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Whereas Warren employs brute force to extract details from others, Clarke’s process is sustained. He would have liked to have been a scholar, poring over manuscripts to glean their truths. His subject of specialty, however, is not theology, philosophy, nor even classics. His expertise is on one Matthew Warren.
Years spent in companionship have granted opportunity to study Matthew, that he knows him now almost intimately. He knows of his taste for luxury, not truly afforded by their lifestyle. He knows Matthew’s father—a Minister, who disallowed indulgences—would not condone how Matthew relishes his private pleasures. Still, that imprint remains: Matthew scoffs at Clarke’s interest in literature, and detests drink most viciously.
He knows what brings Matthew joy— that he will take honey at any opportunity, how he sings under his breath in the dark, but never hymns. He knows Matthew struggles with sleep, conversely more so after a long day. And he knows much of Matthew’s temper.
He compiles a catalogue of things which Matthew cannot bear. Drunkards, and braggarts, and actors. Which tickles Clarke, given Matthew himself can don a role like a hat. He is intense, and despite his obvious intellect, listens not to Clarke’s reason when taken by one of his fits.
The sole cure for these afflictions, Clarke discovered serendipitously. Weary from hours of incessant needling, having tried words and silence both, his own temper won out.
Clarke had lain his hands upon him. The satisfaction was promptly displaced by mortification.
That, too, was short-lived.
Because after the cry of shock, Matthew had moaned. Not in pain, but as one may when he retires to a soft bed at the end of a hard day. As if the sting of Clarke’s palm on his cheek quenched rather than stoked the flame in Matthew’s heart.
Do unto others, Clarke thinks often. He would not wish for anyone to treat him thusly, he is certain.
Clarke has no desire to be wrestled to submission, to have his wrists pinned behind his back so that his arms and shoulders strain. He would not wish to be forced face-first to the bed, to have anyone kneel on his legs, preventing his thrashing attempts at escape.
But with Warren, all his understandings and beliefs are seemingly worth naught.
“If you dare try to rise now from this bed, you shall find yourself denied its comforts when it comes time for sleep.”
“Clarke, please—”
“A few simple moments, Matthew. One act of obedience. Surely even you are capable of that?”
Warren squirms, but attempts not to rise. He is more at peace already; gentled since Clarke had lain across his back, the long weight of his body keeping him down. There came the predictable resistance, then, as always, a sudden calm.
Warren has very little fight in him, when it comes down to it. He is easy enough to subdue with a few blows or prolonged pressure.
Though his wriggling ceases, he pants as though exerting still. His face buried in the bed scarcely conceals his whine when Clarke rises and crosses the room.
It means he is ignorant of the reason for Clarke’s departure— he sees not the items which accompany Clarke upon his return.
That he cries out—sharp and beautiful—in genuine surprise when the hot candle wax drips onto the bare skin of his back.
And all the more so, when Clarke continues with the lance. Alternating scarlet streams amidst the golden pools.
His shakes and wails would instil immense guilt in Clarke were it not for the unmistakable grind of Warren's hips into the bedding.
Clarke feels marginally better when their cases are open and shut, so a stretch of simple jobs should be a relief.
An admission to using magic for the purpose of healing. A young woman, accused by her jaded husband, absolved when he fails to bring forth evidence. They get no pay save expenses if nobody hangs, putting Warren in a temper which Clarke is left to suffer.
Their next is a standard affair: two day trial, a further day and night of torture, before at last a confession. He once relished a guilty verdict, would take comfort in saving the souls of a whole village from the influence of the Devil. Today he takes comfort in the prospect of peace for Warren, and by extension, himself.
The torture has started to weigh on his mind of late. He thinks of Matthew, so agreeable with tears streaking his cheeks, and wonders. He promptly nips the doubt in the bud, reminding himself that Warren stands not accused of sorcery. He is a man of God. They serve a higher purpose, and the ends justify their means. He seeks respite in recitation of the scripture:
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
Even knowing that Warren does not detest it truly, their practices still leave Clarke with a bitter taste in his mouth. It becomes too much to bear— the guilt of harming Warren then ceasing all touch, leaving him whimpering until consumed by sleep.
So Clarke strengthens his resolve and concludes the indulgence must cease.
The days drag when there is no outlet. Clarke had hoped to simply ignore the problem, maintain some distance until harmony was restored. He thinks of Matthew as akin to a hawker — insistent, a roving nuisance, pedalling wares Clarke cares not for. Thinks he need only be firm and deny, both the calls and desire, to drive home the message for both of them.
He has no such luck. Perhaps one of the witches they condemned hath laid upon him a curse, before she was damned to hell. A hex, or some mental plague he is surely suffering. His thoughts at night often turn to his partner; how he looks when he is stripped bare, how he sounds when he is pained and pleasured at once.
And, of course, how his fingers curl tight, how his head bows in supplication. Except not to the Lord, but to Clarke: when he wields this unique and dizzying form of power over him.
Frequently he finds he cannot cease his mind from wandering. He longs to draw from Warren a confession of his own. Whilst he may not wholly enjoy the labour, the fruits are undoubtedly the sweetest he has ever tasted.
And Warren is worse, now; his temper raging, his restlessness tiring to witness.
Clarke ponders, thinks of Greek physicians. How barbers drain blood and bile from one who suffers, restoring balance to the humors. Maybe that’s his role. Letting Warren's blood so they may both breathe easy.
Clarke hopes Warren can be satisfied enough in doing the Lord’s work, sweetened by a purse heavy once more with coin. Yet he seems appeased by neither.
Warren is restless throughout their ride that eve, lamenting the plague of villainy looming still large across the counties. Clarke pays him little mind. His stomach feels heavy, and his head rings with the screams from that day. The agony of the woman this morning, how she wailed as she was dragged away. It reminded him of the way Matthew had cried out, just a week prior, and the lead in his stomach became molten, making him queasy.
They take two rooms; Clarke being the one to ask, for a change. His usual insistence on frugality wanes, longing instead for space and silence.
Kneeling beside the bed, hands clasped, Clarke prays for strength. For the resolve to endure this trial of his own. He doesn’t beg forgiveness, because he has not yet sinned. Or if he has, it was not bodily. But even now, his thoughts stray to Matthew in the opposing room, surely wrestling with his own troubled mind.
He knows the sole reliable way to bring him peace. Thinking on how he acquired such knowledge causes guilt to curdle within him. Yet it is not lust which spurs either of them. It’s just that pain makes Matthew quiet. Clarke knows this.
He also knows that afterwards, as he tends his wounds, Matthew remains hard. That hearing his whimpers as he wipes blood and oil from skin has Clarke throbbing too, aching insistence between his legs. It should feel wrong, but he relishes looking after him, pressing fingertips to fine flesh.
He’s soothed somewhat, convincing himself it’s a mere service. It’s not like with the people they try — Warren enjoys every moment.
Warren remains in fine fettle after the sentencing. Full of vitriol despite using the thumbscrews. He is unruly— like a mare startled by a snake upon its path.
He shows himself not at the Justice’s table for tea. Clarke makes apologies for him, but privately thinks on how Warren would struggle, were he alone. Much of the job is scripture and resolve, yes, but there is more to it. And Warren fares not well with matters politic.
Clarke dines promptly before excusing himself. To attend to his colleague, who hath taken ill with some mild fever. He crosses himself upon leaving, seeking absolution for small mistruths.
He need not cast about to find him. Warren is predictably keeping company with the damned. Crouched with the condemned, muttering about the fate of sinners. Lakes of fire and sulphur and eternal pain.
You know not the half of it, Clarke thinks, suddenly enraged.
He drags Warren up by his collar. Of course he hardly resists. The woman cowers anew, fearing the wrath of man more so than that of the Lord.
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Clarke blesses her meaningfully before dragging Warren away, hissing, “Hath she not already suffered enough by your hand? Why insist on tormenting the poor woman?”
“Poor woman!” Cries Warren. “Mind your tongue, Clarke.”
Clarke spins on his heel, and without thought, strikes Warren across the cheek.
His palm burns as his chest heaves. His pale eyes in the dim glow of the moon are somehow afire.
“You will mind your tongue with me, Matthew, lest you find yourself unable to use it.”
Warren’s eyes, infuriatingly, seem to glint with glee. Clarke pulls his hair until Warren yelps, then relents to shove his shoulder.
“Go prepare the horse,” he hisses. “I shall collect our things.”
They trace out from the village, Clarke holding the route well enough in his mind. Riding in stony silence, he watches for milestones, squinting to read each one they pass.
After some time, he slows right down. Demanding Warren alight gains him the outraged splutter, “You cannot plan to leave me stranded upon this road, Clarke!”
“I do not,” comes the simple response. “Nor have I said as much. You will walk herefrom.”
Warren attempts to protest, until Clarke warns:
“If you do persist in acting as a common scold, then I shall be forced to treat you as such.”
“I have acquired holes in my stockings due to your whims,” Matthew complains from his perch on the bed.
“You are over-pert indeed to speak on my whims,” scoffs Clarke. “And I do not recall granting you permission to rest.”
“I beg your pardon?"
“Your punishment has not been seen through,” Clarke explains. “Up.”
Warren rises and, for once, resists not Clarke’s instructions.
He paces the room gingerly on sore feet. Back and forth— sending Clarke into a trance. Warren moves like a spectre in the dim; pale figure, white dress and milky skin. The odd fleck of grey amongst his dark curls catching the candlelight.
Clarke recognises the signs of his crumbling resolve; his faltering steps, how, stumbling, he staggers like a drunk. But not a drop has passed Matthew’s lips—never has. Even without it, he trips over his feet.
Catching himself upon the chair, where he stays, hunched, whilst Clarke contemplates aiding him. Then, as the tree yields to the axe edge, Matthew sinks to the floor. His trailing hand drags his stockings down with him, and without prompting, he puts them neatly back in place.
“That's very good of you, Matthew,” Clarke gasps, astounded by his obedience. “Come now. Bed.”
Matthew walks not toward him, but crawls. Finally, Clarke allows him to rest. Matthew slithers in alongside him, and Clarke, thinking of nothing but absolution, takes him in his arms.
He had every intention of rewarding his good behaviour handsomely. But it is plain to see that Matthew can barely move, let alone think in this state.
For now, he merely welcomes him, to the bed and his arms. Matthew is cold to the touch, even with layers of linen between them.
He curls into Clarke's side as though it were his natural place of rest.
When he wakes, it is to the rocking of hips against his side.
“Matthew,” he croaks. The movements cease, but there is not space enough between them to maintain ignorance nor modesty.
“Forgive me.” Matthew gasps, clears his throat. “I am not yet awake, I—”
He makes to retreat, but with an arm around him, Clarke holds him firmly in place.
“Clarke.” Matthew’s voice breaks around his name. “You must punish me.”
“Must I?”
“Of course. For my sins.”
“A commendable proposition,” hums Clarke. “Only, as usual, you neglect the facts in favour of your foregone conclusions.”
“Speak plain. I cannot untangle your riddles at this early hour.”
Clarke laughs under his breath. Indulgently he cards fingers through Warren’s hair, noting he responds to tenderness as alike to torment.
With Warren relaxed, it is easy enough to roll them, so Clarke is propped up with a knee betwixt Warren’s legs.
He finds he likes looking upon his face. Especially as he presses his thigh against the heat of Matthew’s groin. Now there is no denying what woke him.
It is delightful to see Matthew lax in simple, uncomplicated pleasure.
“What I mean to say,” Clarke continues, low and steady. “Is that this is truly no new sin.”
Warren squirms, and in doing so makes himself moan. “Never before have you found me waylaid by lust,” he gasps, scandalised. Clarke snorts, then lowers his head, his nose to Matthew's neck.
“I find you in such a state on most evenings, when you insist upon my company,” he murmurs. “And this morn I find I am willing to indulge myself.”
“Clarke—”
“I shall bring you relief, Matthew. I shall do anything you bid, for once. You need only ask, and admit that in truth, you enjoy when my hands are upon you.”