Chapter 05 – Spiritual and Physical Closeness, Cut by Invisible Threads

— What do you want? — Michel asked as he answered, voice tense, body already pulling away from the warmth of the living room as he stepped out onto the apartment balcony. Inside, Cauã still sat, absorbing everything that had almost happened — the almost-kiss, the touch, the abrupt interruption.

On the other end of the line, the reply came gentle, laced with a calm that felt far too rehearsed:

— I just wanted to hear my nephew's voice.

Michel clenched his teeth. The night breeze didn't soothe him — it only stirred his thoughts further. The city's background noise felt distant. Irrelevant.

— Please. — His voice now held all the pain he'd kept buried. — After two years? Two years in which you erased me from your life... — he drew in a long breath — ...right after that absurd marriage proposal. What century do you live in? I'm gay. I told you that when I was eighteen. And still you pretended it was nothing. Pretended I was someone you could mold.

The voice on the other side didn't waver. It only hardened, almost clinical.

— I thought it was a phase. And even if it wasn't... you can still start a family with a woman and be gay. What's the problem with that?

Michel laughed — but there was no joy in it. A dry, poisoned laugh.

— The problem is that that's not life. That's a prison. And I've spent too long trying to fit into a mold that only exists in the minds of people like you.

Silence. For a brief moment, he considered hanging up. But something about that conversation felt unfinished. Unresolved.

— So why'd you call, then?

The answer came firmer, more deliberate:

— I heard about the attack. A mutual friend mentioned your name. Said you were almost killed. — a pause — I want to protect you, Michel. But to do that, you need to come home.

Michel clenched his free hand.

— If I needed protection, I'd hire bodyguards. I'm not going back to that tomb. — he said coldly, before shooting the question that had been echoing since the hospital: — Why didn't you ever tell me it was you who delivered my mother?

Silence.

Then, a muffled, heavy confession:

— I didn't want you to blame me. It was a terrible event. I... I've thought so much about that night. Losing your mother was... devastating. Your father hated me after that. I thought you would too. — a sigh — You have no idea how much affection I've always had for you, Michel.

Michel closed his eyes, heart pounding with contradictory feelings. Part of him wanted to believe it. The other part wanted to run.

— If that's all you called to say, let's end it here. I know how to take care of myself. — his voice was firm, but inside, it was chaos.

He was about to hang up when his uncle's voice rose — anxious, almost desperate:

— Michel, listen. You don't understand. These attacks... they won't stop. There's something bigger behind this. I can help you, but you have to trust me. You need to come back.

Michel stayed silent. The phone still pressed to his ear, but his gaze fixed on the sleeping city below. How do you trust someone who's hurt you so much? And yet... how do you ignore a warning that feels drenched in truth?

Behind him, Cauã's herbal scent still lingered in the air — the only smell that brought peace. And that was what he chose to follow that night.

— I already have someone to help me. — he whispered. And hung up.

He still needed answers.If his uncle knew the attacks wouldn't stop, it meant there was more — and Michel would need to uncover it soon. But not tonight.

Tonight… was meant to be light.A rare, peaceful, almost intimate moment with Cauã — and it had been abruptly ruined by a conversation he never wanted to have. One that carried more than he was ready to confront.

He sighed and returned to the living room, wine still lingering on his lips and thoughts scattered. But what he saw stopped him mid-step — frozen by something stronger than fear.

Cauã was asleep.

He slept so deeply on the couch that Michel felt a tug in his chest. His face serene, features softened by rest. Hair falling over his forehead, breath slow and steady. His body slightly slumped, as if he'd simply collapsed from exhaustion and warmth.

Michel muttered under his breath — not truly angry.

— Égua… — he whispered, frustrated, with a faint, melancholy smile. — Didn't even get to feel your lips.

He moved closer carefully. Adjusted the pillows, moved the glasses from the table, and turned off most of the lights. Gently removed Cauã's shoes, that automatic tenderness of someone already feeling like part of a shared routine. Took a clean cloth and wiped a small stain from his cheek — a gesture almost protective.

Finally, he covered him with the same light blanket they had used before.

But something made him pause. His gaze lingered longer than it should've.

With the tips of his fingers, he lightly touched Cauã's hair, tracing a line from the shaved side of his head to the curve of his ear. The skin was warm. Soft. And somehow, that touch calmed him — and disarmed him.

What am I doing?What does this even mean?

Michel closed his eyes for a second, letting his hand fall back into his lap. There was no easy answer. Nor should there be.

All he knew was: for some reason he still didn't fully understand, the silence beside Cauã was the most comfortable he'd felt in years.

And that alone — was unsettling enough.

The next morning, Cauã woke with a slight headache. The details of the previous night returned in soft waves: the cleansing ritual, the dinner, the easy laughter between sips. He remembered the conversation, the unexpected comfort… and Michel's touch on his face.

There was something in that gesture — something that had left him vulnerable for a few seconds. Maybe the magnetism Michel carried didn't just affect spirits. Perhaps the living also orbited around his silent charm, as if there was something enchanted in his presence. Thinking about it made Cauã shiver slightly. Pretending he hadn't almost closed his eyes, expecting something, seemed like the safest choice.

He stood up slowly, stepping carefully on the cold floor.

This time, the apartment was quiet. No usual smell of coffee.

He peeked discreetly into the bedroom: Michel was still asleep, his face partially hidden under the sheets, hair messy, body relaxed. He looked peaceful. Cauã hesitated, then padded softly toward the kitchen. He didn't know if the other man would mind, but he couldn't resist the urge to give something in return.

He rummaged through drawers, opened cabinets quietly, and found what he needed. The coffee on the shelf was a brand he had never used, but he improvised. Put the water to boil, cracked a few eggs, made toast. Searched the fridge and found two slices of cake that were still good.

He did everything with simplicity — but also with care.

When Michel appeared, still drowsy, wearing only a thin robe, he stopped for a moment at the kitchen doorway, watching.

— Looks like… it's my turn to get breakfast in bed. — he said with a lazy, charmed smile. — Why so early?

Cauã didn't turn immediately, still stirring the eggs in the pan.

— I woke up feeling fine… and decided to make something for us to eat. Hope you don't mind me using your kitchen.

— Mi casa, su casa. — Michel replied with a hint of humor, but upon seeing Cauã's slightly puzzled expression, he added in a gentler tone: — Make yourself at home, Cauã. Really.

Cauã simply nodded, unsure how to respond. But something in his chest felt calm. Maybe, even unspoken, he was already starting to feel… at home.

After a quiet and warmly comforting breakfast, the two sat side by side. The morning light spilled gently through the window slats, bringing a soft and serene warmth. There was something comforting about that moment — a sense that the presence of the other quieted the invisible frequencies of the world around them.

Michel, in particular, seemed lighter. He had slept deeply for the first time in weeks. And he knew why: Cauã. Since the doctor began spending time in his space, the nightmares had stopped, as if his very presence had cleansed the atmosphere that had suffocated him for so long.

— What was that call about? — Cauã asked, voice low but steady. He didn't bring up what had happened before the phone rang, and Michel appreciated that.

— My uncle. — he sighed. Cauã was about to say he didn't have to talk if he didn't want to, but Michel continued: — Wanted to know if I was okay… but that wasn't all. He said he knew about the attack, that he could protect me — as long as I came home. — Michel laughed, humorless. — As if it were possible to go back to being a caged bird.

Cauã raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— He said something else. Something that unsettled me. He said other people might try to kill me. That I'm in real danger.

— Who did you piss off? — Cauã asked, genuinely surprised.

— Me? No one. — Michel shook his head. — I mean, lawyers make enemies, sure. But this… my uncle knowing about it? It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't have access to any classified information. Especially not about clients. So I don't think it's related to work. There's something more.

— You two don't seem to have a great relationship. — Cauã noted, paying attention to the way Michel spoke — or avoided speaking — about the man.

— Definitely not. — Michel sighed deeply, running his fingers through his hair as if trying to dispel the discomfort. — I came out when I was eighteen. He pretended to accept it. Life went on, I had relationships, built my independence. But once I started to succeed, he came back at me. Started saying I needed to marry. That I had to have children. "Continue the family bloodline," like I was some kind of breeding stock. — Michel took a sip of coffee, eyes fixed on the cup. — That's when I realized: he didn't care about me. It was never about me. It was about the Lacerda name. And I… I'm the only heir.

Cauã frowned, visibly unsettled.

— Your uncle sounds like he's stuck in a century long gone.

— Yeah. And when I realized that, the anger hit hard. We fought — badly. I made it clear I wouldn't become what he wanted. I cut him off after that. But now… with everything going on, with Sarah and everything else, he comes back. And talks like he knows something I don't. — Michel rested his elbows on the table. — There's something there, Cauã. And I'm going to find out. Even if I have to turn the entire past upside down to do it.

Cauã just nodded. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — it was complicity. And for the first time, Michel knew he wasn't alone.

After breakfast, they sat at the dining table with the folder between them. The morning light still filtered through the windows, but there was tension in the air. Cauã ran his hand over the papers, attentive to every detail of the medical record. He read silently, his eyes scanning the lines with the precision of someone familiar with this kind of document."Complication during childbirth?" — he thought, furrowing his brow. The phrase sounded too vague. All the prenatal exams were there, the mother's record, the medical files. No apparent comorbidities, no indication of risk. Michel had been born healthy, in the correct position, with normal heartbeats. Everything pointed to a normal delivery.— There's nothing that justifies a complication. — he said finally, looking at Michel, who was clearly anxious for answers. — Actually... everything points to a normal delivery. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. But... — he turned a few more pages — what caught my attention was that, despite the favorable conditions, your uncle, who was the on-duty obstetrician, opted for a cesarean section. Without any recorded justification. No mention of lack of dilation, fetal distress, or urgency.Michel leaned forward, eyes wide.— And then?— And then… a severe hemorrhage was recorded right after the cesarean. A hemorrhage that led to your mother's death. But what bothers me the most is how poorly this report was filled out. — Cauã tapped the paper with his fingers, irritated. — It's one of the most inconsistent documents I've ever read. Almost like someone wanted to hide something. No technical details, just vague notes, scribbles, and no mention of any attempt at resuscitation. Just death.Michel turned pale.— You mean that...— It means this death might not have been an accident, Michel. Someone wanted to erase the traces of what really happened in that operating room. — Cauã looked at him seriously. — And your uncle is at the center of it.The silence that fell between them was dense, like a curtain of smoke drifting through the room. Michel swallowed hard. He knew from the beginning something was off. But now… now everything seemed darker than he expected.

— So the one with the answers is my uncle? — Michel asked, voice trembling and mind spinning.Cauã shook his head slowly, calmly and carefully.— Not necessarily. Other doctors participated in the prenatal care and delivery, even though he was the responsible obstetrician. — He traced his finger over the names listed at the bottom of the report, as if mapping paths. — And if he's hiding something, he won't hand it over to us on a silver platter. But… there are other professionals who were in the room that day. We can start with them. If they have something to say, maybe they'll open up. And remember… your mother was attended at a private hospital. Santa Casa only got involved at the end, at the time of delivery.— Strange. Why would she be taken there at the most critical moment? — Michel ran his hand through his hair, nervous. — The Lacerda family has always had access to whatever they wanted. Why the rush? Why Santa Casa?Cauã handed him a sheet with the legible names he managed to identify, scribbled in the margins of the old document. Nurses, two anesthetists, and a resident doctor who had signed as assistant.— We can start here. See where they are, if they still live in Belém, if they're still practicing...Before they could continue, the doorbell rang. A sharp, insistent sound. They looked at each other, thoughts still hanging on the past.Michel jumped up suddenly and walked to the door. When he looked through the peephole, he felt a sharp chill. Alessandro Vieira Solto. His partner in moments of mutual need. He furrowed his brow slightly and turned toward Cauã, who was still watching him expectantly.

He opened the door.

— Hi, I knew today was your day off. You never work on Thursdays. — Alessandro said with a suggestive glint in his eyes, blinking like someone who has too many secrets to keep. He had a striking style — perfectly styled platinum hair, eyes a clear, almost artificial blue, skin lightly tanned as if maintained by sessions under tanning lamps. Short, with delicate gestures and an affected presence that defied conventions, Alessandro embraced his appearance with pride. A memorable lover, no doubt, but rarely the best company when what you seek is silence and depth.— I'm busy right now. — Michel replied with a polite, almost automatic smile, like someone closing a door to keep the wind out.Cauã looked at the newcomer with sharp eyes, trying to decipher that polished and theatrical body before him. Something in the intimate tone of the conversation, something in the overly fluid gestures — everything sparked a silent distrust. Alessandro's face, with its magazine-perfect look, reflected a world Cauã had never belonged to.He stood abruptly. Grabbed the documents, slung his backpack strap over his shoulder. There was no hurry, but there was no reason to stay any longer.— Actually, I was just leaving. — he said dryly. Made a slight, almost formal gesture, and crossed the door before any words could pull him back.Michel wanted to stop him. Felt a sudden urge to reach him, to explain that it wasn't what it seemed. But the words died still in thought. He stood still, fingers spread in the void, as if they could touch the absence that spread too quickly through the room.And then he understood — maybe Cauã never saw him as anything beyond an unresolved mystery, a strange page in a book of hauntings.And that hurt more than it should have.

— Who was that? Your employee? — Alessandro asked dismissively, as he walked around the apartment like he owned it.— Why would you say that? — Michel closed the door firmly, trying to contain the irritation that grew fast and hot in his throat.— Ah, I don't know, it just seemed like it. — he shrugged, scanning the room with his eyes, until the persistent aroma of the incense hit him. — What a nice smell here, kind of exotic.Michel crossed his arms, his body tense.— You're implying that because of his skin color, aren't you? Or the way he dresses?Alessandro made a careless gesture, like someone unwilling to commit to anything — not even his own words.— Oh, come on. He has nothing to do with the kind of people you hang out with, Michel. And you know it. I know your friends, remember I also hang out with Osmar? That little group of yours from Mangal, always so elegant... — he smiled, as if proud of his own analysis, oblivious to the violence it carried.Michel felt a knot form in his stomach. Suddenly, the apartment seemed smaller, stifled by the weight of what was left unsaid but insinuated in every word Alessandro spoke. This was the world he grew up in, where he was molded: a narrow universe of known surnames and sharp smiles. Where appearances dictated value and affections were measured by the ruler of belonging.And Cauã, with his origin, with his silent presence and eyes that seemed to pierce through the layers of the world, would never be accepted there. Not like that.And what bothered him the most — was realizing that, for a long time, he himself would not have accepted it either.

— Get out. — Michel said firmly, pressing his hand to his temple, as if trying to contain a pain that wasn't only physical. — Cauã is my friend and a guest. I don't want you to insult him.— Oops, sorry, darling. — Alessandro raised his hands in a theatrical gesture of fake peace. His smile was of a mild sarcasm, more insulting than any word. — No need to be upset, I apologize, alright?

— No, Alessandro. I think this thing has lasted long enough. So please... just leave. — Michel walked to the door and opened it without hesitation.The seriousness on Michel's face was enough for Alessandro to understand there was no room for negotiation. He furrowed his brow slightly, offended. The rejection stung more from wounded pride than any real emotion.He left with deliberately slow steps, not believing he had been discarded like that. He wouldn't let it go so easily, he thought. People like him never accepted being forgotten in silence.The door closed. The apartment suddenly felt lighter, but Michel remained tense.He sat on the couch where Cauã had been hours before, the smell of coffee still in the air, the echo of prejudice still throbbing. He grabbed his phone."Are you okay?" — he typed with steady fingers but a hesitant heart.He still felt exposed, tainted by a world he no longer wanted to represent.

Cauã arrived home half an hour later. He removed his helmet with an automatic gesture, his tired eyes searching for the clean lab coat and comfortable clothes he would wear to see his patients that day. He was about to leave when the phone's sound interrupted him. He stared at the screen for a moment, hesitating whether to reply. He still didn't fully understand the reason for the message, and the irritation carried from the previous situation still pulsed in his chest.That platinum-haired look burned in his throat — a silent and cruel message: You don't belong here. What are you doing here? It was a familiar weight; it wasn't the first time he faced that kind of prejudice, a constant shadow that insisted on reappearing, more common than he wished to admit. Still, he forced himself to stay strong.With a contained sigh, he typed the reply: "Yes." The words came out drier than he wanted.So this is the kind of people who circulate around Michel? — he thought, feeling the contrast between them like an abyss. Totally different from himself, in every way.

The walls that had once crumbled now rose again, firm and impenetrable. He knew he would fulfill his mission, but after that, each would follow their own path. He no longer wanted to be part of that world that rejected him — he had already seen too much, suffered too much to insist on belonging to a place that wouldn't accept him.