07-20-2019, 04:51 PM
[CW: Mentions of child prostitution.]
Christopher Hurley. He had barely noticed him in court, what with being another fledgling lawyer hidden under a more experienced wing. He had a long handlebar mustache that had the misfortune of running up into his hairline, like a most unfortunate hand basket holding naught but a mostly empty skull. That assumption flew out the window some months later.
Zechariah had been – as he was wont to do – pining over a gentleman who, hark! went off to get married on him. This time, the infatuation had been mercifully fleeting. Whatever. The fellow picked his nose once. As a proper pine never ended without an overblown sense of grief, Zechariah had once again trudged off to the molly house to pretend he was over it. Truly. Listening to that 50-something-year-old lord kvetch over slightly fermented water about the serving boy who did not fancy him was exactly how Zechariah preferred to spend what could have been valuable alone time.
Upon spying Christopher there – all his unkind opinions of him evaporated. Even if Hurley was just there for the occasional overly-young orphan type. Isolation made for quaint friendships, and soon they were within each others’ strange, clashing circles. It was good and proper to surround himself with people of different opinions, and he dismissed anything that made him look twice as mere goyish eccentricities.
One such goyish eccentricity involved this jaunty, crowded festival to raise funds for an orphanage. Zechariah carefully did not think of that, and instead trailed with a bland expression behind Christopher.
They had egged each other on to garishly bright suits. Zechariah was in a prominent red jacket, hands clasped behind himself with an aloof look. He walked more like an executioner than someone who had taken the journey to Whitby to picnic.
Christopher had gone for bright blue and a lapel flower pin. He happened to glance upon some boy he had tossed some coins at for a man’s needs, quickly looked away, and then seemed very interested in whatever was far ahead of them. He said something with a smile to Zechariah, pointing off in the distance and pushing him forward to try and communicate the urgency of this exhibit.
Zechariah, on the other hand, had been staring since he caught sight of some firm-buttocked working man of a similar age, hardly even noticing the child he shooed off. Even as Zechariah stumbled forward, his head turned to get a better look.
Christopher Hurley. He had barely noticed him in court, what with being another fledgling lawyer hidden under a more experienced wing. He had a long handlebar mustache that had the misfortune of running up into his hairline, like a most unfortunate hand basket holding naught but a mostly empty skull. That assumption flew out the window some months later.
Zechariah had been – as he was wont to do – pining over a gentleman who, hark! went off to get married on him. This time, the infatuation had been mercifully fleeting. Whatever. The fellow picked his nose once. As a proper pine never ended without an overblown sense of grief, Zechariah had once again trudged off to the molly house to pretend he was over it. Truly. Listening to that 50-something-year-old lord kvetch over slightly fermented water about the serving boy who did not fancy him was exactly how Zechariah preferred to spend what could have been valuable alone time.
Upon spying Christopher there – all his unkind opinions of him evaporated. Even if Hurley was just there for the occasional overly-young orphan type. Isolation made for quaint friendships, and soon they were within each others’ strange, clashing circles. It was good and proper to surround himself with people of different opinions, and he dismissed anything that made him look twice as mere goyish eccentricities.
One such goyish eccentricity involved this jaunty, crowded festival to raise funds for an orphanage. Zechariah carefully did not think of that, and instead trailed with a bland expression behind Christopher.
They had egged each other on to garishly bright suits. Zechariah was in a prominent red jacket, hands clasped behind himself with an aloof look. He walked more like an executioner than someone who had taken the journey to Whitby to picnic.
Christopher had gone for bright blue and a lapel flower pin. He happened to glance upon some boy he had tossed some coins at for a man’s needs, quickly looked away, and then seemed very interested in whatever was far ahead of them. He said something with a smile to Zechariah, pointing off in the distance and pushing him forward to try and communicate the urgency of this exhibit.
Zechariah, on the other hand, had been staring since he caught sight of some firm-buttocked working man of a similar age, hardly even noticing the child he shooed off. Even as Zechariah stumbled forward, his head turned to get a better look.
