Early 1887 — An Afterparty

Don Juan had seen Hudson at the ball earlier in the night, but that was nothing unusual; he saw him not-infrequently at society events, and had been deftly steering clear of him since Hudson had returned his coat. For a while it had been a point of pride, because he didn't trust himself not to look foolish if he tried to strike up a conversation, and he still didn't know exactly where Hudson stood on matters. He had seemed disappointed during their last conversation, and that had stuck with Don Juan; it was a sign that what they'd had could still be revived, at least in some form. But if he was rekindling something he wanted to do it right this time, not set himself up to make the same mistakes as before — which meant he needed to figure out what the fatal flaw had been, and how to avoid it. That had taken some thought to work out, but he had a working hypothesis now... which meant he'd been waiting on the right opportunity to action it. A ball wasn't the right place; not enough real privacy, and Don Juan didn't want to engage in the same kind of antics that had led to their last half-conversation. It seemed like the wrong foot to start off on, trying to make Hudson jealous — particularly when he had no reason to care about what Don Juan was doing.

But now Don Juan had moved from the ball to an afterparty, a collection of two dozen young people crowded into someone's house and pouring drinks more liberally, and Dean Hudson had just walked in. This was the opportunity. Don Juan went to the sideboard and poured a whiskey he thought Hudson would like, without bothering to ask the host. Then he made his way to Hudson, sidling into the man's personal space — the size of the room and the number of people in it did not permit much else — and pressed the glass into his hand.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he said with a smug smile. Then, in French (call it a show of good will): "Plans tonight?"

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Dean Hudson

M for sex, probably. Also, discussions of drug/alcohol use and consent/lack thereof.

  

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Dean had spent the last month in France working with their magical government on some international statutes between the European countries. It had been a good change of pace and scenery. He'd stayed with some relatives of his mother's and it made him appreciate being immersed in the language and culture he loved so much. He caught up with some old friends and generally thought winter in France was far more pleasant than it was back home. Milder, more to do outside, it was a good respite from the normal drudgery of the day-to-day.

Still, it was nice to be home, in his own bed, in his new place in Hogsmeade. The house itself wasn't much, but he was in a good spot financially after inheriting a little money from his father's father after his passing and was now quite settled. It was small, just a couple of bedrooms and he kept a modest staff that was mostly just a housekeeper and a maid, but he paid them well and they were mum on his indiscretions if they knew at all and that was all Dean needed of them.

The ball tonight had been a whim. It was his birthday and after dinner with his parents, Dean had chaperoned Mae for the evening, watching his sister shine in the social scene was an interesting thing, if strange. She was as charming as he was, but far more outgoing and she could command a room and a dance floor with an ease he did not possess. After dropping her off at home, he'd decided to investigate the after party he'd heard rumblings of and had hardly made it past the hosts when he was basically cornered by Dempsey pressing a whiskey into his empty hands.

Dean had mostly put that behind him, had sent the coat back as mentioned, cigarettes in the pocket and picked up with some of his more easygoing bedmates in the meantime. He'd only seen Dempsey in passing at parties, but hadn't had the fortitude to try and strike up a conversation. The French came easily, especially after the last month and he shrugged, "It's my birthday."

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That was an unexpected answer. Hudson said it with so little fanfare that it couldn't have been a joke or a lie. Don Juan felt a bit disappointed on his behalf that he was spending his birthday doing something as mundane as a ball and a parlor full of half-drunk strangers. Half a dozen things occurred to him that might have been a more interesting use of the night, and he nearly suggested one of them before he stopped himself. He wasn't going to make the same mistakes this time around; last time he'd been too sentimental, too comfortable, and he wasn't going to do it again.

But he had been planning to proposition Hudson, and now it felt rather cheap to offer him no-strings-attached sex on his birthday. Don Juan hesitated, trying not to show his uncertainty but worried it was coming across in his posture all the same.

"Well," he said, at something of a loss. "Happy birthday." He sipped his own drink — just wine, and not the expensive kind either — and tried to plot out his next move. "That doesn't really answer the question, though," he pointed out.

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Nearly chuckling at the look on Dempsey's face, Dean supposed that was true. He hadn't exactly answered the question, because he didn't have one. The goal of the afterparty had been to try and find some company for the evening and now he was less sure of what that looked like than when he'd walked in. He was starting to feel that uncomfortable knot in his stomach that always seemed to accompany thoughts of Dempsey these days, but he was determined to push it down. So far this interaction had gone differently than the last time they'd actually spoken, so he was curious to know what Dempsey wanted out of it more than anything else.

"Don't have one, I suppose. Night's open." He admitted, taking a sip of the whiskey he'd been supplied with. It was good, smokey and deep, something he'd had before and he wasn't sure if Dempsey remembered or had picked on a whim, but it was a good sign, right? That was a stupid thought. Dean didn't even know what he wanted out of his conversation, but he could smell Dempsey's cologne and it was taking far more concentration than he would like to admit to keep his expression neutral to leaning interested. He was pretty sure he didn't want to have the same experience as last time, so he was trying not to be as big of a dick as he'd been in the past.

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Don Juan had decided his plan hadn't changed; he was just going to pretend that it didn't feel cheap, or that he didn't care. It shouldn't have mattered, if all that was on offer was sex. And he was determined to keep it that way this time — nothing complicated, nothing messy. That was where it had gone off the rails before, he'd decided — he'd been expecting too much, and that was his fault, not Hudson's.

"Mine, too," he said. Someone passed close behind him and Don Juan used it as an excuse to sidle just slightly closer to Hudson, which left little doubt as to what he was implying. He took another drink of his wine. "Bit crowded," he remarked, with a glance over his shoulder. "Want to step out to the garden?"

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MJ made this <3

Hi still didn't know what was going on here, which was the frustrating part he supposed, but he could see Dempsey trying to work through something. Dean thought he could see where it was heading. Maybe? He realized the hope that was creeping up was dangerous, if unavoidable.

Ah fuck. The close quarters was sending a familiar sort of quiet thrill across his skin and Dean licked his lips, trying to be careful of his hands and the whiskey. "Agreed," he managed, tone likely giving away the things he was feeling, against his better judgement. This guarded sort of distance he'd kept for the last half a year was exasperating, considering their history before that. Maybe they wouldn't get back to that after whatever it was that had happened, but maybe he was willing to at least give something a try, he'd decided. "Good idea." He added with a nod and motioned for Dempsey to lead the way.

The cold February air was a pleasant contrast to the heavy air of inside and Dean inhaled deeply, taking an equally deep swig of his whiskey, hoping for a little liquid courage. "What was it you had in mind?" He asked once they were out of earshot of any of the other partygoers. Dean had a dominant personality in many ways, but he was relinquishing the control for once, just to see if it would change anything.

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This seemed to be going his way. Don Juan was pleased — more pleased than he should have been, given the constraints he'd laid out for himself. This was just sex; he shouldn't allow himself to feel hopeful about the way the conversation was working out. Smug. That was the appropriate emotion. Not all these other things that had bundled in with a rush.

Maybe he wasn't ready to restart this after all. Maybe he had some more work to do, privately getting over Dean Hudson. But he wanted to believe he could be casual about this — that he had never really been that smitten with the man in the first place, and his hurt when Hudson was dismissive of him was just how anyone would react to feeling disrespected, not any special connection that had felt betrayed. It wasn't like he'd spent weeks pining after Hudson when they'd broken off before. He was fine; he was ready for this. Really.

"Oh, I'm sure you could imagine," he said, dropping his voice into a low, smoky tone. He glanced back at the house behind them, trying to gauge how likely they were to be interrupted. He wanted to put a hand on Hudson's waist, but that was the sort of gesture that was hard to explain if someone joined them in the garden. He opened his coat to reach for his cigarette case, a habit any time he was out of doors at a party, but remembered how Hudson had sent back his cigarettes in the coat pocket and thought better of it. He took a few steps past Hudson, then turned back so that he could look him square in the eyes, expression earnest. "I won't come by uninvited again."

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MJ made this <3

That might have been the worst part; Dean could very, very clearly imagine what it was that the night could turn into. He wasn't maudlin enough to admit that most of his experiences between the last bedroom encounter with Dempsey paled in comparison, because Dean wasn't one to compare bedmates, but he would be lying if he said he was in a particular mood for something like that tonight.

Still the optimism slipped at the comment about coming over uninvited. Dean had clearly said the invitation last time they'd spoken. Before that it had never been expressly said, but Dean hadn't put a qualifier on when Dempsey was or wasn't allowed to come over. It had ebbed and flowed in such a natural way that Dean had assumed it was implied, nothing needing to be defined, but clearly that wasn't the case. "Is that why you think I said no?" He asked, brows furrowed, curious. This was coming close to uncharted territory. Dean had talked himself out of needing closure on the subject; had convinced himself he was fine without it, but now that he might have an answer right in front of him, he felt that conviction fading.

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Well, it had been up until Hudson asked that question. Don Juan blinked and tried not to look too off-balance. The truth was that he didn't remember enough of the night in question to know exactly why Hudson had refused him; he remembered the feelings involved as he'd left more than he did any of the specific words exchanged. He suspected that admitting this would be a bad move, though. Certain degrees of intoxication could pass for cute — giggling too much, being extra sensitive, saying sweet things one might not normally. Being unable to remember the specifics of an argument they'd had certainly wasn't cute.

"I overstepped," he said, which was his way of saying yes, but also don't be mad; I'm sorry about it. He might even say the word sorry, if he had to, but he'd rather leave it as implied if he could get away with it. "I get it. And it won't happen again."

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Dean swore under his breath in French. All this time and Dempsey thought that he'd been unwelcome at the time. As if that had ever been a problem. For fuck's sake.

Closing the gap between them, Dean was barely holding onto his normal restraint. He wasn't sure if he want to punch Dempsey or kiss him senseless. The equally passionate responses were not something he was used to. Fuck Dempsey for turning him into this indecisive mess. He lowered his voice, face a mere inches from the other man's. "You were high out of your mind," which Dean supposed begged the question; how much of the night had been forgotten in the interim? "I don't take anyone to my bed that is not in the right headspace to consent fully." Especially those he cared about on some level. The line couldn't be blurred like that. Dean refused to fuck around and find out. He had always been careful, never got too drunk himself, never fooled around with things he didn't know the effects of and he would not be responsible for anyone who had either.

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   Don Juan Dempsey

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Hudson swore — it was too fast and low for Don Juan to recognize the word or translate it, but with the context and the tone it was impossible to mistake it for anything else — and closed the distance rapidly. Don Juan's head swam. There was such sudden intensity in Hudson's eyes and Don Juan thought kiss me kiss me kiss me, already forgetting that a moment ago he'd weighed whether they had enough privacy to allow him to touch Hudson's back and decided against it. Don Juan didn't back down from whatever was coming... but Hudson didn't kiss him.

What he said made no sense. Don Juan might have attributed some confusion to the way his head was spinning, but this was more than that. Hudson said he had been high, and there was no arguing that — but he failed to see how it was relevant to anything. Maybe if he'd been sloppy enough to show up at Hudson's house and vomit all over him, but he was fairly certain that hadn't been the case. He could always tell if he'd thrown up, the next morning. There was a smell that clung until one took a bath. He would have known if he'd made that much of an idiot of himself, and Hudson would have had a right to be annoyed by it. As it stood, he didn't see why Hudson would care one way or another whether he was high. It certainly didn't connect to the second point, at least in Don Juan's mind. Consent. What was that supposed to mean? As though they hadn't already been sleeping together for months... it wasn't the sort of thing that needed to be re-established , he didn't think. Not when he had shown up that evening with one express purpose in mind and not been remotely shy in communicating it.

He scoffed. The wrong emotion for the moment, probably, but he couldn't help it — even with Hudson's intensity Don Juan was having trouble conceiving of this as anything other than a weird and elaborate joke. "Yeah, I'm sure you had a hell of a time trying to work out what I wanted," he said, fully sarcastic. "How could you possibly have guessed."

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MJ made this <3

The urge to kiss him or deck him was still there, but Dean was leaning toward the latter at this moment. What he did know, was that he was too worked up to have this conversation here. Dean was passionate in a lot of areas, his mother's French blood flowing through is veins in equal measure to his father's more neutral. The scoff nearly sent him over the edge.

"And you think I didn't?" That was laughable. Everything leading up to that should have indicated that was what Dean would have wanted. It's what he had wanted. Even though he'd felt like shit that night, he hadn't felt so bad as to say no, if it was a regular night. If Dempsey had been sober. "I don't guess, I need to know." Dean could be intense in the bedroom, dominating, rough when the mood struck. Especially with people he was comfortable with and who he knew were open to that. But with too much alcohol, or party potions or drugs in the mix. That communication that he found critical to ensuring enjoyment and safety crumbled and he wouldn't have that.

He stepped half a step back and threw back the rest of his whiskey in a move of pure hypocrisy. "I want to finish this conversation, but not here." He'd wanted to finish this conversation since the summer, the last time they'd tried to start it. "Address has changed, " he rattled off the North Bartonburg address easily. "Floo's open." He added as he stepped further back, turning on his heel to go get his coat and excuse himself.

Dean needed a few minutes to think and this would hopefully give him that, assuming Dempsey even bothered to follow.

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There was color in Hudson's cheeks when he threw back his whiskey. Don Juan wanted so badly to touch him, dubious claim to privacy be damned. Fortunately at least one of them was thinking, flustered though he might have been. A change of venue. Sensible. It was jarring to hear that Hudson had a new residence, after Don Juan had become so accustomed to picturing him in the last one, but that was hardly the most pressing issue to think about at the moment. "I'll be there," he agreed as Hudson fled the garden. He had some wine left in his glass, but less than no interest in finishing it. The only thing that kept him lingering on the patio another minute was that he didn't want to be observed following too hot on Hudson's heels — it wouldn't have done to have caught up to him on the way to the floo.

While he found a place to abandon his drink, said his goodbyes to the hosts, fetched his coat, and headed to the floo, he imagined how the conversation might go. He mentally sketched out some snarky comments he could make: so, what do I have to do to prove to you I want it, hm? You want me to beg you for it? You want it in writing? Should we put all the sordid details in the contract, or shall we stick with the umbrella term of 'sodomy'? He fantasized about that intensity he'd seen from Hudson just a moment ago spilling over into physicality — the sort of kisses that could leave bruises on the inside of your lips.

Through the floo and into an unfamiliar house. Don Juan didn't have time to appraise his new surroundings; Hudson wasn't far from the fireplace and as soon as he'd spotted him he was incapable of looking anywhere else. "Nice place," he said, though he hadn't had a chance to verify that yet. "You going to offer me a drink, or will you only fuck me if I'm sober?"

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   Dean Hudson

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If he'd seemed off upon his departure, Dean didn't much care. People could think what they want. He was in no mood to worry about other people's opinions when clearly he couldn't even get a read of Dempsey's on him. He'd tossed his coat haphazardly onto the sofa in the sitting room where the fireplace was. The staff had already been dismissed for the night which was good, he didn't want to send them home abruptly for seemingly notreason.

Despite his instinct, he didn't pour himself another drink, the heavy pour of the whiskey he'd finished at the party was still buzzing in his blood and in his head. He was already flustered and already a bit undone and that was enough. Dean loosened his tie, tossing that onto his coat and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, and the waistcoat next. The layers felt stifling, restricting and he needed the room to breathe. Next came the sleeves, he rolled them up carefully, eyeing Dempsey as the fireplace lit up green, announcing the other man's arrival.

The quick remark had Dean's immediate reaction to shut him up somehow. A hand on the neck, a bruising kiss, either, both. He crossed the room again, at a much slower pace than last time, but with no less intensity in his eyes. Despite Dempsey's slight height advantage, Dean had never hesitated to take charge. He brought one hand to the junction just below Dempsey's jaw and his neck, adding just a little pressure to his fingers. "Is that what you want right now, for me to fuck you? Right here? Upstairs in my bed? Against that wall over there?" His voice was deceptively even, low in tone, but was still a question. He wanted the explicit permission, as he'd already told Dempsey and he wouldn't go forward without it.

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Hudson was already partially undressed. Despite the fact that this was always Don Juan's first instinct on getting anywhere with even a modicum of privacy as well, he took it as a good sign of things to come. Hudson looked angry, but that was fine. Don Juan was angry, too. It was infantilizing to be told he didn't know his own mind, just because he'd had some opium. Hudson might have thought he had the moral high ground in the situation, but Don Juan didn't plan to surrender it to him so easily — hence the smug comment, intentionally provoking. Don Juan was angry, too — but not angry enough to quiet the steady thrum of desire, and it seemed neither was Hudson.

He didn't know if the hand at his throat was meant to be threatening or alluring. It had elements of both. Don Juan met Hudson's eyes for a second, then subtly leaned in to the pressure. Not enough that he couldn't speak clearly, but enough that the discomfort was impossible to ignore. "Yeah," he said, still holding Hudson's gaze with an expression that conveyed something like I dare you. "Go on then. Anywhere you like."

Don Juan had the vague sense that if Hudson was trying to maintain the moral high ground, then having sex before they'd finished their conversation was a point on Don Juan's favor.

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MJ made this <3

Dean had every intention of making Dempsey swallow those words. And perhaps more. It had been an unexpected test of his control, that thankfully hadn't lasted long. Dean squeezed a little more as Dempsey leaned into his hold, not enough to do any damage, but the goal wasn't to bruise. Not yet anyway. Dean had no delusions that Dempsey could even the playing field if he wanted, but it had never seemed to go that way. Dean was used to being in charge, he preferred it that way. Call it control issues, a dominance kink, but it had served him well over the years. Which is perhaps what Dempsey didn't understand, not yet anyway, that this was, in fact, a two-way street, but it needed clear-headed, transparent, consistent communication.

The kiss was just as heated as the rest of the moment, bruising and intense, the eye contact had him surrendering to the impulses. Dean's other hand wound around, pulling Dempsey against him. The building tension between them, the pressure, the delicious friction had him had him working carefully. He wasn't going to rush this, wasn't going to give into a quick thrill, wasn't going to give Dempsey the satisfaction of a swift surrender. No, Dean had every intention of making Dempsey work for it, leave him trembling with desire and almost entirely undone before he gave in.

The hand on Dempsey's neck slide up into the other man's hair, fisting and giving a rough tug as Dean trailed his lips down Dempsey's neck. He no doubt left bruises in his wake smirking against skin, his tongue soothing the spots he was particularly rough with afterward. The scent of his cologne was just as intoxicating as the whiskey after going so long without, but Dean was practiced in the art of delayed gratification.

Then as suddenly as it started, he stepped back. "Strip." He commanded, voice barely betraying the breathlessness the kiss had left behind.

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   Don Juan Dempsey

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