May 10th, 1891 — Macnair Home, London
Quarter after Eight

This was what they said about train wrecks: that if you saw one happen, it was impossible to look away until it was over and everyone was screaming in the aftermath. That you wouldn't be able to do anything, until you'd finished watching. That was why Ford was here, he supposed. This was a disaster that was missing its finishing stroke, and he had to be here to witness it, to close the whole ordeal out so that he could go home and actually start processing it. Partly he supposed that he was searching for validation for his anger. He was so angry, but right now it was directionless. If he came by tonight and Macnair said something callous, at least Ford could hate him for that. If he admitted that he'd never spared a second thought for Ford at all, and Ford could latch onto that and use it to center his feelings on this for the next week or so... maybe it would even be worth having to endure Macnair talking about his fucking fiancee.

No, it probably wouldn't make up for that, but whatever. Ford would endure it, if he had to. Or maybe he wouldn't, and he'd storm out in a dramatic flash of green flame. Ford had never stormed out of anything before in his life, but it was nice to think that he had the potential to — that Macnair would even care if he did.

He'd finished his conversation with Cash right around eight, but instead of heading directly to the floo he'd decided on a whim to get another drink. He didn't need it — he'd nursed the first half of his one glass of wine through most of his conversation with Lestrange and only finished when he'd realized it was nearly time to go. It was more to give him an excuse to be late, because he was angry and there was something distinctly satisfying in the idea of making Macnair wait around for him. It didn't last long, though. He was nervous, and he didn't have anyone else at the club he wanted to talk to. He drank half of it too fast, then started feeling vaguely nauseated and abandoned it on a spare table. He went to the washroom to check his appearance, although he hated that he thought it mattered. Then there was nothing else to delay him, and he wandered over to the floo.

The sitting room was more furnished than it had been last week, but even so Ford took only two steps away from the fireplace before he stopped, eyes seeking out Macnair. "Hey," he greeted, having to resist the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

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Valerian Macnair

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He didn't know what to think.

On one hand, he felt bad that Greengrass had heard about the engagement through the papers, because in hindsight that seemed like the sort of thing that should have come from his own mouth; but on the other hand, he didn't usually consider how his lovers might feel about that sort of things, because... well, he'd never been engaged before. And even if he had, the idea of considering Tatiana's feelings when deciding who to bring to his bed—especially a man—was mildly absurd even if he intended to visit her bed in a few month's time. Greengrass hadn't said anything to suggest he was mad, but he was far less wordy than he usually was, and after overthinking it Valerian had settled on the idea that he was either upset or confused. Maybe both. Or maybe he really just was being sincere, and Valerian liked the idea of his lover being jealous.

But maybe not. He didn't know what to think.

What he had decided was that he was going to go about this evening in the same way he went about every other. He sat on the sofa, waited for the green flames to light up in his fireplace, and then moved to his feet before Greengrass could even enter the room properly.

And then he was there.

"Hey," he replied smoothly, moving across the floor without hesitation. Valerian stopped in front of Greengrass and reached out, touching his hand to the other man's shoulder—a gesture of affection, but also one to gauge his reaction. "I missed you."

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Ford had run through about a hundred different scenarios for his this conversation might play out, since he'd gotten Macnair's return letter earlier that evening and learned that the other man was still expecting him at eight. He'd imagined that Macnair might be cold, to try and fend off any emotional appeals he thought Ford might make. He'd imagined him callous, heartless, cruel. He'd imagined him neutral, mild, disconnected from this entire thing as though the last week had meant exactly nothing to him, which was presumably the truth. He'd even imagined Macnair uncomfortable at having been caught out in this, with some expression that bordered on sheepish, though it was hard to picture it when Macnair had always been so confident. In none of the scenarios Ford had conjured up in his mind had Macnair just walked straight up to him, touched him, and said I missed you.

What the hell was he doing? Whatever it was, it was working; Ford's stomach did an uneasy flip and he was back in his own parlor on Saturday morning, seeing the words for the first time and thinking there must have been a misprint. Maybe there was some mistake, or a misunderstanding — except there wasn't, because Macnair had written him a letter not two hours ago where he'd acknowledged it and then said something stupid about his mother. This engagement was real. Everyone was talking about it. Macnair must have been doing this on purpose, but why? Hadn't he already been cruel enough without adding insult to injury here by trying to take away even Ford's anger over this?

Ford swallowed hard. He didn't move away from Macnair's touch, but he didn't respond to it, either. "Did you?" he asked, tone level.

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Well, not the ideal response. Valerian would have almost preferred a negative response, because at least then he could have begun reassuring Greengrass with all the words he’d considered sending through letter but hadn’t. But this was a completely neutral response—nothing in the other man’s tone that suggested an affectionate reception nor a cold one, and Greengrass hadn’t moved a muscle.

Valerian ran his hand down Greengrass’ arm until he reached his wrist, then abandoned his arm altogether to rest his hand on Greengrass’ hip. He smiled, as if the answer to Greengrass’ question was an obvious one.

“Of course,” he murmured, focusing his gaze on Greengrass’ brown eyes, “How could I not?”

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If it had been cruel a moment ago it was absolute torture now. Ford felt tingles run down his arm, trailing Macnair's fingers. Had Macnair really just said how could I not? Was this really happening? If he'd somehow managed to end up back at home in his bed without realizing it and he was dreaming all of this, it was a bizarre fucking premise for a fantasy. Based on everything he'd been dealing with for the past three days Ford wanted to hold on to his anger, and to believe that Macnair couldn't possibly have been sincere now. If he believed it was some sort of cruel joke from the beginning, it would hurt a little less when they inevitably reached the punchline. It was the eyes, though — he was standing fairly close and looking straight at Ford in a way that seemed sincere. The longer he looked at Macnair's eyes the more he felt his anger ebbing away, replaced by confusion.

"You're engaged," he pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone. This did not change the fact that Macnair had his hand on Ford's hip.

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It was funny—you’re engaged. As if suddenly putting a ring on a woman’s finger could at all detract from how often he thought about the touch of Greengrass’ fingers against his skin, or the touch of Greengrass’ lips to his own. Valerian couldn’t hold back his smile as he wound his arm tighter around Greengrass’ waist, his fingers sprawling out against the small of his back.

“And I have a suspicion that you have the wrong idea about my engagement,” he answered, bringing his other hand up to run down the length of Greengrass’ other arm. Of course he would eventually need to explain the matter of his engagement in better detail, but he didn’t want to do that now—not while it was so new, and not before he could give Greengrass whatever reassurances he needed.

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Ford's head was whirling at this. He didn't know what to make of the words themselves, but the way that Macnair was touching him certainly didn't make it any easier for his mind to work its way through it. How many different ideas could one have about the fact of getting engaged to someone? Macnair had his hand on Ford's back and the pressure there was making Ford want to take a small step closer, but that would bring him up against Macnair and he knew that would only make it harder to process this. The wrong idea, what did that even mean? The only thing that occurred to Ford was that maybe Macnair had been pressured into it — like if he'd gotten her pregnant already, or something — but that didn't really make it any better. And it didn't track with the letter from earlier tonight, either, where he'd written a matter so within my control. Macnair had his other hand on Ford's arm, and he was teasing Ford with the way he was touching him — he wanted to be kissed, Ford suspected, but kissing him would be giving up on this entire conversation. After holding on to so much anger for so many consecutive hours, Ford wasn't willing to let go of it just yet.

"It was your idea to get engaged, wasn't it?" he challenged lightly (particularly since he was not actually sure that it was). "So, what? You fell in love with her on Thursday morning?"

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There it was—more of the information he needed. Greengrass was jealous, or at least it sounded like he was. Valerian felt his heart skip a beat, torn between the temptation to enjoy his newfound power over Greengrass or to immediately soothe him. Both urges existed simultaneously.

Valerian continued touching him, his other hand joining the other on the small of Greengrass’ back, where he proceeded to trace shapes against the fabric of the other man’s shirt with his fingertips. “It was idea, yes. I proposed,” he explained in a murmur, his gaze more fixated on the details of Greengrass’ face than the details of his engagement. But it wasn’t motivated by love—not the romantic sort, anyways.” Humming, he began to trace a line higher and higher up Greengrass’ spine with one finger, forcing Valerian to step a little closer forward.

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Macnair's hands were on his back and moving up his spine, and Ford found himself leaning in towards Macnair before he could catch it. They were too close now, and although their bodies still weren't quite touching Ford had given himself away. He was a little annoyed at that, because it wasn't like Macnair deserved to be kissed. That was hardly an explanation, and it didn't even start to address why he hadn't mentioned it before tonight. And it didn't even make sense, not really. The words themselves went together in a logical order, but the concept behind it was entirely foreign to Ford, and he didn't know how to respond to it.

"You don't love her," he repeated, as though he needed to say this out loud in order to understand it. "So you're going to —?" That phrase was started as a question but he left off rather than finish asking it, since the answer was already fairly obvious. Macnair had his hands all over him — clearly he intended to do exactly what he was doing.

"But that's not — fair to her, is it?" he asked, with a slightly frantic edge creeping into his tone. He had not particularly anticipated that he might show up tonight and find himself advocating for Tatiana Lestrange's feelings, and he didn't much care for the way the tables had turned.

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Valerian hummed softly to himself as Greengrass’ body reacted to his own movements. Valerian had been accused by Tatiana of not being able to give her the sort of power she sought, and it was true; but to say he had no power at all would have been a lie, because he could see the way Greengrass’ body responded to his despite how his words contradicted him.

“Tatiana knows I’m not in love with her.” He thought it was rather obvious given the circumstances he’d proposed under. “I proposed as an alternative—and she accepted. That is all.” There was an edge of teasing affection in his words, as if this was nothing Greengrass should spend another moment worrying about.

He brought one hand back around and raised it to Greengrass face, gently cupping his jaw. They were so close he could feel Greengrass’ breath, and he found it difficult to resist the urge to lean forward and kiss him. “It is a family matter. Marriage is—not always about love with us.”

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There seemed to be a good deal of context that he was missing here, because none of this made any sense to him still. Ford knew Miss Lestrange had another suitor in the wings (thanks to Witch Weekly, which he'd stolen from one of his sisters yesterday after seeing Macnair's face of the cover), but why would she need an alternative? Particularly an alternative who didn't love her and was apparently quite comfortable with the idea of fooling around with other people while planning their wedding? Not to mention that this sounded like a miserable existence for Macnair, marrying someone he didn't love because it was a family matter.

Ford didn't understand — but maybe no one wanted him to understand. Maybe it wasn't his business, and that was why Macnair hadn't brought it up until after Ford had. He didn't like the idea of doing something like this without being aware of how all the pieces fit together, but he also wasn't enjoying this conversation. With Macnair's hands on his back and his face Ford felt trapped where he was, too close to Macnair. Macnair's tone implied he was flirting, but the words themselves were about Miss Lestrange, which was unsettling. Ford didn't think he could keep it together if Macnair was going to try and turn his explanation of how he was engaged to his cousin into something Ford was supposed to find sexy.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he admitted, and edged slightly closer to Macnair, bringing their bodies into contact. He'd surrendered, at least for the moment.

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Good, Valerian thought, allowing his other hand to slide down Greengrass’ back and around to his hip again. He smiled as he felt Greengrass’ body rest against his, and his words were more than enough of an invitation to lean forward to press a kiss to the other man’s lips.

It was a soft and comparatively chaste kiss to the ones they usually shared, but he didn’t think going from talk of Tatiana to a proper full-mouthed kiss was a very graceful idea. He still wasn’t confident that Greengrass felt better about any of this—he had said I don’t want to talk about this anymore, which was more indicative of his discomfort than his acceptance. But Valerian wasn’t sure how to explain the entire situation without admitting to his own faults: that Macmillan did love Tatiana (or at least claimed to), that Valerian had stolen her, first because he wanted his mother’s approval, then because he thought she could do better, and eventually because he wanted to spite Macmillan. That he’d brawled and dueled and held Macmillan hostage (albeit for medical treatment).

He pulled back and let both hands come to a rest on the curve Greengrass’ jaw. “We don’t have to. I don’t want to, either,” he said softly, tilting Greengrass’ head up to press a kiss to spot right under his jaw.

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It was strange that Macnair could still kiss him the same way, now that everything was different. Except it probably wasn't any different, from Macnair's point of view — it wasn't as though he had been blindsided by the announcement of the engagement in Saturday morning's paper. At the very least he would have already expected that it would happen when he was first writing Ford, and maybe he'd already been engaged. The idea was unsettling for Ford. He found himself wrapping his arms around Macnair's waist, as though the realization had made him physically off balance and not just mentally. He didn't want to be thinking about this, and Macnair didn't want to talk about it either... but Ford didn't know how he could not think about it, with Macnair kissing his neck. He took a minute to try to lose himself in just the physical sensations: he nuzzled his nose down against Macnair's collarbone, closed his eyes, kissed Macnair's neck, slid one hand to the other man's backside. He tried not to think about it, and for a few seconds it worked — then a thought occurred to him that made him freeze, shoulders tense again.

"You got this house for her?" Ford asked, though he already knew the answer. Of course he had. It had been silly for Ford not to have thought of that before, or not to have asked about it the first time he'd been here. To his credit, Ford had never entertained the idea that Macnair had acquired a whole other residence just to have a convenient location to seduce him, but on the nights where they'd cuddled together under the sheets in Macnair's room it had been easy to assume the thought had at least crossed his mind when he was weighing whether or not to get another property. Maybe this was a good house to have because it was an investment, or because Macnair needed a London residence to be closer to work, or for any number of reasons, but it was also sort of theirs, because Ford had been here before there was even furniture in it and had expected to be here often moving forward. Now Ford felt quite keenly the loss of something that had evidently never been theirs at all — just hers.

Layered on top of that were other emotions, too — he was disappointed at himself, and a little annoyed, that he'd even let himself start to think of it that way. He'd never done so consciously, so this was the first time he was recognizing that sense of possessiveness over this still-mostly-empty house — over Macnair's bedroom upstairs — and he couldn't help but feel frustrated by it. He'd been here twice, and it had only been a week since the first time, and he had no right to be this invested in this already — in the house or in Macnair, even. This was clearly far more casual for Macnair than it was for Ford, and wasn't that to be expected? Macnair was from a different world. He'd clearly done this before. He'd probably do it again, whenever he was bored of Ford and moved on to someone else, since he evidently didn't love his fiancee or have any desire to consider her when thinking about who he'd like to take to bed. So it all came back to what he'd told Lestrange an hour ago in the club: he had no one to blame but himself, for caring when he shouldn't have, and for being stupid enough to think Macnair might care, too. Those things Macnair had said on Monday night had just been pillow talk, and Ford had been so receptive to them because he'd been in the afterglow himself — or maybe because he was just stupid and inexperienced and too eager to latch on to the idea that someone might really like him in that way.

Fuck, was Macnair going to sleep with Tatiana Lestrange in that bed? Ford suddenly felt sick, but had no words to express this sentiment to Macnair. Macnair didn't care, he didn't think this was a big deal, apparently, so what reason did Ford have to feel so nauseated about it? But he certainly wouldn't have done it if he'd known, prior to Monday, that this house was for her.

(Maybe that was why Macnair hadn't told him).

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He let himself enjoy the sensations, knowing tonight he'd probably have to take this slow—Greengrass was in a fragile headspace, even if Greengrass wasn't aware of it himself, and the last thing Valerian wanted to do was spook him by moving things too quickly or acting with too much passion. He hummed happily as Greengrass seemed to give himself up to the sensations, and Valerian pulled away just far enough to lean his head back, giving Greengrass better access to his neck. Just as his eyes fluttered shut he felt Greengrass tense up, and the words You got this house for her? left the other man's lips.

Merlin.

"I got this house for me," he said, which was... a half-truth. It would eventually become Tatiana's as well, if she wanted it, but he hadn't brought her to London to look at it herself, and in the event that she didn't like his strange décor or the particular street they were on he would leave the house sitting there or sell it again. "She lives in my parents' house—has since we were children. I can't exactly be there right now." There was an impatient snippiness to his tone, as if this was not at all the conversation he wanted to be happening. He just wished Greengrass would see his engagement with Tatiana for what it was at its core: a familial alliance rooted in a mutual need for a safe match. Tatiana did not have unrealistic expectations of him, and Valerian knew she would thrive as Mrs. Macnair, a role he needed filled as his family's eldest son but one he wasn't eager to go through the process to have filled. Couldn't Greengrass see that?

Valerian pulled back and brought his hands back to Greengrass' cheeks, angling his head so blue eyes met brown. He took a breath, his expression softening along with his voice. "I want you. Will you deprive me of that?"

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There was a lot to sort through in Macnair's response, and specifically in the sentence I can't exactly be there right now. Did he mean right now as in while I'm trying to kiss you or right now more generally, like his home wasn't a comfortable place to exist? If the latter — that was a pretty big fucking red flag about this marriage, wasn't it? And no matter which way he interpreted it, that comment wasn't awesome. It wasn't indicative of a very healthy relationship dynamic, that was for sure — both between Macnair and his fiancee (which at this point was pretty much obvious) and between Macnair and Ford (also becoming increasingly obvious to him).

But before he really had time to even think all of that, much less digest it, Macnair had his hands on the sides of Ford's face. Macnair was looking at him from three inches away and saying I want you. And it was hard to hold on to any other thoughts, at that point. He was just left with the question: will you deprive me of that?

Macnair's eyes were so blue it was almost unsettling to be looking at them this closely. Yes, I will, Ford thought, because he knew this couldn't end well. He already felt sick, and if he stayed he was only going to end up feeling worse. Even if he managed to put it all out of his mind for long enough to replicate the sort of night they'd had on Monday or Wednesday of last week, what would happen next? Was he supposed to stay the night again, in that bed, which for all he knew might be Macnair's wedding bed in a few weeks or months? Was he supposed to just listen if Macnair started saying all that mushy stuff — or continue, rather, since I want you was right up there with the sorts of things he'd been saying before — knowing that it didn't make any difference? Nevermind feeling sick over it — Ford was going to feel just as disappointed at the end of tonight as he had on Saturday morning, and he didn't want that.

Not like that was Macnair's fault, though — Ford should have known better than to get his feelings mixed up in things so quickly. With someone like Macnair, he probably should have known better than to have let it happen at all. He'd been stupid — but Macnair said things like this and Ford couldn't help it, because now he was standing here on the verge of being stupid again, even after having been burnt once before. Will you deprive me of that?

Ford's mouth was dry. Yes, I will, he thought. Macnair wasn't entitled to him, and what had he done to earn it? Maybe Macnair didn't care that Ford had taken it all too much to heart — maybe he hadn't even noticed. But it had still been cruel to invite him over without telling him a word about the engagement, or to talk about where this was going. If he wanted to keep this up despite being engaged (which he obviously did), he might have mentioned it before and saved them both a good deal of headache. Well, no — he could have saved Ford a headache, because he still didn't seem particularly bothered about anything except that Ford wasn't kissing him as readily as he would have liked.

He sighed. He still had one hand around Macnair, while the other was resting lightly on Macnair's shoulder. "When you asked if I was still planning to be here I thought you'd just want to break things off in person," he admitted. He could not bring himself to actually answer Macnair's question at the moment. "I was — so annoyed."

That was all true. What he didn't say: he would have preferred that. This was far worse.

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This wasn't going to be so simple, then. He was silly for thinking it would—but really, should it be so complicated? He and Greengrass had been seeing each other for a week despite their flirtations a month prior. He didn't... didn't owe him anything in terms of explanation, and even if he did he didn't think Greengrass ought to be stressing over this as he was. If Greengrass had a been a woman he could see the problem; a woman he was carrying on an affair with would probably be less amenable to the idea of doing so when he was marrying a different woman, but he shouldn't see why his marriage to a woman—his cousin nonetheless—should impact his affair with him.

Valerian took a step back, his hands sliding down Greengrass' face and the length of his body until they settled on his waist again. His expression had gone back to its mixture of annoyance, his gaze shifting around to avoid Greengrass' eyes as he tried to figure out the most graceful way to explain his situation without making things needlessly complicated.

"Look," he said, taking a deep breath, "I'm sorry that I didn't write you, but try to understand." If there was any good way to understand this; he'd separated the two areas of his life—Greengrass and Tatiana—and now trying to fit them together was like trying to force two puzzle pieces together that were not properly cut to shape. "Marriage is expected of me, and marrying her is—easy. She knows me and all my faults, and I know hers. There are no expectations of feelings that don't exist," he continued, growing more aware of how much time he was talking to Greengrass about his cousin, and how awkward it was, and—

"Why would I bring you here to break it off?" he asked woundedly. He moved one hand from Greengrass' waist and ran it through his hair, feeling the anger bubbling up inside of him though he wasn't sure who or what the anger was directed at.

He was angry that Greengrass wouldn't let the engagement matter go, as if being married to his little cousin would somehow change their dynamic. Angry that Tatiana was not yet his wife and seemed to have power over how he managed his romantic life, when one of the upsides to marrying her was that there was no expectation of romance between them. Angry at himself, for not anticipating that his engagement to a woman might bother the man he hadn't stopped thinking about over the past week.

"Just because I get married doesn't mean I should resign myself to a life of loneliness—or do you think I should? Because of her?" The hurt was evident in his voice now. The idea that Greengrass was thinking of Tatiana's feelings rather than his own—and he must have been, because the words it isn't fair to her still echoed in his brain—was causing him a great more deal of grief than it ought to.

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