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He trusted Dane.
They did not drive Silas out. Not with torches and pitchforks, not with any matter of force. Because they knew he would leave, of his own accord. Because they knew he would leave, having supposedly committed the grave sin of theft, and Lantern Yard does not stand for anything less than perfection.
So he left. But not just because of a false accusation, not just because of the heartbreak of knowing everyone he ever knew and loved would only shun him forever more, and turn their backs on him. He left, because he could no longer stand the sight of William Dane. This man who he spent all his life holding up to be a paragon- took to shattering Silas's life in a single instance. Only then did Silas see, in great pain and disillusionment, that all the while a monster was gazing out from under the familiar features of his dearest friend, his confidante, his lover- no, of his partner-in-sin. Of the sin that dare not speak its name.
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It was the little things, Dane thought. The first of the revelations struck him on a pleasant spring morning, complete with deceptively clement weather. It was a spring morning quite like any other spring morning, although one could certainly attribute to the lack of anything ever happening in Lantern Yard.
And so, fidgeting slightly against the hard pews, a bored William let his mind drift. It was in this dangerous instance of mental wandering, that he let his eyes focus quite long upon his closest friend. On the way that young Silas's wide saucer eyes, so full of devotion, shut slowly as he began a prayer, the tips of his long lashes catching the sun's rays from beyond the window. William considered those hands, rosy pale and supple, considered how they were graced by the marks of Silas's labor, and there William remembered the cuts occasionally inflicted by Silas by the picking of herbs. He stared at the long, nimble fingers, ever the hints of a weaver, clasped in prayer. He stared at the way the light shone upon, no, around Silas, bringing out the golden hues in his hair, surrounding him as if a halo. He stared at the pinkish plump lips, parted slightly as they moved almost imperceptibly in Silas's hushed pleas.
William suddenly felt his mouth go too dry, his heart lurch too hard within his chest. But Fate was not content with throwing in William's way one such peculiar instance. No, there came to be multiple. Gradually, everyday sights of Silas started taking on too much meaning. William would notice, ever more keenly, the way that Silas's hair would tousle into an adorably dishevelled manner, with a blush coloring his cheeks and his lips parted to catch his breath, at the end of some physical exertion. Even the sight of Silas's slender fingers working so deftly at his colorful threads (wouldn't you like those fingers somewhere else on you, a dark raspy small voice whispered from the back of William's mind), would threaten to undo William. And as Silas weaved, his brow would furrow slightly in an endearing expression of concentration, a little detail which made William smile all too soppily. Just the sight of Silas bending down to pick herbs, showing much better lower form than one might expect of a weaver, would send lightning bolts down William's spinal column.
William formed a plan. It was not a wise plan, that he knew, but he could not help it. Besides, there was nothing uncharitable or sinful about the plan. He simply spent more time by Silas's side, which only made said friend all the happier anyhow. He read improving books, and applied himself fully to the Bible, then he would speak in his usual way of sounding like he knew much more than he actually did. With that, Silas's admiration of William grew even stronger, until his eyes twinkled with an awe almost bordering on worship. And whenever Silas cast that gaze upon him, a gaze that spoke of knowing nothing yet promising everything, both despair and joy would sink their claws into William's heart.
William did not want for much. He would permit himself a caress here or there- on the pretext of dusting dirt off Silas's clothes, or tidying his person up for church, or just as a friendly greeting between the best of friends. In this, with Silas's sweet words and Silas's growing habit of following him around with all the body language of a besotted pup- in all this, William was content.
That is, until Sarah came into the picture.
Silas, of course, sweet oblivious creature that he was, William thought, should be easily given to think that nothing should change between the two friends. But in fact, William was able to fool so well not only Silas and everyone else, but himself as well. Silas had announced his engagement to Sarah, and William had smiled, and everyone else smiled smaller, politer smiles, and life went on, with even William himself scarcely recognizing the turmoil that boiled just under the surface of his consciousness. That is, until a few days later, in a sudden impulsive urge of malice and rage he did not recognize in himself before, he declared that Silas's catalepsy was the work of the devil. Scarcely a moment after he made this reckless statement in front of the whole community, did the shocking revelation finally hit him and shake him to the core. He minded the engagement. He minded it a whole lot, actually. Ever since the announcement, somewhere in his subonsciousness he had been nursing the festering rage that Silas had to be at least partially responsible for said engagement.
For the past few days, he had been telling himself that he shouldn't mind, because rationally, the arrival of Sarah into their lives shouldn't change anything. There was nothing for Sarah to put a stop to, because he was certainly not doing anything to Silas. Even with Sarah in the so-called picture, William would still able to steal and savour the slightest caress made ever so rarely under some flimsy platonic pretext. But Sarah did change everything, at least to his heart, because the heart is a wild, feckless thing not to be reasoned with. Jealously, he realized, that was what it was, jealousy- the exquisite pain of having pined in secret for so long, tormenting himself alone, within his head, with every ghost of the shadow of the memory of Silas's physical form against his, no matter how chaste and brief, only for this blighter of a woman to suddenly sweep in and claim in whole the person who should rightfully be his.
It was in the throes of this mad pain that William had declared Silas's illness to be satanic in nature. If it were merely a claim made between the two men, William would not have hesitated to take it back. But it was not- he had announced in full confidence to the whole of Lantern Yard. In this, William's fatal flaw of pride struck- having made so assured and public a statement, he felt most keenly that he could not withdraw it.
As a consequence, Silas withdrew from him slightly with some coldness and fear, but he remained warm and worshipping by all standards, all the same. However, Providence soon relented and bestowed some mercy, in the form of the dying deacon. Being made to watch over the deacon on lonely, moonlit nights, helped rekindle any lost flame within their friendship quickly. Sitting in a darkness illuminated only by the scarce light of the moon, in the comfortable silence of a community gone into slumber, with the breeze from the window cooling the two inhabitants pressing close to each other so that they may whisper without waking the sleeping patient- was all quite a setting that bred sentimentality and intimacy.
Such idyllic pleasure however, could not last forever. On one such night, Silas turned to William and told him, "William, I should like you to be best man at my wedding. That is, when Sarah and I have the money for it."
And so, once more, the whole issue of Silas's engagement came crashing unwelcomely, once again, to the forefront of William's mind. You should say something about Sarah, his mind coaxed him gently, as the rest of his person froze in numbed pain and shock, say something most certainly relevant to the matter at hand.
His tongue, however, did nothing of that sort.
"Silas," he said slowly, gently, feeling suddenly like his person was miles away from where his voice was, "do you love me?"
A current of something inscrutable flashed through Silas's eyes. "As a friend you mean." Not a question, but a statement, said in a tone of concern and caution as if to save William from himself.
"No," insisted William, in the same distracted, detached voice- and he realized then that his hands were trembling and no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn't stop trembling, "I mean, in an improper way. In a…closer way."
Silas's expression turned blank. Then, his face fell, scrunching up in a pained look, tears filling and overflowing from his eyes, spilling onto his cheeks. He looked away.
It was a still night, with nary a breeze. William thought he could hear Silas speak, just that the soft voice was lost to the gentlest of wind.
Silas collected himself and gave a nod.
William stilled for an instance. And then, afraid of losing the moment, he leaned forward and, tilting his head, pressed his lips gently to Silas's. He felt the flash of firecrackers rushing through his head as those smooth, full lips met his own, and as those lips parted, he prodded in further, savouring the wet heated flesh of his lover's tongue.
Silas's hands pressed insistently against William's chest. When that did not dissuade the older man, Silas wretched away from William with more force, turning his face to the side as he did so. He wiped the spit off his lips with the back of his hand.
"Please," he whispered, shaking more than William even was, "never do that again."
"Why? Why not?" William demanded, feeling a familiar rage darken himself once more.
"How could we? It's a slight against God- no, more than a slight, so much more than that. We must confess. We must repent. At once, we-"
"Do you love her?" he interrogated, "do you even love her? Could you even look me in the face and tell me that?" His voice had gone low and raspy, his sharp penetrating gaze aflame with an accusatory assurance.
"I like her," Silas hedged, "I like her enough. And it's the right thing to do." At this, Silas's eyes took an abrupt intense interest in the further corner of the dim room, with an expression that characterizes the dials of six year olds caught rummaging in cookie jars. He squirmed, and took to scuffing the tip of his shoe on the floor.
William's tone grew pleading, almost desperate.
"But you…more than just like me, don't you? You love me, don't you? You said-"
Silas turned to him sharply, with such a sudden, desolate look of resignation and futility that William's words stopped short in his throat. For once, the silver-tongued man was at loss in speech.
"Does it matter?" Silas's words, flat, toneless, crawled out from the bottom of his throat.
It struck William that such an answer was worse than even a "no"- it negated his question entirely. And when it did so, it was at once completely heartwrenchingly honest. It didn't matter what Silas said, it didn't matter if Silas loved him, it didn't matter if he loved Silas, none of it mattered, because nothing would ever come of it.
Shifting in his seat, William addressed Silas once more, but in a more conciliatory, cautious tone.
"You won't…tell anyone what happened here, will you? Forget that I…that you…forget about tonight. Please. On the basis of our friendship, if nothing else. Swear on it."
"Ok William. As your friend…nothing happened tonight. I swear on it." (It struck William Dane that, even in that instance of emotional upheaval having worked its way through Silas's mind and body- even in that stance, with Silas's downcast eyes showing off lashes glistening with tears, his slowing sniffles, the last of the tremors dying in his hands, that hesitant absent-minded nibbling of his bottom lip- god, he looked beautiful, he still looked too blasted beautiful).
For the rest of the night, they sat in silence, but William's anger would not quell. For once, he quietness felt oppressive, and only served to fan the flames within him further as his thoughts ran wild. The moonlight lent a strange tinge to the dim lighting of their room, making William's hazel eyes almost green.
What gave Silas the right to act holier than thou? Was it not he himself who Silas looked up to, for all matters of spiritual teaching? Were Silas's feelings for him so mild, that the man could so easily dismiss it all in favour of duty? Hang duty, William thought. And Silas thought that a woman could cure him? That he could marry a woman and everything would then suddenly turn out the proper way? Did he really think it was so easy? But perhaps it is, William thought, maybe it is for him, maybe his love is not as deep, maybe then and now he is not as tormented as deeply as I am and have always been, maybe he doesn't understand- doesn't understand me, and what I've had to damn well put up with, all this time, because of propriety and devotion and duty.
It was in the light of those selfish, self-absorbed thoughts, that William's worst scheme was set into motion. The money was planted, as was the knife, and Silas's strange illness carried the plan forward all the more smoothly, delivering him to his accusation and conviction. There is a fitting irony, William had considered, in how this very man to have taken pride in having oh so holy self-restraint, should be shunned now for the lack thereof. And what better to drive the point home, than to take possession too of his second-dearest person, to deny him even the small comfort of this woman who he does not love but "likes well enough"?
But as his best friend of more than ten years packed to leave for strange lands faraway and unknown, as this one person who ever mattered to him, looked over a shoulder and into William's eyes- in that instance, William was suddenly suffocated by the weight of the greatest revelation he had felt thus far: that he had achieved nothing, thrown away all that could matter, and now stood to lose everything.