Chéri did not seem to mind Zechariah having booze as his priority. Here it was warm, they were unlikely to run into undesirable company and they had been promised a job. Waiting wasn’t a problem and looking weird wasn’t either.

Chéri shrugged and smiled a little apologetically, but at this point they bent their heads, confused. And as Zechariah made a secondary suggestion, Chéri nodded “Then I will be Pierre, if that pleases you.” The usual “call me what you want” shtick would have probably applied quite fittingly here. The man had proactively decided to help them, so their looks must have not been too alarming, but Chéri was starting to get a little bit nervous. In the past, their very feminine appearance had already become disturbing to men after a while, even though they did very little to hide it, so they should stay put, ready for any form of rage.

After all, they didn’t know Zechariah that well, nor how illegal it was in England to… well, exist as someone like them.

“And you?” They asked to their new employer.

“Zechariah Mire, écuyer,” he answered offhandedly.

He swished his gin about in his mouth for a moment, chewing on both his words and how to say it in French.

“Vous savez Oscar Wilde?” he settled on.

Now this was getting into his French comfort zone. How many homoerotic books had he poured over in French? His pronunciation was subpar, but he knew more than his share of phrases for homosexualité – France’s stances toward sodomy were a major part of paying attention to the damned language in the first place.

“Il est en prison, pour homosexualité.”

Translation:

“Zechariah Mire, esquire.”
“Do you know Oscar Wilde?”
“He is in prison, for homosexuality.”

If Chéri had ever heard of an “esquire”, in whatever language, Chéri had never heard anyone introducing themselves like that. Which meant he inevitably went “Pleasure, Mr Écuyer,” with not a doubt in their mind about the surname of the man.

Chéri frowned and looked at least a little bit surprise “How you know that?” Had his former “friend” sent Mr Esquire to retrive them? Had they met this man before? Had their fame reached England? How was that eve possible? How did he know he would meet them here? Or was Zechariah a friend of Mr Wilde? Chéri was having a really hard time not looking shocked by the idea. Instinctively, they retracted and looked towards Tristan. Was he going to save them or was he also part of a potential scheme? Chéri’s mind was racing.

“Oh… I’m sorry?…” why was their new employer telling them that. What was that supposed to mean?

Zechariah furrowed his brow, unsure whether Pierre here was being facetious or serious.

When ‘Pierre’ asked how Zechariah knew that, Zechariah shot a flat look his way and took a long swig.

“Tue me … read? Journal. Tue me read journal?”

Zechariah’s gaze, too, slid to Dr. Wells. That man had fished foreign objects out of other men’s asses. That made him trust him both more and less at the same time.

“Non homosexualité, en public,” Zechariah whisper-hissed in public, waving a hand over their face, hair, and then after a pause of consideration vaguely over their entire person in emphasis. “En privé? Oui, oui. Je m’en fous.”

Translation:

“Do you … [read]? News. Do you read news?”
“No homosexuality, in public.”
“In private? Yes, yes. I don’t give a fuck.”

Zechariah clarified that the information came through a newspaper. Chéri shook his head. “Not that! About…” then he stopped. Maybe he meant something else. Maybe Work didn’t know about… what was he trying to say?

Chéri listened better, fairly confused by Zechariah’s French, but the basics made sense: please don’t look gay. Please don’t act gay. Chéri sighed. “I will clean your house, sir, as well as anyone.” Probably taking it a little personal, thinking the man was not trying to warn him, but rather express some disapproval for… something about him, who was well aware of how foppish he must have looked.
Or he was saying something else.
He turned to Tristan with a pleading look. He thought he could be in danger.

The two were too far away and spoke too quietly to listen to their conversation, but Tristan had watched them while pretending not to watch them. Mr. Meijer had not left a positive impression on him, and had had no reason to budge into the conversation to begin with.

When the young stranger gave him a helpless look, he offered a small gesture with the head, a silent invitation, should the kid want to remove himself from Mr. Meijer. Tristan didn't like confrontation, and already felt uncomfortable reflecting on his own rudeness of some moments ago. He wasn't eager to jump back in. But he still wanted to offer the kid a way out, should it be necessary.

On some level, Zechariah realized that part of his former easiness to identify came from how he previously dressed. It was why he went for nothing but the most soulless, boring suits since Wilde.

On another level, he was used to both assuming everyone knew at a glance, and being ready to dance the tango of plausible deniability.

There was a baffled look.

“Bien sûr que si. Vous êtes français”

He caught the look between ‘Pierre’ and Dr. Wells, with an unimpressed look.

“Or you can try your luck with that fair-weather friend,” Zechariah deadpanned in English, for it was more difficult to demean someone in a language he did not speak every day.

Translation:

“Of course you will. You’re French.”

Chéri and Zechariah could have probably had some very interesting conversations about clothes and maybe, after they had built some trust, about Wilde and his time in Paris.

But right now, Chéri was on alert. Having limited understanding of what was being said, despite the fact that Zechariah was making an effort to be understandable, Chéri took the -generally most likely- meaning of a demand for a more “suitable” name, a reference to homosexuality and to Wilde in direct connection to themselves at the same time and, aiming for security, especially after Zechariah added something, they quickly protested.

“You know, I can’t understand your words, but contempt sounds the same in most languages” or it didn’t, but good luck convincing Chéri they were not in trouble. They got up from their chair, took a small bow and walked to Tristan.

“Sir, I think… I think your friend is not who I thought they were. And I don’t feel safe in their company. Even if you don’t have a job for me, can you tell me were I could hide, even for a while?” And just like that, Zechariah had been cast in a new role and Tristan was back to “saviour.”

So he had been right? Tristan shot Mr. Meijer a dirty look. Then he turned to the young stranger. "It is not wise for us to leave this place together," he spoke quietly. "Go to my place, Flowergate __, go through the back. There's a passage on the left of the building to a yard. The maid, Pippa will open. She speaks French. Tell her I sent you..." That might frighten Pippa, given the current circumstances. "If she asks questions, tell her..." he tried to think of something they both knew but someone else would not, "tell her she spilled tea over her hand the day I hired you. She'll let you in. I will come some minutes later and then we will find you a place."

Why. On. Earth. Was it so hard to find good help? Auch. What a dramatic thing, this unemployed French tumtum! The look he cast upon them was incredulous, and shifted fast to relief when they retreated to Dr. Wells to be a pain in the side of.

“Salut, Pierre,” Zechariah deadpanned, not wanting to imply they would cross paths again with ‘au revoir’.

There was a short, sad look at his gin before he sipped it. Was it Zechariah? Was he the problem? Was he too brash, too petty, too mean to strangers and friends alike?

… Nah! Fuck them. Fuck them all.

Translation:

“Goodbye (casual).”
“See you later.”