Try as he might to think of other things -- and he had tried, mind -- Cygnus had been plagued the entire day with thoughts about his engagement with Gaultier that evening. Usually adept at putting his anxieties aside to deal with in an utterly controlled matter at a time of his choosing, Cygnus was now distracted and, according to an outspoken house-elf he'd overheard in the hall, irritable, and so to avoid drawing undue attention to himself, especially from Druella, he had spent the entire day in town, seeing to those numerous minute affairs he wouldn't attend to otherwise. Banking, business at the Ministry -- yet nothing could shake that uncomfortable sensation of, yes, butterflies in his stomach.

Cygnus was nervous. Only too sharply did he remember that their last meeting had been soured by a poor choice of words on his part, and that they'd parted on less than friendly terms. Conveniently he forgot the communication that'd passed between them since; exactly what Gaultier wanted to see him for, he could not begin to fathom, especially with the knots twisting within him, and the insidious little voice in his head reminding him that their spat had been his fault.

At ten to the hour, Cygnus, tight-lipped, yet feeling worse than he actually looked, finally steeled himself. A quick brush of his hands over his hair and clothes assured him that he was entirely presentable, and after one deep, calming breath, he apparated to the Lestrange estate, where he appeared a second and a crack of sound later.

For a moment, he was disorientated, eyes narrowed against the change of light and sweeping from side to side until they finally landed on the sight of Gaultier -- Gaultier, who looked far more perturbed than the tone of his last missive suggested; Gaultier, who he had repelled at the worst possible moment during their lo-- fucking; and who by rights had every reason to still be angry. Cygnus cleared his throat and approached him, quietly saying, "I'm early, I know. I couldn't wait."