The door had barely clicked shut behind Hannah before the heavy silence of the living room was broken by Father Oliver's huff of disapproval. "A 'Miss Campus,' Jim. Can you imagine? The vanity of it all."
Jim didn't answer. He turned and retreated to their shared bedroom, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He needed to be alone, but he knew he wouldn't be for long.
Ten minutes later, Mauwa entered. He didn't look like a man who had just been lectured by a priest; he looked energized, almost radiant. He tossed his car keys onto his nightstand and began to unbutton his shirt, his movements fluid and unbothered.
"Your father really knows how to suck the air out of a room, doesn't he?" Mauwa said, glancing at Jim through the mirror. "And you... you were the perfect little echoing chamber."
Jim spun around, his face contorted with the anger he had been bottling up since the car ride. "How could you bring her here? How could you be so... so blatant? You know what this house is like! You did it just to provoke them."
Mauwa turned fully, his shirt hanging open, revealing the athletic build that the whole school had been whispering about. "Provoke you? Jim, I'm living my life. I met a girl I like, and I brought her home. That's what normal people do. Is that why you're so angry? Because I'm doing what you're too afraid to even think about?"
"I am not afraid!" Jim yelled, stepping into the space between their beds. "I am disciplined! I am focused! You come in here with your rugby and your cars and your 'Miss Campus' and you act like the world is your playground. You have no respect for the path I've chosen!"
"The path you chose?" Mauwa stepped closer, his height and physical presence suddenly overwhelming in the small room. He looked down at Jim, his eyes dark and searching. "Or the path your father carved out for you when you were eleven years old? You're so busy being a 'Golden Boy' that you've forgotten how to be a person."
"Don't talk to me about being a person," Jim hissed, his breath hitching as Mauwa's scent—that same intoxicating soap and sweat—filled his senses. "You're a distraction. You're a test. That's all you are."
Mauwa's expression shifted. The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a raw, dangerous intensity. He took another step, invading Jim's personal space until their chests were almost touching.
"If I'm just a test, Jim, why are you failing so badly?" Mauwa whispered. "If you're so sure of your 'purity,' why did you look like you wanted to die when I introduced Hannah as my girlfriend? Was it because I was 'rushing,' or was it because it wasn't you sitting in that passenger seat?"
"Shut up!" Jim shoved Mauwa's chest, but it was like pushing against a stone wall. The contact sent a jolt of pure fire through Jim's palms. "I hate you. I detest everything you represent!"
"Then why are you still looking at me?" Mauwa challenged, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
Jim opened his mouth to deliver another stinging rebuke, but no words came out. He was trapped between the wall of his own repressed desires and the undeniable reality of the man standing before him. The tension in the room was so thick it felt like it might snap, leaving them both shattered in the ruins of Jim's sanctuary.
The air in the room remained thick, but the aggressive heat of the argument suddenly dissipated, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence. Jim was still trembling from the effort of the shove, his hands curled into fists at his sides, expecting Mauwa to retaliate with the same physical force he used on the rugby pitch.
Instead, Mauwa did something far more unsettling. He let out a long, weary sigh and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, his shoulders slumping. The "Rugby God" facade cracked, and for the first time, Jim saw the exhaustion behind the eyes of the man who seemed to have everything.
"You think this is all a game to me, don't you?" Mauwa said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn't looking at Jim anymore; he was staring at his own hands. "You think I brought Hannah here to win a point against your dad."
Jim blinked, his anger flickering. "Didn't you? You knew exactly how they'd react."
"I brought her here because I'm lonely, Jim," Mauwa confessed, the honesty hitting like a physical weight. "My parents are halfway across the continent, I'm in a new city, in a house where I'm treated like a virus that needs to be 'prayed away.' I needed someone to look at me like a human being, not a spiritual project."
He looked up at Jim, and the usual mischief was gone, replaced by a quiet, raw vulnerability. "Everyone out there—at the uni, at your school—they see the stats and the face. They see the 'beast' on the field. But in here? I'm just a guest who isn't allowed to be himself. I thought maybe... since we're sharing this room, you'd be the one person I didn't have to perform for."
Jim felt the ground shift beneath him. He had spent so much energy framing Mauwa as a predator or a tempter that he hadn't considered the isolation of the outsider. The "Golden Boy" had been so focused on his own reflection that he'd missed the person standing right in front of him.
"I didn't..." Jim started, his voice losing its sharp edge. "I didn't realize you felt like that."
"Why would you?" Mauwa gave a small, sad shrug. "You were too busy building a wall between us."
Mauwa reached into his bag and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph—not of a girl or a rugby team, but of a woman who looked remarkably like him, standing in a garden far away. He traced the edge of the photo with his thumb, a gesture so tender it made Jim's heart ache in a way he couldn't explain.
Jim slowly sat down on his own bed, the five feet of space between them feeling less like a battlefield and more like a bridge. He didn't know what to say.
The lamp on Jim's desk was the only light left in the room, casting long, soft shadows that seemed to blur the sharp lines of their earlier hostility. The silence was no longer taut; it was reflective. Jim watched Mauwa look at the photograph, and curiosity finally outweighed his pride.
"Mauwa?" Jim asked softly. "How is it that I've never heard of you until a week ago? If we're family, why were you never mentioned?"
Mauwa tucked the photo back into his bag, a small, enigmatic smile returning to his face. "Oh, I've known about you for a long time, Jim. I know you very well."
Jim shifted on his mattress, a ripple of unease moving through him. "What does that mean? How could you know me? We've never spoken before this."
"I have my ways," Mauwa said vaguely, his dark eyes catching the lamplight. He didn't elaborate, and the mystery of it made Jim's skin prickle. It felt as if Mauwa had been watching him from a distance long before he ever stepped foot in this house.
Seeing Jim's discomfort, Mauwa leaned back against the headboard. "Our mothers are first cousins. They grew up together before my branch of the family moved away for my father's work. You've probably met my mother at a funeral or a wedding when you were too small to remember, but I was always away at camp or boarding school. We just... missed each other. Until now."
Jim nodded slowly, trying to reconcile this logical explanation with the heavy, knowing way Mauwa had said he 'knew' him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the distance between the beds feeling smaller than it ever had.
"Jim?" Mauwa asked, his voice low and serious. "Why do you hate me so much? Be honest."
Jim looked down at his folded hands. The word hate felt too heavy, yet like felt impossible. "I don't hate you, Mauwa," he said carefully. "I just... I don't like your character."
Mauwa tilted his head, a ghost of a grin appearing. "My character? You mean the rugby, the car, and the girl?"
"I mean the arrogance," Jim clarified, finally looking him in the eye. "The way you treat sacred things like a joke. The way you walk into a room and expect everyone to gravitate toward you. You live your life like there are no consequences, no higher calling. It's... it's jarring to be around."
Mauwa watched him for a long beat, his expression unreadable. "And you live your life like you're already standing before a judge. You're so afraid of making a mistake that you've forgotten how to move."
He stood up then, the moment of vulnerability passing as he reached for the light switch. "Maybe my 'character' is exactly what you need to see, Jim. Just like your 'character' is exactly what I'm trying to escape."
The room plunged into darkness. As Jim lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of Mauwa's breathing, he realized that the "distraction" wasn't just about Mauwa's body or his popularity—it was the way Mauwa looked right through Jim's armor and saw the boy shivering underneath.
The darkness of the room seemed to amplify the tension rather than hide it. Just as Jim thought the conversation was over, Mauwa's voice drifted through the shadows, low and teasing once more.
"You said I expect everyone to gravitate toward me," Mauwa murmured. He shifted in his bed, the sound of the sheets rustling loud in the quiet room. "Tell me, Jim... do you find yourself gravitating toward me, too? Like everyone else?"
Jim's heart gave a violent, panicked thud. The question felt like a trap, a direct hit on the very feelings he was trying to bury under layers of scripture. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck, grateful for the cover of night.
"Don't be absurd," Jim snapped, his voice sharp with defensiveness. "You can play those ego games with the girls at the fence or the people at your university, but they don't work on me. I see right through you, Mauwa."
Mauwa chuckled, a soft, dry sound. "Do you? Or are you just closing your eyes so tight you're starting to see stars? You spend so much energy 'standing for religion' that you've turned into a statue. Is that what God wants? A piece of stone?"
"It's called conviction!" Jim shot back, sitting up in the dark. "Something you wouldn't understand. You live this... this free, reckless life with no anchor. You think life is just about how many people cheer for you on a pitch or who sits in your passenger seat. It's hollow."
"It's not hollow to be happy, Jim," Mauwa countered, his voice losing its edge and becoming almost pitying. "You're seventeen. You should be enjoying the world, not acting like a fifty-year-old monk. Honestly, you should loosen up a bit. Find yourself a girlfriend. Experience something real instead of just reading about it in ancient texts."
Jim felt something inside him snap. The suggestion—the very thing he had been desperately planning as a "shield"—felt like an insult coming from Mauwa. It felt like Mauwa was mocking his struggle, trivializing the heavy burden of his expectations.
"That's exactly it!" Jim lashed out, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "That right there is why I dislike you! You think everything is so simple. You think you can just walk in here and tell me how to live my life, like your way is the only way to be 'real.' My life has purpose. Yours is just... noise."
"Is it?" Mauwa asked quietly.
"Yes!" Jim hissed, lying back down and yanking the blanket up to his chin. "Don't speak to me again tonight. I have nothing more to say to a man who thinks the measure of a person is how 'loose' they can be."
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Jim stared at the ceiling, his mind a whirlpool of anger and confusion. He hated that Mauwa could provoke him so easily, and he hated, even more, the tiny, treacherous part of himself that wondered if Mauwa was right.