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.”