The silence between them was taut, heavy with unspoken accusation. Jim quickly averted his gaze, snatching the Gideon's Bible from his nightstand. He opened it to a random page and began to read with feverish, silent devotion, trying to project an aura of impenetrable spiritual discipline. His lips moved slightly, forming the words of the psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...
Mauwa watched him for a long moment, a slight crease forming between his brows. He didn't press the issue of the headache. Instead, he moved to his new bed and began to unpack his duffel bag.
The contrast between the two men's activities was stark. Jim was enveloped in the quiet, desperate sanctity of scripture. Mauwa, meanwhile, was doing normal, distracting things: pulling out jeans, a faded university t-shirt, and finally, a sleek laptop.
Jim strained to focus on the text, but every tiny sound Mauwa made was a thunderclap. The metallic snick of the zipper, the soft rustle of clothes, the slight sound of a breath taken too deeply. Jim tried to meditate on the concept of spiritual fortitude, but all he could see in his peripheral vision was the curve of Mauwa's back as he leaned over his bag.
He felt the need to establish dominance in the space—a spiritual perimeter. He cleared his throat.
"I usually pray out loud before I sleep," Jim stated, his voice tight but controlled, making it sound like a declaration of war rather than a religious custom.
Mauwa straightened up slowly, tossing his shirt onto the footboard. He offered a polite, casual shrug. "Suit yourself. Don't let me stop you."
Jim felt his control slipping. He wanted Mauwa to feel uncomfortable, to feel like an intruder, but Mauwa seemed utterly at ease, radiating a confidence that mocked Jim's rigidity.
Jim closed the Bible, took a deep breath, and knelt beside his bed, facing the wall. He began the Lord's Prayer, his voice initially firm, then trailing into a rush as he tried to get it over with.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."
Behind him, he heard a small, soft cough. He tried to ignore it, continuing: "...give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us..."
Then, Mauwa's voice cut in, not loud, but clear and conversational. "You know, Jim, if you're trying to scare the demons out of the room, you have to project a little more."
Jim's breath hitched. He wanted to scream at the sacrilege, but he was trapped in mid-prayer. He scrambled to finish the final lines just to be able to stand up and face the irreverence.
He rose swiftly, turning to face Mauwa, who was now settling onto his own bed, looking entirely too comfortable.
"I was praying," Jim hissed, his voice trembling with genuine indignation. "It's a sacred moment. You interrupted me."
Mauwa regarded him with a gaze that was far too discerning. "I noticed. And I apologize. But you seemed a little desperate, like you were rushing through it to prove something." Mauwa then paused, his dark eyes fixed on Jim. "Look, I know this isn't easy for you. I was told you're used to your solitude."
Jim bristled. "This isn't about solitude. It's about respect. This is my room."
"And now it's our room," Mauwa said simply, his tone lacking any malice, only acceptance. He reached down and pulled a pillow onto his lap, looking intensely serious. "Why do you hate me, Jim? I've been here for less than twenty-four hours, and you can barely look at me. Is it because I'm a 'distraction,' as you told your mother when she pointed me out?"
Jim recoiled, the word "distraction" stinging him. He hadn't known his mother had relayed that. He clenched his jaw, the terrible, sickening beauty of Mauwa in the soft lamplight making his head spin.
"You are a distraction," Jim repeated, forcing the words out like stones. "I am focused on my path. I don't have time for... for this." He gestured vaguely at Mauwa, at the whole situation.
Mauwa tilted his head, watching the way Jim's knuckles had turned white against the edge of his mattress. Instead of retreating, Mauwa's expression softened into something dangerously playful.
"If I'm such a distraction from your path, Jim, then maybe we should walk it together tonight," Mauwa suggested, his voice dropping to a smooth, inviting hum. "Let's pray together. Maybe your focus will be stronger if you aren't so worried about what I'm doing in the corner."
Before Jim could stammer out a refusal, Mauwa stood up and vanished into the small ensuite bathroom. Jim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, collapsing back onto his pillow. He tried to reclaim his thoughts, to anchor himself in the verse he had just read, but the sound of running water only made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
A minute later, the bathroom door creaked open.
Jim looked up, and the words of the Psalm died in his throat. Mauwa had emerged, but he hadn't put his shirt back on. The low light of the desk lamp caught the lean, defined muscle of his chest and the broad sweep of his shoulders. Water droplets still clung to his skin, shimmering like small diamonds. He looked less like a cousin and more like a marble statue brought to life—a beautiful, terrifying temptation.
Jim's face went from pale to a deep, burning crimson. He jerked his head away so fast he felt a twinge in his neck, his eyes locking onto the blank wall.
"Put... put your clothes on," Jim choked out, his voice cracking.
"What was that?" Mauwa asked, moving closer. Jim could hear the soft pad of bare feet on the hardwood, coming to a stop right beside his bed. The scent of soap and warm skin filled Jim's lungs.
"I said put on your clothes!" Jim hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "How can you suggest we pray... like that? It's disrespectful. It's indecent."
"It's just a body, Jim," Mauwa said, and Jim could hear the grin in his voice—the teasing, relentless confidence. "God made it, didn't He? Or does your theology only apply to people who stay fully buttoned up?"
"Don't be sacrilegious," Jim snapped, though his heart was hammering so loudly he feared Mauwa could hear it. "I won't pray with you unless you cover yourself."
He heard the rustle of fabric—the sound of Mauwa finally pulling a cotton shirt over his head. "There," Mauwa said, though the air still felt charged with the electricity of his presence. "Sanctified enough for you?"
Jim slowly turned his head. Mauwa was now kneeling on the rug between the two beds, his hands folded, watching Jim with an expectant, amused glint in his eyes. He looked perfectly at peace, while Jim felt like he was standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff.
"Your lead, Future Priest," Mauwa whispered, gesturing to the space beside him. "Let's see if we can find that focus you're so worried about losing."
Jim hesitated, then slowly lowered himself to the floor. As he knelt, his shoulder accidentally brushed against Mauwa's. The contact felt like a jolt of lightning. Jim flinched, pulling away as if burned, but Mauwa didn't move an inch. He just waited, his silent, teasing presence daring Jim to start the prayer without letting his voice tremble.
Jim eventually lowered himself onto the rug, his muscles tense, keeping a deliberate, inches-wide gap between his shoulder and Mauwa's. He folded his hands, closed his eyes, and tried to summon the familiar, comforting peace of prayer, but all he felt was the radiating presence of the man kneeling beside him.
"We begin with the 'Our Father'," Jim mumbled, rushing the words as before.
He managed to get through the opening lines, struggling to find rhythm and conviction. He felt Mauwa shift slightly, the movement instantly pulling Jim's focus away from the sacred words.
"...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—"
Mauwa's voice cut in, low and conversational, interrupting the ancient rhythm of the prayer.
"Speaking of temptation, Jim," Mauwa whispered, leaning slightly closer. "I was just wondering, since you're such a dedicated young man with such a keen focus on your path... Do you happen to have a girlfriend to help you stay on the straight and narrow?"
Jim's eyes snapped open. He shot upright, glaring at Mauwa with unholy fury. The remnants of the prayer vanished in a cloud of spiritual dust.
"Are you serious right now?" Jim hissed, leaping to his feet. He felt his face flush hot with a mixture of shame, anger, and the terrifying realization that Mauwa's teasing had hit dangerously close to the truth. "We are praying! This is sacred! This is not some casual joke or a moment for your vulgar, personal questions!"
Mauwa looked up at him from the floor, his eyes wide and innocent, though a hint of that familiar, knowing smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Vulgar? I just asked if the handsome future priest had a partner. It's a pretty normal question, Jim. I figured a serious guy like you would need a serious distraction, or maybe a serious source of strength."
"I don't need any distractions! And I certainly don't need you," Jim spat out, walking over to his bed and snatching his pillow and a blanket. He couldn't share the air with him for another second. "Don't ever involve me in your insolent commentary again, especially not in my religious activities. This is my life. You are a temporary guest. Act like one."
Mauwa rose slowly, watching Jim with an expression that had lost its amusement, replaced now with something calculating and disappointed.
"So, the answer is no," Mauwa murmured. "Noted."
Jim ignored him. He didn't bother to argue, or even turn off the desk lamp. He yanked the door open and stormed out of the bedroom, making a beeline for the only other sanctuary he could think of: the unused, dusty guest room down the hall. He locked the door behind him, burying his face in the pillow, seeking the cold, familiar anonymity of solitude and trying to purge the beautiful, distracting image of Mauwa from his mind.
The dusty silence of the guest room was short-lived. Jim had barely managed to slow his racing heart when a firm, rhythmic knock echoed against the wood. It wasn't the soft, hesitant tap of his mother or the authoritative thud of his father. It was deliberate.
"Jim," Mauwa's voice drifted through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "Open up."
Jim squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face deeper into the stale-smelling pillow. "Go away, Mauwa. I'm sleeping here tonight."
"I don't think so," Mauwa replied. There was a shift in his tone—the teasing was gone, replaced by a cool, strategic edge. "You know how your father is about 'order' and 'family unity.' If he wakes up and finds the Golden Boy hiding in a guest wing because he couldn't handle a simple conversation with his cousin, what do you think he'll say?"
Jim stiffened. The threat was subtle, but it hit the bullseye of his greatest fear:disappointing his father.
"He'll think something is wrong," Mauwa continued, his voice closer to the doorframe now. "He'll start asking questions. Deep questions. He might even think I did something to offend you, and then he'll drag us both into his study for a three-hour 'reconciliation' session. Is that what you want?"
Jim groaned into the pillow. The thought of his father's piercing gaze, dissecting his "sudden headache" and his "petulance," was unbearable. He couldn't risk a confrontation that might lead to him having to explain why Mauwa made him so uncomfortable.
With a heavy sigh of defeat, Jim stood up and unlocked the door.
Mauwa was leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He had put on a hoodie, looking casual and entirely too smug. He watched Jim emerge like a prisoner being led back to a cell.
"Wise choice," Mauwa murmured.
"I'm only coming back so you don't cause trouble with my father," Jim hissed, brushing past him. "Don't think this means I've forgiven your disrespect."
"Understood," Mauwa said, following him down the hallway. "Strictly professional roommates from here on out."
As they re-entered the bedroom, the air still felt thick with the tension of their interrupted prayer. Jim climbed into his bed and turned his back to the room, pulling the covers up like a shield. He listened as Mauwa climbed into the other bed.
The darkness was absolute, but Jim could feel the space between them vibrating. He realized then that he was trapped. He couldn't run to another room.