick had taken in – he had had another brandy or two in the interval and was feeling delightfully breezy as the audience filed out after the curtain had come down. But the evening wasn’t over; he would just have to find something else fun to do.
Suddenly, though, a familiar face caught his eye. Or ought he say notorious?
“Evening, King,” Nick exclaimed suddenly, rather more jovially than any greeting to him should have been, given who he was known to be. But there was no one else left here who knew Nick – his friend had gotten bored and left at the interval, and would be all cosied up in a tavern or a brothel somewhere now – and he had to assume most people here weren’t magical... and Victory King’s scandals surely hadn’t made it to the muggle news.
So Nick found he was actually sincerely interested to see him; he’d known him in school, so to his mind King was still that boy before the disownment and the asylum visit and whatever activism nonsense he got up to nowadays. (And before the obvious, too... although probably he had been inclined that way even in his youth.)
So he shot him a smile, flashing teeth, as if to say don’t worry, I come in peace, and began to dawdle, strolling languidly along to better keep pace with King and and his cane down the stairs to the theatre foyer again. “Fancy seeing you,” he said casually, as if they had kept up a friendship in the intervening years. “How did you like the play?”
