Joel sat on the edge of the leather chair, his skin still tingling and sensitive where James's fingers had just been. He felt raw, not just physically from the bruise, but as if his very soul had been laid out on the desk for James to inspect.
James sat back in his high-backed executive chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He looked perfectly composed now, the dark intensity from moments ago tucked away behind the mask of the Academy President. He steepled his fingers, watching Joel through half-lidded eyes.
"Since you're now... functional," James began, his voice returning to that smooth, administrative cadence, "it's time to discuss your conviction. The Board of Directors expects an expulsion for theft of this magnitude. However, as President, I have the discretion to handle certain 'disciplinary matters' internally, provided the restitution is sufficient."
Joel's heart hammered against his ribs. "Restitution?"
"From this moment forward, Joel, you belong to the Student Council office. More specifically, you belong to me," James said, the words falling like heavy stones. "You are my personal assistant. My errand boy. Whatever I need, whenever I need it, you will be the one to provide it. You will report here every morning before first period, every lunch break, and every afternoon until I dismiss you."
Joel's breath hitched. "But... I have clubs... I have to study—"
"You have a choice between studying here and not studying at all because you've been kicked out of Upperhill," James interrupted coldly. "You will also be responsible for the maintenance of this office. I don't like the janitorial staff touching my files. You will clean, you will organize, and you will ensure that this room remains exactly as I prefer it. Do you understand?"
Joel looked down at his trembling hands, the silk handkerchief still balled in his fist. The injustice of it suddenly flared up, overriding his shyness for a fleeting second.
"President," Joel whispered, his voice cracking. "I... I didn't do it. I didn't steal your watch. I don't know how it got there, I swear. I would never—"
James stood up slowly, leaning across the desk until his face was inches from Joel's. The proximity was suffocating.
"I know," James murmured.
Joel blinked, stunned. "You... you know?"
"Of course I know," James said, a small, cynical smile playing on his lips. "People like you, Joel—the ones who spend every waking hour trying to blend into the paint on the walls—don't steal. You're too afraid of the light to ever take something that shines that bright. You don't look like a thief."
"Then why?" Joel gasped, tears of frustration welling up. "If you know I'm innocent, why are you doing this? Why the 'punishment'?"
James reached out, his hand hovering just near Joel's jaw before he pulled it back. "Because the watch was in your bag, Joel. In the eyes of the school, in the eyes of the records, you are the thief. Facts don't care about my 'belief' in your character. You have two options: you can be the thief who got expelled, or you can be the thief who works for me to pay off his debt. Which sounds better to you?"
The trap was perfect. James had seen the evidence was a lie and decided to use that lie to chain Joel to him. Joel felt a wave of cold realization wash over him. He was being blackmailed with the truth. He slumped back, his shoulders dropping in total defeat.
"I... I understand," Joel whispered.
"Good," James said, his tone suddenly brisk. He grabbed a thick stack of logistical documents from his 'In' tray and slid them across the desk. "These are the inventory manifests for the upcoming spring gala. They need to be cross-referenced with the vendor receipts and entered into the digital ledger. Start now."
Joel took the papers, his fingers brushing against James's as he reached for them. He moved to the small side-table James pointed to, a secondary workspace near the window. He tried to focus on the numbers—the prices of catering, the costs of floral arrangements—but his mind was a storm.
He hadn't been working for five minutes when he felt the air shift behind him.
James walked over, standing directly behind Joel's chair. He leaned down, his chest nearly brushing against Joel's back, to look at the ledger Joel was writing in.
"You're doing it wrong," James whispered, his breath warm against the shell of Joel's ear.
Joel jumped, his pen skipping across the page and leaving a long, jagged ink mark. "I-I'm sorry!"
"Shh," James murmured. He reached around Joel, his arm caging him against the table. He placed his hand over Joel's, guiding the pen back to the correct column. "The tax exempt items go in the blue field, Joel. Not the white. Pay attention."
James didn't pull away once the correction was made. He stayed there, his body a wall of heat at Joel's back, his hand lingering over Joel's fingers. Every time Joel moved the pen, he felt the friction of James's skin. It was a constant, teasing pressure.
"President," Joel breathed, his heart rate spiraling. "I can... I can do it. You don't have to stay so close."
"I'm your supervisor, Joel," James teased, his voice vibrating through Joel's shoulder. "I have to make sure you aren't making more mistakes. You seem... distracted."
James moved his other hand to the table, leaning his weight on it so that Joel was completely boxed in. He turned his head slightly, his lips almost touching Joel's temple. "Why are your hands shaking so much, Assistant? Is the work too hard? Or is it something else?"
Joel felt like he was burning alive. He wanted to jump up and run out of the room, to find Frank, to find anyone—but he was pinned by the very boy he had loved from afar, the boy who was now treating him like a toy. Every time Joel tried to focus on a number, James would lean a little closer, his hair brushing against Joel's cheek, his scent—that intoxicating mix of cedar and iron—clouding Joel's senses.
"I... I'll be more careful," Joel managed to squeak out.
"See that you are," James whispered, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting circle over the back of Joel's hand before he finally, mercifully, stepped back. "I'll be at my desk. Don't make me come over there and correct you again. Unless, of course, that's exactly what you're hoping for."
Joel bent his head low over the papers, his face a deep, permanent shade of red. The afternoon sun began to dip lower in the Toronto sky, casting long, golden shadows across the office, but for Joel, the shadows felt like bars. He was no longer invisible. He was a prisoner in a cage, and the key was held by the boy who wouldn't stop watching him.