He turned away.
I reached across the table, placing my hand over his. “Dear boy, I’m not judging you.”
Micah frowned. "You... you don't think it's wrong? To be..."
"Gay?" I finished for him when he couldn't bring himself to say the word. "How could I? It would be rather hypocritical of me."
His eyes widened. "You're...?"
"Interested exclusively in men," I confirmed. "Though I've never felt the need to apply labels. Desire simply is. Like gravity, like time, a fundamental force rather than a moral choice."
The relief that washed over his features was palpable, years of isolation momentarily lifted by the simple recognition of shared experience. Yet beneath that relief, I noted a new awareness in his gaze as it moved over me, an assessment that hadn't been present before, or perhaps had been rigorously suppressed.
"You never faced the same... difficulties? With family, with religion?" he asked, clearly trying to reconcile my confident self-acceptance with his own tormented history.
"My parents were more concerned with intelligence than sexuality," I explained. "Academic achievement was the only measure that mattered in our household. As for religion..." I shrugged slightly. "Faith, like art, requires critical examination to be meaningful. Those who accept dogma without question understand neither God nor themselves."
He nodded. "I've never talked about this with anyone," he admitted. "Not openly."
"I'm honored by your trust," I said, and meant it, though not perhaps in the way he might interpret. Trust was essential to what would come next, the foundation upon which dependency could be built. "And I think this calls for something stronger than scotch, don't you?"
I ordered two brandies to mark the moment. When the drinks arrived, I raised my glass in a toast. "To authenticity, the only virtue that matters."
"To authenticity," he echoed.
We continued our observations for another hour, the alcohol loosening Micah's inhibitions, allowing more of his natural perceptiveness to emerge. His eye was instinctively drawn to vulnerability, to isolation, the predator's instinct wrapped in artistic sensitivity. By the time we decided to leave, he was more relaxed in my presence than I'd yet seen him, the careful distance he maintained noticeably diminished.
"I need to use the restroom before we leave," I said, rising from the booth. "Would you mind settling the tab? I'll meet you outside."
"Of course," he agreed readily, reaching for his wallet.
I made my way through the bar, pausing briefly in the corridor that led to the restrooms to observe him unnoticed. He settled the bill with a generous tip, his movements more fluid than usual, animated by alcohol and the liberation of confession. The potential I'd sensed in him was developing beautifully.
Instead of entering the bathroom, I slipped out the side exit into the parking lot. The night air was cool against my skin after the warmth of the bar, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest. Micah's car was easy to identify—an aging Honda Civic with a Ravencrest Institute parking sticker on the rear window.
I glanced around the dimly lit lot, then retrieved a small multi-tool from my jacket pocket. I opened the door and disconnected a single rubber hose—just enough to stall the engine.
I closed the hood silently and returned to the bar through the same side door, stopping briefly in the restroom to wash any trace of engine grease from my hands. The entire operation had taken less than two minutes, a minor sabotage that would create the perfect opportunity to deepen my access to Micah's life.
When I exited the building through the main door, he was waiting beside his car, breath visible as vapor in the cool night air.
"Productive evening," I observed, approaching with unhurried steps. "You have a natural talent for observation."
"It's strange," he admitted, hands tucked into his pockets against the chill. "Once you start looking for vulnerability, you see it everywhere."
"Because it's the one universal human quality," I replied, stopping a few feet from him. "Everyone carries wounds, fears, hungers they try to conceal. The artist's gift, or perhaps curse, is the ability to perceive what others hide."
"Is that what you see when you look at me, Ezra?"
I studied him in the dim light of the parking lot. "I see potential. Most people are merely canvases painted by others, by society, by religion, by family. But you, Micah... you're ready to become the artist of your own existence."
The words landed as intended, his expression softening with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Even if what I might create is... disturbing?"
"Especially then," I assured him. "Comfort never created anything of value. Only through disruption do we access truth." I nodded toward his car. "Drive safely. The roads can be treacherous out here after dark."
"I will," he promised, turning toward his vehicle. "Thank you for tonight. For everything."
I waited beside my own car, knowing what would come next. Micah slid into the driver's seat, and I heard the engine turn over once, twice, and then catch with a rough stutter before dying completely. He tried again with the same result—a momentary start followed by failure.
