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."

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Arthur Pettigrew Cassius Lestrange

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Since he wasn’t playing a game today Arthur could manage to get high all morning if he wanted to. He hadn’t managed to get around to it yet, but he could if Selwyn was eventually buying.

He had come this morning because Selwyn usually didn’t send him early-morning letters, so this at least promised to be interesting, although so far Art had just settled in one of the bedroom armchairs and was waiting for — something.

He wouldn’t have guessed he was waiting for that question though, and tilted his head before he answered.

”Not unless I was trying to sleep with them,” Arthur said, but telling someone I sleep with men was different when you had your hand on his thigh. ”No one who mattered.” Not Ben, not his wife, no one. He’d been caught before, he’d revealed himself on suspicions, but he’d never given the secret away on purpose.

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"Right," Emrys agreed with a curt nod. Until yesterday, he could have said the same. While a thing like this was never entirely without risk, he usually didn't have to leap without knowing there was ground to catch him. It was easier to drop hints when you suspected the person you were revealing yourself to was the same, and over the years Emrys had gotten very good at picking up on the clues.

Although Pettigrew's answer was what he'd expected, he was still disappointed. Emrys didn't know that it would have actually helped to talk to someone else who had been through what he'd been through last night, but it might have, and Pettigrew was the only person he could think who might have done it. He'd slept with men before Emrys, though how many Emrys wasn't sure. He was married to a woman — though, granted, they'd hardly ever talked about her. Emrys didn't know if Pettigrew loved or even liked his wife, or if he'd decided to get married for another reason. He didn't even really know if Pettigrew liked sex with his wife, only that he'd had it often enough to produce a child. Emrys wanted to ask — not because it was any of his business but because in the moment it seemed to matter whether Pettigrew was interested in sex with both genders or only with men — but couldn't think of a way to phrase it that didn't sound ridiculous.

His mouth had gone a little dry and he retrieved a bottle a wine laced with opium, which he'd bought on arrival and barely touched so far. He poured Pettigrew a glass, then refilled his own and sank back into the chair.

"I'm supposed to get married soon," he announced with a frown. "Oh, hell — she's expecting a proposal today, actually." He'd temporarily forgotten his plans to meet Miss Cosgrove that evening. He couldn't have dropped heavier hints about a proposal in his letters, so she would certainly be expecting it. Everything that had happened in the last twelve hours had complicated that plan. Another complicating factor: the ring was at his home, which was where Angelica was.

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Oh, there was wine now. Arthur took the glass with a nod; never mind that it was still morning, in his experience once you were in an opium den you gave up on things like time for the day.

He tilted his head at Selwyn’s next statement. Art had rather thought that Selwyn was a bit of a confirmed bachelor; on the chance that he wasn’t, he didn’t verbalize that thought. Instead he said, a little confused, ”Do you want to get married?”

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Was there something about the way Pettigrew tilted his head at him that felt a little accusatory, or was it just that he was still on edge after his conversation with Angelica the previous evening? He was probably even more on edge now; he'd dozed briefly since arriving at the opium den, but had never properly slept. That didn't tend to do wonders for one's anxiety.

He sat back in his chair and glanced sideways at Pettigrew. "Did you?" he returned, a mild challenge.

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Art frowned — they didn’t talk about Desdemona. On his part, it was because Art couldn’t stomach this when he remembered her. He didn’t know why Selwyn didn’t bring her up. But this was a different experience, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.

”Yes,” he admitted.

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Emrys wasn't sure whether or not he'd been expecting that answer. He'd hadn't ever assumed that Pettigrew was desperately devoted to his wife — the things he did were not particularly characteristic of a man desperately devoted to his wife — but he hadn't discounted the possibility, either. Back in spring, Witch Weekly had speculated that he was trying to force his wife to leave him, which at the time had seemed mildly plausible — but now it was September, and she hadn't left him yet, so there was something there.

Emrys let out a short sigh and swirled his wine around his cup. "Marriage seems too complicated to be enjoyable," he observed dryly.

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Arthur sipped his wine before replying; he didn’t trust whatever would come out of his mouth next. It didn’t help, because in a wry tone he said, ”I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong.” He had enjoyed being married - he was glad he was married rather than not being married - he was not having a particularly enjoyable time at the moment, and hadn’t for the last year.

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Emrys wished he was smoking something; this wine felt inappropriate for a conversation like this, though he didn't know exactly why.

"I've no inclination for monogamy. I never have," he said. He fished around his pockets for a cigarette case, but of course he hadn't brought one, since he'd stolen out of his own home like a thief in the night. He wondered what the odds were of Pettigrew having brought the tobacco with him that Emrys had gifted him, but decided they were too low to be worth asking. That had been months ago; he'd probably smoked it all already. "I don't usually tell people that, of course. Especially not if I'm trying to seduce them. But given the circumstances it would be hypocritical of you to take offense, wouldn't it?"

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Arthur hummed at the comment about monogamy, which he followed with a grimace when Selwyn mentioned his wife. He shouldn't be doing this, and he knew that — although in the scheme of things, drinking wine with Selwyn in an opium den was far from the worst thing he'd done in the past months. Still, he sipped before he replied.

"People get married for a lot of reasons," Art said. He paused. "This may be — I don't know, rude? But are you interested in sex with women?"

If Selwyn was getting married as a cover, well — that made sense.

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Emrys looked sideways at Pettigrew. "Is it rude?" he asked with a shrug. True, it was hardly a standard, safe topic of conversation, but a moment ago Emrys had asked Pettigrew if he'd actually wanted to marry his wife. If either of them had broken decorum, Emrys had probably done it first. It wasn't as though any of this was covered in etiquette manuals.

"But yes. I am," he admitted. Maybe this would be easier if he wasn't — easier for Angelica to understand, anyway, because he was still sure that at least a part of her didn't believe him. On the other hand, if he wasn't interested in sex with women he wouldn't have told her in the first place, because there would have been no ongoing affair that culminated in that confrontation last night.

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Arthur shrugged; rudeness was usually beyond him, so he was glad that he hadn't offended Emrys.

He wasn't sure he was surprised by the answer; really it meant that Selwyn was most opposed to monogamy. "Me too," Arthur offered, because it felt like a fair trade of information. "So — other than monogamy, what's the problem with marriage?"

Usually people weren't unsure about their marriages until after they happened; Selwyn had cold feet now. Art could have pointed that out, but it felt so obvious that maybe he just shouldn't.

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Emrys had sort of figured that out, because Pettigrew had said he did want to marry his wife. In theory that could have had nothing at all to do with sex, but it seemed a much simpler decision if the two had gone hand in hand. Even so, it was good to have it verbally confirmed, and Emrys nodded. The second part of what Pettigrew said was a little harder to respond to, and he took a deep drink of his wine while he thought about it.

What's the problem with marriage? You tell me, he could have said. While that probably would have illustrated his point fairly well, though, he was worried that if they talked too much about Pettigrew's presumably complicated feelings for his wife, he wouldn't continue joining Emrys in the bedroom. Emrys wasn't anticipating this affair would go on indefinitely, but he did want it to last a little longer. He had quite a bit more he would have liked to do with Pettigrew before they parted ways, so he didn't want to scare him off. Maybe it was too late for that, though — having a conversation about Emrys' marriage plans wasn't exactly sexy. Launching into any of his myriad examples of marriages gone sour (Trystan and Daniel being the first that came to mind but far from his only examples of this phenomenon) was even less so.

"It's not a problem with marriage," he said after a long moment. While he'd never been particularly keen on the idea, he'd come around to it in the following year. He had planned out how he could make it work with his lifestyle, and he'd had only slight hesitations about asking Miss Cosgrove to marry him. When it came to Angelica, though, things were different. "It's a problem with being married to someone who — someone you —" How to describe Angelica? He had no words. At least not now. Not after last night.

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"Do you hate her or something?" Art asked. Lots of people were married to someone they hated, ex. Ben and Ben's wife. Talking about marriage with Emrys Selwyn was not how he'd envisioned his day going — honestly, when Selwyn wrote him this morning Art had anticipated being significantly more naked for any conversations they ended up having — but since he was here, he could at least try to be helpful.

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"No." His answer was immediate but his voice was thick. Perhaps if he hated her this would have been easier. Easier to turn her down, certainly, but also easier to face the prospect of marriage to her; he had a model of what that might look like in Trystan and Ambrosia, so at least there were no unknowns.

"It's — the prospect of being with someone you care about and knowing you'll eventually disappoint them," he said. He swirled his wine in his glass and watched the dark liquid move. "Not that it matters now. I imagine I've burned that bridge."

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Arthur hummed. "I know something about disappointing your spouse," he said. That was, probably, obvious — he'd had some very well-publicized marital problems, and that was ignoring the reality of his relationship with Emrys Selwyn: namely, that they were semi-regularly fucking. "It's awful. And then there's no way out."

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