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Samuel kept a watchful eye on Lord Capon of Pirkstein and Rattay.
It became a sort of morbid fascination to him.
He watched the man stumble around the Devil's Den, drunk out of his mind more often than not.
It was like watching a dog break its own teeth on a chain in a desperate attempt to get back to its master. Witnessing an anguish that was simply too much for a man to bear. A heartbreak so potent it permeated the walls, stuck to door handles and suffocated the air.
Sam knew exactly which ailment the young noble was suffering from. He knew too much about longing after the forbidden himself. Of a lust for the unspeakable. It was a burden to bear, a temptation to restrain from, a divine test. More than anything else, it was a crushing weight with no reprieve. A hunger that could not ever be sated. A punishment in itself.
Sam never spoke up about his pain, and he made sure to never give away any hint that he noticed the same agony in Lord Hans Capon. Yet, it was impossible to ignore. A constant reminder of his own never-ending ache.
Over time, the deteriorating state of Capon bothered Sam more and more. It was unbearable to see the man slowly waste away. His frame was becoming almost as thin as it was when they escaped from Suchdol. His drunken laughter sounded drier, more slurred, and less convincing with every passing night. The thick cloud of hurt that surrounded him was a poison that found its way to Sam's old wounds, reopening them, infecting them. And as Capon sank lower, Sam was being pulled down with him.
The only salve to the young lordling's ailment was, of course, Henry. When he returned to the den, Capon slowly came back to life. Like the sky brightening after the storm and rain, when the sun starts to peek from between the clouds. His watery, dull eyes were suddenly alert and focused, not straying away from Henry for even a moment. He laughed brightly, brimmed with joyous ideas of hunts and rides with his loyal page.
When Henry inevitably left, his plans with Capon postponed without reason, the noble withered. After his high, he sank lower than before.
It was pathetic. Infuriating. Pain radiated off Capon in waves Sam couldn't withstand. He was being swept under.
There was no getting used to this pain, Sam knew that. No reprieve. Only the threat of eternal damnation hanging above them like an executioner's sword. Such ache, such wants were, at best, foolish thinking. At worst, both he and Capon were condemned to hell already. Samuel made his peace with that a long time ago. Men like them simply didn't get to have what they wanted. Not without punishment.
There was no point wallowing in it. His heart never stopped aching, yet it kept beating. So his hands worked, fought, and other than that, he kept them to himself. Just like the ache in his chest.
He swallowed it. Buried it. Resisted it. Even if it was futile.
Capon's pain was palpable, and it was making Sam's own worse with every passing day. Impossible to ignore, to forget, or to even ease. Like a mirror Sam ached to shatter. Seeing his own weakness, a sin he couldn't shake, in front of him so blatantly, drove him mad.
They were here, both hollow, both struggling not to break.
Sam held it in, accepting his fate in isolation—Capon spiralled and kept reaching out. As if he didn't value anyone's soul, especially not his own.
It all came to a head on a night when Henry had returned from a fortnight's trip to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. The moon hung low, almost disappearing from the sky to be chased away by the sun. Both Henry and Capon were drunk out of their minds. Though the nobleman more so. Arms slung around each other's shoulders, Capon kept leaning in closer, as if pulled in by an invisible force. Eyes fixated on Henry as if he hung the stars.
Sam stood leaning against a wall near the corner, a pillar casting a shadow on his form. Not that it was necessary to hide. No one was paying attention to him anyway. The other two men were oblivious to his presence.
He watched the noble like a hawk. Capon's gaze fell to Henry's lips every so often. He was leaning closer and closer. Henry seemed oblivious to it, too drunk to notice.
Sam noticed. His body was coiled tight, ready to spring forward at the briefest hints of Capon finally gathering his courage. His muscles screamed in agony from how tight they were. His fingers dug into his forearms so hard they would surely bruise. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he felt like he was watching the end of the world unleash right in front of his eyes.
But when the moment came, his body failed him. He stood frozen on the spot as he watched Capon lean in for a kiss.
Henry pushed him off, only half laughing, half bewildered. Capon slid down the bench, landing on the floor awkwardly, not expecting to be shoved away quite so hard. For a moment, he stayed on the floor, like a puppet with its strings cut loose.
The tightness in Sam dissipated, but instead of relief, the release brought forth something devastating. His throat convulsed, and for a moment, he thought he'd be sick. Pressure kept building in his chest, filling up his lungs till they felt like they could burst. The picture of Henry carefully helping Capon stand and escorting him back to bed, subtly keeping his distance, was physically painful.
In the morning, Henry was gone.
Capon seemed to reach rock bottom. Or so it seemed at first. Then he got worse.
He barely ate. He stopped snapping at people, so he barely talked. His eyes, once blue like the sky, seemed lifeless, reminding Sam of the way the silver-skin tinted when meat wasn't kept cool properly. It reminded him of mould and rot.
Steadily deteriorating, wasting on the inside, invisibly bleeding. Only waiting for Henry's return so he could get hurt again. Only aching to make it worse.
And for what? Henry didn't want him. He had the grace of Lady Rosa Ruthard. A woman who was good for him in many ways. She could offer him many prospects, legitimisation being the most important of them all. She could give him a family again. Rosa was a good woman; they made a good pair. Sam was happy for his brother.
What could Capon offer him? A damned man spreading his sickness. If he was as reckless as he was the previous night they were together, it could mean the noose for Henry or even Hans himself.
Was he truly just that selfish? That arrogant? Was he just insatiable in his desires without an ounce of thought to spare for what Henry wanted? To what end could he lead them both?
After the sun set, Sam followed Capon as he walked to the room he and Henry shared, anger simmering beneath his skin. Capon didn't even reply to him when he hurled snarky remarks his way. The sad, watery, not-fully-there look he gave back just made Sam angrier.
"Not in the mood for your antics, Samuel," Capon finally replied, reaching for the door handle. His voice lacked the boisterous confidence it once held. And his gaze lacked the fire. Not even the torchlight reflected in his eyes, as if the cold vastness snuffed it out.
It almost felt like an act of mercy as Sam cornered the noble and roughly slammed him into the wall.
The frightened gasp that left Capon's lips felt right.
Sam shoved a hand under his pourpoint, his hand splaying over Capon's sternum to keep him still. His other hand covered his mouth, in case he were to cry for help.
He didn't. There was no fight left in him.
God, have mercy. Had he been left completely hollow?
Sam held him pinned, feeling the frantic, frightened huffs of breath on his fingers slowly even out. Capon didn't move.
Sam's hand slowly moved away from his mouth, grabbing his chin instead. His thumb carefully traced the line of his jaw.
"What the fuck are you doing?" the noble hissed loudly. Sam gripped his jaw tight in retaliation, tight enough for it to hurt.
Capon thrashed, tried to get away, but Sam ignored it. Instead, he relished in the way Capon's eyes begged for answers, how they flickered all over his face, confused and pleading. Something sick and twisted inside him relished in it.
"Why?" Capon managed to let out even through the white-knuckled grip Sam had on his jaw. The words only infuriated Sam further — as if he didn't know.
The lord breathed in to say something else, but Sam silenced him, crushing their lips together. Their joining was bruising and dry at first, Sam bullying his way into Capon's mouth despite the weak sound of surprise and protest from the other man. Soon, it turned wet and filthy, filled with desperate gasps for air from Capon as Sam kept kissing him, not giving him a moment of reprieve.
What he was doing was right. Selfless. He needed to put an end to Capon's suffering as well as his own.
Capon squirmed under his hold, and Sam pinched his nipple hard as a punishment. The man whimpered, kept trying to push his body backwards to put distance between them. Yet, he kept his mouth obediently open for Sam, his tongue occasionally sliding against the other man's. Sam was unsure, as if it was intentional, but he didn't care.
Sam bucked forward, putting more of his weight and strength into caging the other man. He broke away for a moment to adjust the grip on Capon's jaw. The hunger within him was fully overwhelming. Insatiable and all-devouring when he finally tasted what he had craved for so long.
"Henry," Capon breathed out weakly. His knees were giving up underneath him. Were it not for Sam, he'd crumple into a heap on the floor.
Was he trying to confess to Sam?
Was he calling for Henry?
Was he imagining he was there with him instead of Sam?
Was he worried he'd return and see them like this?
Perhaps it was all of those things. Perhaps none of them. It didn't matter when hearing Henry's name was like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped on Sam's head. What had he done?
"He's not coming to you," Sam breathed out against the noble's neck, trying to regain his composure.
Capon yanked hard on Sam's hand, nails digging in as he attempted to pry it away from where it held his jaw in an iron grip. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
"Let go of me," the man rasped out. His voice no longer held the pompous authority it once had. It was merely a weak plea.
Sam loosened his grip lightly, something within him cracking, but held steady. He lifted his head from the crook of Capon's neck, looking into the noble's eyes. He knew he needed to do this.
"Even if he was here, it wouldn't be because of you. Not the way you want him to."
The sentence hurt Sam almost as much as it hurt young Capon. His eyes widened and filled with tears. Turning his face to the side, biting his lip, he choked them back. His shoulders shuddered with a sob he couldn't quite hold in. He tried his best to get out of Samuel's arms. Escape and hide his shame.
"Don't know what the fuck you're on about," Capon hissed through his struggle, voice shaking.
He almost managed. But he wasn't as strong as he used to be. Samuel kept him caged against the balcony's wall, seeing the man struggle to open the door to the room him and Henry shared. How desperately he tried to hide his tear-filled eyes from Sam. He could practically taste the fact that the noble wished he could keep it in, keep it hidden, deny it until it disappeared.
As if Sam didn't already know everything.
He knew all about the sin festering under Capon's skin. The pain the infection caused. He knew what he had to do.
A wound like this needed to be cut open to let the pus out. Cleaned out, no matter the agony. Closed with fire if it had to be. Sam was willing to do whatever it took.
Sam let the man go, watched him stumble towards the door to his room. As Capon opened it with shaking hands, Sam shoved him inside and followed right after him, sliding the heavy latch into place, locking the door.
He grabbed Capon's wrist, yanking the man close to himself again. He pushed the hair that fell into the noble's eyes away. His eyes were full of fear. It made Sam feel sick. Where had the blue skies gone?
"I saw you. Begging for his attention like a dog," Sam growled.
"And what's it to you?" The bite in Capon's voice was back, but with his eyes brimming with tears, his words held no weight. Sam pushed against the other man's chest, making him stumble back towards his bed.
"Trying to get him all to yourself. Wishing. Lusting," Sam spat out those words as if they were poison.
Capon's face fell to the side, his gaze focusing on the corner of the room. Retreating and retracting in shame. His cheeks were wet and blotchy red.
"You lost your mind," he managed weakly with a soft exhale that was probably supposed to be a laugh. It failed miserably.
Sam grabbed him by the neck, bringing his face close to his own. He was taller than the noble, forcing the man on his tiptoes. He needed to hear him confess.
"I know," Sam tutted cruelly. "I know it all," he repeated. Slower. To make the meaning sink in.
Tears were rolling down Capon's cheeks freely now. Running down his neck where Sam held him. Hot tears rolled past Sam's knuckles. It was as if they burnt him. He let go of the noble's neck in an instant.
Capon didn't move back, nor did he try to run. He didn't fight. It was as if nothing was left of him anymore. A shell of his former self, much like Sam had often felt about himself.
Sighing, Sam brought both of his hands to firmly hold the noble's face. Trying to reach him. Trying to make himself be heard. He searched the noble's eyes for the vision of a clear, peaceful sky he remembered seeing in them. It was there, if he searched deep enough, but it was cold, as if a snowstorm was coming.
"You cannot sully him with this, you understand? You don't always get to have everything you want," Sam let out through clenched teeth. It was like a blow to his own guts. Men like them never got what they wanted. That's just how it was. The sooner Capon understood it, the better for him. He was in for less pain that way. This wasn't an act of cruelty. It was mercy. Like felling an animal with a clean shot.
It didn't feel that way as the noble's eyes fell closed as sobs shook his frame. He looked like a child. Naive. Pitiful. Crying as if this was the greatest pain he'd ever felt.
"You have no idea," Capon forced through his teeth, "what you are talking about."
Sam shook with barely concealed rage. There was no one who understood this dark, oozing, ruined part of Hans Capon's soul better than him.
It was final, he had to see him fall apart. Snuff out the last flicker of foolish hope that could have his brother dead, as well as the arrogant noble who thought the laws of the world were above him. No matter the cost.
"It's like you are trying to get him killed."
Capon's eyes flew open at that, red-rimmed and brimming with tears. He shook his head, his mouth opening.
"I'd never—"
Sam interrupted him before he could finish his sentence, pushing him towards the bed. Capon's calves hit the frame, and he fell onto the mattress. He sat up, a defiant, enraged look in his eyes. As if Sam was not telling the truth.
Sam's blood boiled. It was Capon who was blind. It was he who had no idea what was at stake. Sam had to break him, hit him where it hurt.
"He saved you how many times now? And what did you do for him, huh?"
Capon's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He deflated, biting his lip so as not to wail as the sobs gained in intensity, shaking his fragile frame. Sam knew he hit his mark. What he didn't expect was for Capon to respond.
"I'd give him anything! I'd give up my title, lands, all of it, even my name if he asked," the noble rasped out, head hung low, barely above a whisper. Sam couldn't see his eyes, but in his heart, he felt the words were true. Somehow, that made it all worse. But salvation wasn't always merciful.
"All you'll ever give him is a noose around the neck. You want to see him hang that badly?"
The nature of Capon's transgression was left unspoken, but the word hung heavy between them. It materialised in the taste of each other's tongues in the back of their throats.
Sodomy.
"Let it go, Capon," Sam warned. He barely stopped his voice from breaking. He himself never could.
Maybe fate would be more merciful towards Capon. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he wasn't damned like Sam was. If there was even a sliver of a chance, he had to try. No one deserved this kind of pain. "The world punishes those who defy God; not even you are untouchable."
If nothing else got through to him, perhaps a threat to his life will finally make him realise what his twisted desires could unleash. If not for Henry, maybe he'd stop to save himself.
Capon stared up at him as if he saw an angel who came deliver divine punishment. His eyes softened into something unbearably sad, tears glistening as they fell in thick rivulets. Could it be that a threat to his life was what finally unmade him?
"Say it," Sam insisted. Unmoving and unrelenting. Looming above Capon as the divine retribution itself.
"Say what?"
"That you'll let him be. That you'll forget."
The noble didn't reply. The hesitation worked Sam into a frenzy.
"So you'll risk your title, your reputation, and Henry's fucking life for… what? Your own amusement? Curiosity?" He shouted at the half-broken noble sitting in front of him.
Anger sparked in Capon's eyes. For a brief moment, a glint reminded Sam of how they used to look. Like the vast blue of a midday in summer. It was gone in the blink of an eye.
"I'd rather die myself," Capon growled.
Sam almost took a step back at the force behind those words. But he still wasn't done. He needed to see him break fully. It was a long time coming. It needed to happen. For Henry. For Capon. And somehow even for Sam himself.
"Not even that would make him want you," Sam whispered.
He knew that it was the final blow, a knife right between Capon's ribs. Though words stabbed him through just the same. A pain he'd felt for so long, yet it cut just as deep each time.
"I know," Capon whispered, meek and broken. "I've known…"
He didn't manage to finish the sentence. But Sam knew.
Since the night he tried to kiss him.
The wave of satisfaction Sam expected didn't come. He felt no reassurance, no rightness anymore. There was no relief. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Henry would be safe. Capon too. Pain was inevitable. Then why did it feel so wrong?
Capon's sobs got louder. They were ugly, wet, gurgling things overtaking his entire frame with their intensity.
Then, out of the blue, Capon's hands shot up and fisted the edge of his pourpoint, as if Sam was everything that was left to hold him together.
Sam fought with himself, his hand twitched towards Capon before he reigned it back in. He had to stay strong. Control himself. So he watched the man, broken yet breaking further, clutching at whatever was close by in a feeble attempt not to shatter completely.
It was too much for Sam to withstand. Capon's cries flayed him open, cutting him deeper than he thought possible. So he grabbed him by the back of the head and made him lean forward. He let the man mute his cries in his hip.
Capon shattered then, all but howling into Sam's pourpoint, hands clutching it so hard his knuckles turned white.
The descent was nearing its peak, Sam could feel it. Capon's cries were getting torn and throaty. At times, he gurgled and coughed, not able to draw a full, uninterrupted breath. Sam held the back of his head firmly to his hip so his wails wouldn't wake up the Den. Capon's hair was soft. So soft, he couldn't help but ever so slowly thread his fingers through the golden strands.
He felt the man's body shudder against his as Capon felt the caress. Sam's chest ached as Hans sagged against him, pressed closer into him. It didn't feel like letting go. It felt like giving up. A bitter surrender that Sam had craved to see for ages. The dangerous, burning hope in Capon was snuffed out. He wouldn't be consumed by its fire. Yet it didn't feel right. It was all grief, mourning, and helplessness Sam had known all too well. There was no salvation. It was just suffering.
Sam lifted the man's chin up. His body was still shaking with tiny tremors. And when Capon's eyes sluggishly lifted towards him, there was no life was left in them at all. Not even the desperate, clutching growth of mould and dirty water. They seemed just blank, framed by red and puffy skin. As if the colour leaked out of them.
Sam stood firm. His expression was stern and unyielding. But on the inside, he felt like screaming. He searched those eyes for answers to questions he couldn't even form.
"Forget," he ordered. It came out as a plea, a hope. "If you can't save your soul, save his," he finished. The soft edge to his voice was a surprise even to himself. His thumb wiped the tears from the young Lord's face, only to see a fresh stream run down in its wake.
Hans' gaze held steady, and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak anymore.
It was final.
Sam pushed at Capon's shoulders. The noble went easily, lying on the bed.
Sam did what he set out to do. He broke Lord Capon, so he doesn't bring ruin to himself and those around him. His job was done.
Yet he stood there, watching as tears kept running down Hans' face. The room felt too small, thick with the aftermath of everything he had done and said. He should get up and walk away. Never acknowledge this, store it somewhere deep and secret. Something kept him firmly where he was.
Hans didn’t stop crying. He curled up, turning towards the wall, shoulders drawn up as if he could make himself smaller, vanish into the mattress, hide himself from the world. It was as if Sam wasn't even there.
The sight hit Sam harder than anything.
He had lain like that once, too. Curled tight, breath shallow, coming apart at the seams. Too tired for anything else. Just praying that it passes. Hoping for it to stop hurting.
Waiting for nothing.
It never stopped.
Sam stood there feeling nothing but pity. Regret. Then, quietly, he sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. Hans stiffened, just a fraction, but didn’t pull away. Sam hesitated, then rested a hand on his shoulder. Awkward. Careful. As if the wrong pressure might shatter the noble.
“It gets… easier,” Sam said. The words came out rougher than he meant. “Not better. But you get used to carrying it.”
Hans’s breath hitched. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were red, rimmed raw, but Sam saw the way they creased in understanding. He saw the softness of compassion, the bitterness of pity, and the devastating depth of sorrow.
Hans’s hand came up, closing firmly around Sam’s own, not tight, just enough to make the warmth sink in.
“I’m sorry,” Hans said. The apology landed heavier than any accusation could have.
Sam wished he'd said those same words first. He was the one who should be apologising. Yet this brat beat him to it. It was laughable how the tables had turned.
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t offer comfort he didn’t know how to give. He simply remained there, a solid weight at the edge of the bed, until Hans’s breathing finally evened out and exhaustion dragged him under. He never let go of Sam's hand.
Long after, when the sun started to appear on the horizon, Sam was still sitting there.
Watching Hans.
For the first time, not seeing a spoiled, dangerous lordling, but a man bent under something too heavy for him. Just like himself.