The Great Grey

The last two weeks had been a whirlwind; finishing his work in the East End, moving his (admittedly few) belongings to his new quarters near St. Paul's, familiarizing himself with his new duties... Luc was exhausted, which was hardly anything new, but there was also a great satisfaction that came with that exhaustion. It was a new chapter in his life, and while he would miss the routine of being merely a curate, he couldn't help but face this new challenge with the same dedication and determination he had each before.

And, on a more selfish note, it meant that there would be more chances for evenings like this: A lovely dinner at the home of one of his closest friends.

He hadn't seen Gust nearly as often as he would've liked since being ordained and becoming a curate. When there was time (which was very rarely), he hadn't had the energy to even take a cab across the whole of London and back just for a dinner or a chat. He'd meant to write, and some weeks he actually had, but it was a poor replacement.

The polite portion of it all had passed quickly, small talk exchanged and a fantastic meal put away. Now they had retired to the sitting room, just the two of them, drinks in-hand and that old familiar feeling settling on Luc like a blanket. "I saw Tansy the other day," he mentioned, settling into a comfortable chair and crossing his legs at the ankle; an old habit, given his usual outfit of a cassock. "She's back in London, I should've thought to invite her tonight as well." Lifting his glass for a drink, he smirked as he added, "If my lord wouldn't have taken offense to such a presumptuous act, of course."

"She sent a note," said Gust, in nothing less than a splay across the adjacent chair, thighs cast wide and right ankle atop his left knee. "There wasn't much to it. She told me to behave." With a soft snort, he lifted his glass to his lips and took a slow sip. The whiskey was excellent, and the company better. "Next time," he added, and watched the amber liquid as he canted his glass in the firelight.

"I think I ought to be a little jealous she saw you first." The corner of his mouth quirked, and he shifted his gaze to his prodigal friend. "You look good. I was afraid you'd come back fat as a friar." Not really, not being all too aware of Luc's personal discipline, but Gust had never quite forgiven his friend for entering the church in the first place. A little needling was required.

"You'll be married soon, I reckon," he tacked on and immediately knocked back a large gulp of whiskey, an attempt at insouciance that landed more like a jab.

"Really? That's unlike her, to waste ink in such a fashion." The faux innocence wouldn't fool anyone, but then it wasn't supposed to. None of them, Gust included, knew such an order would be obeyed.

"She's always liked me best," Luc reminded, tone shifting into something lofty. A sip of the liquor hid the displeased twitch of his lips at the jest, such as it was. He knew better than to think that the viscount truly meant it harshly, but that did not stop it from stinging just a bit. Whether or not Gust wished to recognize it, this was an important step and opportunity for Luc. And, even if he had decided to be a bit of a brat about it, Luc also knew (was reasonably certain, anyway) that Gust had meant his earlier congratulations.

"Friars have the luxury of sitting down for their meals, and Mass, and confession. Curates aren't quite so lucky." His smirk didn't flag or shift, but there was a slight edge to his words that betrayed his mild annoyance. Is it so difficult for you to be happy for me? A question he wouldn't ask, but sat heavy in his heart regardless. The idea of marriage though, that prompted a roll of his eyes. "I'll be heading to the church right after you," Luc told him, voice saccharine. While it was for very different reasons, Gust was just as likely to hurry to the altar as Luc.

"Oh right, you're in love with God," Gust replied with another softly scoffing smile, and levered himself forward out of his slouch so that he could reach for the crystal decanter atop the table between them. He cast aside the stopper with a soft thunk and poured himself another hefty measure of whiskey before glancing up at Luc, eyebrows raised and bottle lifted in offer.

"You can stay the night," he promised, and held Luc's gaze in an unflinching one of his own, lips slightly parted as his tongue pressed against the backs of his teeth. "I wouldn't send you back into the bosom of Mother Church like a common drunkard."

"And you're in love with whichever pair of legs you find yourself between," Luc answered, voice sarcastic, before he could think to stop the crass words. He wouldn't apologize for them, though; not when it was the truth, as far as he had ever been able to tell.

It wouldn't be wise to overindulge; not in general, not given his own habits, but particularly not tonight. Still, he held Gust's gaze and emptied his glass in one large swallow, nose wrinkling at the burn of it, before holding his now-empty glass out to be filled. "Why not? After all, we're celebrating." One of them was, at least.

"That is unfair and untrue," Gust said, motioning Luc's way with his glass, decanter still held aloft in his opposite hand. "Particularly when you know I'm in love with you, Beautiful."

Leaning over the arm of his chair, he topped off Luc's tumbler and then let the bottle drop solidly back to the table. There Gust remained, hunched over the upholstered arm, sipping at his refreshed drink as he watched his friend. "We are," he declared, and waved the glass what little he could with both elbows wedged against the chair. "To my best and dearest friend, who has dedicated his vibrant youth — With success — to our lord and savior. Huzzah." He took another gulp and then lowered his glass, brow pulled into a puzzled crease. "Should we pray?"

The words were a jest, and yet they always felt like whiskey gone down the wrong pipe – an ache in his chest that he smiled through. "Of course, darling. We'll go to the altar together, then, just as soon as I find a vicar willing to wed us." An easy, familiar jest that likewise sat poorly.

But he smiled through it all, laughed even at the absurdity of his own suggestion.

If there were any grace to be found, it was that the table between them, and the awkwardness of Gust's position, kept Luc safe from his hands. For now, at least; God only knew that he'd not be protected by the side table forever, particularly if they drank much more of that undoubtedly exorbitantly-priced whiskey.

"Huzzah," he cheered dryly, taking an overly large sip of his own drink. It was too much, too quickly, especially after the wine he'd had with dinner, but such was the way of things with the priest. He knew his own fondness for indulgence well, and had willingly walked into that particular lion's den tonight. "'Faith without works is dead,' my friend. Should you pray the entire night away, it will do little for your soul." Another long drink nearly emptied his glass as he watched Gust over the rim of the fine crystal, and when he lowered it, he idly offered, "Unless you'd care to confess your multitudinous sins, my son."

He'd leaned closer without quite realizing it, draping his arm over that of the chair, glass hanging loosely from his hand, and his body resting upon his arm. So much for the protection of the table, as he so casually eschewed it.

"Please don't ever consent to marry me," said Gust, with all seriousness. "You can do far better." This said, he shifted his attention away and rolled his shoulders, as if the physical act might dislodge the accuracy of the sentiment, or at least his concern about it.

A chuckle bubbled from Gust's throat, and he rubbed his nose against the side of his wrist, an excuse to keep his gaze somewhere else. "Oh Father," he murmured, and stole a glance across the little expanse of the table to where Luc had mirrored his slump. "You are quite unprepared for some of my sins. I'm afraid it goes well beyond what's in the papers. You'd be forced to disown me, and my heart would never recover."

For all that it had been an impossible jest, the immediate and unequivocal rejection still stung. Luc's smile faded in spite of himself, his gaze shifting away in an unwitting mirror to Gust's own behavior. For a brief moment his lips pressed together in an unhappy grimace, but then he forced a new smile, forced himself to move past the disappointment.

After all, it had been a silly joke, anyway.

"Oh, I don't know. Viscount Hereford, nabbed by a baron's fourth child? My dowry must be an impressive thing indeed, to secure such a match." It was a faux seriousness with which he spoke, and if he were honest it was not the words he mocked, but Gust for daring to speak them. As though Luc could actually do better; as though he'd want to.

It was a far more dangerous thing, to indulge the borderline blasphemous teasing of confession. It would be unthinkable, if Luc wore the black and white of his cassock and collar, to make such a joke. But he was not Father Wynn right now, no matter how Gust referred to him. It was that, and the whiskey, that gave him the boldness to speak. "We're not Catholic, Gust. Your sins are between you and God. He's yet to strike you with a bolt from the Heavens, so clearly He hasn't disowned you yet, and neither shall I." Sourly, for all that he still smiled, he turned his gaze to his empty glass, turning it so that the crystal caught the light. "After five years in the East End, I daresay there's no sins you could confess that my ears haven't already heard."

Gust was too drunk for this conversation. It felt as if it had come on him all at once, both the drunkenness and the realization. Mistakes would be made tonight, that much he understood, but if there was any morality within him that might have diverted him in this moment of clarity, it did not make itself known. All that remained was to wait and see how badly it would all go.

On an instinctual level, Gust knew there was no real risk in confessing his broadening proclivities to Luc. Even as his conscious mind wanted to set his friend apart on a chaste, untouchable pedestal, that quiet knowledge had long been threaded through everything they two did together. Yet there remained a seed of fear that he would be judged, disapproved of, frowned at for expanding his debauched repertoire. The idea of such judgment coming from Luc — Whose job ostensibly encouraged judgment — made him feel sick.

In the light of day, anyway.

"Even the mollies?" he asked, and stole a sideways glance to his friend. "You have many boy fuckers come in and be washed clean of their sins, Lu?"