Whatever 'this' was now, it would undoubtedly become something he could never share with his family, or bring to confession at the vicarage when he attended matins and vespers. Even if he does the sensible thing, even if he feigns ignorance of or obliviousness to the intent behind Wilde's close proximity, the skin that he has left carefully exposed, that quiet question, "Is this a problem?" Very little would change, for it's his awareness of the thing that matters.

It's always been isolating, and terribly lonely, and so would it be the most unforgivable thing in the world if he sought to alleviate that for a little while?

He pushes himself carefully up from the chair and reaches out to take the mug from Wilde. Their fingers, and his mouth twists into a bittersweet sort of smile. "I ought to be the one asking that question, I should think," he answers, quietly abashed, and breathes in the comforting aroma of the milk and spices. "Seeing as I'm the one taking advantage of your hospitality." (The hospitality of a very young man, his son's childhood friend; that goes without saying.)

He looks up from the mug to meet Wilde's eyes, searching his expression for--something, and takes the most cautious of steps forward into his orbit.