Oh. That response elicited a twitch from below Ford's belt, and he shifted slightly in his chair to disguise it. It was the same confidence Ford had been responding to for the entire conversation, but it was something deeper than that now, too. The intensity in Macnair's voice was a resonant frequency; it struck a chord inside him and set his insides buzzing.

"Not afraid of anything, then?" he asked. He might have tried for teasing, except that his tone was too thin to hold any emotion in it at all. It was all he could do at the moment not to let the heat building up in his chest seep through to his voice; he didn't have the capacity to affect any normal conversational tones to mask it.

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Set by Lady!

Valerian's lips parted at the question. What did he say to that? It was such a clear challenge, and one he couldn't act on immediately, and he was half tempted to stand up and motion for Greengrass to follow him without another word. His breath began to quicken, and he knew he was rapidly losing control over his own body's reactions; the tightness in his pants was becoming almost painful, and he couldn't help but swipe his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Not anymore," he said, his voice a notch quieter than it had been a moment before, but no less intense. He stared at Greengrass, unwilling to break the eye contact. He wouldn't soon forget the shade of his brown eyes, nor the little flecks of gold he swore he could see reflecting off of the club's lighting. It was just a matter of time now; his body was like a clock waiting to strike midnight, and once it did he wouldn't be able to hold himself back any longer.

But then, out of the corner of his eyes, Valerian caught sight of someone approaching and was forced to break the eye contact, feeling irrationally irritated by it. It wasn't even someone he recognized. It was some younger boy, no older than eighteen or nineteen, who was clearly drunk and was slurring something about the bottle in Greengrass' hand. He felt suddenly protective of the bottle—not because he enjoyed it (which he did), but because it was in Greengrass' hand and in the moment the though of anyone else having eyes on the man brought out a possessiveness to him he hadn't felt in a long time.

And he struggled to hide it. He hastily looked back and forth between the man and Greengrass, the aching in his lap no less present than it had a moment ago. "Give it to him, then. We'll get another next time," he said, taking the moment to wet his lips with his tongue again.

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Macnair's lips parted just slightly, and for a second Ford could see his tongue. He took in a breath and held it, captivated. Was this what conversations were going to be like now that he'd been kissed by someone? Because if so, he absolutely couldn't handle this. How was he ever supposed to get anything done if he kept being distracted by the slightest thing — if something as simple as the other man parting his lips sent his insides to fluttering in excitement? Macnair and Fisk were hardly the only attractive men in the world — Macnair was not even the only attractive man in the room at the club at the moment. This was going to be hell.

The answer to Ford's question came and pushed him even farther towards the edge. He felt a noise in the back of his throat and had to swallow to prevent it from coming out, because this wasn't the time or the place, but: oh. The words, the tone, the volume level as Macnair spoke. The eye contact, the body language. It was all over — this was no longer a question of if but only of when, where, and how. Ford felt as powerless to prevent it as he had when Dorian Fisk's lips had been on his, and Macnair hadn't even touched him yet.

Ford wasn't aware of the interruption until the stranger was at his elbow. Even when Macnair's eyes broke from his own Ford hadn't followed his glance, instead lingering on his face for a moment before trailing down his chest and body.

Oh — someone wanted the wine bottle. Ford hadn't even realized he'd still been holding it. He glanced from the interrupter to Macnair uncertainly, waiting for a cue. Without even realizing it he'd envisioned little snippets of how the rest of the night might go, and the wine bottle was an integral part of it: they'd share the bottle, they'd both be a little intoxicated, they'd end up alone somewhere together. If Ford was a little intoxicated before it happened it wouldn't even be his fault, or at least he could tell himself that (it only mattered for his internal monologue, because of course he was never going to tell anyone else about this). If the wine bottle left, so did Ford's excuse for going along with this — but Macnair said to let it go, so he did. And then...

"Next time," Ford repeated, without having really processed the phrase yet. Macnair had licked his lips again as he'd said it. Next time. So the lack of the wine bottle changed nothing, not really. When, where, how were still to be determined, but not if. He shifted in his chair, leaning just a fraction closer to Macnair.

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Set by Lady!

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.

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