Work Text:
February, 1798.
The heat of many bodies packed close together washes over Robert like the tide as he steps over the threshold of the Covent Garden tavern.
Of the similar establishments he has visited in London, he has come to favour this one above all others. The heady scent of rose petals and skin musk is a welcome change from the stomach-turning mix of ambergris and brine-soaked blood that permeates the whalers he works aboard, and as he moves through the crowd, the atmosphere around him grows hazy as though there is a fine sheen of powder suspended in the air, making everything feel soft and unreal.
Most of all, Robert likes that the place is always filled with animated chatter and raucous laughter, and the joyful relief that comes with being unrestrained and free, for a time, is palpable; there has not been a raid here in many years, and the patrons revel in the companionship and fragile safety offered between these walls. He sees friends, lovers, those who are both and neither, some perched in laps, the frills of their full skirts spilling onto the floor, others whispering sweet words so that none else may hear, and one or two couples slinking off in search of a dash more privacy.
Robert is not surprised to find that the evening has already taken an amorous turn, for some—it is Valentine’s, after all.
The owner, affectionately known as Queen Bess, offers him a glass of port and a crooked grin, both of which he gladly accepts with a smile of his own. Downing a mouthful of the syrupy liquid, he feels some of the tension he had been hoping to rid himself of begin to float away.
In a matter of days, he will set out on what he hopes will be his final preparatory voyage to the Greenland fishery, before the commencement of his own long-awaited expedition, the culmination of years of labour and learning, and his life’s ambition. He had been delighted when his sister had invited him to spend the remainder of his shore leave visiting her and Dr. Saville, but for as much as Robert adores his sister and will take any opportunity to spend time with her, he sees the fear and reproach in her eyes when he speaks of his plans. Though it is only a manifestation of her love for him, and though she tries to hide it, he knows he is breaking her heart by throwing himself so willingly into danger, because he cannot bring himself to do anything else.
Before he left, Robert had kissed her cheek as he told her that he would be home late, and not to wait up for him. Margaret had only nodded and squeezed his hand in response, the truth passing between them without the need for words. He thinks that Margaret might prefer that he endanger himself amidst the company of strangers than face the perils of that enigmatic, unfeeling land many miles away that cares not whether he lives or dies—he is no safer here, in truth, but at least he is close enough to make sure.
Then there are his own spirits, ever-wavering from the heights of conviction to the depths of despondency as he clings desperately to his confidence in his endeavours, because they must succeed, he must.
Good God, Robert thinks to himself as he swallows another mouthful with a grimace. I have not been in such desperate need of a distraction in quite some time. Fortunately, he knows that he will find it here.
His gaze travels around the room again, settling on a figure seated alone at a nearby table, honeyed curls glowing in the dim candlelight as his head bends over a rather crumpled piece of parchment. Robert knows not to pry, especially in a place like this, but he cannot help it; their current location is hardly the kind of place one goes to achieve single-minded concentration, and there is something about the gentlemen, something in his bearing and the way he taps the quillfeather to his lips as he writes, that has Robert gravitating closer before he is even aware of his own movement.
As he draws nearer, he hears a soft murmur over the clamour of the crowd, barely audible but enough to fully capture his attention.
“Non, non—comment la poétesse l'a-t-elle dit?” Frowning, the stranger tilts his head, as though recalling something. “‘Sweet, serious, tender, those blue eyes impart—’”
“‘—A thousand dear sensations to the heart.’” The latter half of the couplet trips from Robert’s tongue before he can stop it. Colour rushes to his cheeks as the stranger looks up over his shoulder, wide-eyed and startled by his sudden proximity, before giving him a shy, awed smile.
“Oui! Ah, I mean, yes. You know this work?”
Oh. There is that something, again.
The young man’s accent is of the Continent, his voice gentle, lilting, and effortlessly charming. Upon closer inspection, Robert notices that there are artfully-applied smudges of rouge adorning his cheeks and lips; the delicate cerise forms a striking contrast with his olive skin and brings out the green of his eyes that twinkle from behind long, dark lashes. He wonders, slightly dazed, if that specific shade was chosen to compliment the crimson ribbon tied daintily in the golden-brown locks.
Looking at him, Robert is captivated, transfixed by his beauty and, suddenly, feels entirely underdressed.
Oh, dear, he thinks to himself as he feels a small piece of his heart break away and float off into the ether, as it was wont to do in these situations, before realising that he has been silently staring like a fool.
“I am, indeed!” Robert replies belatedly, recovering himself enough to beam through his embarrassment. “Please forgive my intrusion—I am a great admirer of Miss Seward, and I could not help but overhear.”
“That is quite alright. Her words inspire me so, and I believe I would have acted the same," the stranger says, turning fully in his seat to give him the subtle once-over that is common practice in these places. It is discreet, and Robert can tell he is being very polite about it, but it is there nonetheless.
Evidently, he is not put off by what he sees. The gentleman glances briefly at the parchment on the table, before folding it up and placing it in his jacket pocket. "Would you like to join me?" he offers, with a smile and a beckoning tilt of his head.
How could I possibly refuse? Robert ponders as he attempts to slide onto the bench next to him as gracefully as possible. "It would be my pleasure, Mister…?"
"Clerval, but please, call me Henry" comes the reply, along with the offer of a hand for Robert to shake. Is is as soft as Robert had expected it would be, enveloping his own, rough and calloused from life at sea, in silky warmth.
Robert has reason to be proud of his coarser edges; they are proof of his commitment to his vocation, evidence of how hard he works in pursuit of his passions and how they have changed him from the inside out. Out there, among the brine and the bergs, he sometimes feels like an impostor among the more experienced seamen who would still call him soft and green for not having set foot on a ship until well past his boyhood.
But here, he only wonders if the refined gentleman next to him likes the feeling of his wind-chapped skin pressed into the unblemished meat of his palm. Here, he has no crew, no responsibilities, and his ambitions are of a very different nature.
“Wal—Robert. Just Robert,” he says, introducing himself with a genial grin as he quells the desire to press his new friend's knuckles to his mouth instead.
Drinks flow and time slips away as they find themselves immersed in the kind of conversations that Robert has yearned for. Their tastes in the poetic arts align to an almost uncanny degree, and he is endeared to learn that, when the idea had been put to him by his friend and erstwhile travelling companion, one of Henry's chief inducements to visit England all the way from Geneva was to walk in the footsteps of his literary heroes.
"You are so fortunate to hail from a country that has produced some of the best work and poets of the ages—Milton, Pope, even the great Bard of Avon himself!" he exclaims, his entire countenance aglow with enthusiasm. "Poor Victor has listened to me declaim their merits on countless occasions, but his interests lie firmly in the practical and tangible elements of this world rather than the fanciful imaginings from which I—we, I should say, derive our pleasures."
On the topic of Robert's own scientific endeavours, Henry listens with rapt attention to tales of his preparations and plans, and his admiring smile is so different from the look of purposefully detached displeasure that he so often sees on his sister's face. As they speak, Robert thinks how cruel it is for fate to bestow upon him a kindred soul, a being of such seraphic beauty and Ganymedean splendour, a man possessed of every quality he has been searching for and just so sincerely nice, when their time together must be so fleeting.
Luckily, the night is still young, and Robert intends to enjoy the company of his new friend for as long as he can. The warm affinity he feels swirling below his sternum makes him bold as he leans forward to nudge playfully at Henry's ribs, where the parchment he has tucked away there crinkles against the lining of his jacket.
"What were you writing, then, before I joined you?" Robert asks with a coaxing smile.
A deliciously real blush mingles with the powdered pigment on Henry's cheeks as he considers the question. "Ah, it is just… something for a friend. Nonsense, really."
Robert hums, his curiosity piqued, but he decides to tuck the information away for later and not push his luck, for once. "I have written my own fair share of nonsense in my time. Though, judging by the eloquence and beauty with which you speak, I am quite sure your efforts are anything but." He quickly tosses back another too-large mouthful to hide his wince. He is rarely so forward, but more often than not, he does not have to be; flattery is not required for the connections he tends to make in these places, and elsewhere.
But the heady wine and even more intoxicating company has evinced some long-dormant parts of him—rakish, flirtatious, wanton—and it is more than worth it to see how Henry flushes at the praise, his lashes fluttering as he drops his gaze to the table, the picture of guileless modesty.
The illusion is shattered as Robert feels the touch of a hand on his knee, burning through the thin fabric of his breeches.
"Let us dance. May we dance, please, Robert?" Henry asks, leaning so far into his space to all but purr the request in his ear that Robert cannot help but inhale the scent of him—lavender and orange blossom, the sharpness of ink and the sweetness of skin. He is momentarily overwhelmed to hear his name pronounced with such affection, and the undercurrent of something else, that he feels giddy, off-balance but light as a feather.
Blinking rapidly, Robert's composure returns to him as he stands, plucking the hand from his knee to pull Henry up along with him. The indelicate snort he gives in response is quite out of sorts with his aspect of refinement, but Robert only finds himself infinitely more smitten than he already is as he offers him a flourishing bow and what he hopes is his most dashing grin.
"As you wish, mon cher."
❦
Henry soon finds himself breathless with laughter as the sturdy, gentle hands of his new friend spin him through a crowd of glittering strangers. The mirth bubbling up inside him like a fountain is almost enough to wash away the evening's disappointment that had begun to fester in his heart—that is, until he had been quite literally swept of his feet.
Of course, it is not Victor's fault that he felt as he did (does), for how could he have known? His friend had seemed so tense and distracted as he hastened off to meet the man of science whose name Henry has already forgotten, and he had not wanted to push the matter of their meeting later, as planned, at the place Henry had learned of in whispers and glances. He is sure Geneva must have similar such establishments tucked away amid its city backstreets and waterfronts, but Henry has no knowledge of them; perhaps Victor does, but they have never discussed it.
Here, though, they can be a little freer, a little more them. At least, that is the intention of this trip—to return Victor to his usual, splendid self.
Something had clearly been amiss with him, when last they spoke; the recurrent, whispered refrain of I must learn all that I can, I must get it right rings in Henry's ears still, and his mood was so serious that he had told him not to worry about meeting him after his visit—he is perfectly capable of entertaining himself for an evening, and does not want Victor overtaxing himself for his sake.
And so, he had donned his best attire and dabbed on a false flush, his reflection confirming it to be a most agreeable transformation (but for who?). It was, after all, a day of celebration, and one of Henry's favourites—its origin as a Papist feast day had precluded its observance in the strict Calvinist milieu of his home, but he had always privately appreciated that a day for the expression of love and devotion of all kinds existed.
As soon as he had entered the tavern, he saw this many-faceted adoration in the faces of the patrons around him, felt it hanging almost tangibly in the air, and despite the melancholy unfurling in his chest like a night-blooming flower, he was happy to have come.
Henry does feel strange to be without Victor in a place such as this, as though he is committing some great betrayal, but he reminds himself that what they are to each other (how he feels for him) cannot be understood or easily defined by the traditional notions of love (of romance) championed by society—how could it, being who they are?
Victor knows that Henry has his own proclivities, and does not begrudge him for them; there are certain things they cannot always share. But, while others may come and go from his life with tenderness and affection, he is not sure that his dearest friend will ever truly understand how it all begins, and ends, with him.
And so, he had waited for him, hoping against hope, agonising over the correct turn of phrase to pour onto the page as he tried to write something, anything, to elucidate his feelings, but to no avail. The words would not come, and neither would Victor, and now, the remnants of his starry-eyed fantasies burn a hole in his pocket.
But, all in all, Henry cannot feel too bad about the direction his night has taken, now that he is dancing with a handsome sailor with a passion for poetry and the most charming dimples he has ever seen.
Those rugged hands fall to his waist and hold him close as they sway amidst the crowd. Henry is the taller of the two, but he is wrapped so thoroughly around Robert's solid frame that his giggled whispers echo in the space between his neck and shoulders, his fingers brushing along the downy copper hairs at the nape of his neck.
Robert murmurs a joke into his hairline (he is just so funny!) and Henry snorts again, pulling back so that he may see the ebullience he has come to expect of his new friend writ large on his fine features. Their gazes meet, and Henry finds himself captivated by warm brown eyes glancing up at him through impossibly long lashes.
Robert is smiling, just as he knew he would be, those comely dimples flashing in the room's hazy luminescence, and Henry is struck by the sudden desire to see what sort of mark he might leave upon them.
No sooner has the impulse entered his mind than he furtively ducks his head, pressing his lips to the closest freckled cheek. The soft red imprint is almost swallowed up by the flush that spreads up from under Robert's loosened collar, and a shudder slips down Henry's spine as his umber eyes grow impossibly darker.
Though they are already only mere inches apart, Robert draws close enough for their wine-tinged breaths to mingle. Henry almost whines as his hand leaves its place on his hip, but it soon finds its way to his face as Robert traces a delicate line down his temple, the hollow of his cheek, his jaw, as though he was trying to chart a course on one of the Arctic maps he had spoken so enthusiastically of earlier.
"May I…?" he breathes. The edge of his thumb grazes the barest caress along Henry's lower lip; the digit trembles slightly, as though he is suppressing the urge to move it up, and in.
"Please," Henry replies, breathless with want and anticipation.
The last thing he sees before his eyes flutter closed is Robert's smile, triumphant and tender, and a familiar hand landing squarely on his shoulder.
❦
Victor is late.
His grasp on the passage of time is not as it used to be, these days, and he has spent far longer in his host's company than planned, single-mindedly discussing and making copious notes on electrochemical processes and discoveries of all kinds. One of the Royal Institution's more broad-minded fellows and a kindly soul, Mr. Davy is much too polite to ask him to leave, but when the clock in the corner of the study chimes more bells than Victor expects it too, he awakens to reality as if from a deep slumber.
He packs his things and bids a hasty goodbye, and soon finds himself hurrying through the thronging London streets as a fine drizzle begins to descend from the sky. Victor glances at his pocket watch every few steps, cursing under his breath as the minute hand seems to speed on with no regard for his state of mind at all.
Clouds of panicked breath billow around him in great clouds as he is plagued by the same visions that play in his mind each time Henry is gone from his sight; visions of the odious fiend that he knows to be following his every movement in this land crouched over him, malformed hands making a ruin of his dear, beautiful friend, just as he had—
Victor scowls and shakes his head to stop the thought in its tracks, but it does little to shake his certainty that, if he does not make haste to Henry, something very bad is going to happen.
He really is very late.
Finally, finally, Victor pushes through the door of the ale house Henry had spoken of. The change in temperature causes an infernal fog to cling to his spectacles almost immediately, and he has to pause by the door to pluck them from this nose and wipe the condensation from them, squinting in the dim lamplight. It is much busier here than Victor had expected; without the aid of his lenses, the room is little more than a writhing mass of humanity, but he knows that Henry must be here somewhere.
At the same moment, a group of rather exuberant gentlemen enter behind him, evidently quite eager to begin the night's festivities. One of the jocular habitués shoulders past Victor with enough force to jolt him forward and, in the blink of an eye and before he can think or move or do a thing to stop it, his spectacles fly free of his grasp and land with a heartbreaking crunch! somewhere at his feet.
Horror of horrors! Victor thinks as he drops to his knees, frantically searching for the remnants of glass and metal on the dingy wood floor. He sustains a few knocks from errant knees and grumbles from passing customers, but he ceases his collection of the broken pieces only when he hears a soft, amused voice from above.
"Y'alright down there, my love?"
Victor blinks up to see a glossy smirk and long blonde hair pilled high on the head a very beautiful individual in a state of déshabillé so overt that he immediately averts his eyes to the beer-soaked ground again; his vision, up this close, still functions well enough to necessitate modesty.
"Y-yes, thank you," Victor mutters, his eyes firmly fixed on the lace hem of her chemise. "I, ah…" He gestures fruitlessly to the remains of his spectacles.
"Oh, dearie me. Those boys are so careless," the prepossessing stranger tuts. "I am sorry about that, but never fear, sweetheart, Miss Ada's here. Come on, let's get you up." Looping her arm through his, she managed to haul him to his feet with ease, and Victor finds himself strangely dizzy.
"'Tis much appreciated, madam. Actually, I am looking for someone. Perhaps you can help?" Ada's grin stretches wider and wider as he describes Henry, in perhaps more detail than is strictly necessary. She casts her gaze about with an air of great concentration and, moments later, flutters her sooty lashes at him exultantly.
"Ah, yes, there's your fellow!" Ada says, pointing to the far side of the room. "Though, he appears to be somewhat occupied. My, what a scandal!" she gasps, hiding a giggle demurely behind her fan.
Victor squints in the direction she has indicated, and though he cannot yet see who she is referring to, her words are enough to stir something ugly in him—enmity and envy and anger, but only truly directed at himself.
What had he expected? It is improbable that someone like Henry should not attract company in a place such as this, and unfair of him to assume that his friend would not desire such a thing for himself, especially when he had been so distant as of late (would it even matter if he had not been?).
The notion that Victor has any right to feel covetous of Henry’s attentions when he is already so honoured to know him in ways that are reserved for him alone is absurd, and yet the thought of some unknown party monopolising what should be their time together pounds at his skull like a headache.
"I assure you, it is—we are not…" Victor tries, before realising that he does not have enough conviction in his words to continue the argument. Sighing, he pushes strands of rain-dampened hair out of his eyes and gives her a small bow instead. "No matter. Thank you most graciously for your assistance."
"Don't mention it, love," Ada says, giving him a kindly pat on the cheek, before spinning him around by the shoulders and pushing him into the crowd. "Now, you go and show him what he's missing. Good luck!"
With Ada's encouraging words ringing in his ears and bolstering his resolve, Victor makes his way to where Henry awaits him no longer. He is vaguely humiliated to discover that, though he cannot see his friend, he does detect the subtle waft of his cologne in the air, and is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Victor would know that clean, fresh, quintessentially Henry scent anywhere (Elizabeth has always had a knack for choosing gifts for her loved ones—it truly does suit him perfectly), and he knows now that he must be close.
A smudge of crimson and gold just ahead sets his heart beating faster, as he tells himself all will be well, that in all their years spent together they have never been shy about bestowing physical affection. In fact, it is the most perfectly natural thing in the world for Victor to greet his friend by draping himself over his shoulders like a cloak, close enough to whisper salutations in his ear, so he may hear him—and only him—over the tavern's din.
Of course, if such an approach were to effectively end any conversation he may be having in the moment, that would be most unfortunate, but so be it.
"Clerval, dearest, I have c—Oh!"
Victor suddenly becomes aware of two things in very quick succession.
Either he has approached from entirely the wrong angle, or at the very last second they have pivoted in such a way that has lead to this mortifying outcome, but the person he is currently embracing is decidedly not Henry, who is staring back at him from their other side with what Victor can only interpret to be a mix of relief and dismay.
That hair, those eyes, even his smell—the deep, rich tang of wood and salt, both sweat-like and oceanic—is all wrong, and Victor finds himself inexplicably infuriated.
Then he notices the glazed expressions, the still-parted lips damp from shared exhalation, the rosy marks on the cheek of this stranger (interloper!), and Victor is quite unconscious of the fact that his too-long nails are digging into his shoulder until he hears a sharp intake of breath from entirely too close to his own face.
Though, to his credit, the fellow does not seem as put out as he should be—as Victor wants him to be.
In fact, he does not seem upset in the slightest.
Dear Lord, deliver me, Victor prays through gritted teeth as, against all reason, the scoundrel actually smiles.
❦
Robert's lips are only a hair's breadth from Henry's waiting mouth when he feels another presence, not only close beside him but on him.
The abrupt arrival of another body pressed up against him from behind—slender, but unmistakably powerful—and arms draped intimately around his shoulders causes Robert's flush to deepen ten shades and a foolish grin to melt onto his face unbidden.
So overwhelmed is he by the attention that it takes a moment for him to realise that the newcomer is glaring daggers at him.
They all jump apart at the same moment; Robert already misses the warm pressure enveloping him from both sides, but he turns to get a better view of the person whose identity he is already beginning to piece together.
And what a view it is.
If Henry is as round and soft as a cherub pulled straight from the canvas of an old master, the newcomer is all angles and hard lines, as if cut from marble, and just as pale and smooth. Threads of silver in his inky-dark locks glow like stars in a velvet sky, and there are two beauty marks adorning the skin just below his right eye and near his mouth; Robert thinks they must have been placed there by the Almighty Himself so as to direct the eye to his most alluring features.
The last few minutes really must have addled him most thoroughly, because this time it takes even longer for him to realise that, for the second time that evening, he was still staring, hungrily drinking in his appearance as the new stranger's scowl only deepens.
Henry steps between them, coughing lightly to break the tension as he places a hand on Victor's shoulder. Robert cannot help but notice how much it looks like it belongs there.
"Robert, this is my good friend Victor Frankenstein," he says with a genial smile, forming such a contrast to Victor's stony expression that Robert has to force down a laugh. "Victor, allow me to introduce you to, ah, Robert."
Eager to rectify whatever less than ideal situation he has found himself in, Robert gives a sweeping bow with his most disarmingly open expression firmly in place. "Robert Walton, first mate of the whaleship Edwina. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur! I have heard so much about you from dear Henry—all good, never fear!—that I feel we are already very well acquainted! Tell me, how have your travels in this fine country fared so far?"
Victor stays silent, frowning at him like he is an equation he cannot solve.
Robert feels his composure begin to fray under his icy scrutiny, though it is not entirely unpleasant. "Henry, I trust you have paid a visit to the Royal Academy exhibition whilst you have been in the city?
Henry nods, nonplussed. Robert leans into his space, cupping his hand loosely about his mouth. "Your friend puts me in mind of the Rossi sculptures on display there—speechless and unstirring, but ever so finely crafted. A thousand dear sensations, indeed," he says in a stage whisper, looking for any flicker of reaction on Victor's face.
Henry's amused, though mortified Shhhh! seems to shake Victor out of his stupor. "What was that?"
"Well, you see, Henry and I had been discussing the works of Miss Anna Seward—yes, the Swan of Lichfield herself!—and chiefly her ingenious poetical novel Louisa, in which the heroine describes her—"
"Good God, do you ever shut up?” Victor snaps, his deadpan expression dissolving without warning.
“Victor!” Henry admonishes, his chagrin increasing tenfold.
Robert feels himself begin to flush again—not because of the rebuke itself, but because he feels the sting of Victor's words as the piercing of Cupid's arrow in his heart. He is unsure what exactly this says about him, and is even less sure that he wants to know the answer—but in his wine-soaked, lust-addled mind, there is really only one riposte he can give.
“Oh, very rarely. But I can assure you that there are ways to keep me quiet," he says, flashing a grin as he takes Victor’s hand and presses his lips to the knuckles, just as he had dreamed of doing to Henry earlier.
He sees the other Genevan bite his lip out of the corner of his eye, watching for Victor’s reaction to his unconcealed display of flirtation. Robert watches, too, as his grey eyes widen, then blink rapidly, then finally narrow, but he does not miss the dark flush that creeps up his neck at the same time, and decides to take that as something of a win.
The hand in his gives an almost imperceptible twitch, and he wonders if Victor is about to slap him (and, in some latent, rational part of his mind, wonders why that thought makes him bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood).
Fortunately (or not), Victor snatches his hand away and bares his unusually pointed canines in what could either be a smile or a grimace. "I very much doubt that, sir."
"Dearest, please be nice," Henry says, his hand drifting from Victor's shoulder to tug lightly on the ends of his dark hair, just beginning to curl in the humidity. The gesture is so familiar, the look in his eyes one of so much naked affection, of hope, that Robert wants to look away as a surge of longing tears through him.
Victor sighs, clearly attempting to suppress the roll of his eyes. "My sincerest apologies, Mr. Walton. It was most impolite of me to intrude as I have, and I hope you can forgive me." His pale gaze drifts to Henry. "I really must apologise, also, for the delay in my arrival. It is only that time got away from me at Mr. Davy's, and I—"
As Victor explains his absence, Robert sees the utter devotion shining as clear as day in his eyes, and thinks, Oh. There is evidently far more between the pair than he had initially thought—perhaps more than even they are aware of themselves.
A futile yearning flares in him again, but he knows when to bow out gracefully.
"It is I who must apologise, Mr. Frankenstein," Robert says as evenly as he can, interrupting Victor as he relays the events that have lead him here, including something about galvanised potassium (whatever that is) and broken lenses. "I shall leave you to your evening in peace." He looks to Henry, and tries not to thrill at his crestfallen expression. "You have my endless thanks for the delight of your company. I dearly hope that you enjoy the remainder of your rambles in England, and that our paths shall cross again in future," he says, knowing that will never be the case.
It is for the best, really.
Robert smiles at them both as he makes to leave, and it is genuine. Soon, the memory of him will fade, but at least they shall have each other.
He is happy for them. Really, he is.
Before they can respond, Robert bows and heads for the door, an amalgam of emotion swirling in his gut. Margaret will be surprised to have him home so soon, but perhaps she will be willing to stay up with him a while, to keep him company; maybe he can convince her to partake in a game of chess, or—
The crowd is just beginning to swallow him up when he feels a hand on his wrist—thin, and cold, and gripping him just a little too tight. Stunned, he turns to see Victor, who is looking at him with equal parts frustration and determination.
He glances at Henry, who is still at his side—Robert realises Victor's other hand is gripping his with equal pressure—before he crowds close enough into his space that the scent of petrichor and some chemical he cannot name washes over him.
"Just where do you think you are going?" he demands, jutting out his chin imperiously.
For once in Robert's life, words fail him. "A-away?" he stammers.
”Whatever gave you the impression that we desired such a thing?” Victor asks, and Robert’s eyes widen at the use of the plural pronoun. Surely his ridiculous coquetry had not been successful? Victor shakes his head. "You started this, and you are going to stay until it is finished."
"Please stay," Henry adds, his earlier look of disappointment replaced by one of tentative jubilance, like he is on the cusp of some great triumph, and he cannot quite believe it is real. Robert knows how he feels, but in this moment, he cannot parse it.
Things start to become much clearer when Victor turns to kiss Henry square on the mouth.
They melt into one another, groaning in tandem. Robert can tell this is not the first time they have done this, but that it may be the first time they have done so with such unrestrained emotion. He watches, jaw slack and ablaze with pure, white-hot want, as Henry's hands come up to cup Victor's jaw, as Victor's sharp teeth sink briefly into the plush pink flesh of Henry's lower lip, and Robert thinks this must be either the best or worst moment of his life so far.
Some moments later they part, foreheads pressed close together as they inhale each other's air. It is achingly intimate to behold; Robert wonders if he shouldn't try to leave again, but Victor's grip on his hand is vice-like even still.
Then, in a display of synchronicity that is frankly unnerving, they turn to look at him. Under the combined force of their scrutiny, any remaining trace of dignity falls away from him as Robert tries and fails to contain the whimper that falls from his mouth.
Victor straightens up to his full height and, with another glance and a small nod from Henry, finally releases Robert's hand from his. He misses the touch immediately, but Henry soon steps in to replace him, stroking his thumb along his wind-burned knuckles.
Robert looks between them, his dark eyes burning with questions he is loath to voice, lest he break whatever dream-like enchantment had descended upon the three of them.
Thankfully, Victor answers his unspoken inquiry with a smirk and his head tilted in Henry's direction. "Go on. I shall not interrupt this time," he says, teeth glinting in the candlelight, and this time there is no malice in it, only something akin to hunger.
It is the first proper smile he has directed at him all night. Oh, dear, Robert thinks again as he feels another piece of him detach and float away like flotsam on a current.
To his credit, he does not need to be told what to do twice; he has always been very good at following instruction, when it suits him. He tilts his head upward to finally, finally, capture Henry's lips, and thinks that now that he can taste Victor on him as he watches their every move, it is infinitely, impossibly better than it ever could have been the first time.
Robert pulls back, panting for breath, to see that Henry's mouth is now doubly swollen, his rouge thoroughly smeared and beaming the widest smile he has seen all evening; never in all his days has he witnessed a more divine creature. He hears a few whoops and jeers from a group of profoundly inebriated patrons nearby, and feels his face redden with a mix of humiliation and pride.
Would that my expedition shall be just as successful as this night, he thinks to himself as the two Genevans pull him towards a back room, away from prying eyes, where all thoughts of his future aspirations flee from him for quite some time.