It was around the evening when I was finished with idly snooping around the impersonal, vast house and placing my clothes and items into my designated room. The silence of the villa was broken by the faint, distinctive jingle of keys from the front door. I came out of my room, drawn by the sound, and descended the grand staircase to the first floor. It was spring in Ascaria, a deceptive season where the days hinted at warmth but the nights, especially in these secluded rural areas, still held a biting chill that seeped into the very stone of the house. Levi opened the door, stepping inside. I could distinctly smell the crisp, cool scent of the outside clinging to his expensive fabric. I greeted him, a polite formality in my voice. “Welcome.” He slid his keys into his sleek laptop bag, his movements precise, then looked directly at me. “Good evening, Raphael.”

He was rather unenthusiastic, almost subdued, compared to the sharp, calculating presence he’d displayed that morning. “Are you tired?” I ventured, trying to gauge his mood. He began to take his jacket off, his motions slow and deliberate. What a seductive thing, a fully clothed person, slowly stripping away layers; it was a subtle, unexpected allure. He placed his jacket neatly over his arm. “Not precisely, though my day has been rather occupied. I returned early this evening specifically to engage in discourse with you.”

You mean ‘talking’. He really has a way with words, doesn't he? Always so… formal.

“Oh, yeah? Converse what about?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Kindly grant me a brief moment to change my attire. I find the lingering scent of the outdoors rather disagreeable within the confines of the residence.” He said, his eyes already drifting towards the second floor. Why is he asking permission for that? Does he just instinctively formalize everything?

“Suit yourself,” I replied, trying to convey a bored nonchalance I didn't feel.

I hated this cold wall he maintained. I felt utterly overwhelmed, like a lone, vulnerable figure in a vast, empty expanse, and acutely, undeniably lonely.

Then, from the second floor, I heard the rhythmic, almost mechanical beeping of an electronic device. He went inside the locked room, and the soft click of the door closing echoed. Maybe this was my chance to… No, no wait. Not right now. My impulsive thought was quickly reined in by a strategic calculation. I could play my part dutifully, act as a perfect, compliant husband, and slowly, surely, earn his trust. He WILL open those doors for me. Willingly.

To play my part, to create a semblance of normal domesticity and perhaps loosen his rigid control, I went to the kitchen and poured some red wine into two delicate, crystal glasses. He should slip a little when he’s had a few, right? Also, it will certainly be easier for me to speak my mind, with a bit of liquid courage. Some good red wine would bring any wall down. I got some aged cheese to pair with the wine, arranged it artfully on a small platter, and sat on the couch, waiting.

He emerged from the room moments later, his clothes changed. The door, a silent sentinel, locked on its own with another soft click. This guy really likes his privacy, huh?

He came to my side, moving with that familiar, almost unsettling grace, and sat not too far away, yet still maintaining an invisible perimeter.

“Let’s have a drink, Levi,” I suggested, holding out a glass. He was now wearing a white long-sleeved t-shirt that stretched smoothly over his lean frame, paired with simple black pants – a casual look that, on him, still felt oddly formal.

“As you desire, Raphael,” he replied, taking the glass. We clinked our glasses together. He scrunched his nose at the rich, earthy scent of the wine. “My apologies, I confess I do not find wine particularly palatable,” he stated, his voice flat.

“Oh really? Why is that?” I pressed, intrigued by his unexpected aversion.

“The tactile sensation of the wine's viscosity brings to mind certain cleaning agents.”

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What an impossible dude to understand. Viscosity? What the hell do you mean by viscosity? Yet, despite his strange explanation, he still took a sip anyway.

“Will you really indulge anything I say?” I asked, probing. He didn’t take too long to answer, his voice unwavering. “Indeed, Raphael.”

“Why is that?” I asked, leaning back, watching him closely. He waited for me to take another sip of my wine, then he, too, took another sip, his movements perfectly synchronized.

“To articulate it succinctly, I possess an inherent inability to reciprocate genuine sentiment; consequently, I have opted to assume a persona of unwavering devotion and duty. You may perceive my actions as exceeding conventional bounds, yet I do not consider this to be the case. In decision-making, there invariably exist crossroads. One path leads you to your residence, to your warm bed, allowing for untroubled repose. The alternative path leads to a cold, uninviting wilderness. I have chosen the former, Raphael, to ensure undisturbed sleep.”

He actually likes to talk, it turns out. When you ask him directly, and in a certain way. Which is completely unexpected to me, given his initial aloofness. But he is oddly gloom, a profound sadness underlying his precise words.

“So you are saying, by indulging me, by saying yes to me all the time, you can sleep easier?”

“Yes, I believe that my compliance, my indulgence, serves my own tranquility, and concomitantly, it will undoubtedly facilitate your own peaceful slumber,” he replied, his gaze steady.

Aw. What a complicated but weirdly cute way of thinking.

“About your butler…” I started, shifting the topic.

“I was informed that you desired to discuss the matter concerning him. I am now prepared to lend my attention.”

“Look, I don’t like strangers in my house, especially when I’m trying to recharge. I need to be alone to do that. So dismiss him, but I also suck at cooking and cleaning, so you better hire someone else,” I said, blunt and direct. He finished his glass, placing it carefully on the coffee table. “As you wish, Raphael.”

Someone saying “as I wish,” especially a man like him, causes a feeling of pure, almost decadent superiority to surge through you. You immediately want to order, to test the boundaries of this strange devotion. I poured him another glass of wine, watching as his deadpan eyes fixed on it, waiting for him to drink it. “So, big question. Humor me for a sec. Have you ever had sex with a man? Are you gay, bisexual, or anything?” I pressed, eager to push his boundaries.

He looked at me with those unblinking, deadpan eyes, the depth of them still unnerving. “No, I have not engaged in sexual intercourse with a man.”

So you had sex with women. As he was eyeing the glass, almost reluctantly, he took another sip. “Raphael, as you accurately observed, I seek a measure of personal recuperation within this dwelling. My public persona deviates quite significantly from the impression I may have inadvertently conveyed to you.” he said, his voice dropping slightly.

“What does that mean?” I asked, intrigued.

“In due course, as we attend social gatherings as a married couple, the disparity will become evident. I deem it prudent to apprise you concerning these assemblies. They are not merely typical social engagements where one can offer polite pleasantries and discreetly depart. These are convocations of the nobility, and you, Raphael, will inevitably become the focal point of their scrutiny. This attention will be profoundly unwelcome, primarily because you are, at this precise juncture, perceived as the homosexual outsider who purportedly captivated the Saint.” he said, the words falling like cold, hard stones. I couldn't help but let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Stole? That saint begged me to marry his ass!”

“Indeed, Raphael.” His voice was unamused.

What’s with the atmosphere, man? I was making a joke! My laughter died in my throat, replaced by a growing bewilderment.

He finished his glass, draining it quickly. “You are at liberty to contact me at any time you deem necessary. In precisely five days, we are scheduled to dine with my family. I explicitly require you to portray the role of 'the homosexual outsider who captivated their prized stud.' I trust you will honor my wishes in this regard.” he said.

He stood up, moving with the fluid grace that was uniquely his, and went to the stairs, his form already receding into the shadows. “Good night, Raphael.”

What an impossible man to read. I took the glasses to the dishwasher, the mundane task a brief anchor in the swirling chaos of my thoughts, and then went to bed, the image of his deadpan eyes and the unsettling request still vivid in my mind.