Innocence.

I don't mean the physical innocence, either. I'm not certain I was ever physically innocent.

What I mean is the innocence of life. Of looking at everything with bright eyes and complete trust. As a young man, I thought nothing could harm me or those I loved. Life was mine, and I intended to enjoy it with all I was. I ran from experience to experience without thought of price or consequence.

That is the innocence I lost.

Suddenly, I was afraid. I weighed every action, every glance, every word I spoke. I scoffed at society's narrow point of view while trying desperately to be a respectable member of it at the same time. Frustration took root in my heart, and I don't think I remembered how to be happy any longer.

The loss of the innocence, of the freedom not to worry, stole my happiness as surely as society stole my naiveté. It's all rather morose, and so I busy myself with work and sheltering others from losing that which I lost so long ago.

It's the least I can do, after all.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 185

Robbie had found himself constantly distracted.

It was frustrating, since he had quite a lot of work to do with the gallery. Freddie was almost never home, which Robbie didn't mind since the young man was... well... young. He remembered his own youth, when all that mattered was the fun he could have. Robbie didn't begrudge Freddie his freedom.

Besides, the artificial interest Freddie would summon up for Robbie grated on Robbie's nerves.

Every time Robbie turned a corner, he wondered if he would happen upon that foggy, eerily quiet version of Tite Street from a past he'd never been able to escape. Tonight was no different.

As he left the gallery, with so little work completed, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railings of the stairs that led away from the building. He inhaled deeply and looked about at the still, quiet early Autumn night. Already winter's chill could be felt, and Robbie smiled to himself before beginning the walk home.

He was lost in his thoughts, which often returned to Oscar as of late, as he walked and smoked. It wasn't until there was absolute silence around him that he woke from his reverie and saw he was on the quiet, deserted Tite Street he'd visited by happenstance once before. He draws once more on his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under his shoe and heads towards Oscar's townhouse, grinning boyishly and hoping the poet found his way here as well.

Exceptionally wise? Who can claim that title, I ask you.

When I was a boy, I found Oscar and his cohorts amazingly wise, terribly witty, and I followed them about as any starry-eyed child would. As I grow older, I cannot say I believe any of them had been particularly wise. This might be why I never go to any of them for advice.

Wisdom. A tricky trait. Everyone I ever thought to be wise has proven to me how false that façade was. It's been a horrid disappointment to me. I continue to wonder who they had seen as wise, and if those men had been as equally unwise in retrospect.

Now, as my years advance, the younger men come to me. They ask me my advice. They look at me as I remember myself looking at others. I am careful with my words, quiet and unassuming. I do not want to be wise. I do not feel wise.

I wonder, had any of the men I'd gone to -- Oscar, O.B., Edmund -- thought themselves particularly wise? They gave them impression they thought so, but I begin to wonder.

If I had to choose someone, anyone, I believed was wise... I suppose it would have to be Eliza Ross. My mother was quiet, protective, and made no decision without forethought and understanding of all consequences.

That, in my opinion, is wisdom, and only one person can I claim to have known possessed it.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 245

The question is worded in a way that seems absolute.

Where do I see myself in twenty years?

I prefer, where do I hope to see myself in twenty years?

I hope to be an old man, living in a cottage without fear of persecution by a man I once called friend. I'd like to not look over my shoulder or quarrel with my lover over who was lurking in the shadows when we came home. In twenty years, I would hope the world had change sufficiently enough that I could live quietly, respectably, surrounded by art and words and flowers.

Hope is a brilliant thing. It keeps everything alive, doesn't it? A small word. A simple word. Yet it harbours so much in it. I hope to find enjoyment in twenty years after spending the last thirty odd ones working for something I can't quantify. I've kept myself busy, and so I begin to wonder what an idle life might be.

But that isn't the question you asked me, is it?

No, you asked where do I see myself twenty years from now.

The sad truth is, I see myself dead. An idle life I may crave, but it isn't one I shall ever indulge in. I will drive myself right into the ground, I think, striving for that unquantifiable thing.

That is where I see myself in twenty years.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 231

I would suppose relief. I have no need for revenge, and vindication -- to me -- is merely a passive form of revenge. Relief, though, is an amazing emotion to feel. I've felt it too rarely in my life.

I was relieved when I fled to France. I would not stand in the dock with Oscar, but I still feel some guilt over that. It was guilty relief. Why should we not stand beside him? Yet, the relief to know I would suffer no prison time or humiliation before the public can't be denied.

Relief when Oscar died.

How can I have felt such relief? It was another guilty relief, I would have to admit. I missed him. Missed him terribly. But his harsh words and unhappiness had become my daily strife, and when that ended, there was sad, empty relief. The day-to-day burden of loving Oscar was over the moment he passed, and there was a physical easing in that knowledge.

Relief never comes without guilt.

Revenge is bitter, and even at the moments when I hated Bosie with blinding surety, I never sought revenge.

No.

That's a lie.

I think, in the end, my publication of De Profundis was my revenge. A way to make him pay for squandering something so precious, something I had desperately wanted: Oscar's love. But I felt no vindication or relief in the publication of Oscar's deepest hurt.

Now that I think about it, none of them are an exquisite sensation. All are bogged down in guilt, jealousy, spite, and hatred. I am not a man to often relish any of those things, and so revenge, relief, and vindication are not things I actively seek.

Not anymore.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 284

They'd woken early.

Dressed.

Had breakfast (which Robbie had apologized for again and again because it had been cold and quick).

Packed.

Robbie had even, in a rush, taken Miniver to a local tailor and had chosen a few suits (one was perhaps a bit too big, and the other the sleeves too long, but Robbie thought the poet looked lovely).

Now, seated on the train, Robbie smiles sweetly at Miniver as the scenery of England in winter passes them by.

"Are you excited?" he asks quietly.

His rooms are basic.

Desk, bed, chairs, wardrobe, and a bookshelf.

He drops his books and papers onto the desk and goes around lighting the lamps before he huffs and flops down into a chair.

So refined.

Robbie looks at Miniver. "I can sleep on the floor," he says, nodding to the bed.

It would fit two snugly, and Robbie was not making assumptions.

Do I have any secrets?

I'm not sure I do. My life has been lived with the hopes of never having secrecy shadow it. Secrecy tends to mean one is ashamed of something, and nothing in my life shames me. I can't even claim the love of my life as a secret, since the world has known for some time now. Even when it was new, it was known, I think, by those closest to me.

While I may not have always been forthright in my life, I've never hidden anything. Hiding things could lead to blackmail and extortion. I've seen those I loved used in such a manner for the secrets they hid. I vowed, at a very young age, to never allow myself to be manoeuvred into such a situation. When O.B. took me to the Isle of Wight when I was a young man suffering from my own demons, I learned that the boys men like O.B. tended to gravitate toward were boys who would use affection to their advantage.

I would never be such a boy.

I would never be such a man.

And so, secrets are not kept. No skeletons in my closet to be dragged out before the magistrate and all of God's green earth. I will never stand in the dock, before the assembled masses, and be humiliated by those I once gave my affections to.

No, you can't blackmail someone who has nothing to hide.

Do I have a secret to tell you?

Yes, I suppose I do. The secret is... I have no secrets.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 259

Start over from scratch?

If I could start over again, what changes might I make?

I could say I would never have taken Oscar to bed. It's been a thought that's haunted me for years. If I hadn't done that would his fate have been the same? Ava has said no, it might have been even worse. He might have found someone without the morals and ethics I have... he might have lost everything a lot sooner.

I could say I would never have written for the Gadfly, and that would have saved me from being dropped into the fountain the following term. Saved me a year of mental instability. It might have done a lot.

I could say I would have chosen my liaisons better, not kept time with rent boys or flighty men who never wanted more than a night's time in my company.

I could say I would have stepped in between Bosie and Oscar when I knew what was happening. Once I knew Bosie for what he was, I should have been more vehement about it. I think I could have changed a lot if I had tried harder.

If I could change many moments in my life, and those moments would have changed the lives mine touched, would I?

No.

I don't believe so.

For all the pain, all the heartache, and all my loss, I don't think I would change any of it. Not for the pitiful hope that it would all turn out for the better, because if I know Life as I do, it would be so much worse.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 267

Scars are more than just a physical wound long healed.

I have very few scars you can see, and the important ones weren't inflicted in a brawl or a childhood accident. I can tell you about the most important scar I have, but I can't show it to you. Even if I could, I don't think it would be impressive. It would be small, but deep; depth you can't really tell from a surface glance.

April 5th, 1895 was when I received that scar.

Some would say it was because Oscar was arrested, but that isn't the whole picture of what the scar is. It was on that day that it was made clear to me that I was nothing more than a criminal. No matter how much money or social standing or moral façade I had, in the dark of night, I was a felon.

The world told me, in no uncertain terms, that what I am was unacceptable.

That it would not be tolerated.

I knew then that no matter what I did in my life, what I accomplished, I would never be anything but queer. One of Oscar Wilde's boys who should have been jailed right along beside him.

Maybe I should have.

And that's where the scar comes from. That maybe. Should I have stood in the dock with him, because surely I was just as guilty as Oscar... Bosie, too... Reggie... O.B.... all of us. All guilty without a single word from a jury.

It's guilt I now carry with me.

An invisible scar.

It wasn't there before April 5th.

But it's been there ever since.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 271

Time has moved forward in London between Miniver's last visit to the church and now. Early fall has given way to early winter. A biting wind awaits the three young men as they leave Milliways, feet crunching on the thin layer of snow covering the streets. It was still early; Mass wouldn't begin for a few hours yet. This was the common routine for Miniver and Robbie: arrive early enough so that they could take Confession before Mass and communion.

Robbie smiles, his nose and cheeks already red.

He's still surprised Draco even agreed to come, though he holds little hope for the morning to pass without flippant remarks.

"Welcome to my London, Draco," he says with a little laugh before turning away from them. Robbie takes a deep breath, the cold air making him shiver, and he begins trudging toward the church.

Robbie opens the door to his room, ushering Miniver in. The room has been tidied, the sheets changed, but the desk is still over burdened with papers and books. He leans against the door, eyes on the poet, a coy smile on his lips.

He watches Miniver.

Everything about him, even the slightest tumble of curls over his brow.

Dearest Oscar,

Thirteen years have passed.

Time moves swiftly for me. It moved swiftly when I had your sole affections, when I watched your affection for Bosie flourish into doom, when I sat by your bedside, holding your hand, praying that you would not yet leave me. Now it has swept by me yet again.

I know you're laughing at me now, writing you so long after you're gone. Yet, tonight, I feel the need. When I returned to my rooms, I had this need to sit down and write you.

Bosie has taken a dear friend of mine to the Courts citing libel. He is a good man, with a wife and daughter, who Bosie accuses. I should have been more diligent, I think, in regards to Arthur's book, but I didn't want to risk altering his young, bright perspective of you with my own. It would no longer have been his view, but mine, and I am loathed to do that. However, he spoke of De Profundis, and hinted at the object of that letter.

I have been so careful to protect Bosie, even when my hatred of him was born -- I protected him because you loved him, Oscar. For thirteen years now, I have suffered him as one does a disease. Once there was friendship, forged by you, forged for you, between he and I, but it died long before you. Now he seeks to ruin a man for speaking a truth he wishes to deny.

Not for the first time I ask myself, why could you not have remained with me? Why... what was it Bosie possessed that I did not? I had money. I had talent. I loved you. I gave you all I was; even now, I am yours, and it was never enough. You told me I had other claims on my time and affection, and that was the reason, but I was willing to walk away from my family and my obligations for you. I told you I would come and live with you in Paris.

I was prepared to have what I'd always wanted.

I've had many years to look back over our friendship, over my life. More asked me over lunch a few days ago if I would change any of it. I laughed and shook my head, though in my heart I was weeping. I wept for all that I knew I would never have changed -- to change any of it was to change you, and God knows how much I loved you.

Love you still.

My life has been yours since that first moment I walked beside you in the park. Do you remember that day? Mother introduced us over tea and you asked if I would like to walk with you. If I had said no, maybe all that has come to pass wouldn't have.

But I said yes, and I regret nothing.

In the dim light of your room on Tite Street, late in the night after I had fallen asleep, I would wake to your pen scratching on paper and I would watch you. Hours would pass, as time does for me, and I would watch. Then, when the sun tinged the sky violet, you would put the pen aside and turn around, smiling that knowing, arrogant smile of yours. You must have known then, didn't you, how much I loved you.

Now, decades later, I am nothing more than a man driven by the ghost of the one he loved who could not love him. I tend to your estate, watch over your sons, and I fight the legal battles your legacy has left me.

There is little in my life that is mine and mine alone.

My life is lived for the reputation and life of Oscar Wilde.

And, so, late in the night following a harried day at Court, I find myself pondering all of this and writing you a letter. I only have one question for you, and it's a question I have asked silently since that day in the park.

Do you love me now, Oscar?

Yours affectionately,
Robbie

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 691

Robbie leads Draco up to his room, which had been Miniver's room. He hasn't done much to it, though the desk in there is littered with papers and books. Just in case he ever got stuck here again, he wanted to be certain he has all he'd need to keep up with his studies. The book and papers in his arms is added to the tidy mess on the desk, then Robbie turns around to face Draco again.

Why was he nervous?

He was never nervous.

Because, his mind whispers, you're playing with fire, but it's as cold as winter.

Not that he minded anymore.

"My room," he says quietly.

He arrives early Saturday morning.

He slips into the Confessional and kneels, immediately making the Sign of the Cross with the Priest. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." His voice is low, but firm, as he speaks to the other man.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been eight days since my last confession. These are my sins." Just speaking those words eases something in Robbie, opens a gate within him that allows the sins to flow freely from his lips. "I have committed two acts of adultery, seven acts of fornication." He had been busy over the last week, more so than he usually was, but he found himself feeling needy and Oscar had not been able to meet those needs, and Robbie had not asked him to. "I have committed three impure acts with myself, as well as have had twelve impure thoughts."

Robbie pauses and thinks back on the last week, searching his actions for his sins, and finds one more.

"And I lied," he says, the words heavy on his tongue. Impure acts were easy for him to part with, but he had lied. Lied to Constance. A woman he loved as a sister, and he had lied to her. Robbie takes a breath and slowly lets it out. "Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," he finishes.

He waits for a moment before the Priest speaks.

"Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges." There is a pause, and Robbie makes the sign of the cross as the Priest does. "Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Another brief pause, and then he mouths the prayer with the Priest, feeling his shoulders lighten.

"Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi, merita Beatae Mariae Virginis et omnium sanctorum, quidquid boni feceris vel mali sustinueris sint tibi in remissionem peccatorum, augmentum gratiae et praemium vitae aeternae."

More silence.

Robbie has often noted the sheer amount of silence within the Church. Silence he so relishes.

Now he breaks that new silence with his own prayer to God. "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen."

He waits once the words, heartfully spoken, end.

Penance.

"My son, for your penance, pray the rosary ten times, speak seven Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. Reflect on these misdeeds you've done and find the spiritual fortitude you need to keep from such sins in the future..."

Hours later, Robbie returns to the hotel room he was currently sharing with Oscar. Late morning light filters through the thick curtains, casting the room into a dusky, dust-mote filled twilight. Oscar was still abed, and Robbie's lips twitch into a faint, fond smile. He removes his boots, coat, waistcoat, and unbuttons his shirt. He's quiet about it.

Careful.

Still, the poet stirs, turns over, and gives him that smile that stirs Robbie's heart and his passions.

"Good morning, darling poet," he purrs to Oscar as he climbs on the bed beside him.

As he presses a morning kiss to Oscar's lips, a line he had once read flitters through his mind.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

Vaguely, as he wraps his arms around his lover, he wonders which would be his fate.

Even in my most furious moments, I don't believe I could have killed. Towards the end, when Bosie was intent on destroying me and all that Oscar had been, I couldn't have taken his life.

Maybe I had wished his end to come, so that my life could finally have some modicum of peace, but wishing is not the same as doing. An illness, an accident, anything to bring about the end of slander, libel, and looking over my shoulder every few moments.

I am not a murderer, though. I've never hunted, never fished, I've never even killed a mouse who had invaded my rooms. If I couldn’t kill something as base as a mouse or a beast to be eaten, how could I fool myself into believing I could kill another human being?

No.

War sickens me, the unmeaning deaths of so many make my head spin, and so the death of even one, even one who has caused me so much unhappiness, is not an option.

Not for me.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 171

He sits at the table.

Constance sits to his left.

Oscar sits to his right.

Just the three of them tonight, and silence hung between them. Even Oscar, so used to filling such silences with the sound of his own voice, remains quiet. With monotonous perfection, the three people -- almost strangers to one another in this moment -- perform the mechanical act of eating. Fork to plate, fork to mouth, and back again.

Robbie had not come back to the Tite Street house until this very afternoon. He had spent the last five days wandering from a friend's home to public house to back alley. It hadn't been a very gentlemanly or proper thing to do, sitting in the cold, damp of an alleyway, but Robbie had done it. He had done it so he would keep away from that house with it's silence and that bar with its own silence.

Now he was back, and the silence was as thick as ever. Even the sound of metal against china seems muted and distant. Robbie wonders just how long the dance of silence could continue before he went mad. A scream was building in his throat, a long, raw, needy sound, and he wanted so badly to give voice to it.

Just as Robbie was emerging from his thoughts, he realises that the table has been cleared and Constance has retired for the night. He was alone in the dining room with Oscar. Oscar lights a cigarette and watches him through the haze of smoke.

"You've been acting strangely, Robbie," he mildly remarks. "I only saw you Sunday night and you looked to have the devil about you." Oscar's lips turn upward into a coy smile. "Not that it was an unpleasant sight, for I haven't seen you so free in some time. However, you then disappeared. I heard you were hiding at Ada's for a night, then back to the Crown when you knew I wasn't there. Are you running from me, my dear boy?"

Robbie holds Oscar's indifferent gaze.

Oh, God help him, how he loved this frustratingly brilliant man.

"How could I run from you, Oscar?" he asks softly. "Everywhere I go, there you are."

Oscar laughs. "You flatter me, and I do so enjoy it."

"I know," was all Robbie could say in return.

It had been some weeks since Robbie had spent much time alone with Oscar, let alone a night in his arms. Already, other youths caught his fancy and drew him further and further from Robbie. He wanted to go to Oscar, sit in his lap and kiss his lips and assure him that he loved him, that he could be enough, if only Oscar would let him be.

But he knew better.

Oscar would never be happy with just him, just one boy to cling and adore and worship.

Again, that hatred for Draco bubbled in him, and Robbie despises himself for it. He wasn't a man built for hatred!

"What are you thinking, Robbie?" Oscar asks suddenly.

Robbie looks up from the table, his eyes shining. "I--I--only that I am a silly boy who runs from shadows," he finally says.

He can see by the dark look in Oscar's eyes that he was not believed.

It made no difference.

"I think I am going to go to bed now," Robbie murmurs, suddenly very, very tired.

"Stay in my room tonight, with me," Oscar offers.

He so rarely offered.

The tears spill as he looks down at his hands. "Yes. I would like that."

Oscar stands and takes Robbie's hand, the thumb rubbing gently over the inside of his wrist. Robbie wearily gets to his feet and is led like a child up the stairs and into Oscar's room. In the dimness there, the rustle of fabric and the quiet softness of kisses is heard. Touch and poems fill the silence.

In those moments, with the windows open to the cool autumn air and his body and soul bare to Oscar, just as Oscar's were to him, Robbie found deep, satisfying happiness. It was what told him he loved this man and there would be no other.

At the height of passions smothered by kisses, Robbie tells him again that he loves him. It's spoken with breathless delight, the feeling of home as he holds tight to the sands slipping through his fingers.

"I love you, Oscar," he whimpers between kisses. "I always will."

And those eyes look down at him, the fingers caress Robbie's damp cheek, and Robbie thinks -- briefly -- that Oscar understands.

"I know, precious Robbie. I know."

He leans against the wall, his head spinning. Robbie presses the heel of his hand to his brow as he closes his eyes, trying to steady the world around him. He wasn't staggeringly intoxicated; no, that would have required a second, perhaps third, glass of the potent alcohol. Robbie takes a deep breath of the chilly evening air wafting in through the open window, smelling the coming winter clearly for the first time.

A quick glance to the clock by his bedside told him it was just past nine. He grabs his evening coat and steps out, finding Constance in the hallways.

She looks at him with that stricken expression.

Robbie has never thought Constance an idiot, so he figured she knew why Oscar didn't come to her bed and spent so many nights out. Many of those nights with him.

"Oscar has gone out?" Robbie asks her gently.

Constance pulls herself to her full height, proud and strong. "Yes. He said for me not to expect him back until next week."

He nods. "I... am going out for the night, Constance. Please forgive my abrupt departure, but I have some things I must do."

She sighs and turns from him, slipping into her room, shunned by husband and friend. For a brief moment, Robbie felt shame at leaving her here alone with the children, but his head swam again and he felt the need to flee the Tite Street home and all that echoed within its walls.

Out on the street, he walks quickly.

He knows his destination.

The absinthe sings through his body -- drunk on an empty stomach, and so quickly, it flushes his cheeks and makes his eyes bright. However, the absinthe didn't shut out the words in his head.

Shouldn't you go toddling back to your precious Oscar while you still can enjoy him?

It stung.

It stung worse than anything, knowing Oscar wasn't his, would never be his, and that he had so little time with him before everything changed.

Robbie didn't hate people. He rarely felt anger. But as he turned the street, he hated Draco Malfoy for taking such pleasure in his pain. Briefly, briefly, he hoped Miniver would leave Draco just so the brat would know how awful it felt to give your heart wholly to someone who leaves it behind in the mud...

...or worse, carries it off with them, leaving you hollow and so very alone.

More turns, his feet carrying him swiftly.

You do know he's not Oscar? And he's not going to be yours either?

No, Miniver wasn't Oscar.

Could never be Oscar.

And Robbie didn't want him to be. He loved Oscar -- and he would never love anyone else. Even when the witty poet left him behind, Robbie knew his love would go with Oscar. Nothing could change that. He had made a foolish mistake, seducing him and then losing his heart to someone who carelessly kept it. But it didn't change the fact that Robbie loved Oscar and would never, ever love another.

He was only attracted to Miniver. A shy reminder of what could have been if Oscar had been different. Sex wasn't love.

Not to Robbie.

Robbie pauses outside a building, which was nondescript, really, and knocks. After a moment, the door opens and he slips inside.

He can hear Oscar in one of the Crown's rooms.

Laughter accompanying the voice.

Robbie pauses at the bar and has another absinthe, only then does he shed his coat and waistcoat, leaving them on a nearby chair. He enters the lounge where he knows Oscar is holding court. There's something savage in Robbie at the moment, anger woken by a cold, bitchy brat who was too insecure about his own position.

Oscar meets his eyes as he enters, and the poet actually falls silent.

But only for a moment.

He continues with his recitation of poetry to the gaggle of boys fawning over him, but his eyes remain on Robbie. Robbie keeps that gaze as he prowls the room, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. It doesn't take him long before taking the hand of a boy younger than himself, slight and pretty with blond curls and eager blue eyes.

As Oscar watches across the room, his eyes locked with Robbie's, Robbie leans against the wall and urges the blond boy to his knees as he unfastens his trousers.

No one could be Oscar because no one could cut him as easily as the poet did with just... one... glance...

The door had opened on Robbie's room in the Wildes' home. The late afternoon sunlight filters in through the windows, and on the bed are pale pinstriped trousers, a white shirt, a soft brown-coloured coat, and light coloured, striped waistcoat.

Robbie smiles at Miniver.

"If you are to meet Constance and the children, you needed an afternoon suit as well as the evening suit for supper."

The evening suit, which Robbie was very pleased with, hung inside the wardrobe door where Miniver could see it.

"I hope you like them."

Robbie walks into the tailor's, smiling pleasantly at the man behind the counter. He's known John for the last eight months, coming to the man for all his clothing needs. John knows what Robbie enjoys, even if it's a bit of time in the storeroom before a fitting. Robbie's pleasant smile changed to a bit of a fey one, which wasn't lost on John, but Robbie had other things to attend to this day.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Ross?" John asks as he comes out from behind the counter.

"I am looking to have a suit made. An evening suit, appropriate for dinner with the Wildes." Robbie goes to a bolt of fabric and fingers the smoke coloured material.

John tilts his head curiously. "I would think you had many appropriate suits already."

Robbie turns and grins. "It's not for me, John. A friend. A bit down on his luck but who would like to come to dinner. I've decided to pay for the suit."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. Ross," John replies. "Do you like that fabric?"

It was a bit light for a formal evening supper, Robbie supposes, but it would look lovely on Miniver. The fabric would enhance his eye colour perfectly. "Yes," he says finally. "This would be ideal, I think. The jacket and trousers, this fabric."

"Are you certain you wouldn't prefer something darker?" John asks him cautiously.

Robbie considers again, then nods. "I'm certain. He has these remarkably pale blue eyes," he murmurs more to himself than John. "The suit will be a perfect compliment to them."

John smiles and ducks his head to hide the expression. It wasn't uncommon for Mr. Ross to buy such gifts for pretty boys he met. "Will he be coming for a fitting?"

"No." Robbie moves from the smoky bolt to another, this one the colour of fresh blood. "He won't be in the city until Thursday afternoon." He pauses. "I think he will need two suits. An afternoon suit and a more formal one for dinner that evening." Robbie touches the red silk and smiles. "This will be for his evening suit's waistcoat," he declares.

"That is a bold colour, Mr. Ross."

"His hair is the shade of those chocolate squares sometimes made into a hot beverage, and so the ruby will highlight that." Robbie is very aware of colour and how it affects the complexion and hair. "The waistcoat must be in this fabric."

"Very well, Mr. Ross," John says, making notes. "But if he is not to come in for a fitting, how am I to create his suit?"

"He isn't too different in height and weight from me." He's perhaps an inch shorter, but about the same build and weight. You can use my measurements, just adjust them." John was a very good tailor, so Robbie had faith in him. "Now, the afternoon suit..." He wanders to another selection of bolts, eying the fabrics before him. "The pale pinstripe here for the trousers, and for the coat..." Robbie sighs, trying to decide. "This. The soft brown will look nice. Informal. And the lightly striped material here for the afternoon waistcoat. I will need two white shirts, too."

John quickly scribbles on his pad, marking fabrics, amounts, everything Robbie says, John writes down. "When will you need these?"

"Thursday morning." Robbie crosses his arms and turns to John with a smile. "Will that be fine?"

The tailor has a brief moment of panic, because that was only four days, but then returns the smile. "That will be ideal, Mr. Ross."

"Then I'll see you then, John. I need to go to the cobbler," he says with a grin.

John gives a respectful nod as Robbie left.

It was late in the afternoon when Robbie returns to Oscar's home. He can smell the scents of the children's supper as he makes his way upstairs. Briefly, he pauses outside Oscar's room, debating if he should knock or not, and just as he chose to merely go to his own room, the door opens.

"Robbie," Oscar greets with a smile. "I thought I heard you come in."

He turns to Oscar with a brilliant, adoring smile. "I had some errands to complete."

"I do like that smile turned my way, dear boy," Oscar replies as he lounges against the doorframe. "And what errands kept you from the house so long?" Yes, he's being nosey, but he does so like to know Robbie's business.

"Someone is coming to supper Thursday," he says with a coy smile. "He's very interested in the man named Oscar Wilde for some reason, and since I know how much pretty boys who blush intrigue you..."

Oscar gives him a slow smile. "This boy has heard of me?"

"Quite a lot about you. He is from an impoverished background and needs appropriate clothing. I spent the day visiting John and Edward so he can look smashingly handsome when he praises your genius." Robbie knows he's being quite cheeky, but he likes these dances of words and flattery with Oscar.

"Thursday night?" he muses. "A good night, I think. I shall be certain to be as witty and dashing as ever."

Robbie shakes his head and chuckles. "As if you are ever anything else..."