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Pip had long known of Herbert and Clara's chess games with Mr. Wemmick; he had tried fiercely to move on from the resulting feeling of dark absence that settled somewhere around his liver. Of course, it may have been his several weekly bottles of wine taking a toll upon his constitution, but nonetheless he felt something akin to dissatisfaction when he thought of Herbert and Clara and Mr. Wemmick gathered around a little table without him, laughing about something or crowing in triumph or protesting in loss.

Often on these afternoons he found himself idle at his club, or idle at home, or idly wandering the streets of London, or some other such activity—but always was he idle in the days Herbert was absent, and often did he feel the same twisting feeling nearabout his stomach. And idly such he sat before the fire in his and Herbert's rooms, a long-forgotten bottle of (expensive, of course, always expensive) brandy at his elbow, when Herbert stepped in, the squeak of the door alerting Pip to his otherwise quiet presence. Then after came another set of footsteps, one which had Pip twisting around in his seat to assess the visitor.

He needn't have, as from behind him came Clara's cheery greeting. Pip stood, offering her a smile and a bow, both a touch lopsided, what with the brandy. "Good evening, Clara. To what do I owe the pleasure?" For it was a pleasure to see her, though he did not often have the occasion.

"The misfortune," Herbert replied, "of the death of one excellent laying chicken. And thus the necessary and vital checking up on the flock, which has fully captured Mister Wemmick's attentions for this evening." He set a basket upon the table. "We have received the consolation of a bushel of his finest rhubarbs."

Clara patted Herbert's arm. "It is quite a distressing time for Mister Wemmick, do not mock him," she chided.

Herbert flopped in the chair to Pip's side. "I was only seven moves away from checkmate, Clara."

Pip moved aside to offer Clara his seat. Clara took it, sitting with a touch more poise than Herbert did. "Herbert is quite distressed," she informed Pip, not without bemusement. "He simply cannot conceive of a Friday without chess."

"And you've got a head start on the brandy, Handel," he complained. He took a despondent sip directly from the bottle, much to Clara's chagrin.

Pip leaned against Clara's chair. "It seems you've discovered my alternative to chess."

Herbert grimaced. "Over-sweetened brandy?"

Pip cocked his head. "Or else wine, or else whiskey, or else-"

"Good God, Pip, have you not heard of solitaire?" Clara said.

Pip looked at her blankly.

"Or you could write a letter. Goodness knows your family would like one," Herbert said, then grimaced. "Apologies. Perhaps I have overstepped." A sip of brandy, then.

"Or," Clara smoothed over, "a book. You are not wanting books."

"I suppose I am not." Pip felt another seize in his gut. "Only I am quite concerned that Mister Wemmick is particularly lacking in fondness towards me, and- well, I suppose I would like to play with you," he said rather lamely.

Though he had expected some guffaw or chuckle or smirk from his little audience, the faces of Clara and Herbert in the light of the flickering fire were merely confused. "Do we not own a chess board, my dear boy?" Herbert finally said, making to stand.

"We haven't one," Pip said, though truthfully he was uncertain; if they did own a chess board, he had yet to see it, and at this moment he found himself preferring to continue his night in the absence of a chess board.

"But you surely have cards," Clara suggested. "You must."

Herbert's face lit up, the brandy sloshing in the bottle as he gestured towards Clara. "Smashing idea! Handel, you know how to play Whist?"

"I know-"

"Oh, Herbert, we've only three players," Clara protested.

"Hearts, then." Herbert decided, setting the bottle of brandy down to glitter in the firelight as he stood in search of a deck of cards.

Pip watched in bewilderment as Herbert rummaged through the bookshelves. With a shake of his head, he sat in the now empty chair. Clara looked on at Herbert with a fond smile, and again Pip felt the same sort of darkness in his gut.

Clara, teasing Herbert for the disarray of his cabinetry, wore a light blue patterned dress, turned orange and grey by firelight, the orange hue reflected too in the threads of hair that curled by the nape of her neck. A stray thought darted through Pip's mind as he wondered what it might be like to have Estella smile upon him as Clara did Herbert, but quickly he dismissed the thought, as Herbert, bearing his own warm smile, returned with a brand new deck of cards in one hand. With the other, he snatched the bottle of brandy and, looking quite pleased with himself, retreated to the dining table, where Pip and Clara both followed.

And before Pip quite realized it, he had won two rounds of Hearts—both victories being heavily contested by Hebert—and lost one round of Old Maid to Clara, to whom Herbert awarded the last of the bottle of brandy and a cheerful "that's my girl!", and in the middle of the second round of the game, Pip realized whilst peering over his hand at Herbert's ill-schooled poker face that the dreary feeling he had acquired earlier had ceased.

He plucked a card from Herbert's hand and regretted it immediately, for Herbert's smile grew so wide that he knew without looking which unfortunate card he had drawn. Herbert threw down his own cards. "Game, my dear Handel. I've won." He shared a self-satisfied smile with Clara.

"But I am still the reigning champion, am I not?" Pip pointed out. "For I have won twice, and each of you has won once."

"But we are a team," Herbert decided.

"Then it is a tie," Clara declared, "and unfortunately, a tie it shall stay, because I must get back to my father before he gets into one of his tempers."

Herbert's mood soured immediately, and with it Pip's. He wished the brandy hadn't been so thoroughly drained. Clara gathered her coat and things as Herbert doted accordingly upon her, offering to walk her home and being much denied on account of his being unable to walk in a straight line. "You," Clara declared, "would walk me directly into the Thames and not notice a thing 'til your nose got wet."

Pip looked away as Herbert laughed and kissed her fondly.

"Good night, Clara," Herbert bade.

"Good night," she returned, then paused. "Pip," she said, and Pip stepped forward obediently. "Good night," she repeated, and curtsied slightly.

Automatically, he returned with a bow—though this bow managed to be rather more lopsided than his first.

"I'll see you this weekend, Herbert, don't forget," Clara said, breezing out of their apartment.

With a last wave, Herbert closed the door behind her and adjourned to the front room. "What a cheery evening, don't you think, my dear Handel?"

"Yes," replied Pip, sitting beside him. “Clara is quite a nice girl.”

Upon waking, Pip found himself so woefully ill that he dared not rise until the far reaches of the morning, and in doing so found Herbert in much the same situation. When either of their heads stopped pounding long enough to form a coherent sentence, Pip found Herbert to be convinced that the evening had been an utter success. Pip was not inclined to disagree, and so it was that a similar event became scheduled every Sunday evening—for that was when Herbert and Clara could both most often attend—though, Herbert noted, he could do with a touch less brandy. Both also managed to agree that the rest of the day was a wash, and spent the afternoon sprawled across the couch taking turns reading aloud to each other from a book.

Soon enough though, it was Sunday evening again. Herbert had gone out for some quick errand, and thus had left Pip to stand alone in the study, staring at himself in the mirror hung behind the door and picking at every stray hair and loose thread until at last the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, Clara stood before him, smiling and fairylike as ever, a light scarf draped about her shoulders. "Good evening, Pip."

Her arrival brought him such joy that he found his adjoining greeting to be a touch overenthusiastic, though Clara was polite enough not to mention her opinion.

Greetings exchanged, Pip led her into their rooms and sat her at the dining table, asked if she would like a cup of tea, a place to put her scarf, a book to entertain herself while she waited-

"Really, Pip, you must stop fussing over me," she chided, though a smile remained upon her face all the same. "Sit a while. You can fuss over Herbert when he comes back, should you be so inclined, but I will not allow it over me."

Pip sat.

Clara inquired after his morning, and his week, and as he tried to explain how he was quite busy doing hardly very much at all, Herbert arrived, his sour expression dissolving into cheer at the scene before him. “Ah! My two favorite people. How delightful.”

Clara rose for an embrace and a kiss. Pip fixed his gaze upon the dark wood of the china cabinet across the room.

When Clara had disentangled herself from Herbert, Herbert expectantly turned to Pip. He removed his gaze from the china cabinet to stare back at Herbert.

Reading the confusion in Pip's expression, Herbert asked, "Am I not to treat my two favorite people as equally in my favor? Or shall I snub my dearest friend?"

His frank question startled a laugh out of Clara, who, when Pip looked to her, made no attempt to hide her smile—indeed, she raised an eyebrow and said to Herbert, "My dear, it seems Pip is the one snubbing you."

Pip huffed. "I shall allow it. But only if you leave off the kiss-" and here Herbert laughed, and Pip smiled, too, "-for I maintain your gentleman friend ought to be far less your favorite than your fiancee."

Herbert pouted, but gladly accepted the embrace Pip rose to give him.

Upon pulling away, however, Herbert seized Pip's face and planted a stiff kiss upon Pip's cheek, then pulled away laughing. "And I maintain that my gentleman friend and my fiancee are both equally in my favor."

"I would like it noted," Clara chimed in, "that you, Pip, have yet to gain quite so much of my favor. Don't think I've forgotten your ill-managed checkbook, nor how you managed Herbert's. It took me months to make sense of it again."

Herbert, now sitting beside her, patted her hand. "He'll gain your favor yet, Clara. He's quite charming when neither moping nor drunk. Though I must confess, for him not to be one or the other is quite a rare occurrence."

"I do protest," Pip said, "for sometimes I am asleep and can be neither."

Clara and Herbert looked to each other and laughed, and it brought Pip much pleasure to see it; and soon he found himself enjoying the evening so well that though he rarely ended an evening without it, he found he didn't much mind Herbert and Clara's stubborn insistence that there be no drinking, for fear of a repeat incident. (Herbert did not hesitate to remind him that not so long ago, he had agreed to such a rule, too—or did he want a pounding headache in the morning?)

He enjoyed the evening so well that he hardly noticed the time slip by; then again, neither did Clara and Herbert, for before long, Clara was rushing to the door, giving Herbert a kiss and Pip a curtsy.

On Pip's returning bow, however, Clara leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his cheek just as he came within her reach. He straightened his back quickly, and gave her a curious look, but she was in such a rush she hardly spared him a second glance, instead hurrying out of the door while wishing each a pleasant night.

Pip closed the heavy wooden door behind her, careful not to slam it for fear of the neighbors protesting their noisiness. He turned to Herbert, who had sat down again at the dining table, lantern and glasses still pushed aside to make room for three people and their cards. The light cast long shadows behind his fingers as he shuffled the deck. Queen of hearts, seven of spades, ten of diamonds—all flashed by in the dim lamplight.

Pip took the seat Clara had previously occupied and, gaze fixed to Herbert's hands, attempted to broach the topic. "Herbert, is that Clara's typical manner of wishing her..." Pip hesitated to say friends, uncertain if she liked him enough to allow him such a title. "...acquaintances... goodbye?"

Herbert paused to look at Pip, and for a moment Pip feared Herbert would ask which "that" he meant. He had the sudden urge to drink something strong again, for without the help of a drink he felt this to be so delicate a matter that he feared he would choke if he were to address it directly. But Herbert's expression soon shifted to a conspiratory smile, and he said, the cards resuming, "Handel, I daresay the dear little thing likes you more than she's letting on." He looked back to his hands. "And I must say, I am quite pleased."

"Are you not... worried?" And here Pip grimaced, as Herbert gave him a rather alarmed look. "I don't mean to suggest her infidelity, Herbert, don't misunderstand me! I only worry for your heart."

Herbert made an affirmative sound, returning to his cards. Knave of clubs, six of hearts, ace of spades—and at last he seemed to find his tongue upon the three of hearts, pausing for a moment to set the cards face down on the table. "My dearest Handel," he began, fixing Pip with a somber look, "I do appreciate the thought, but I'm afraid you'll find you are not nearly so privy to my heart's workings as you think you might be. Though," he said, sitting back and idly tapping the deck, "you are integral to its function."

This gave Pip a start. In lieu of a proper response, he forced out some sort of laugh. "Are you certain you haven't gotten into the wine when we weren't looking?"

"I..." Herbert's lips twisted into something, an expression which looked frightful in the candlelight. Then he laughed, a sharp thing, but real enough to Pip's ears to set him at ease. "No. I can assure you Clara would have caught me smuggling the bottle to the table long before I ever took a sip. I would not risk crossing her." He shook his head.

Pip latched onto her name. "And would she risk crossing you?" He asked quietly. For as much as he found the girl to be truly lovely, something was nagging at him in the back of his mind, something which he couldn't put a finger on.

But this was the wrong question, for Herbert's eyes hardened to sparks of flint beneath his brows. "Pip," he said, and that was that.

"I'm sorry," Pip said.

It took him several silent seconds to work up the courage to speak again. "Then you don't mind that she... that this transpired? Because I-"

"Oh good Lord, Handel," Herbert muttered, and his chair scraped against the floor as he stood, reached over the table, dragged Pip to his feet by his lapels and pulled him across the table until his lips met the corner of Pip's mouth.

"No," Herbert said as he straightened up again, "I don't mind. I cannot be angry with you, either of you. Good night, Handel."

This, understandably, left Pip rather flustered. It was only when Herbert reached the dining room door that he managed a, "Good night, Herbert."

Herbert paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. Pip saw a fond smile bloom over his features as he disappeared into the hallway. When his bedroom door clicked shut, Pip was still leaning halfway over the table, a searing flush in his cheeks, and he remained there for some time after, too.

Pip saw neither hide nor hair of Clara the following week, but that was not terribly unusual; what upset him the most was the scarcity of Herbert's company in those days. Though he cited long working hours, Pip had observed him coming into the home grinning ear to ear, which was certainly not a condition to be caused by long, tiring hours. But he did not press.

Secretly, Pip thought that perhaps Herbert was avoiding him out of some sense of embarrassment or shame surrounding what he had done that Sunday night; that or he had changed his mind, and was quite angry at either himself or Clara for what had happened that evening. Both options were upsetting to Pip, for he wasn't fond of the idea of his dear friend being upset with him, nor his dear friend being ashamed of him. He hadn't the confidence to address either situation, however, and left it all alone, instead pushing it to the back of his mind and waiting for Sunday.

That Sunday evening—and what a dreary and wet Sunday evening it was, as it had been for the past several days—Herbert brought Clara home upon his arm, each with coy smiles that led Pip to believe they had been up to activities most unbecoming. Pip, still determined not to address his suspicions, welcomed them warmly. Of course, there was genuine feeling as well; in their absence, he had begun to feel again the dark seize of loneliness, and Barnard's seemed so empty without another body to talk to. So without hesitation, he welcomed each of them in and sat them down at the table, offering each tea and food and asking after them.

Herbert and Clara exchanged a knowing sort of look. “My dear boy, what has gotten into you to-night?” Herbert asked. “You do remember I live here as well as you?”

“Had I only the last week to go on, I should scarcely believe it,” Pip said, and though he hadn't meant it as a barb, it certainly caused Herbert to deflate. Seeing this, Pip felt much shame, and endeavored to carry on in a gentler tone. "Only that I wish to see you more, my dear Herbert, for your friendship is very dear to me."

That, at least, encouraged Herbert towards a tender—if small—smile, and he replied, "My dear Handel, it gives me great pain to keep away for so long, and my sincere apologies."

Pip began to regret doubting Herbert's truthfulness, even privately, and thus sat down before him and Clara and declared they all ought to get on with the game, for it would much improve all of their moods. Clara and Herbert were quick to agree.

Herbert and Clara’s knowing looks continued throughout the night, though Pip dared not comment upon it for fear he would find the source of them distasteful, or perhaps too private; but he did wonder what exactly he had missed, and inexplicably found the same sort of darkness begin to creep up over him again. Now, however, he had no reason to blame it upon his liver, for again there was no brandy to be had, nor even a bottle of wine.

So wrapped up in his own inner thoughts was he that it took him far too long to notice when Clara’s hand had settled upon his forehead, feeling for a temperature with a motherly compassion that contrasted sharply with the plain irritation in her expression. Pip was so surprised when he did notice, however, that he could not help but startle them all with a laugh. Clara yelped, then swatted him with her cards. “There you are! You’ve lost the last three rounds of Loo, Pip, I was wondering where my only worthwhile rival had sunk to.”

“Clara,” Herbert protested, but acquiesced at her doubtful look. “Perhaps I am not as worthwhile a rival at cards as he, but I had rather hoped you would say it more tactfully,” he said, though he smiled all the while. But as he turned his gaze back to Pip, he set his cards aside, a frown taking residence upon his fair face. “My dear boy, I do hope your mood is not affected again by thoughts of my absence.”

Damn Herbert for his insight, and damn him for his kindness, thought Pip, though he felt such subsequent guilt that he found the truth tumbling right out of him. “I’m afraid so, my dear Herbert, but don't let it trouble you.” He forced a smile, which, judging by Herbert’s reaction, likely manifested more as a grimace.

From his left, a sigh. “Pip,” Clara began, “if you could only hear Herbert when you are not present, you would not be so worried, for half of his thoughts are regarding you anyways.” Herbert shifted uncomfortably, but at the same time took up the cards and began to shuffle through them, head bowed to hide a small smile. “Handel this, Handel that—a good half of his mind is occupied by you, Pip, and the other half seems to be his capital, and frankly I’m surprised he remembers me at all most days!” Clara huffed.

Over his cards, Herbert gave her an apologetic look, and Clara laid her delicate hand upon his arm, which seemed to settle the matter between them.

This startled Pip somewhat, for he had never seen Clara express any sort of genuine irritation with Herbert, but before he could speak, Clara was after his hand, too. She gently removed his cards from his grip and set them aside so that she might better hold his hand with both of hers. Herbert dutifully shuffled them back into the deck as Clara spoke. “Fear not, Pip, for I find myself taking less and less umbrage with it as the days pass by.”

Pip looked to Herbert, who now was beaming at the cards he shuffled, but otherwise was silent, and took his silence to mean this gesture of affection, too, was not considered overstepping.

“I thank you for your assurances,” Pip said, and with a confidential lowering of his voice, continued. “I must tell you my experience has been much the same, only opposite—if he is here, he speaks of his dear little thing, or else his capital; and if he is not, he is attending to his dear little thing or his capital, and scarcely do I find him not preoccupied by one or the other.”

Clara took great delight in this new knowledge, looking over with an incredulous little smile at Herbert, who had given up his cards entirely and was now looking at the two of them, cheeks red and manner decidedly abashed. “Does he!” she said, though Pip suspected she had already known he did, for the most part. All the same, her warm hands tightened around his coarse one, and he found it to be quite pleasant.

“I think that’s quite enough cards for one night,” said poor Herbert, who looked as though he might have been boiled alive in his suit for the redness in his normally pale face.

Clara, laughing, agreed, and all three stood and moved towards the door together. Only once the door to their apartment swung open did any of them remember about the rain that came down in sheets outside, and as Pip handed Herbert and Clara each an umbrella, Herbert looked sadly at him.

“Handel, I do hope I am not asking too much, but would you see Clara home to-night?” He looked to Clara, but she was not listening, or else did not show it, for she was rather preoccupied with the buttons on her coat. “I’m afraid her father caught us at it, and simply won’t hear of having me back—at least not for a few days,” he said.

Pip turned so red that he could find nothing within himself but for stammered agreement, and Herbert gave him the umbrella back with his thanks.

Clara must have been listening after all, as her cheeks were dusted pink when Herbert gave her a good night’s kiss. And without allowing time for Pip to return from his first embarrassment, Herbert turned to Pip and gave him a good night’s kiss as well—though his on the cheek—and bid him return as quick as he could, sending Pip again into an internal fit. Clara gave a knowing little laugh at Pip’s side. Pip looked from Herbert to Clara to Herbert again, decided that whatever was going on between the two of them was far beyond him, bid Herbert a brief farewell, and turned away to offer Clara his elbow. She gladly accepted.

The wooden door to their rooms clicked shut behind them when they were halfway down the stairs. By the time the pair reached the bottom of the staircase, the silence was already deafening to Pip, and as they stepped out onto the street, he leaned under her umbrella to speak to her—for the rushing of the rain was quite loud—directly in her ear. “My most sincere apologies for the loss of your opponent at cards; I fear he was rather distracted today and could not attend.”

Clara tilted her head to the side and considered Pip. “Do tell him I don’t mind terribly—for I do like winning—but that I wish him the best and hope he feels better by next week.”

This eased Pip, and the rest of the walk passed with what pleasant chatter they could hear between bouts of fearsome rain.

At last they reached Clara’s boarding house, and despite the thundering rain, Pip still thought he could hear some frightful stomping about coming from the second floor just above their head, and wondered if that wasn’t one of Clara’s father’s moods. His mind was cast back to Mrs. Joe and her rampages, and he felt a pang of sympathy.

Clara stopped upon the doorstep, and Pip stopped a step behind her, finding her suddenly quite a bit taller for the few inches the step lent her. She leaned forward beneath their shared umbrellas. “Thank you ever so much for seeing me home, Pip,” she said. She paused to allow him to mumble the proper response before continuing. “I’ve grown rather fond of our weekly card games, especially because I’ve at last found someone worthy of playing cards with. Oh, I love Herbert dearly to be sure, but he simply isn’t as sharp at cards.”

Pip laughed, his mind cast back to Herbert’s ill-executed “poker face.” “I had rather hoped you would like me for more than my skill at cards, but I will take what I can get,” he said. “Though these evenings spent in your company have been pleasant, and I do hope our games continue.”

Clara pursed her lips and assessed Pip. Apparently finding something she liked, she smiled. “Yes, I hope so too. I have grown fond of you as well, I think.”

There was a moment of silence between them—barring, of course, the torrential rain and the grumbling from the second floor—and as Pip began to consider how to remove himself politely, Clara spoke again. “Would you mind terribly if I kissed you goodnight, Pip?”

Which was a surprising development, for she had not asked before. Pip thought that perhaps Herbert had had some words with her, or else she had somehow realized his inner turmoil over the whole thing—though he had found that he did not mind it on the whole, provided it did not upset any of the involved parties—and thought it kind of her to ask. He replied in the affirmative and had just leaned forward to offer his cheek when Clara, ever tricksterly, caught his own lips squarely with hers.

It was only a brief moment that it lasted, for Pip was so startled that he jumped back, mind churning in confusion. Clara, however, looked pleased. “Good night to you, Pip,” she said, curtsying as best she could while managing her umbrella and with no further discussion she turned back to the house.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Pip found himself saying, "Wait."

Clara froze, turned, looked at him with unvarnished interest.

He shouldn't have done it. He knew even as he stepped forward, as he brought a hand to her chin, as he leaned forward to kiss her again. Clara, however, seemed to hold no such reservations, gleefully throwing an arm around his neck and standing up on her tiptoes to find better purchase.

It wasn't even a terribly long kiss, as far as kisses went. When Clara removed her arm from Pip's neck and stepped back, she offered him a sunny smile despite the rain and offered him another curtsy. "Good night," she said, grinning from ear to ear, and then she ducked into the house, leaving Pip alone in the dreary London streets with only his cold guilt and the odd creeping feeling of warmth that settled in his ribs.

As he trudged back towards Barnard’s, he wrestled with each feeling in turn, and in the end decided that the best thing to do would be to inform Herbert of the incident straight away, for though he had approved previously, Pip could not imagine that this new development had not crossed some sort of line.

When Pip arrived at home, however, he found Herbert fast asleep on his chair by the fire, and could not find it within himself to wake his friend up only to deliver such terrible news. Instead, he retrieved a blanket from Herbert’s bed and draped it over him, all the while resolving to confess in the morning.

By the next morning Pip’s conscience was so burdened by the wild imaginings of a restless night’s thoughts that he could not find it within himself to tell Herbert about the kiss then, either, though he saw him over breakfast and again after dinner.

As the week passed, Pip’s guilt weighed heavier and heavier upon him, the recollection of Herbert’s earnest declaration of trust in both himself and Clara echoing in his mind every moment he resolved to at last tell him, each time sending him into such a fit that he felt the need to lie down for an hour or so just to recover. He thought too that Herbert must have an idea that something had transpired, for after the first day Pip began to fancy that every moment he did not look at Herbert, Herbert was staring at him with a reproachful glare. So caught up was he in this fiction that he hardly noticed when, on Thursday evening, Herbert set his book down and laid his hand upon Pip’s arm, worriedly asking what was bothering him so.

Pip could not hold Herbert’s gaze for more than a moment, instead electing to gaze towards the crackling fire, which seemed to taunt him with its dancing tongues of flame.

With a great sigh, Pip set his book down on the table beside him. Though Herbert seemed to move beside him, Pip dared not glance over for fear what little confidence he had would crumble.

“My dear Herbert, I’m afraid I’ve betrayed your trust terribly,” Pip began. Herbert made a small sound, though Pip was uncertain whether it was meant to be of shock or of sympathy. “You have said you could not be angry with me, but I really believe I have done you wrong.”

Herbert’s voice, gentle as he could make it, came from his side. “Out with it then, Handel.”

“Oh damn it all, Herbert, I’ve proper kissed her, and I oughtn’t have, I know it, and I did mean to tell you, only I knew it would be such a betrayal that I dared not spoil your mood, only now I’ve done it anyway,” Pip let out. He rose from his chair and began pacing the room at as quick a pace as his legs could carry him, only stopped when Herbert physically placed himself in Pip’s path. And now Pip saw his first glimpse of Herbert’s reaction, and found himself quite surprised at the lack of anger present on Herbert’s features.

Herbert brought his hands to Pip’s shoulders in an effort to keep him from breaking free to resume his furious pacing, and Pip was quite perplexed to see a smile appearing on Herbert’s face by and by.

“Do not make a joke of this, Herbert, for I fear it is all deadly serious,” Pip warned.

“I make no jokes, Handel,” Herbert said, and his voice, too, was warmer than Pip had expected, and the hands on his shoulders far more patient, and despite Herbert’s reassurances, he was beginning to suspect that this was some kind of practical joke or scheme after all. But here Herbert continued. “I must contest, however, that this is a betrayal of my trust on either of your parts, as for one I simply cannot imagine Clara allowing you to kiss her if she was not inclined to do so; as for another thing, I believe that given the circumstances of the kiss—for being alone with you is quite temptation enough—I would have done the same thing.”

Pip’s mind, though thoughts ran through at top speed, could scarcely keep up with the ideas Herbert presented to him, and as such the only comment that passed his lips was a breathless, “You would kiss me, Herbert?”

“I would,” confessed Herbert, “and I would gladly demonstrate if you would allow me the honor.”

This was not the answer he had expected. A laugh; a "You misunderstand me, Handel!"; a look of disbelief, or dare he imagine it, outright anger; all were responses he could have expected, but hardly this. Hardly a yes.

Pip swallowed audibly. He couldn't quite help when his gaze flicked downwards, to Herbert's mouth, pink lips still holding a faint smile even as the silence between them stretched further.

A horrible thought crossed his mind.

Pip stepped back quite suddenly, which left Herbert to stumble at the loss of his support. “I won't be caught up in your personal dispute, if that’s what this is,” Pip choked out, anger and confusion and guilt swirling within him to form a most terrible cocktail. “I love you both dearly, but I refuse-” And here his voice broke, because Herbert looked at him with the most terrible expression of sadness.

"Handel," Herbert said, and God save Pip's soul, Herbert's voice broke on his name, "is that really what you believe this to be?"

Herbert's face was twisted into such earnest emotion, his eyes warm and wet, his hand reaching up to Pip as though he needed support merely to stand. In the face of this, Pip found he could do nothing more than turn tail and retreat to his room to lick his wounds and ruminate over the evening’s events, which somehow turned more sour than even his most pessimistic predictions.

Outside his door, he could hear Herbert pass by many times, until at last the outside door to their apartment opened and shut as quietly as was possible to do so, and Herbert went off into the night.

Pip saw neither Herbert nor Clara the rest of the week, and was glad for it, because had he encountered them, he would not know what to do, or what he might be likely to do. In fact, by Sunday afternoon, Pip had come to the conclusion that he was to skip their weekly game entirely—both to save face and to avoid confronting his two companions, who he felt he had wronged and who he felt had wronged him. Though he had no desire to be at Barnard’s, he had no desire to be anywhere else, either, and resigned himself to walking across the city in hopes of finding a better mood somewhere along the way. Much to his chagrin, however, he found himself so settled into routine that, having been lost in thought walking somewhere down by the river Thames, he found himself at Barnard's at precisely the right time for the game without quite remembering how he got there.

Despite the anger he felt, the desire for solitude, the dread at having to look either of them in the face again, Pip found himself climbing the narrow staircase to the apartment, hoping both that they would be there waiting for him and that they would not.

When he stepped inside, he found them most decidedly present, Herbert leaning heavily on his elbows on the sofa before the fire, and Clara beside him with a hand on his back. She turned to look at him, her expression unreadable in the shadow from the hearth. “Hello, Pip,” she said, her tone too gentle for what had transpired.

“Hello, Clara,” Pip replied, removing his hat and coat. “Hello, Herbert.”

“Good evening, Pip,” said Herbert, sitting up at last. He wiped at his face briefly with a handkerchief, and at the idea of Herbert crying, Pip felt a confusing stab of anger and guilt hit his heart.

He found himself sitting in his usual armchair, though once again he avoided the gaze of either of his companions.

“Pip,” began Clara, “I’m afraid we’ve much explaining to do.”

He allowed a long pause, considered their earnest expressions, their gentle words. “If you must,” said Pip, who would really have rather gone to his room.

Clara’s brow knit, and Herbert’s shoulders sagged, and Pip sensed that perhaps this would all be over much faster if he said as little as possible.

"I'm terribly sorry, Handel," said Herbert, "truly, terribly sorry."

Pip tried not to watch as Clara set her hand on Herbert's knee.

"I do not know what you think has been going on. I do not know how you have been interpreting my actions, Our actions." Herbert stumbled over his words.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Pip said, “I’d like to know what is going on directly. I think I’ve had enough of not being told what is going on.”

Clara looked to Herbert, and so did Pip, now—his warm eyes were burdened with tears again, the handkerchief more preoccupied with being wrung between his hands rather than its intended function. “Last Sunday, when I... you said you would not be caught in the midst of a lovers' quarrel. I must assure you, Handel, this is no lovers' quarrel, or at the very least not the type you are thinking of. For,” he paused to swallow back more tears, and a surge of sympathy washed over Pip such that it was all he could do to remain in his seat rather than move closer to reassure him, or perhaps take the handkerchief from his hands to dab at his cheeks.

“For,” Herbert tried again, “you may remember—I do so hope you remember—some weeks ago I confessed to you that both Clara and yourself were both equally in my favor. I thought it would be clear. I thought I had made it clear, but perhaps-” he paused, frustrated by his own inability to put to words what he meant to say.

Pip’s jaw seemed sewn shut, for all the words he could find within himself—which was likely just as well, he reasoned, for he suspected he was beginning to puzzle out where Herbert was going and could not quite believe it.

“Some weeks ago, perhaps several months now,” began Clara gently, “Herbert and I were chatting—nothing much, just a moment at my house while my father slept—and oh, Pip, how happy he seemed, for he was so enamored by you he could not keep it to himself.”

Herbert flashed her a watery smile. “You are very patient, my dear,” he said to her.

Clara laughed a little. “I like to think so.”

“And,” Herbert said, picking up where she had so kindly left him, “she advised me that perhaps, if I was so preoccupied, I ought to tell you so and see what you thought. Only I couldn’t,” he said, daring to look up at Pip, “for I suspected as much as this; that is, the lack of understanding, and the unhappy ending.” His fingers curled into his thighs.

“I offered to come with,” Clara said, “to ease his mind. But it seems that I’ve fallen into the same situation,” she said with a wry smile.

Pip was quite dumbfounded, now. The fire crackled along merrily, but his mind whirled and spun and all he could manage was a fragment: “Then you both…”

“Love you?” Herbert supplied, voice a little broken. “Wholly.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “Well. Do not speak for me, Herbert, for I’ve yet to make up my mind—but oh, I wouldn’t mind it,” she said, but with such a heavy air that Pip took it to be quite more serious than she pretended it meant.

There was a long stretch of silence where he could do little but try not to look at them, even as they looked on at him.

"Oh," said Pip at last, for there was little of his mind available to devote to eloquence. "Oh."

It seemed there was little left to devote to controlling his functions, either, for in short order he found himself slumped against the back of the chair, staring blankly at the floor as tears gathered in his eyes.

Clara rounded the coffee table in a flash of skirts and knelt at his side, one hand tilting his chin towards her and the other dabbing a handkerchief pulled from who-knew-where upon his cheeks as the tears fell. Herbert stood, too, and though he was slower, he knelt at Pip's other side and took his hand, waiting, just as teary-eyed. Their combined displays were such that he could hardly settle his eyes anywhere without some new rush of emotion at the way they-

The way-

They way they loved him.

And of course, of course he loved them. How could he not? The two of them, such a gentle, cheerful, caring pair; so tender with him, so kind, who seemed to love him as much as they loved each other. Of course he loved them, of course he loved them, "Of course I love you."

Of course he loved them.

It was Clara who registered this first. It was Clara whose face broke out into the same sunny smile she had had when they had kissed in the rain; and it was with all the same enthusiasm and more that she kissed him again, leaned awkwardly over the arm of his chair and cradled his face in her delicate hands until he finally remembered to kiss back, and then laughed and kissed him once more.

Herbert was slower, seemed almost disbelieving. Pip, heart surging from the high of being kissed, being kissed by Clara, loving Clara, loving Herbert , managed to speak. "I do believe, if Clara and I are to be equally in your favor, you owe me several of those."

And Herbert laughed, and Herbert reached up, and Herbert kissed him, too, slotted himself between Pip's legs and craned his neck up uncomfortably and kissed him. And Pip managed to remember to kiss back.

When Herbert at last relinquished Pip, each of them remained in their spot, unwilling to give up such a joyful moment. From the dining room chimed the grandfather clock—six, seven, eight times—and it seemed to break the spell, for Herbert said with a glance towards the dining room, “It appears to me we are dreadfully late for our card game.”

Clara looked between the two of them with an expression of immutable cheer. "I think we have time for one game. What do you say?"

And well, if they did not have time, they would certainly make it.

Thus the three of them sat down once more at the dining table, the cards distributed amongst them. The typical chatter between them persisted, now interspersed with a gentle brush of hands, a happy sigh, a lingering look. And Pip did not think of the darkness that once settled deep within his stomach, for it was nowhere to be found now, and would not come back so long as he had the company of his two dearest companions.