An admirable answer.

He hated it.

Wait. Not … a poet? But he was educated! Handsome! Perfect on paper so long as he kept his mouth shut! Zechariah’s visibly recoiled.

Then, he silently reached for his champagne and drank. Come on. He could usually keep interested until he was actually drunk.

Tristan could see the disappointment - no more than that - in the man's face. Wrong answer. He began to feel awkward again. The alcohol in his system was enough to loosen him up a little, not to efface self-awareness, of which Tristan generally had a lot. He looked at his glass. It was empty now. He could run.

If only he could come up with a polite excuse to leave.

Good moment for his brain to shut down.

He hoped Dr. Wells would leave soon.

Oh, wait. He looked uncomfortable.

“How do you discuss your cases academically, then?”

[CW for erm, graphicness. And also, properly bad medical info because I'm not a doctor XD]


Oh no, now he'd have to stay and talk.

Mr. Meijer could have it as he liked.

"Well, if you were a medical student, I would explain to you the hypothetical case of my patient X. who had managed to get a champagne cork stuck in his rectum. I would explain to you that we would ask Mr. X to position himself on hands and knees on the table, that one then properly lubricates the rectum with ones gloved fingers, lubricate as far up as one can reach around the cork and ask Mr. X to press. If it is impossible to get a proper hold of the object, we will ask Mr. X to squat and try again. It may be necessary to artificially stretch the anus, but we are still trying to avoid as much damage as possible. When the object is removed, we will treat Mr. X's back passage as required and suggest a diet of liquids and fibres for the next few weeks. We will then explain to Mr. X the difference between safe and unsafe items to put up there."

He quirked an eyebrow. "I hope that this is not the true reason you called for me, Mr. Meijer?"

Silently, Zechariah mouthed, “a champagne cork..?”, eyes sliding to one of the discarded corks on the table. Would that even be long enough to do anything? Would it really be large enough to even obstruct passage? How far could a champagne cork get sucked up there? The ass had a way of pulling things in past where they might belong, but-

“… artificially stretch the anus” was about the point that he realized Dr. Wells was being facetious.

Zechariah finished off his glass of champagne.

This brought him to a terrible epiphany: Simon had been dumber than a rock to plug a boat leak, and it worked.

“This is precisely why I called you, Dr. Wells,” Zechariah announced with a look of horror, still deep in his own dawning realization.

Tristan wasn't sure what he had expected, but not this. He had been trying to leave and be subtle about it. By not being subtle.

"Pardon?

Zechariah set his glass down and took one of Dr. Well’s hands between both of his.

“All this time, I thought I needed a man more clever, more accomplished, better than I to avoid the mistakes of the past. But what does that accomplish?” There was such a look of relief on his face as he talked on. “I end up entertaining some unlanded doctor, so busy trying to one-up an unlanded lawyer that he flew on by the point I would have gladly undressed him and ravaged him on the settee, straight into the miserable complacency of matrimonial couplehood that men like us are spared!”

He took the briefest of moments to take his own hands back, shake his head, and marvel at his own genius .. and then he was right back on.

“You are a beautiful man, brilliant man! I thought I could love you! Now all I can imagine is your daily work of pulling cork after tedious cork out of stupid men’s arses! Better men’s arses! Men who are too dumb and too poor to marvel at more than you already have!”

He gestured widely, convinced Dr. Wells had the exact same wanted-a-smart-man-because-the-dumb-lover-got-hung problems as him.

“Oscar Wilde is on trial for a man who was. Not. Worth it!”

Was it possible... that all of this was a dream?

He sat staring at the man, trying to make sense of what he said, and feeling simultaneously flattered and insulted, and most of all just very confused. Was this man crazy? Explained the little display of cruelty earlier on.

He withdrew his hand. "And how does knowing that help...?" he asked in a rather light voice.

He poured and finished off the last cup of champagne before answering.

It helped him realize he was not about to offer any more champagne, he decided. He almost opened his mouth to say as much, but then thought better of it.

“Perhaps the Christians are onto something with that whole abstinence obsession,” he said instead.

Tristan had had enough. For a moment there had been some hope. A relief from his loneliness, and comfort in these dark days. But now he felt worse than before. He wasn't going to sit here and take snide comments. He got up. "I'm glad to see you're doing better, sir. If that will be all, I'll be on my way."