Chapter 13: You took too long

Cian said nothing.

He had skimmed the novel before, but the heavy censorship made it hard on the eyes, so he hadn’t read every Chapter properly. Now, with the system reading out the title in its cold electronic voice, he was stunned into silence for a moment.

The system regarded him with pity. "Host, this is an erotic novel. Titles like that will turn up from time to time. You’ll have to get used to it."

Cian said nothing.

He pressed his forehead. "Show me the Chapter."

Clusters of light points gathered on the glowing blue screen and arranged themselves into long paragraphs.

Cian skimmed the text and got the gist of the plot.

The plot of a novel like this was usually blunt and brutal. That night, for reasons unknown, the young master went off the rails and got blind drunk on his own. Back at the hotel, the room felt cold and empty and loneliness swamped him. Thinking of the beauty he’d bought, he simply summoned Eoin.

The system remarked, "Odd, isn’t it? Would the original host really drink alone?"

The young master hated being by himself and always kept a crowd around him.

Cian raised an eyebrow, lost in thought, but didn’t answer. He only said, "Go on."

The Eoin of the present was doing fine, but the Eoin in the novel was not. His health was already poor and he hadn’t looked after himself. He suffered from low blood sugar, dizzy spells, and more, and after several days of the original Cian’s mistreatment he came down with a high fever and was admitted to hospital.

But the young master didn’t care about illness or hospitals. He even thought that tormenting someone with a fever had a twisted appeal of its own, so he sent a driver to the hospital to collect Eoin.

"System," Cian said, pointing at the passage, "we’re stuck right at the start."

The protagonist in the novel was in hospital with a fever, but this Eoin wasn’t in hospital. Which hospital was he supposed to be collected from?

The system, used to such small inconsistencies, said weakly, "As long as you score sixty, it’s fine. Just pick him up from college."

So Cian made a call, pretending to be drunk, his tone as harsh as ever. "Mr. Brennan, where are you?"

It was late at night, so he ought to be at college.

Unexpectedly, Eoin lowered his voice. "I’m visiting my Nana." He hesitated a moment, then added, "It’s not me. I’m fine."

As he said it, Eoin felt awkward himself, as if Cian would actually care whether he was well.

At the other end, Cian said "Oh," leaned back on the sofa, and slurred his voice again. "Come to the hotel later tonight. I’ll send someone to fetch you from the hospital."

Eoin cupped a hand over the receiver, his voice muffled against the noisy background. "Okay."

He put the phone down and bent over the old woman in the hospital bed. "Something’s come up at the lab. I have to go."

The old woman had greying temples and skin dotted with age spots, but her brow and the bridge of her nose were finely drawn, hinting that she must have been a beauty in her youth.

She looked at Eoin and patted the back of his hand with her own, pricked all over by needles, her voice hoarse. "It’s so late. Is there still work at the lab?"

Eoin said, "Yes, it’s the middle of the project cycle, so the lab’s swamped."

The old woman studied him quietly. At her age most people’s eyes were clouded, but hers were still sharp. She asked calmly, "Who rang you just now?"

Eoin’s fingers twitched.

He drew his hand back, picked an apple from the fruit basket, and began to peel it with his eyes lowered. "A friend."

"Only a friend, is it?"

Her hand came to rest on his. She could see right through her grandson but chose not to call him out. She went on, "Since I came into hospital I’ve noticed the care has got a lot better. The medicines in those bottles have names I can’t even pronounce. I heard the nurses say they’re imported, terribly dear, and hard to come by. Eoin, love, tell me, where did you get the money? How did you manage it?"

Eoin sighed. "It’s that friend I told you about. He lent me the money."

She looked him up and down. In his youth Eoin took after her, with the same calm, composed bearing. Unlike her, though, he rarely smiled, and his features were sterner, which could stir certain desires in others.

She slowly closed her eyes. "If he’s really a friend, bring him round to see me some time."

Eoin was startled and said quickly, "He"

He softened his tone. "Nana, he’s swamped with work. His career is demanding and his schedule’s packed. He might not have time."

The young master was unpredictable, and Eoin doubted he mattered enough to Cian to justify a visit to a hospital ward. Her eyes were dim with age but still sharp. The pampered lifestyle of the young master, with his luxury cars and watches, was beyond imitation, and Eoin couldn’t find anyone who could pass for him.

The old woman said nothing, only looked at him. Her dark eyes held an unspoken sadness. After a long while she closed them and said, "If he’s really a friend and has helped this much, surely letting me thank him in person isn’t too much to ask?"

Eoin had no choice. "I’ll ask him. If he has time."

He stood and left the room. Outside, he caught sight of himself in the full length mirror and let out a small breath of relief.

The reflection looked good, better than before, thanks to the plush hotel bed and the perfect air conditioning that had let him sleep soundly these past few days.

It shouldn’t show, he thought.

What Eoin didn’t know was that this scene appeared in the novel too. Back then his complexion had been far worse, pale, with no colour in his lips, and every time he visited his Nana he’d had to put on make up to cover it.

At the hotel, Cian was setting the scene.

The original Cian would have been wasted, completely out of it, the suite stinking of drink. Cian himself wasn’t keen. It was bad for his liver and kidneys, and being properly drunk would only wreck his performance. So he opened two bottles, whiskey and brandy, got himself slightly tipsy, and once his face was flushed he splashed some on his shirt and around the room.

The room was warm and the alcohol evaporated fast. Soon the air was thick with the heady smell of drink, mingling with the cedar and sandalwood of the flameless diffuser, a truly decadent atmosphere.

Cian took a bath, ruffled his hair, and threw on a bathrobe with the belt loosely tied, leaving a wide stretch of chest bare, setting the mood of a hangover. Then, timing it for Eoin’s arrival, he lay down on the sofa.

When Eoin arrived, this was the scene he walked into.

He caught the strong reek of drink in the room and frowned slightly. Then he looked at the sofa, where the young master lay propping up his head, brows knitted as though he were sleeping badly.

Eoin walked over and sat on the edge of the cushion to stop Cian rolling off, then fixed the belt to cover his bare chest. Only then did he touch his face. "Cian?"

Cian kept his eyes shut.

Eoin sighed. "You asked me to come and keep you company, and now you’re asleep?"

He fetched a towel from the bathroom, wet it, and wiped the sweat from Cian’s forehead. Then he slid an arm beneath his shoulder blades, meaning to carry him to the bed.

Curled up on the sofa all night, he’d probably catch a cold.

Cian said nothing.

He was only pretending to sleep.

By the script, when Eoin came in and saw the young master dead drunk, he would quietly freshen up and sit by the side table to read. Then, in a rage, the young master would get up, grab Eoin, drag him onto the bed, and pin him down.

At that point most of the plot would be fulfilled. As for the blurred scenes and dialogue that followed, Cian had decided to improvise, which was why he lay on the sofa with his clothes in disarray.

But Eoin didn’t go off to read. He tried to carry Cian to the bed instead.

So Cian had to skip the earlier steps. He stood up, grabbed Eoin, threw him onto the bed, and pinned him down.

The hotel mattress was soft, so there was no risk of injury.

Eoin was startled and raised his hands to push back. "Cian!"

What a sin, Cian thought, and firmly took hold of both Eoin’s wrists, applying slight pressure and forcing his hands up above his head, leaving him wide open.

The sudden movement rucked Eoin’s shirt up, showing his flat, firm stomach and a smooth, graceful waistline.

Cian glanced down, then looked away, frowning in feigned displeasure. "You took too long."

At the same moment he tensed his abdomen.

Next, Eoin was supposed to knee him in the stomach. According to Cian’s plan, he would let go in pain, feign anger, tease a little, murmur a few suggestive lines, and pretend to fall asleep.

But Eoin didn’t knee him. Cian’s face was close and his body cast a heavy shadow over Eoin, hiding his face and making his expression unreadable.

Eoin’s pupils contracted as it belatedly dawned on him.

Cian was drunk.

Some people changed completely when drunk, turning sullen and violent, quick with their fists. Eoin didn’t know how Cian behaved in drink, but he knew Cian had bipolar disorder.

People with bipolar disorder were likely to be more irritable when they drank.

The position was awkward, his bare stomach leaving him feeling exposed. Eoin frowned and endured it, though his body couldn’t help trembling. He watched Cian covertly, wanting to say something to soothe him, but as he tried to move his wrist it was gripped even tighter.

"Ah" His wrist was bent upwards and it hurt.

Only the bedside lamp was on in the bedroom. In the dark his sense of touch sharpened. Cian’s breath was close and a huge sense of pressure bore down on him. Eoin felt like a fish on a chopping board, hot breath on the back of his ear, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the thin shirt blocking nothing.

In the novel Eoin never cried out in pain. However violent the original Cian was, no plea for mercy ever left his lips. But on this soft bed, wrapped up in the quilt, feeling a Cian entirely unlike the daytime one, Eoin suddenly felt something give.

The daytime Cian was lazy and carefree, like a rich idler with nothing to worry about. This Cian was overwhelming, like some predatory beast.

What would Cian do? Would he use the tools in the case? Would he hit him?

Eoin pressed his lips together, tasting a bitter hardship, a sour feeling rising in his chest that he couldn’t suppress. He turned his head and buried his face in the quilt to hide his overly tangled emotions, though he let his wrists be held without a struggle.

He whispered, "Cian, it hurts."

He lowered his eyes, lashes drooping like a fan, looking lost. "It hurts."

Cian let go as if he’d been electrocuted.

He was only three tenths drunk and his mind was still clear. Hearing Eoin say it hurt, he instinctively thought he’d used too much force.

Eoin froze for a moment, his fingers curling in silence.

He hadn’t expected Cian to hear him, let alone let go. It was only a pinned wrist, so how bad could it hurt? It couldn’t compare with the chilblains from washing clothes in winter. He had been putting on an act, pretending never to have suffered or to be unable to bear pain, counting on Cian being too drunk to hear.

It was so over the top.

But Cian had heard him anyway.

Eoin pulled away from Cian, turned his face aside, and went quiet.

Then the heavy smell of drink filled the air, the whiskey sharp and sweet. Cian leaned in closer and Eoin couldn’t tell what he was planning. He simply stiffened and waited, though he wasn’t as on edge as before.

How far could a man who stopped at a cry of pain really go?

A moment later Cian yanked the blanket over him and bundled him up completely. His fingertips brushed the skin of Eoin’s wrist, lifting it to look. Half drunk, he asked hesitantly, "Does it really hurt that much?"

Eoin lay buried under the blanket with only his hands sticking out above his head. Cian held his wrist up to the light, and the slender fingers shrank uneasily under his gaze and curled up.

The position was far too awkward.

By now most of the scene was over, and the rest was censored. Cian had no plans to continue. He asked, "System, what’s the score?"

The system popped up quietly, sounding drained. "Around fifty. Stay a bit longer and it might reach fifty five."

It no longer expected a high score from its host. Sixty would do. Sixty would be a win.

Cian lay down, drew Eoin into his arms, rested his head on Eoin’s shoulder, and murmured, "I’ve had too much. I’ll leave you alone now. Let’s sleep."

He wasn’t much of a drinker, and after the night’s events he was genuinely tired.

Eoin hesitated, wrapped in the smell of whiskey and brandy, his body going slack. He wanted to speak but Cian’s hand covered his eyes.

His lashes brushed Cian’s palm, and in answer to the questioning look Cian said firmly, "It’s late. Sleep."

Forcing someone to sleep could still count as forcing, couldn’t it?

The two fell quiet for a while. Cian found a comfortable position, closed his eyes, and soon his breathing evened out.

He had fallen asleep.

In the dark, Eoin tentatively raised a hand and loosely wrapped it around Cian. His fingertips touched his back and then withdrew as if burned. After repeating this several times, he finally let his hand rest there gently.

The next moment he frowned.

Beneath his fingertips was the unmistakable ridge of a scar.