#weaponandwielder

Part 1 here:

Henrik couldn't remember when the silence started to feel like chains. At first, it had been comforting—Jameson’s quiet strength, his patient gaze, and the way he never interrupted. But now, every time Jameson looked at him, Henrik felt as if his ribs had been pried apart and his heart put on display.

Tonight, the laboratory was dark, filled only with the steady hum of equipment. Henrik worked with shaking hands, trying to stitch a wound on his arm—an old experiment had reopened, torn too soon. The sutures failed. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He cursed quietly to himself.

Then Jameson appeared.

A gloved hand gripped Henrik’s wrist, stopping it before the needle could pierce his flesh again. Jameson’s touch was firm, unyielding. His eyes glowed in the low light—too bright, too focused. Slowly, he reached for the tools, taking them from Henrik’s hands as if he were a child playing with fire.

“Don’t—” Henrik began, but stopped as Jameson’s hands moved, signing quickly and urgently:

“You hurt yourself. You don’t know when to stop. Let me. Let me take care of you.”

Henrik’s throat tightened. “No. I am not yours to fix.”

Jameson’s smile was gentle, almost sad, as if Henrik had hurt him. His hands shook as he spoke:

“You are. Always. Don’t you see? Without me, you would fall apart. Without me, you are just broken pieces.”

Henrik yanked his arm back, but Jameson held on, his eyes filled with desperation.

“Hör auf!,” Henrik snapped, a hint of steel in his voice. “I was a doctor before you. Ein eigener man! of my own making. You cannot keep me like this.”

Jameson slammed the needle onto the tray, the sound sharp like a gunshot. His hands moved in a rush, frantic and almost violent:

“You were nothing before me. They used you. They laughed at you. I gave you purpose. I gave you strength. And now you are mine.”

The words hit Henrik like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, breath coming in quick bursts. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in Jameson’s face—fear or madness, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

Jameson reached out again, this time brushing Henrik’s bandaged throat, his jaw, his cheek. The touch felt tender, almost reverent. His eyes glowed with a devotion that made Henrik’s stomach churn.

“You will see,” Jameson signed, his hands calm now. “In the end, you will understand. I do this because I love you. And because I cannot let you go.”

Henrik’s heart raced in his chest. He wanted to deny it, to spit in Jameson’s face, to break free from this suffocating love. But when he opened his mouth, no words came. Just silence.