Jim woke with a panicked jolt, his internal clock screaming at him. The gray light filtering through the window meant it was nearly dawn, and he had slept through his customary pre-sunrise devotion. Worse, he had fallen asleep last night without formal prayer, his mind too consumed by anger and Mauwa.
He scrambled out of bed, grabbing his Bible. He sank to his knees, feeling a profound urgency to cleanse himself of the previous night's conflict. He opened his Bible, read a passage about resisting temptation, and launched into a fervent prayer, his voice a low, earnest murmur in the quiet room.
When he finished and rose from his knees, he noticed Mauwa. Mauwa was propped up on his elbow in his own bed, watching Jim with an unnervingly calm, assessing gaze.
"Good morning," Mauwa said simply, his voice soft. He didn't mock the prayer this time; he simply observed.
Jim ignored the greeting and walked briskly to his dresser to grab a clean school uniform. He clutched the bundle of clothes tightly against his chest.
"I've noticed something, Jim," Mauwa remarked, his eyes following Jim's movements. "I've never actually seen you change your clothes."
Jim froze. "Of course not. I change in the bathroom."
"Why?"
"Because that's how civilized people with dignity behave," Jim snapped, already retreating toward the bathroom door. "I would never change in front of you."
Mauwa gave a small, genuine laugh. "But you saw me change in front of you. What are you afraid of, Jim? That the sight of your own cousin's body will corrupt your soul? What if one day you find yourself having to change in front of a dozen other boys in a locker room, or in the seminary? You'll collapse from the shock of the human form?"
"My circumstances will never be that vulgar," Jim insisted, pulling the door open.
"We shall see," Mauwa mused. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He walked toward Jim, stopping him before he could retreat into the bathroom, the air immediately thickening with his presence.
"You know, you must be breaking a lot of hearts at that school," Mauwa said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, serious whisper, completely devoid of his usual teasing. He was looking at Jim with an intensity that made Jim feel simultaneously scrutinized and worshipped.
Jim felt his breath catch. "I don't concern myself with such vanity."
"But you should," Mauwa pressed, slowly raising a hand. He didn't touch Jim, but his fingers hovered inches from Jim's jaw, tracing the line with his eyes. "Because you are truly something remarkable to look at, Jim. You carry yourself like an angel who accidentally got dressed in a high school uniform."
Jim's eyes widened, and he found himself completely paralyzed by the sudden, lavish praise. Mauwa's gaze was mesmerizing as he continued his slow, vivid description.
"Your skin is almost impossibly clear, like porcelain stretched over the perfect frame," Mauwa continued, his eyes moving down Jim's neck. "And the way your uniform fits your shoulders—it hints at a strength you try so desperately to hide beneath the starch and the sermons. Even your hands, holding that Bible so tightly, are sculpted with a kind of fragile beauty."
Mauwa's eyes lifted, meeting Jim's. "But it's your face, Jim. Your eyes—so wide and deeply brown, like pools of consecrated water reflecting a constant terror. And your mouth... it's rarely smiling, always set in that serious, holy line, but it's shaped like it was designed to deliver comfort, or maybe..." he paused, his gaze lingering, "or maybe something more earthly and wonderful."
Jim couldn't move. He felt a dizzying combination of shame and an overwhelming, foreign pleasure. No one—not his mother, not his father, not any girl—had ever looked at him or described him with such raw, poetic admiration. Mauwa wasn't just praising his looks; he was validating a physical presence that Jim had been taught to ignore and fear. The words felt like a warm, intoxicating oil spreading over his body, loosening his rigid control.
"You... you need to stop," Jim finally managed, the words barely a rasp.
Mauwa stepped back, the intensity receding, but the damage was done. He offered Jim a lazy, victorious smile. "I'm just pointing out the obvious, Jim. Now go change, before you become permanently late for your divine calling."
Jim stumbled backward into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. He leaned against the cool tile, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps, staring at his reflection. He looked exactly the same, but under Mauwa's gaze, he had suddenly become someone new, someone beautiful, and someone terrified of what that beauty might demand of him.
Jim splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the heat that Mauwa's words had stirred. He stared into the mirror, his chest still tight. It's a trap, he told himself firmly. It has to be.
He recognized the tactic now. Mauwa had tried to provoke him with arrogance, then with vulnerability, and now he was using flattery—the most dangerous weapon of all. To describe another man with such vivid details wasn't just unusual; in Jim's world, it was predatory. It was a calculated move to unsettle Jim's foundation and make him doubt his path.
I will not be a pawn in his games, Jim thought, clenching his jaw as he pulled on his white school shirt. He wants a reaction. He wants me to be flustered. From this moment on, he is invisible.
When Jim finally stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed and armored in his stiff uniform, Mauwa was leaning against the desk, spinning his car keys. He looked ready to deliver another teasing comment, his lips already curling into that familiar, knowing smirk.
Jim didn't even glance his way.
He moved with robotic precision, picking up his school bag and checking his pens. He could feel Mauwa's gaze on him—heavy and expectant—but Jim kept his eyes fixed on the door.
"Running away again, Jim?" Mauwa asked, his voice smooth and playful. "Or are you still thinking about earlier?"
The words were a direct jab, a reminder of the intoxicating praise from minutes ago. Jim felt the familiar sting of a blush creeping up his neck, but he bit his tongue. He didn't retort. He didn't argue. He didn't even breathe a word of protest.
He simply walked past Mauwa, the air between them crackling with the older boy's presence, and headed straight for the bedroom door.
"Silent treatment today?" Mauwa called out behind him, his tone shifting to one of amused curiosity. "That's a new one. Very 'monk-like' of you."
Jim opened the door and stepped into the hallway without looking back. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to turn around and demand to know why Mauwa was doing this—why he was saying such things to a fellow man, a cousin, a future priest. But Jim knew that any response was a victory for Mauwa.
As he walked down the stairs to join his parents for breakfast, Jim repeated his new mantra: Ignore the distraction. Protect the calling. He is nothing but a test.
Yet, even as he sat down to eat, the vivid description of his own eyes and mouth lingered in his mind like a stain. He looked at his father, the epitome of stern, sexless devotion, and then thought of Mauwa's intense gaze. The contrast was terrifying. He had to find a way to anchor himself back to the "real" world before Mauwa's "angelic" words became the only thing he could hear.
At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was thick with the usual morning gravity. Jim sat in his customary place, picking at his toast, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth to avoid the door—and the person he knew would eventually walk through it.
Father Oliver lowered the morning newspaper, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat, a sound that usually preceded a directive.
"Jim," he began, his voice resonant. "I've been reviewing the household accounts this morning. It seems a waste of resources to continue paying for the school bus fee when we have a perfectly capable driver going to the exact same location every morning."
Jim's heart dropped into his stomach. He looked up, his fork frozen mid-air. "Father?"
"It's settled," his father continued, ignoring Jim's sudden pallor. "I've spoken to the school to cancel your bus pass. From now on, you will be riding to school in Mauwa's car. It is a matter of stewardship and efficiency. Besides," he added, glancing toward the hallway as Mauwa walked in, "it will give you more time for morning reflection rather than standing at a dusty bus stop."
Jim felt like the walls were closing in. The one place he could escape Mauwa—the twenty minutes of transit—had just been handed over to his "test."
Mauwa, who had caught the tail end of the conversation, slid into a chair opposite Jim. He didn't look triumphant; he looked calm, though there was a dark, amused glint in his eyes that only Jim was meant to see.
"I'm happy to oblige, Uncle," Mauwa said smoothly, reaching for the juice. "I'll take excellent care of him. We have a lot to talk about, after all."
Jim gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He looked at his mother, hoping for a reprieve, but she simply nodded in agreement. "It's a good idea, Jim. You two should bond as family."
Bonding, Jim thought bitterly. He wants to bond me to his games.
He realized then that he couldn't argue. To protest would be to admit that Mauwa affected him, to reveal that the "Golden Boy" was rattled by a mere ride in a car. He had to maintain his mask of indifference.
"As you wish, Father," Jim said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
He didn't look at Mauwa. He didn't acknowledge the way Mauwa's knee accidentally—or intentionally—brushed against his under the table. He simply finished his breakfast in a silence so heavy it felt like lead.
Five minutes later, Jim stood by the sedan, his bag clutched against his chest like a shield. Mauwa unlocked the doors with a chirping sound that felt like a taunt.
"Well, Jim," Mauwa said, leaning over the roof of the car, his eyes tracing Jim's face with that same vivid intensity from the bedroom. "It looks like the 'Future Priest' has been assigned a new chauffeur. Ready for our private morning devotion?"
Jim didn't answer. He pulled open the passenger door and sat down, staring straight ahead at the dashboard, determined that for the next twenty minutes, he would be a statue of stone.