He did not cry when it was Cassidy Passmore walked up the stage instead of him. He did not cry as he watches—sullenly, contrasted with crippling cheers—watches Passmore embraced Meryam Collin, Olle Fishburne, the Headmaster, then his partner, Romilly Dotson. He did not cry after Passmore and Dotson had delivered what was supposed to be a moving, tear-jerking, Oscar-acceptance speech, did not scream his writhing agony at the blinded, pig-ignorant, bird-brained, piece of shit that was Olle Fishburne for daring to grin and say shamelessly he knew and appreciated every single body out there who had helped him out over the three years of his Head Boy career.

Jaime did not cry at all. Not even when he found himself stalking down the empty corridor, dripping puddles on the lush Persian rug in the middle of the night. Not even when he curled his fingers around the brass knob that left unlocked as every night. Not even when he stripped down to his boxer, swung his lanky legs across the Headmaster’s middle and straddled him, rested a Cleaver against the Headmaster’s thick neck, waiting until the man finally stirred awake.

Jaime never feel more sane and conscious before this.

The Headmaster gasped, but Jaime pressed the knife against his flesh and he snapped his jaws shut. Jaime could feel his pulse underneath his free hand, which was pinning the man’s chest down. He could feel the Headmaster shifting slightly, calculating the odds. Jaime delved the blade harder into the excessive fat. Despite his eyes were unfocused for a good five seconds, the Headmaster was familiar with Jaime’s obscene scent to recognize it at once.

The man was stronger than Jaime and could easily overpower his skinny sixteen frame, but both of them knew very well he wouldn’t dare. They both knew he came here expecting to be injured, and the Headmaster seemed to shudder at the sort of story would Jaime spin to explain what he was doing in the Headmaster’s chamber, naked and wounded.

“You promised.” Jaime whispered, his voice slashed through the muffled beating of rain on the roof. The menace was subtle, soft and cold, like the mild pressure of sharpened metal against the Headmaster’s throat.

The Headmaster swallowed, and tried to speak. “Jaime,”

“How did that Passmore boy convince you, Headmaster?” As he was speaking, he rubs his bottom against the old man’s groin, teasing a gritted-teeth groan from the Headmaster.

“Wait—”

“Did he suck you off better than me? Did he pleasure you better than me? Did he beg on his knee, roll on the floor and kiss your each of your toes? Or is it because I didn’t come for the last few weeks?” He murmurs harshly. “I can do what he did ten times better, Sir. I’ll go to hell and back with your wife if that means you’d appointed me instead of him.” Instead of anyone else.

The man tried to buck his hips, but Jaime held the knife tighter. The Headmaster hitched at pain, probably because the knife had gashed his neck, yet the lewd old man’s arousal was becoming evident through his nightgown. Jaime was caught between feeling utmostly disgusted and disdain at this creature’s primitive instinct. Cowardice and ephebophilia lust splained underneath the wrinkled years of age.

“Jaime,” the man wheezed huskily, yelped when Jaime deepened the cut, while simultaneously reaching down and squeezed his swollen cock, almost wretched his hand back when the Headmaster elicited something between a sexual and a painful moan. “I simply called Olle in and asked who were he recommending, and Cassidy Passmore was the most obvious choice on the list.”

“But the choice in the end is yours,” Jaime hissed.

“I can explain—”

“Who was on it?” Jaime interrupted, his hand worked in rapid motion down his shaft, cupping the man’s scrotum.

“Dean Moyer, Eshan Pacheco, Mohammed Khan, Blane Sears, Cassidy Passmore, Ihsan Mcdermott and Rodney Vu.” The Headmaster gushed, like a dog eager for a treat, the names marred into a stream of useless mumble, and the man bawled out when Jaime stopped abruptly, right as the momentum to ecstasy had just started.

But Jaime didn’t even smirk at the apparent control he had over the old man. Instead, his fingers curled tighter around the knife handle, feeling the solid weight with his palm. Red edging around his vision. “Impossible.”

The Headmaster inhaled sharply and added hurriedly while attempted to grind his crotch against Jaime’s now-motionless palm. “I still had the paper he written the names on.”

Jaime growled, got off the Headmaster and watched in the dark as the heavy-set man scrambled to flick on the bed lamp, coughing and croaking with prayers to God. When the cozy yellow light illuminated a corner of the room, the sight caused guilt to shudder through Jaime, almost enough to force him to put down the knife, apologize for his stupid obsession, turn his tail and learn to be content as the boy who lived in the worst room in the Dorm.

Almost. But Jaime’s body physically revolted from the very thought of being powerless.

No. He would never do that. He had come too far to turn back. He had let his dignity trampled upon, and bowed his back till it hurted while slaving away for the sake of it. He would not back down. He could not.

Jaime squared his jaws, crossing to room to rumble through the Headmaster’s closet with the same familiarity as his own. He threw a dark-colour top at the man, motioned for him to wound the article of cloth around his neck to sop up the blood. However, the man gazed at the shirt rumpled at his feet with a dumbfounded expression, beady eyes darted from the Cleaver’s grinning edge to the yearning blueish darkness stretching toward his study, his beefy hand came to touch at the gaping wound at his throat that was dripping blood over the chest of his wine-colour velvet nightgown, eliciting a wet belching noise.

“Have I terrified you into stupidity, Sir?” Jaime snapped.

The Headmaster looked at him, Yes, finally picked up the cloth and dabbed at his wound, his eyelids droop low.

“Well, hurry,” Jaime bit out.

“This isn’t you, Jaime.” The Headmaster started gently.

“This isn’t you, Headmaster.” Jaime imitated the old man’s careful, child-scolding tone. “‘I’m telling the truth, Jaime. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. I’ll make you the Head Boy, for sure.’” The Headmaster winced. And for the first time, Jaime was forced to admit that his plan was probably not as fool-proofed as he deemed it to be. Because during the fleeting seconds of bliss, one would promise the Sun and the Moon to one another. He sneered inward bitterly at his naivety. He should have known better than to take those shallow words at its face value.

“Jaime, I can explain,” The Headmaster tried.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Jaime said, raising his knife. “Or would you want me to prove my point?”

The Headmaster gulped, grasped his spectacles. Jaime let him went ahead and walked with the knife between them, crooked and pointed at the side of the Headmaster’s ribs, just in case. However, the old man merely strode through the gaping entrance and root through a drawer. Jaime shivered when a cold breeze kissed his bare skin and wandered over to shut the ajar windows, mindlessly rubbing his foot over his ankle. The Headmaster had a habit of leaving things open and unlocked, claiming England’s depressed weather is nothing compared to the freezing hail in Greenland. Jaime never found himself comfortable at the chilled temperature in the Headmaster’s Chamber. In fact, he hated it. Hated how Europe’s cold climate foiled sharply with his hometown’s year-round warmth, how it reminded him of gasoline-doused air and fumed street food, how it brought the pungent taste of homesickness up his esophagus and made him feel weak in his knees. Moreover, he felt exposed. Jaime didn’t need the Headmaster to remind him that nobody but him would sneak around the Headmaster’s Chamber at unholy hours, but Jaime couldn’t cover up the dreadful gut feeling. There is always a What if, and it was hard to him to not be paranoid when he was aware of the higher chance that somebody would see him at his humiliated and pathetic state. Referring to himself as a whore was one thing, but being named outright the teacher’s whore was a different thing.

“You should clothed. Don’t want to get a cold.” The Headmaster remarked quietly. Jaime flicked a glance at the Headmaster’s reflection on the glass panel, observing as the old man bending slight over his desk after extracted a folder. He breathed through his nostrils, tuning in the muted ticking rhythm on his wrist. The Headmaster was a handsome young man, based on the ‘66 grad photo of Castleton, however whatever good-looking traces had drained and gave in to pepper hair, saggy, blotch-dotted skin, and the stout belly line. What remained the same was that he still stood with his feet wide and energetic voice, always confidence and in controlled. The same stance he had seen ones with power stood—ones like Dal Bland or Cassidy Passmore.

“I’m fine.” Jaime replied, the Cleaver weighting a side of him down. He glowers at the cold seeped through his pores, letting anger and vengeance warm him. Passmore wouldn’t mind the open windows and the mid-winter breeze. Passmore wouldn’t constantly fearing for his petty reputation. Passmore wouldn’t be crawling in an old man bed, pleasure him, and quick to vanish right after the deed. When the Headmaster looked at Passmore, he must have been drawn in by the buoy boisterous that resembled much of himself. After all, birds of a feather flock together.

“Come, Jaime,” The Headmaster said. “And you should probably put the knife down, now, yes?”

Jaime looked at his hand, looked hard at the hard handle and the gleaming blade, before setting it down right at the edge of the Headmaster’s cherrywood desk, meeting the man’s shrewd gaze. The Headmaster broke the eye contact first, pushing the folder across to him.