It was a bright Sunday afternoon somewhere in October. An open air concert was held in one of the Whitby parks. Entrance was free, but people could make donations to some kind of charity Simon hadn’t cared to pay attention to. He hadn’t been particularly interested in going, but his father had explicitly forbidden his children to go, and so he went anyway. 

He was a young man who had just turned twenty a couple of days ago. He was of average height, but the hard work had made him strong. His skin was tanned as that of many of his profession, who spent most of their day working outside. His hair was chestnut brown, with a glow of red in it and was kept short. 

He stood there, listening to the cellos and violins, when he spotted one of the boys from a lane nearby, walking around with his hands in his pocket apparently aimlessly. The next moment the boy quietly approached a well to do lady who was not paying attention. Simon walked over to the boy and grabbed his arm. When the child looked up irritated and struggled, Simon nodded in the direction of a constable, standing only a few yards away and luckily looking away at the moment. The boy stopped struggling and Simon let go. The child put his hands back in his pockets and wandered off.

[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.

Simon turned to walk away from the constable. If you were a young man from certain yards, even standing around made you look “suspicious”. But as he turned round he spotted Mr. Hurley, and he stopped himself. His eyes moved to Mr. Hurley’s companion.

His eyes moved shamelessly up the working man’s body.

Christopher was jerking him forward when Zechariah’s gaze finally met Firm Buttocks' eyes. There was a smirk when he finally turned to follow his companion.

Simon himself looked the man over, and when he met his eye, the corners of his mouth twitched. He gave a polite nod, but then he looked at Christopher.

There was a level of freedom as an outsider that he rarely dared take advantage of in his daily life. He had not expected Firm Buttocks to show any interest, and yet – there was a sign. A subtle sign, but a sign nonetheless.

“I dropped my wallet,” Zechariah said in a rush of breath, already turning as he launched his excuse.

“Then you will never-...” Christopher started, but then heaved a heavy sigh as Zechariah trotted off like a pig to trough.

“Excuse me,” Zechariah said, having elbowed through a few families to make his way back to Firm Buttocks. “Have you seen a black wallet anywhere?”

It was a loud crowd, but he was still standing awfully close. Close enough that the ocean of cologne he must have swum in almost overpowered the fish odor.

Simon believed that the smell of cologne served to masque the vileness of rich people's characters. That was certainly how it served Hurley.
His smirk became more outspoken as the man approached. His eyes showing amused surprise. And then...
The smirk turned into a scowl.
"I didn't take owt." He defended himself.

Zechariah was biting back an outright smile as he approached, but there were still sly corners at his mouth.

He looked taken aback when the working man scowled suddenly. He frowned, jammed his hand in his pocket, and then turned bright red. Before he could explain why he was worriedly checking for a wallet he had supposedly lost, Christopher had come up to them.

“Samuel,” Christopher smiled thinly. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”

Simon's scowl became more pronounced for a second, before he smiled at Christopher. "Aye, ser. As ever." His eyes flashed from Christopher to Zech for a moment. "Your friend's lost his wallet, ser."

[CW: Some abuse-of-power themes.]

Christopher’s smile did not falter for a second.

“Mr. Hurley,” he corrected, like a king graciously reminding a serf of their place.

“I did not have much in it,” Zechariah tried to dismiss. “Do you two know each other?”

There was a note of hope in his voice.

“One of the fishermen,” Christopher said dismissively.

“Must build a lot of strength,” Zechariah blurted out glowingly.