[CW: Homophobia.]

Zechariah huffed and sidled the glass away from himself, feeling the chastisement but wanting to pretend he was above it.

Darius seemed the perfect little toady. A Carrington, at that! What in the world did he do to earn Chris' ire? Zechariah was too interested in men, the way a man was meant to fancy a mistress - or Lord above, at least a wife; and Jewish beside. If Prague had chafed, York burned in that regard.

But not as much as his family discovering would.

Speaking of things his family need never know: his face flushed darker and he smirked when Darius leaned to speak to him. Was this one drunk enough to start noticing Zechariah? Was there a way to make that happen, if only in his dreams?

"Something that wilts our delicate Chrysanthemum," he grinned, then leaned forward. "Since we're sharing-"

John cupped his hands protectively around his drink and glowered, but Zechariah slid his glass down the bar over to Darius.

"Come now," Christopher scoffed 'lightheartedly'. "He is not even," Chris made a snipping motion in the air with his fingers, "in your fraternity."

Zechariah chewed his cheek and looked away.

"Who the hell are you?" John said, looking at Darius.

John didn't look like he was from around there - but then, only Darius was.