Klaus' mansion came pre-furnished. He had no neighbors because exclusivity oozed class. Being an elite assassin oozed class. What did not ‘ooze class’ was a foray into kidnapping. Klaus cursed under his breath at the mess this job had become. His Italian leather boots were too classy for this.

The mansion’s master bedroom overlooked the backyard and the L-shaped east wing. Early in the kidnapping Klaus discovered he could see Magnus’ balcony from the end of his own. Every morning since then, he’d watched Magnus’ morning routine.

Magnus’ balcony was a prime example of how poorly designed the entire mansion was. Klaus heard the story of the fountain from one of the older staff members. One of the previous owners installed a large fountain that took up almost the entire balcony. A subsequent owner got the idea to make the fountain deeper, extending it fifteen feet to the empty room below. Their concept was to fill the fountain with dolphins so they could show it off at parties. Italian tiles were imported to line the inside, but nobody ever figured out how to get dolphins. The fifteen foot deep hole filled with rainwater and became a drowning hazard. Magnus used it like a swimming pool. Having a fountain was a status thing. Magnus swam naked, which was also a status thing.

When Magnus finished his swim Klaus returned inside. The bedroom was alive with servants resetting linens and setting out a breakfast that Klaus wouldn’t eat. Knife tricks left new wounds across the walls and furniture. Klaus shuffled past the staff towards a different window that would allow him to watch Magnus' morning walk in the gardens. About a half hour later, Magnus emerged from the mansion and followed his regular route through the garden. Jesse brought Klaus a cup of tea and a fresh look of disappointment. Klaus sipped the tea. He spied on Magnus in a room full of other people but whatever. Staff stayed out of it because nobody wanted to ‘go there.’

Klaus didn’t know a damn thing about flowers or plants or gardens. He didn’t care, either, until the object of his fixation chose the backyard as his hangout. The outdoors curled and bounced with branches in identical shades of brown. Pinprick buds poked through dead branches. The only greenery strong enough to survive the winter grew in tangles.

Klaus wanted Magnus to eat him out. He wanted Magnus to lay on the bed, cross his hands behind his head, and close his eyes. There would be strict instructions about what Magnus is and is not allowed to touch. Magnus cannot comfort himself. No matter how hard he gets or how much it hurts, or how wet he is, he wouldn’t be allowed. 

Magnus was like one of the boys in those paintings about saints that’s not really about saints, all abs and pouty faces, looking enraptured by the spirit or whatever. Klaus knew precisely what to do with a boy like Magnus. He considered himself uniquely qualified in this respect. In his mind’s eye, Klaus imagined Magnus in one of those breastplates with nipples on it. He fleshed out the fantasy in his head while he watched Magnus through the window.