At that, Zechariah let out a genuine laugh.

“Tell me I will sleep well tonight, Doctor, and I shall tell you he has a chance.”

And omit how small said chance was.

Tristan sighed, then shrugged and gave him another wry smile. "Up the dosis?" He put his hands over his eyes for a moment and drew his brows together wearily. Then he dropped his hand. "Are you a man of the law then?" He hoped not and this was a shit prediction. He had little hope.

“He will walk out Marquess of Queensberry,” Zechariah laughed.

The world was shit, but the moment was a welcome one.

Did he gloat about his own status, or leave Dr. Wells to guess the mysteries of his life? It was something else to think of the options: was Zechariah, too, a marquess’ son who would be some creative type’s downfall? Oh, he hoped Dr. Wells was afraid he was better than him!

“On the contrary, I have found wasting a handsome man’s time is excellent for my health.”

Tristan let out a little huff for a cheerless laugh. It was the best this situation could get.

The other man's answer confused him for a moment, until he realized it probably wasn't an answer. He leaned back, once again trying to pretend to be more at ease than he felt.

"What of that champagne?"

Bad idea. Why did he even say it?

Oh right, because he became a blurt out when he was awkward, that was why.

At first, Zechariah was too busy being pleased with his own teasing. The doctor leaned back, and Zechariah leaned forward from his seat to match in pursuit.

And then he blinked. Had this esteemed fellow just accepted Zechariah’s earlier implied offer? Yes! Was it too ethically dubious to fuck the man he had hired to tend his health? Yes!

It was everything he could possibly wish for in these trying times.

“I have champagne and more, for you.”

Zechariah got out of his chair and offered a hand up.

Wait. The champagne was elsewh-,?

Shit.

Drinking the worry away, making a like-minded friend for the first time in ages, flirtation, and possibly making more than a friend... It had seemed like a welcome offer just now, although the fact that this was technically still a doctor's visit had made him have second thoughts. How was he to know that the champagne was a damn metaphor!?

He probably should have known, his internal critic informed him.

He looked up at the man and his extended hand and felt embarrassed for the both of them. His mouth was slightly opened. His mind raced. Then he closed his mouth and smiled. "Why don't we have it here? I feel rather too tired to move," he said, hoping to get the answer across while they could both pretend the offer had never been made or understood.

The horror flickered across his guest’s face, and Zechariah’s smile tightened to an uncomfortable line. His hand hovered, empty. Rejected.

Unconvincingly, Zechariah moved his hand to straighten out his cuff, as if he had not just been looming there in a fixed position for far too long to claim that the original intention.

“Perhaps you need the doctoring, then,” Zechariah laughed, but it came out defensively, “… my friend.”

Dr. Wells was perfect. Educated. Eloquent. Pleasing to the eye. He was probably even born in England, and wrote poetry that rivaled Chaucer in his free time. Of course he would not desire him.

… That just made Zechariah want him more.

“Some champagne should have you right as rain. Just a moment.”

Champagne was not strong enough, so he brought them a bottle each. Ugh. This would barely take the edge off.

He set out the extra champagne bottle and Shabbat glasses on the coffee table, then took a seat at the far end of the couch. He started handling the cage around the cork not unlike it was a snake charmer's basket, rearing to burst forth and bite him with one wrong move.

Tristan picked up the defensive tone and for a moment he feared that he had ruined everything. Then Mr. Meijer went to fetch the champagne and Tristan relaxed the moment he was out of the room.

He put his hands over his face, scolded himself for his mistake, then lowered his hands to feel his jaw. His eyebrows knitted together. He wished he had spent more care this morning trimming. He lowered his hand further, straightened and patted down his clothes, fixed his tie. He wished he had put on his finest waistcoat, the fancy dark green one with the gold-thread patterning, not this old brown thing. He did not like the orange suit Mr. Meijer was wearing, but at least the man thought about his clothes. He probably had probably already thought about Tristan's clothes as well, and Tristan didn't care to know the man's judgement.

Did he know a lot about champagne? Tristan had learned some wine etiquette at formal dinners in school and at university, but it was long ago since he had last been in polished company. He didn't drink much, and when he did, it was usually on his own.

He looked around the drawing room. More elegant than his own. He could see the sea from the window. This was clearly a summer home. Mr. Meijer could afford one. Tristan was already finding himself struggling with the rent of his own home.

When Mr. Meijer returned, Tristan looked up and smiled pleasantly as if he had not just been comparing them and came out bottom. The two bottles were a cause of concern, but he did not want to offend Mr. Meijer again. He just hoped the man would open one bottle at a time. Getting drunk and losing their minds the day after Oscar Wilde was arrested for following his nature was a bad idea.

"This is a fine house," he commented lightly.

Dr. Wells smiled. Was there hope? Zechariah narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but smiled a mismatched smile as well.

He angled the bottle away from them and slowly, slowly eased the cork out, miniscule centimeter by centimeter.

Fine house? Hm. Zechariah glanced over the doctor from the corner of his eye. Darius hardly looked like money, either … but he had the accent and family history of wealth.

“I think so, too. Come by more, if you like.”

Plenty of doctors came from peerage – much like many lawyers came from peerage. But then there were the Zechariahs, sucking up to Chrises and Carringtons and pretending there was a clerk that he might still pass scrutiny for gentlemen’s clubs.

“Are there any families with daughters you might recommend for all-work?”

Tristan found it hard to read the other man's expressions, but the invitation suggested that there was hope for a friendship and maybe more. Probably more given the earlier... misunderstood metaphor.

"I'm certain some of the fishing families behind my house have girls eager for a job," he said, before realizing that that was a mistake. Yes, he lived in the city center, right on Flowergate, and the front of the house looked respectable. The back looked out on a yard and the cramped tenements tucked away from view from the main street. He had to keep the windows at the back closed in the summer. "Or any other poor family I've visited. I can ask around for you," he added quickly.