The atmosphere in the study had reached a boiling point. The air was dry, smelling of old theology books and the sharp, clinical scent of the laptop screens. Jim was hunched over his notes, his back a rigid line of defiance, when he heard a suspicious clink from under the desk.
Mauwa reached behind a row of heavy, leather-bound commentaries on the bottom shelf and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap with a practiced flick of his thumb, the sharp, medicinal sting of whiskey immediately cutting through the room's stuffy air.
"What are you doing?" Jim whispered, his eyes wide with horror as Mauwa took a long, slow swig. "That is... that's alcohol! In my father's study? Have you lost your mind?"
"I'm 'optimizing' my performance, Jim," Mauwa said, his voice dropping into a lazy, warm drawl. He wiped his mouth and held the flask out across the desk. "You look like you're about to snap. Take a sip. It'll stop the shaking."
Jim recoiled as if Mauwa were holding a snake. "I am seventeen years old, Mauwa! I am a minor, a student, and a candidate for the priesthood. I don't touch that... that filth. And neither should you while we are under this roof!"
"Seventeen," Mauwa mused, taking another drink, his eyes dark and mocking. "Old enough to lecture me on the soul, but too young to handle a little fire in your throat? You're a child playing at being a man, Jim. You're so obsessed with rules that you've forgotten how to breathe."
"It's called sanctity!" Jim hissed, standing up. "You're disrespectful, reckless, and now you're bringing sin directly into the place where I am supposed to learn. Put it away, or I'll tell my father."
Mauwa let out a dry, cynical laugh. He stood up, the flask still in hand, and walked toward the door. "You won't tell him, Jim. Because then you'd have to explain why you were close enough to smell it. I'm going to get some air. Try not to let the 'purity' choke you while I'm gone."
Mauwa stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar. The heavy, unmistakable scent of whiskey lingered in the air like a physical presence.
Jim scrambled to open a window, his heart hammering. He was fanning the air with his notebook when the door swung fully open. It wasn't Mauwa.
Mr. Oliver stepped into the room, his expression stern and inquisitive. He stopped mid-stride, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, sharp breath. The silence was deafening.
"Jim," Father Oliver began, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. "Why does my study smell like a public house?"
Jim froze, the notebook still in his hand, looking like a guilty man caught in a lie he didn't even tell.
Jim stood paralyzed, the notebook in his hand feeling as heavy as a lead weight. Mr. Oliver's eyes were like flint, scanning the room for the source of the "profane" scent. Just as the silence became unbearable, a shadow fell across the doorway.
Mauwa stepped back into the room, his expression unreadable, though his eyes sharpened when he saw the tension radiating from Jim. He didn't hesitate.
"It's mine, Uncle," Mauwa said, his voice level and devoid of its usual mockery.
Mr. Oliver spun around, his face hardening into a mask of righteous indignation. "You brought spirits into a house of God, Mauwa? Into the very room where your cousin is preparing for a life of service?"
"Jim had nothing to do with it," Mauwa continued, stepping further into the room to draw his uncle's fire away from Jim. "He was actually busy lecturing me on my 'filth' when I walked out. He's as pure as you raised him to be."
Father Oliver didn't look relieved. If anything, his anger deepened, shifting from a flash of heat to a cold, vibrating disappointment. He walked toward Mauwa until he was inches from the taller boy's face.
"Morality is not a jacket you put on when it's convenient, Mauwa," Father Oliver began, his voice dropping into a resonant, terrifyingly calm register. "It is the very fabric of a man's soul. To bring such a distraction here... it shows a fundamental rot in your discipline. You live for the momentary burn of the flesh, while Jim lives for the eternal light."
Jim watched from the corner, his heart aching. He felt a strange, jarring mixture of gratitude for Mauwa's honesty and a crushing shame at being the one his father was defending.
"I am worried, Mauwa," Father Oliver continued, his eyes flicking briefly to Jim before returning to his nephew. "I am worried about your influence. A drop of ink in a basin of consecrated water ruins the whole. I will not have you corrupting Jim's path with your university vices. He has a calling; you have only impulses."
Mauwa took the verbal lashing in silence, his jaw tight, but he didn't lower his gaze. The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the scent of whiskey and judgment.
"This will not be ignored," Father Oliver announced, pulling his spectacles from his nose and cleaning them with a sharp, final movement. "Tomorrow, after the morning service, neither of you will be heading home for lunch. You will both remain in the parish hall. I am enrolling you in a mandatory Guidance and Counseling class."
Jim's heart sank. "Father, I have the research—"
"The research can wait, Jim," his father interrupted, his tone final. "Your spiritual fortification cannot. You will sit together and learn about the dangers of the world and the sanctity of the home. Perhaps in that setting, Mauwa will learn respect, and you, Jim, will learn how to better guard the gates of your soul."
Father Oliver turned on his heel and marched out, the heavy thud of his boots echoing like a gavel.
Jim slumped back into his chair, staring at his laptop screen. Mauwa didn't move for a long time. He eventually leaned against the desk, the silver flask long gone, but the damage to their Sunday plans—and Jim's peace of mind—was absolute.
"Well," Mauwa whispered, the shadow of a smirk returning, though it looked tired. "Looks like we have a Sunday date with the Holy Spirit, Jim. Better prepare yourself for some serious counseling."
In the small bedroom at the rectory, the silence was jagged. Jim moved around the room with mechanical efficiency, laying out his clothes for Sunday morning service. He hadn't spoken to Mauwa since they left the study, the now replaced by a thick, icy wall of resentment.
The tension finally snapped when Mauwa, sitting on the edge of his bed, cracked open a hidden flask he'd kept in his bag. The sharp, medicinal scent of whiskey filled the air.
"Are you serious?" Jim hissed, spinning around. "Again? After everything my father said to you?"
Mauwa took a slow swig, his eyes never leaving Jim's. " I'm just trying to feel alive in a house that smells like mothballs and judgment. I told you—I'm being myself. I don't pretend to be a saint just because there's a cross on the wall."
"Being yourself is just an excuse for being reckless and disrespectful!" Jim retorted, his voice trembling. "You don't care about the rules, you don't care about the consequences, and you certainly don't care about the shame you bring on this family."
"And you don't care about anything that isn't written in a book," Mauwa countered, his voice low and dangerous. "You're so obsessed with 'purity' that you've turned into a ghost. I'm not the one bringin' shame, Jim. I'm the one bringing reality. If you can't handle a man being a man, that's your 'glitch,' not mine."
Jim turned his back, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up like a shroud. "I have nothing left to say to you. Just stay on your side of the room."
Across town, Jared lay staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He should have been celebrating. Mike was gone. The "miracle" had happened. He had seen the mighty Mike reduced to a stressed, seemingly homeless student.
But instead of relief, a nagging, oily feeling of guilt churned in his stomach. He kept seeing Mike's face—not the "creepy" grin, but the raw, hollow look he had in the driveway. He thought about the cold night air and the "bleachers" Mike had mentioned.
Why do I care? Jared groaned, rolling onto his side. He's a bully. He's a stalker. He's the most arrogant person I've ever met. I should be happy he's miserable.
But the "good kid" programming Jared had been raised with was fighting his common sense. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Mike shivering on some metal bench at the University, or worse, riding his motorcycle into the dark with nowhere to land.
"Forget him," Jared whispered to the empty room. "Just forget the incident. He's not your responsibility."
But the more he tried to delete the data of the afternoon, the more the "code" of Mike's vulnerability ran in the background of his mind, keeping him wide awake. He hated Mike for being a monster, but he hated him even more for being human enough to make Jared worry.
The Sunday morning sun rose with a heavy, judgmental brilliance, streaming through the stained glass of the rectory. For Jim, this was the most important day of the week—the day he stood before the congregation as the shining example of the youth ministry.
But as he stood before the mirror in the shared bedroom, the image staring back was frayed. The lack of sleep from the previous night's argument had left dark circles under his eyes, and the lingering scent of Mauwa's whiskey seemed to have permeated the very walls.
Jim struggled with his tie, his fingers fumbling with the silk. Behind him, Mauwa was already dressed in a dark, well-fitted suit that made him look less like a student and more like a dangerous young executive. He sat on the edge of his bed, tossing a silver coin and catching it with a rhythmic clack.
"You're shaking again, Jim," Mauwa remarked, his voice smooth and devoid of the previous night's heat, though the mockery remained. "Is it the Lord's presence making you tremble, or is it the fact that I'm sitting right here, watching you?"
"Be silent, Mauwa," Jim snapped, finally getting the knot straight. "Today is about the service. I won't let your presence distract me from my duties."
"Distract you?" Mauwa stood up, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He reached out, his hand steadying Jim's collar. Jim froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm not a distraction, Jim. I'm the audience. I want to see this performance you put on for the world."
Jim shoved Mauwa's hand away, grabbing his leather-bound Bible. "You can watch all you want. You'll see exactly who I am."
The church was packed. The smell of floor wax and old hymnals usually brought Jim peace, but today, everything felt suffocating. As he took his place in the front pew, he was acutely aware of Mauwa sitting directly behind him. He could feel the older boy's gaze like a physical heat on the back of his neck.
Throughout the liturgy, Jim's focus was shattered. When he stood to read the scripture, his voice—usually clear and unwavering—cracked slightly as he looked out and saw Mauwa leaning back, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
During the sermon, Father Oliver spoke about the "Hidden Thorns"—the secret sins and distractions that pull a believer away from the path.
"We think we are safe behind our walls," Father Oliver's voice boomed from the pulpit. "But the enemy does not always climb the wall; sometimes, we invite him through the front door."
Jim felt a cold sweat break out. It was as if his father knew. Every word felt like a direct indictment. Beside him, he heard a soft, dry chuckle. Mauwa leaned forward, his breath warm against Jim's ear.
"He's talking about me, Jim," Mauwa whispered under the cover of the rising organ music.
Jim gripped the wooden pew until his knuckles turned white. He realized then that the church was no longer a sanctuary. Mauwa hadn't just invaded his room or his school; he had invaded the very center of his faith.