CW: This entire thread revolves around the persecution of queer men.

April 1895 ...

They arrested Oscar Wilde.

Oh, God. They arrested Oscar Wilde. The man went in to defend his name (an indefensible one, certainly, but that was hardly a crime worth persecuting), and instead of just the mud he was dragged to jail in it.

Zechariah had received solicitations from London … but they laid unanswered. Were they hunting sodomites in the street there, now, too?

His orange velvet suit only made his pale, nauseous face look more sickly.

He had paid a neighborhood boy to fetch … Doctor Wells, if he recalled properly. Was that the one he had seen in the paper? The name was familiar from somewhere.

The cottage was dusty. The tea was too strong. The biscuits were fine, if a bit stale. Zechariah’s hair was too long. He fit right in with Wilde’s type with but a cursory glance. The paper announcing the news still sat open on the dining table.

The boy had been vague, so Tristan had fetched his bag with the usual emergency and standard equipment and had hurried to that side of town. A more pleasant side of town than busy Flowergate with the ceaseless noise of seagulls, fishermen, drunk and argumentative people in the yards behind the house, and carts rolling up and down the street. The air was fresher here and there was space for gardens. If you looked out of the window here you might see the sea, rather than what the people living across the street were doing.

But he had no time or energy to enjoy it. He had barely recovered from the stress of settling in and getting the practice running, when this morning's newspaper had nearly made him sick. If he had seemed distracted and uninterested and occasionally short tempered to his clients this morning, it was because that was exactly what he had been. He couldn't even worry over losing clients. He might not even have bothered with this call, if he had known it wasn't fatal. But he couldn't get much information out of the boy, other than the address and the boy's affirmation that it was urgent. And so he hurried along.

Reaching the house, he strode up to the door and knocked. "Dr. Wells, for Mr. Meijer!" he called out, hoping that the maid would hurry.

There was silence at the knock. Then, a disgruntled, human sound within hearing distance through the door. Something scraped heavy nearby on the other side of the wall.

Zechariah had “fixed” most of the unscrewed chairs after Claude stopped coming around, but there had been a couple he missed screws on which had resulted in them actually breaking. The chair he had been sitting in by the door was one of them. Rather than swap it out, he had sat on the damned lopsided thing anyway.

Mr. Meijer had a 5 o’ clock shadow. His barber probably thought he had either gone back to London or died. (The barber did, indeed, wonder if Zechariah had died for he had not been kvetching for the entire last shave and trim about how he hated London’s wretched smell even worse than Whitby’s brimy breeze.)

The man before Dr. Wells did not look on the brink of death, but he did look miserable. He was doused in cologne, and just waved him in wordlessly.

Tristan smelled him before he saw him. The orange velvet suit was equally nauseating. But it was clearly a gentleman's suit. This had to be Mr. Meijer himself, not breathing his last, Tristan concluded petulantly. He could have been at home, sulking on his own.

But there was something intriguing to his alienist sensitivities about this sullen gentleman who could afford neither maid nor words. He followed when beckoned, taking off his hat, and then carrying it into the parlour with him when he realized there was no servant to take it from him. There had been a broken chair in the hallway. Was that the cause of this man's ailment? He didn't look injured.

When he set his hat and bag down on the table, his eyes landed on the very news page that had rattled him that morning. He glanced at the garish suit, then walked back to the parlour door and closed it. Then he turned back to the gentleman, lifted his chin slightly and rested his hands behind his back. "How may I help you, Mr. Meijer?"

Dr. Wells was the first person he had invited in this summer. His family came and went as they pleased (displeased?), but he used to invite men from the molly house for tea and misunderstandings.

Used to.

While there had always been a certain level of caution meeting with other sodomites, it was in an excess of caution rather than mortal terror. Sure, a few of his friends had been blackmailed – but that was usually men in from the wild. Men who felt romance was a marketplace exchange. Men like Simon.

For all his misery, there was still a certain level of grace in which he pulled a seat out for Dr. Wells (a bit weird) and how he took his own seat. Was the good doctor judging his lack of maid? Lack of home maintenance?

Almost certainly. Zechariah knew he would be. Should be.

“The last maid had a fast wedding,” Zechariah supplied without prompting.

Too depressed for shaving, but not too depressed for shade.

He poured them both tea, leaving his own plain.

“Help yourself.”

It was tepid.

Despite having summoned the doctor, Zechariah paused at his question. Took a sip of oversteeped tea. Swished it around in his mouth like he might find a good second of it. Swallowed with a bland look.

“The laudunum has begun making me too nauseous to sleep.”

Tristan walked over and sat down, slightly confused once again at the lack of servants. Perhaps this man had lost a business and was on the brink of destitution. He did look like he was going down the drain with the misery written on his face and bearing and the 5 o'clock. But the domestics issue was soon explained. Tristan nodded.

He added some milk to his own tea and picked up his cup. It wasn't often that he was offered tea on a visit. Especially not an urgent one. He sipped the tea, suppressed a grimace, and set the cup down.

He had figured this was an issue that would require his alienist training from the moment he had seen the newspaper. "What have you been using it for, sir? And how long have you used it?"

Zechariah straightened his posture, held his teacup casually, and looked utterly disinterested in Dr. Wells upon his inquiry.

For now, the sweat was on the inside. He had only seen an alienist once in court, but he remembered him quizzing the defendant extensively on his alcohol usage.

He was not on trial, but it lurked in every corner now.

“I use it occasionally, for sleep,” he said smoothly. “I travel a lot and it sometimes disrupts my routines.”

Always have an alibi.

Tristan observed him quietly and nodded. For occasional use this seemed like a particularly great discomfort to the man. "How long has it been causing nausea?" he inquired.

Oh. Oh God. He was not ready to talk about this. Zechariah set the tea cup down, put his hands under the table. Were they shaking? Not quite, but getting there.

“Mm,” Zechariah stalled, affecting a contemplative furrow of the nose. “It has been a bit but not … that long.”

Tristan tilted his head lightly at the evasive answer. "How long would a bit be?"