Content warning: reference to prostitution, probably abuse of power as well.

Simon found himself in Christopher's apartment – the bedroom to be exact – pulling his shirt over his head. It was evening, and everything had taken... a little longer than planned. But if he hurried, he could still get home before it was too late and he would have to make up excuses. He put on his trousers and sat down on the bed side to start with the shoes. He did not look at Mr. Hurley. Nor did he speak.

“It would be quicker if you kept your clothes on.”

It was hardly the first criticism. In bed, out of bed, the cost, comparing him to other neighborhood boys – the only thing as endless as his disappointment was his patience.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Christopher’s ennui escalated to rage.

“What are you still doing here?!” he hissed. “Someone will – oh God.”

Why did Simon keep coming to this? Was it the pay? He might try to find some other client. And yet here he was. He knew better than to argue. And yet... "Would have gotten a little difficult..." he muttered. He finished tying his shoe laces and stood up. When the knock came he stood there uselessly. He wasn't going to run. He still wanted his money.

He bared teeth at Simon, balling his fists, before unballing them to clamber back into his own clothing. There was the sound of a door opening in the distance, and voices. One, the footman’s (who could barely buck his hips but was still better than Simon, apparently), and the other, somewhat new.

“The master is occupied at the moment,” the footman said.

“I can wait,” an outsider’s voice huffed. “Would I be here if I could not?”

There was a pause, and then the sliding of a chair.

“Jeeves,” Chris gritted out with a vengeful look.

Then, he looked to Simon with a sneer and a jerk of the head toward the window.

Simon saw how complicated this situation had suddenly become, but.... he looked at the window stupidly for a few seconds, and then at Christopher, and he wrinkled his nose. "I ain't climbing out of there..." he muttered. Losing his source of income was still a better option than breaking a limb.

Christopher ignored him until he had finished dressing, and then looked at him with disgust when he had not magically floated out the window after all. He stepped to the door and straightened his hair clumsily.

“Don’t come out,” he muttered, then closed the door behind him.

As soon as Simon was out of sight, Christopher was all good cheer.

“Zack! So glad you could make it!”

Mumble mumble.

There was another knock at the door, and another man’s voice. It was getting noisy fast out there.

Simon frowned as he realized he was locked in. Concern turned into despair when he realized another person had arrived. He had visitors over!? In that case Simon could be stuck here for hours. His heart sank. He had promised Rose he would not return home late again. At this rate it could be midnight. Father would kill him. Simon walked to the window and looked down. Not an option. Sorry, Rose... Simon sat down against the door so he could hear what was happening.

It sounded like it was the start of a long night.

“... Kosher?” Christopher said as Simon pressed an ear to the door, with that smarmy faux-nice voice he used to address him in. “You are too kind. We are on holiday – live a little!”

“I came here to sleep like the dead,” the other voice deadpanned, and there was something about the emphasis that immediately marked him as foreign.

“I came here to live like I’ll die tomorrow!” a new voice laughed, definitely not from the York area but still sounding quite English.

There was a hollow pop, and the sound of pouring.

...

Some time later, after more and more people had filtered in, there were footsteps down the hall. There was fumbling with the door, before it easily opened.

Zechariah, face flushed and down to a shirt, vest and tie, blinked slowly. This did not look like the toilet. He squinted.

“Sorry, wrong –...” he trailed off, and squinted again. “Wait. Samuel, right?”

By the time Zech approached the room, Simon was lying on the floor, dozing (he did not want Mr. Hurley catching him sleeping in his bed – he would not sleep in that bed anyway). He had already accepted that there was going to be trouble when he returned home, and so he had stopped worrying and just tried to get the sleep he could. But he sat up when he heard footfalls and when the door opened he jumped up.

It was not Hurley. Oh God. Simon stared at Zech in horror. Then he suddenly turned round and pretended he was making the bed. “Simon, ser.” He stopped to look at Zech as if he only stopped tidying up now. “Do pardon me, if I started ye, ser. Mr. Hurley was generous when ‘e ‘eard me family was strugglin. Offered me some money for cleanin' t' place.” He looked around. There no duster, nor a cloth and bucket for that matter.

[CW: Sexism.]

“Simon,” he repeated, smiling. “Zechariah Meijer.” 

Charity events, constant parties, always surrounded by people – in some ways, he was the man his parents had hoped for Zechariah to become. Maybe, in Christopher’s shadow, sociability could be learned.

Then they were back to Christopher, and the smile was more guarded. “He is very generous.”

He had snuck off on the pretense of using the water closet. He did sort of have to urinate, but not urgently enough to draw him away from … Simon. He could have sworn it was Samuel. Oh well.

“He has a maid,” Zechariah scoffed. “Hardly suitable work for a man. Do you garden, Simon?”