Crane picked at his roll. Malachi watched him do it like a hawk might have watched a mouse pick at its nest. His smile seemed to soften.

Seemed to.

"You're right, of course. It means we can't get married."

But a man could not marry another man regardless, so that meant nothing to Malachi. Setting the rest of his roll aside, he retrieved his spoon.

"More specifically, though, it refers to the same sin as is committed in self-pleasure," said Malachi, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. "But the specifics don't matter, I suppose. I've always found it interesting myself. Isn't it curious how many other religions require their holy leaders to be married?"

Not to mention the fact that celibacy was hardly practiced among the priests that he knew. Malachi looked up from his bowl.

"All this to say: it is alright to want something, constable, even if you're told that you're not supposed to."

Once the constable began to speak, Malachi took the time to bring a spoonful of stew to his mouth. Still hot, the steam warmed his nose, and he blew on it lightly while he listened.

Didn't know much about other religions, Crane said. That was alright. Malachi supposed he knew enough about the one that mattered to him.

Taking the spoon into his mouth, he gave another low hum. He could not argue with the constable's logic, though he found logic rather misplaced in matters of the heart. Malachi looked away from him for a moment to consider his words, holding the spoon in his mouth as if he'd forgotten it was there.

"Try not to concern yourself with what you should or should not want, or do," he advised, pulling the clean spoon away. "That is far too much to burden yourself with right now. If you want to move on from him, focus on what else might capture you, not on whether or not you should want something in the first place."

For all of his sudden interest in the conversation, Malachi adjusted accordingly as the constable went on. Loosened the involuntary pulling at the corners of his mouth, dampened the enthusiasm that bled through the highs and lows of his voice.

He brought another spoonful of stew to his mouth, nodded for Crane to continue, and had another spoonful after.

Crane was pitiful, but at least he could cook.

Malachi lifted his head at the apology, setting his spoon aside for the time being.

"Please," he began, "you are apologizing far too much when you've done nothing to wrong me."

He grabbed his half-eaten roll to occupy his hands. He hated sitting down for meals with other people -- at least when he was standing, he had an excuse to hide them away in his pockets or hold them behind his back.

"All of us are sinners. And you, constable, are not any worse than anyone else. If you have always returned to him, then that is where you should start: do not return to him again. If it is by his decision that you cannot... be together, then you are only hurting yourself more by expecting him to change his mind."

No man should be raised according to the belief that all the world's issues were his own. What a terrible thing it was to shoulder the guilt of every wrong, every mistake; to think that it was his own duty to correct them; to always carry the suspicion of something being amiss because something in his life always was, because he could not afford to let it go.

Crane reminded him in many ways of himself. A repressed, kinder version of himself, if he had been half as prudent as he should have been.

Malachi set the roll down, but his eyes were fixed on Crane. Something in them seemed to soften, as if warmed by the sight of his sincerity.

People were... always honest, in their own ways. Even when they lied. Most scrambled for a chance to talk about themselves, too, even when everything in them warned against it. The constable had been nothing but honest with him since they'd met, and it struck him then that this man -- this better, kinder man -- truly only wanted to help.

That was what made him a far better man.

"The food is perfect," he assured. "I'll just have some water. Thank you."

Alright, but what the fuck was up with people always offering milk lately? What strange need did they fulfil in watching him drink it?

Ah, there it was: suspicion.

"You do not have to answer, constable, but this person that you were with before... did you have feelings for him?"

Or, Malachi left unspoken, was he just a distraction for you?

Malachi waited patiently for Crane to bring his water, and dipped his head in silent gratitude when it was set before him. He took a long sip of it as the constable spoke, careful to avert his gaze. Not what he preferred, not one bit, but he'd noticed his apparent dislike for being looked at and didn't care to agitate the poor man's nerves any more than necessary.

The cup was set down with a soft clink. Something in Crane's story raised his brow, along the way, and the priest's cautious look only grew more concerned.

There were a lot of things to dissect there. Of all the things he could have asked, though, he started with:

"You mean besides then, you haven't ever...?"

For once, Malachi left something unsaid for propriety's sake.

Fuck, how old was Crane? Had he really never been intimate with anyone until then? It couldn't possibly be that hard to find men of their tendencies in Whitby if one knew how to look, but then again... Crane was awfully nervous. The poor thing probably hadn't the first clue.