It was wrong. All wrong.

The light playing on skin that was too fair, too pale and perfect. No scars from childhood fights that ended in toys being hurled with all the heat and rage a five year old could muster. Skin that was smooth, soft. Unused to the play of sunlight burning the memories of a summer spent swimming in the pond and climbing the tallest apple tree in Grandma and Grandpa's orchard.

The shadows bringing the pale grey eyes into sharp relief. Eyes that burned with love; a right, acceptable love that was accepted by family and public alike. Eyes that held no knowledge of his fear of lightning, no remembrance of the day they spent lying under his bed playing chess in an attempt to take his mind from the awful crash of thunder and the fear of being hit by the fearful, awesome lightening that was splitting the atmosphere asunder, tearing the sky into two wounded halves.

Fingers that trailed his body, not yet used to the feel of his skin. Fingers that didn't know how to make him squirm, that didn't know he was ticklish on his lower abdomen, that didn't know he preferred a firm, almost punishing touch. Fingers that didn't have the knowledge of how to twist in his hair, of how to gain proper purchase.

Lips that had never called him a brat, that had never told to "get the fuck out!" when he intruded, blundering in without permission, or care. Lips that traced his throat as though he were made of glass; that worshipped him, not able to see or admit his faults.

Hair, almost white, almost colourless in the dimness that pervaded the room as well as his life. Hair that was as soft as a newborn child's, straight and perfect. No kinks, or tiny curls at the nape of the neck that caused shuddering, panting breaths when they were pulled gently. No red to be seen when the light played on the darkness.

A voice that was soft, cultured and almost prim. A voice that was gentle and loving. A voice that held no tiny amount of teasing that was bred from familiarity and genuine affection. A voice that did not hold that note; that note that said "I know all your secrets. Where the bodies are buried. I know that you had a toy bunny called Snufflekins, and if you piss me off, so will everybody else. I know that you hate the dawn, for it's brash, pervading insistance that the new day will be a wonder to end all wonders. I know you love the twilight, the quiet, languid, sensual death of the day. The moment when all is only barely visible, and all those things you hide are indistinguishable from those things you allow to be seen.

"I know that you think of me when you fuck him, that you wish I was under you, over you, in you. You dream of my fingers bruising your sun darkened flesh, flesh that is the mirror of my own. I know you bite your lip when his cock moves in you, drwing blood that you wish was mine. Blood that is the same as yours."

The voice wasn't James' voice.

It was wrong. All wrong.