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The liquid in the syringe was clear, almost invisible in the dim light of the lamp. James had prepared it hours earlier, during the meeting when Matheus was in the lab, too focused to notice any suspicious movements. Now he held the syringe between his fingers, the tip of the needle glinting.
“It’ll only hurt a little,” James murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But it’s for your own good. For our own good.”
Matheus was already drowsy, his body limp after the hot bath James had insisted he take. “To relax,” he’d said. “You’ve worked too hard today.” Matheus hadn’t suspected a thing. James was like that sometimes. Attentive. Caring. Matheus didn’t know that care was a trap.
— James... what are you doing?
— Sleeping. You’re going to sleep. And I’m going to look after you.
The injection was quick. Matheus felt a burning sensation, then a chill, then nothing.
His eyes closed. His breathing deepened.
James waited. He counted the seconds. Thirty. Sixty. Ninety.
‘Matheus?’ he called, softly.
No reply.
He smiled.
‘There. Now you’re all mine.’
James undressed him slowly. Not like someone undressing a lover, but like unwrapping a rare gift, like removing the layer of dust from an ancient sculpture. Every unbuttoned button was a revelation. The old scars on his chest. The fresh cuts on his thighs, which Matheus thought he was hiding, but James knew every one of them.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ James whispered, his fingers tracing Matheus’s arm. From his fingertips to the curve of his shoulder. ‘Even all marked up.’
He touched Matheus’s hair. Red. The colour of fire. James had never seen anything like it.
“It looks like fire,” he murmured. “Burning. Consuming everything around it. Including me.”
His fingers slid up to his face. The scar on his cheek. His parted lips.
“Your mouth.” His voice was almost a prayer. “I could spend hours looking at your mouth. The way it curves when you’re annoyed. The way it trembles when you want to say something and don’t. The way it calls to me when you don’t even realise it.”
His thumb slid inside, just enough to feel the warmth of his tongue. Matheus didn’t react. He was somewhere far away, somewhere James had put him.
James knelt beside the bed. He rested his elbows on the mattress, his face level with Matheus’s chest. He began tracing circles on his skin. On his collarbone. On his sternum. On his navel.
— Your mind — he continued, his voice a whisper — is the most beautiful part. Sharp. Precise. Brilliant. You solve problems that no one else can solve. You create poisons that no one else can create. And I want to see you working. I want to see you creating. I want to see you destroying.
James’s hand moved down, finding Matheus’s hip. His fingers pressed into the skin, feeling the bones just beneath.
— You are my masterpiece, Matheus. Not the poisons. Not the plans. You. Your body. Your mind. Everything. So perfect. So mine.
He stood up. Undressed calmly. Kneeled over Matheus, his body limp, his eyes closed.
— You won’t remember a thing tomorrow — he said, his lips brushing Matheus’s forehead. — But I will remember. I’ll remember every detail. Every sound. Every movement.
The entry was slow. Matheus didn’t respond, but his body welcomed him, as if, even unconscious, he knew to whom he belonged.
‘Like this,’ James whispered, his hips moving in a hypnotic rhythm. ‘That’s it. You’re so hot inside. So soft. Perfect.’
He wasn’t seeking his own pleasure. He was seeking the sensation. The connection. The certainty that, in that moment, Matheus was completely his.
— I love you — he said, his lips pressed against Matheus’s neck. — You don’t know how much. You’ll never know. But I love you.
The movement continued. Slow. Steady. James’s eyes fixed on Matheus’s face, searching for any reaction. A sigh. A blink. Nothing.
“You’re so far away,” James continued, his voice faltering. “So far away, yet so close. You don’t need to answer. Just stay. Just let it be.”
The climax came like a slow wave. James didn’t rush it. He felt every spasm of his own body, every tremor of Matheus’, and remained motionless, buried to the very end.
“There,” he whispered, exhausted.
He stayed like that for a long moment, his body heavy on top of Matheus’s. Matheus’s breathing remained slow and steady. Asleep.
James pulled away. He went to fetch a damp cloth. He wiped Matheus down carefully, as if he were cleaning a precious statue. Then he dressed him in a clean, soft shirt that he had chosen himself.
“Tomorrow you’ll wake up and you won’t remember a thing,” he said, lying down beside Matheus. “You’ll think it was a dream. Or that it was nothing. But I’ll remember. I’ll always remember.”
He turned off the light.
The room went dark. Matheus’s breathing was the only sound.
James closed his eyes.
“Sleep well, A Chuisle. Tomorrow you’ll be the genius again. Tonight, you’re mine alone.”
In the dark, James’s hand found Matheus’s. He intertwined their fingers.
And he slept. For the first time in weeks, he slept peacefully.