Oh! He had attitude. At this, Zechariah smirked.

There was no feeling so pleasing as having something someone else wanted, even if it was just a basic answer about himself.

“Oh, nothing especially exciting.”

Bullshit, and it was written all over Zechariah’s face. He was literally here to escape the press.

A light chuckle. The game made him feel a little more confident again, but he blamed it on the drink, so he drank some more. "One of those Whitby smugglers the guidebooks brag about," he guessed.

“I do know how to swim,” Zechariah mused, as though he himself had to consider the viability of this theory.

"With or without clothes?"

Damn. Having no filters was fun. He downed the rest of the glass and shrugged. "Because of the weight and all that," he added, looking at Mr. Meijer with the most innocent expression he could muster.

“I suppose I would best shed the upper layers for improved mobility,” he mused, as if it were the most intellectual discussion in the world.

That line of thought would come back to haunt him some months later.

“But where would one hide the booty?”

That nearly made him laugh, and he was glad he had swallowed his champagne in time.

"Hmm, yes..." he considered in his most neutral voice. "From a medical perspective, I would have to advise against any solutions one might come up with for that problem."

Zechariah was riveted for all the wrong reasons. He laughed. Took another swig. Laughed again. Touched his tongue to a tooth as he considered his words carefully.

“Doctor. Have you ever had to …” he waggled his brows, then set his glass down as he considered how to say it without saying it.

He made a hole with his thumb and forefinger, fished around gracelessly in the faux-asshole, and then picked up a pen from the coffee table and simulated that whisking up into and then being pulled with great effort out of said faux-asshole.

“You know. For a gentleman with no sense and no company, but plenty of imagination.”

Tristan was equal parts shocked and impressed by the demonstration. And perhaps he was feeling a little hot. Yet he leaned back, crossed one leg over the other widely, and laid one arm over the back of the sofa, looking and feeling rather cocky for the opportunity of role reversal.

"Hmmm... Perhaps... But if I did, I could never speak about it."

Zechariah leaned back as well, mirroring him at first. Then, he toyed the collar of his waistcoat out more and let his thumb meander over the top button before setting his arm back on the armrest.

“I admire a man with creativity,” he said leisurely, gaze aloof. “There are ways to speak of a case and maintain confidentiality, after all.”

God knew he would keel over blue if there weren’t.

Tristan's eyes lingered on the top button even after the man had removed his hand. Then he looked down at his empty glass and remembered that he didn't even know if he liked Mr. Meijer as a person and that he had principles. Principles that had been shaken by the newspaper reports this morning.

If Wilde got sentenced, romance was dead. The best he could hope for was fleeting encounters with quick satisfaction, only to never see a partner again, or to pretend not to know one another. No slow courting, no intimate friendships that blossomed into more, no time lay gazing upon a man's beauty, cherishing the softness and warmth of someone's skin under his fingers, admiring tiny details like batting of an eye, the shape of a birthmark, or anything else that made love love. If Wilde got sentenced, intimate friendships, love letters, and truly being with someone would all be too dangerous.

"I'm a doctor, sir, not a poet. I'm afraid my style is practical."