June 26th, 1891 — Black's Club

Over the last decade Black's Gentleman's Club had served as a distraction to whatever inconvenience, circumstance, or responsibility he needed distracting from. Never, however, had it served to distract him from someone.

Not before this past month.

In a mere matter of weeks he would no longer be a bachelor. Married men had different responsibilities—some he'd be able to shirk, assuredly, but none that he could in good conscious. In stealing Tatiana from Charles Macmillan he felt a responsibility to meet the expectations she would undoubtedly measure him against, but more than that he held her in high enough regard that he wouldn't think to disrespect her by not being the best husband he could be in their circumstances.

But it was not Tatiana he was trying to avoid. He didn't need the club to avoid her if he needed to. At least until July it was considered improper to be alone with her for any great length of time (even if they'd likely to be able to get away with it if they so desired). It wasn't even a physical someone he was trying to avoid, but rather the memory of one.

"You and your sister have the same color eyes," he said to the gentleman he'd been talking to, peering into his cloudy green eyes. He'd never been very fond of green eyes, but society had always thought them mysterious and charming. No, he'd always preferred brown—like Tatiana's, he might say if questioned, though in his mind it was not her eyes that came to mind at the thought of brown eyes.

Not that he would admit to preferring brown eyes to the gentleman he was trying to veiledly flirting with. The man didn't seem to squirm or fidget in discomfort at his comments, but he hadn't responded with equal enthusiasm. If only men would be as apparent with their feelings as....

His gaze had moved from the man's face to the area of the room behind him. When he'd last looked no one had been sitting at any of the tables, but now... he couldn't understand how he hadn't noticed that someone had sat at one of the empty tables.

Especially given who it was.

His breath caught in his throat, and whatever the gentleman had said to him fell upon deaf ears. Greengrass. He was right there, but he wasn't looking in his direction. He tried to focus on the gentleman in front of him, smiling and apologizing for his sudden distraction. Even as the conversation carried on—and as it came to an end, since he was paying just enough attention to catch when the man had begun to excuse himself—his gaze continued to flicker back to Greengrass every few moments.

And then the gentleman was gone, leaving him alone and with no one else to look at but Greengrass.

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Fortitude Greengrass

  

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Ford was here to meet someone, not just to kill time, which was the only reason he hadn't already turned around and left. He hadn't been spending much time at Black's since his break with Macnair, but it hadn't occurred to him that he might have been avoiding the club for any particular reason. He was just busy with the season, that was all. There were events nearly every night, and when there weren't events sometimes he just needed a break from it all and he'd spent a quiet night at home (Mondays, always Mondays — those felt particularly quiet, anyway). So it was natural that he hadn't been to Black's quite as often, and if he hadn't been seeing Macnair as a consequence, well, it wasn't as though he'd meant for that to happen.

Though if he'd expected this, he would have been avoiding Macnair with far more intentionally, and with more determination, because now he was sitting here at this table with a drink he hadn't touched wishing he could make something burst into flames on a whim, just to give him an excuse to break his appointment and leave. A part of him thought that maybe it was his own fault, because maybe he ought to have been expecting this. Ford had always known that Macnair was more experienced than he was, and it hadn't been much of a leap from there to assume he wasn't as invested in their relationship as Ford had been. He'd known that Macnair wasn't going to be sitting at home pining for him, or anything. His show of intimacy was just that — a show. Their brief affair would probably have no lasting impact on Macnair's life at all after it was through. Ford knew that. So maybe he should have been prepared to encounter this, the next time that he saw Macnair at the club. Maybe academically he even was prepared; maybe if he'd just heard about it or read about it or something, he would have been able to rationalize his way out of any particular reaction. Sitting here and seeing it, though, Ford couldn't help how angry he felt that Macnair was flirting — flirting — flirting! — with someone else.

He should have expected this. He knew Macnair hadn't been that invested in their particular relationship. He knew these affairs were something Macnair did. But Merlin, did he have to do it so soon? It had only been a month since the last time they'd kissed. Two weeks since Macnair had fucking caressed Ford's ankle at a party, as though he still wanted to kiss him. Ford tried not to be too obvious about how much attention he was paying to Macnair and his new friend, but it was pointless to try and prevent himself from looking over every few seconds, especially when he had nothing else to do except wait for the person he was supposed to be meeting here. At first he tried to convince himself that he didn't really know what was going on, since he wasn't close enough that he could hear what they were talking about. Maybe these were just old friends, catching up. He couldn't really believe that, though, because he knew what Macnair flirting with a man at the club looked like, because he'd fucking been there and he remembered it.

Oh my god, were they even sitting in the same fucking chairs? The fucking indignity! Not that Ford had any particular claim to those chairs just because he'd sat there one night in April, but holy hell — it just seemed to make it all worse, adding insult to injury. Couldn't Macnair have made even the slightest effort to pretend that Ford had been any different from the string of men he'd been with before, or would be with after? Fucking hell...

Ford checked his watch, wondering how much longer he'd have to wait until he could give up on this meeting and go home, and discovered to his absolute anguish that there were still three minutes before the time they'd even agreed to meet, so the fellow wasn't even late yet. Fuck's sake, why had he showed up early? Ford glanced back at Macnair again without thinking about it (he had not gone much longer than thirty seconds since arriving without glancing at Macnair, despite his best efforts to be less obvious about it) and saw Macnair looking back at him, now without a partner. Ford's cheeks flushed and he dragged his eyes down to his glass. He might have been gratified to see that the gentleman Macnair had been flirting with had left, if Macnair hadn't caught him looking. Now Macnair was going to know that Ford had been watching him, and he was going to know how much this whole thing bothered him — Ford had never been very good at keeping his feelings off his face and had no hope that he had suddenly developed the skill now, when he felt as though he might as well have manifested a literal storm cloud over his head.

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Valerian prided himself on knowing exactly what to do at any given moment, and with any other person he would have shrugged off the sudden departure of the gentleman he'd been flirting with by starting conversation with the next person he made eye contact with, but it was Greengrass. He shouldn't have been surprised to catch his eye—they were separated by a mere twenty feet, and Greengrass was the only person between Valerian and the wall from the way he was facing—and yet he felt his stomach do a flip when his eyes met the same brown ones that Valerian had just been thinking about. Only his expression was different. Where Valerian's was blank, maybe expectant and a little lost, Greengrass' was... angry? Annoyed? At the very least he looked like he didn't want to be looking at Valerian, considering how quickly he turned his gaze away.

It was pure impulse that sent him in Greengrass' direction—that, and maybe a need not to look as directionless as he was feeling. He couldn't pretend like he hadn't seen Greengrass now, and with who-knows-how-many men behind him he didn't want to look like he was actively avoiding Greengrass, either. And yet, as he walked towards Greengrass' table, he found himself growing more agitated with every step. Why did he have that look on his face?

He had a guess, of course. It wasn't hard to put two and two together, and if Greengrass was jealous it really did serve him right after breaking things off as he did, but Valerian still hated the idea. He didn't have the right to be jealous.

"You know, you could try not to look so..." he said quietly, making a vague gesture with his hands as he slid into the chair across from Greengrass.

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Dear Merlin, what had Ford done to deserve this? It was bad enough that Macnair had caught him looking, but now he was actually coming over. Ford wasn't exactly sure what his expression had been when he'd glanced over a moment ago, but he knew it couldn't have been described as inviting, so what the hell was this about? Was Macnair coming over here just to taunt him, to make sure Ford was absolutely clear on how quickly he'd moved on? For one split second, in a flash of anger, Ford thought really he might hate him — but it was a short-lived fantasy, because his desk drawer at home was slowly filling up with heartsick letters with V. Macnair written across the top, so it wasn't as though he could pretend.

Macnair spoke and Ford gritted his teeth. Oh, I'm sorry, did my bad mood distract you too much from finding someone else to cheat on your wife with? he thought bitterly, but of course he couldn't say that. For one thing they were in the club, but even if they weren't Ford didn't have it in him to be so blunt, even as angry as he was. Yeah, well, maybe you could try not to be so... he thought next, but that was still too openly aggressive to actually make it past his lips. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to finish the sentence except with the same sort of gesture Macnair had just used, because he didn't actually know what it was about this that irritated him so much. He'd known it was going to happen — but maybe a small part of him had hoped that he wouldn't have ever had to know it was happening.

He glowered for a moment, though he was beginning to wonder if he was more angry with himself than he was with Macnair.

"Someone's sitting there," he announced eventually, tone stiff.

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Part of him was intrigued with Greengrass' expression, because through all the passion and lust and pain and heartache Valerian didn't think he'd ever seen such an angry expression cross Greengrass' face. An exasperated one, maybe, and a frustrated one for sure, but not angry. He couldn't help but stare, his own expression devoid of emotion as he tried to figure out what to say. He couldn't find the words, though, which was becoming uncomfortably common in his interactions with Greengrass, even as infrequent as they were nowadays. And then Greengrass told him someone was sitting there, which immediately translated in Valerian's mind to I've found someone else, and it was his turn to feel jealous. His jaw clenched and he balled a fist under the table where Greengrass wouldn't see, but he held his tongue.

For a moment. One good, long moment. But he couldn't help himself from saying something—he hadn't sat down across from Greengrass to be immediately shooed away. He tossed a glance over his shoulder, looking for anyone who was coming in their direction, but he didn't see anyone.

"Wouldn't be surprised if you'd scared them off with that look," he said dryly, raising his brows as he turned his gaze back on Greengrass.

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Ford had been hoping Macnair would leave, which would at least have meant he could wrestle with his entirely overblown frustration by himself, but of course he had no such luck. Since he'd said it, though, at least Macnair would know that Ford had something else going on, and that he hadn't been sitting here just watching Macnair's conversation and obsessing over it (though of course that was exactly what he had been doing). Only when Macnair responded, Ford had no idea what to make of the remark. What was that supposed to mean?

"It didn't scare you off," Ford pointed out dryly. It was easier to continue with the casual hostility than try and figure out how to actually respond to that, because he didn't even know where to start. Ford meeting a friend at the club had nothing to do with his bad mood, and surely Macnair knew that. It had to be obvious, because it wasn't as though Macnair was stupid, and Ford hadn't been going to any great lengths to hide his frustration so far during this conversation.

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Before he could even think of a response, the words were already slipping from his lips. "I'm afraid my curiosity outweighed my unease," he said with the same dryness as before, only his expression had morphed. His eyes narrowed, and he propped his elbow on the table so he could rest his cheek against his palm. "You looked unusually agitated." Okay, he was mocking him a little, but if he was right and Greengrass had the audacity to be jealous, he deserved to be mocked.

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Ford frowned tightly as Macnair leaned his elbow on the table. This was accompanied by another surge of what Ford now recognized as entirely irrational anger. Macnair hadn't promised him anything and didn't owe him anything, and he could go flirt with whomever he wanted, and he could even waltz over here and given Ford a look like that afterwards if he felt so inclined. Ford didn't have any ground to stand on, with his anger over this.

But didn't he, at least a little bit? Macnair had flirted with him, starting this whole thing off. Macnair had written the first letter. Macnair had kissed him. Macnair had asked him to stay the night. He'd reached for Ford's hand that night they'd been interrupted, and he'd started signing his letters yours. So if Ford was feeling awful and miserable about the fact that he wasn't around any more, whose fault was it, really? He kept telling himself that he had only himself to blame, for setting his expectations too high and allowing himself to get too invested too quickly, but it wasn't as though Macnair had played no role in this whole mess.

"And you thought coming over to chat would help my agitation?" he snapped.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Valerian flinched at Greengrass' tone, and a surge of pain shot through him. He'd bitten his tongue, he realized, as the tangy taste of blood brought a momentary grimace to his face. He leaned away from his palm and allowed his arm to lay flat on the table, his fingertips curling around the edge of the table.

Really, Greengrass was right. Then again... he hadn't really intended to help him. He hadn't come over with any tangible intention at all. He only came because he knew he'd have spent the rest of the day wondering what had been going through Greengrass' mind had he done the right think and walked away.

"Hardly. I merely wanted to confirm the source of it," he said, cocking another brow as if to say try and tell me you're agitated about something else.

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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He raised his eyebrow like this was a game, though to Macnair's credit at least he didn't look particularly amused at his victory over Ford. Which was what it appeared to be, from Ford's perspective. Macnair had come over here to gloat; to assert, with his cool, confident manner if not in direct words, his superiority for having gotten through their little affair unscathed, while Ford was still reeling from it.

"Well," Ford said briskly. "Having successfully tested your hypothesis, I suppose you'll want to go." It would have been idiotic to try and pretend he wasn't upset about Macnair flirting with someone else when he so obviously was, so Ford didn't bother. It had been obvious since their eyes had first met across the room, he was sure, and if he tried to lie and attribute it to something else now he'd only look foolish and desperate. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you from more enjoyable company."

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He supposed he ought to be pleased. Ought to, because Greengrass had been the one to end things, even after Valerian's resistance. Valerian had been the one who wanted to make things work, who was willing to adjust his life to make Greengrass more comfortable when he'd expressed his discomfort. He'd tried, whereas Greengrass had pushed him away, had given up. Valerian ought to be pleased.

But he wasn't. In fact, the words stung like a slap in the face. He wasn't sure if it was the insinuation of some disloyalty that didn't exist or the insecurity that laced Greengrass' words, but he felt the urge to defend himself, to reassure Greengrass that his company had been far less enjoyable than his. He might have reached out and grabbed for his hand. He would have squeezed it, maybe a little too hard, because while he didn't want Greengrass to be wallow in insecurity he was also angry that he was being made to feel guilty about flirting with someone after being broken up with. He might have, had they not been in a room with a dozen or so other men.

As if he owed him that much! Maybe Greengrass had purposefully seated himself in Valerian's sight, knowing that he would come over. Maybe he was saying what he was to manipulate Valerian, to make him feel guilty—

Except he wasn't. He didn't think Greengrass had it in him.

"Why are you being like this?" he scoffed, burying all his emotions in favor of the much-easier outrage. "You did this. You ended things."

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But you started them, Ford's mind accused. It wasn't as though Ford had asked for things to move so quickly, or for any of the dozen little things Macnair had done while they were together that started to make it feel like it was more than just fooling around. Macnair had kissed him and whispered mine; he'd signed his letters yours. Ford had tried to keep his feelings out of things, to remain casual and detached, but it wasn't possible under those conditions. It was as though Macnair was leading him into a lake where they'd both agreed to only get their feet wet, and Ford followed him without thinking until he eventually stopped to look around and realized he was already chest-deep in water and if he kept on this way he was going to drown. So yes, he'd ended things. What else was he supposed to do?

"Why do you care what I'm — being like," Ford returned rather clumsily. His cheeks flushed but he continued all the same. "You're clearly not hung up on it so just — sit somewhere you can't see me and forget we ever talked tonight."

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Set by Lady!

Greengrass was stumbling, and he might have felt empowered had he not felt so utterly frustrated. What did he mean by you're clearly not hung up on it? Was he insinuating that he was hung up on it? Or was he trying to accuse him of moving on too fast? Either insinuation was a preposterous one, really, and he found it increasingly difficult to keep his expression under control.

"If it had been up to me you wouldn't be like this in the first place," he said in a low, harsh voice, feeling his own cheeks flush with anger. "Why break things off when you can't handle..." He trailed off, not really wanting to go into the details of his flirtations in front of Greengrass. He wasn't that cruel. "You make no sense."

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Why break things off? For heaven's sake, hadn't it been obvious? Ford supposed not, at least not to Macnair, if he was asking about it. He couldn't imagine that Macnair would get any pleasure out of forcing a confession out of him now if he hadn't done so earlier, which meant he really must not have put it all together yet. It was excusable that he might not have noticed when they were together, because it had taken Ford a while to notice it himself. If there hadn't been so many things that happened all at once, he might not have realized it at all. The hand-holding, the yours, the way he felt sitting in his parlor across from Noble with a secret he couldn't share. So Macnair hadn't noticed, fine, but Ford had very nearly come right out and said in when he'd broken things off. Was Macnair being intentionally daft, or did he not remember? Ford had said you make it too easy; how much more explicit could he be without just coming right out and announcing it?

"If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not going to explain it now," he said, shaking his head. Had it been three minutes yet? Where was the person he was supposed to meet, to come and rescue him from this conversation?

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Set by Lady!

Valerian felt a sudden sense of urgency at Greengrass' response, like he had to know and he had to know now. He didn't like being left in the dark, least of all in matters concerning himself, and while he'd thought his own engagement to Tatiana was the driving force of their breakup it seemed that it wasn't the complete explanation he'd assumed it was. He leaned forward, ready to go on the attack. If you're going to sit here and make me feel guilty for trying to move on I deserve to know, he would have a said, and aggressively, too. But every time he pushed, Greengrass seemed to pull back a little, seemed to shut down the conversation a little more. Aggression didn't work with him, at least not in the middle of the club.

So instead he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. He scooted down at an angle so he could see Greengrass' face even if he tried to look down, and in doing so the side of his shoe brushed against the side of Greengrass'. "I need to know. You need to tell me," he said, and then for good measure added, "Please."

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Macnair leaned forward and Ford's eyes flashed, ready for whatever he would say next — but he didn't say anything at all. He was leaning back, and somehow that was even worse — not confrontational but that calm, collected look he had so often, even though it was clear from his posture that he was still annoyed. Merlin, sometimes Ford really did believe he almost hated him, because how could he still look like that when he was being so infuriatingly obtuse? Ford grit his teeth. I'm not going to tell you, he thought. You can look at me like that and nudge my foot under the table and do whatever else you want, and I'm not going to tell you. What difference would it make now, anyway? It would only serve to further embarrass Ford, and it would benefit neither of them, so he wasn't going to tell him.

Except he was, apparently, because before he'd even realized what he was doing he'd opened his mouth and spat out, "Because I would have fallen in love with you if I'd stayed, you idiot."

Ford's eyes widened slightly as the weight of the words he'd just spoken sunk in. Fuck's sake, why had he said that? He had certainly never intended to say that, and if he hadn't heard the words as they'd left his mouth he wouldn't have believed he even had. Even if he'd wanted to make some sort of grand confession (he hadn't), this was the wrong venue for it — they were in the club, and Ford hadn't even taken the trouble to lower his voice, which meant someone might have overheard if they were passing by closely enough. Fuck fuck fuck, but why had he said that?!

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   Valerian Macnair

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