“Jimmy?” His mother said over the speaker, her voice cracked and hissed with static. Somewhere faraway, an owl hoot, its sharp piercing, startling the bright, lingering summer daylight. The sound of bedsheet ruffled dull in the background, and Jaime shifted his feet, angling his body further away into the dark, fearing invisible curious eyes, even though he was utterly alone in the hallway.

“Hey. I’m sorry for calling you so late.” He said softly.

“It’s fine, honey. I’m not that sleepy anyway, and it was aunt Henna, anyhow, no? Did you receive the money I wired you the other day?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes.” He nodded absentmindedly even though she wouldn’t see it, picking at the hem of his shirt. “Thank you.”

“How are you? How’s your studying going?” She said, coughing.

“All is well.” He answered automatically. “How are you, Mom?”

“Well, I’m whatever Henna said, nowaday, honey.” She chuckled, which sounded more like a gasp.

He smiled briefly. “She didn’t say much, to be honest. Only that you’ll need surgery, to prevent the tumour from spreading to all parts of your brain.” He recounted, didn’t mention the part where Aunt Henna mentioned the high risk of memory loss or a vegetable life, or worst, death. He carried on. “I will talk to the Headmaster and see if I can drop this semester to go back to the US and take care of you,”

“No.” His mother replied sharply. And then, she mentioned. “Your aunt Myra came by today with her lawyer.”

“What does she want? Amending Dad’s will, again?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.” He could hear each of her breath, loud and shallow. No, not breathing, panting. “She wanted me to sign her off as guardians for you. Imbecile vulture, of course, I didn’t. Henna had agreed to be your guardian and willing to divert her income for your future studies. We haven’t flesh out all the details, but she promised to go to the bank tomorrow and see how could we set up a system for you. I’ve signed the paper to transfer the remains of your father’s account to yours, in case of my death.”

“Mom, stop it. You’re going to make it.”

“But it’s the truth, I’m not going to make it, surgery or what-not. You shouldn’t be hurted if it’s a truth.”

Jaime stilled. His mouth opened, closed. Didn’t want her to hear the choking sound he was making inside his head. He swallowed once, twice, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I can go to Oxford anymore. Or going anywhere, for the matter. I didn’t get chosen as the Head Boy.”

He braced himself for a pregnant silence, for her stormy disappointment but all she said was, “That’s OK. You’re a smart boy, you’ll make it, honey.”

“I won’t. So it’s best if we—”

“I’ve been thinking,” She murmured gently as though it was an inside joke and this was where he supposed to laugh and virtually bumped her shoulders, and even though she didn’t say it, euthanasia stung him motionless. He couldn’t will himself to yell What the hell are you thinking of me, Mom? He couldn’t even manage to cry and say That’s not an option. Because you won’t be leaving me. “Jimmy, it’s an open secret that the surgery would only a temporary treatment so my brain won’t shut down. Whatever we do know is bidding time. I’m weak from the beginning, and lately I had been feeling an ache in my liver. They had discovered another tumour in my lungs.” Her laughter was light and broken like a gaping shattered glass jar, and he banged his head on the bunk’s headboard until his skull was buzzing like a hive, loud and painful more than her words. “My hair fell off, my skin is wrinkled, I’m asleep more than I’m awake.”

“Mom—”

“You’ll go to Oxford, I know that in my gut. You study well, hear me? You study well and you grow up to make your Dad and me proud, got it?”

“But Mom—”

There was a scuffle on the other side, and Aunt Henna murmuring his mother to rest again, and Jaime resisted the urge to snap at her to screw off. His mother politely said Thank you before turning back to him. “I love you, Jimmy.”

፨

He slumped, knees weaken until he sank down to the ground and balling himself up, the unforgiving cold walls stared down at him impassively. The hard disks of his spines and ribs seemed to fracture, and he had a feeling that if he twisted his head a bit and peered through his slit eyelids he would see white bones poking out of his flesh. He sobbed at the tutting line, the never-spoken words smouldered in his throat. He wanted for tears and snot to lit flames on him, however his face was dry, devoid of any emotion. And he laughed at the absurdity of it all—the fact that he felt a giant hole digging deeper inside his chest, the fact that he already felt another half of his heart withering away to the same rapid rate as his perishing mother, the fact that he wanted to scream at the Gods and the fucking tumour gnawing up the little of what his mother had left—yet, he couldn’t even manage to cry or pour out his grief. Instead, he just stood and let the world pummeled him deeper and deeper.

“Kenneth. Jimmy, hey,” A hand landed on his shoulder, anchoring him back, and he spun around, punching whoever or whatever was on the path of his fist.

He saw red. Too much red. Crimson red, drenching the entire life.

Two strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, still leaving enough room for him to punch and thrash, but not enough for him to breath, to cry, to scream, to go crazy. He growled, looping his own arms from under the person’s armpits up to their shoulders, and he braced. The person freeze at the close-contact, and Jaime brought his knee up, hitting the solar plexus hard. The person bit on his tongue, choking, however he stubbornly clung onto Jaime. Jaime elbowed him on the ribs, and he crumbled, his heavy weight dragging both of them down. He snarled and hit any spare of flesh closed to him, struggling and struggling until they were both two lumps of exhausted beings leaning against one another for support.

He wheezed, his head rotating loose from its axis. He heard a soft, hoarse It’s OK It’s fine I’m here with you Stay croaked near his ear, hot breath fanning his neck, prickly, rough hair tickled the underside of his chin. He finally registered the slight rocking. His chest lifted and fell off-pace to the other chest, and his forehead was leaning against a firm, solid-built shoulder. His fists crammed in the space between them, while the person’s palms lay flat against his nape and his back, burning. His conscious gripped onto the soothing chant, hauling itself above the water, and as soon as he did so he regretted it. Because the raspy, distorted voice filled with something he wasn’t familiar with, something disturbingly close to affection that snapped him from inside.

“Passmore?” He sniffed, trying to pray the arms locked around him, picked up the strong scent of sweat and booze and grass. “Passmore, fuck this, you’re too close.” He barked, irritated that goosebumps shivered visible along his skin at the brush of moist lips on his neck.

Slowly—too painstakingly slowly—Passmore tipped back a little bit, deliberately trailed his upper teeth along Jaime’s ear and jaw, before raising his eyes up at Jaime’s downturned mouth.

“I’m sorry. Are you OK?” Passmore whispered, cupping the back of Jaime’s head, massaged slow circles through the damp collar. He hesitated before continuing. “I’m not good at comforting people.”

Jaime drilled his eyes hard onto Passmore’s sad blue eyes. He couldn’t find enough energy to pull away yet, because he could still feel his fingers trembling. Passmore seemed to notice that, because he covered Jaime’s hands with his ridiculous giant palms and pressed Jaime’s hands on either sides of Passmore’s hips. Jaime’s heart thundered in his chest, and he noticed their shared oxygen was suffocating his lungs.

“I can’t breath.” Jaime said. He stared at Passmore’s widened irises, was about to snap at the shameless brat to get the fuck out of his personal space, when Passmore leaned and smashed his lips on Jaime’s, forcing his way through Jaime’s clenched teeth, smiling against Jaime’s physical shock.

Passmore suddenly were gripping Jaime’s underarms in the the way that would definitely leave bruises, as though they would topple off into the abyss if he let go. Jaime growled, biting down on Passmore’s tongue. Sharp tang of copper bloomed, mixing with their saliva, however Passmore persisted with an alarming concentration, not even flinching. Tongue ravished Jaime’s oral cavity with a newly-discovered boldness. Passmore eagerly slided his hands up and cup Jaime’s jawbone, fingers curling into Jaime’s hair, determined to dishevel it. Passmore’s energetic explorations forced Jaime to react, in defense of his mouth. As he tugged hard on Passmore’s locks to yank the kid’s head backward and to suck in some air.

Passmore’s fingertips grazed his collarbones, dipping further down his collar, and that was where Jaime jumped. Passmore reeled back a bit when Jaime broke their kiss. For a second, Passmore’s mouth was hanging open, dark and wet in contrast to the white paleness of his skin. He blinked, gaze unfocused, swaying a bit.

Jaime pushed him away, but scrambling backward and grabbed on a nearest newel to hoist himself upright. “Jesus fuck, how much did you drink?” He panted, rubbing at his lips. The tingling numbing sensation was fascinating.

Passmore sat back, a redder flush evaded his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Of course you’re sorry.” Jaime snapped, combing back his mussed bang. “When aren’t you sorry? ‘Sorry for being more popular than you,’ ‘Sorry for taking the Head Boy position,’ ‘Sorry for assholes of friends,’ ‘Sorry for sexually assaulting you.’ What’s next? Sorry for raping me?” Passmore shrunk into himself at each of the Sorry Jaime flung at him.

By the time Jaime finished, Passmore had practically curled into a ball of shame. His skin was evidently red and he had started babbling. “I thought that was a signal or something. Like, that’s what Dal said to me.” He looked up at Jaime and Jaime stared right back, bewildered.

“When did I ever give off the Kiss-Me vibe?” Jaime said in an eerie level tone, while inside all he wanted was to scream and throttle the stupid fucker off.

“You were looking at me.” Passmore said. As though that explained everything. Passmore cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, and Jaime had realized, based on the lingering-echo, that he had yelled aloud. And, before he registered, Jaime was punching Passmore’s face. His anger only blazed brighter at Passmore’s pathetic cry.

Jaime breathed in, taming his desire to smash Passmore’s head on the floor repeatedly until he broke the fucker’s skull. His fingers were trembling again, so he curled them into tighter fists. Blood roared in his ears, pulsing rapidly at his nape, contaminating his body with heat and fury.

Jaime breathed out, and brought himself to ground out, “Stay here, got it?” He brushed past Passmore, strode toward the Head Boy’s Staircase.

“Where are you going?”Passmore rolled on his knee. “Wait. I’m so—”

Jaime growled, turning around in a sharp, swift movement, pointing his finger. “Stay here. I’ll come back in a sec with something.”

“Okay.” Passmore mechanically jerked his head up and down.

Jaime nodded back and walked briskly up the flight. He glanced back before dipped up their stairs, and didn’t know whether to be elated or frustrated at the kid’s obedience. He combed back his bangs. Passmore was definitely drunk now, drunk enough to start slipping through his defense cracks. However, obviously, he was still not senseless drunk that he lost his conscious completely. What Jaime needed to do was simply make him drunker and hoped Passmore died from liquor poisoning.

He was at the last step when a voice rang out, startled him. “Kenneth,” More greeted, shutting the door behind him. “See? I win.” More said, smug, still unaware of Jaime’s blackening mood.

“How wasted are you, right now?” Jaime started, wasting no time. He clamped a hand on More’s shoulder and drew him back inside again, dragging him into the kitchen.

“Conscious enough to know that you’re about to give me three pounds.” More said, their voices automatically matched a hush whisper, almost unidentifiable in the thumping dark. The party-goers had seized to sprawling and sitting in small circles, littered themselves from the foyer into other areas, content to lazily slosh their drink in their solo cups and placed down their dealts cards, or simply laid back. Some encircled in each other’s arms, others threw themselves haphazardly across any medium in sight. The drinking had halted almost completely, but the talking had grew louder and fiercer. Most didn’t even flit their eyes or raise their chin at Jaime’s direction. There were neither Dal and Fishburne in sight.

He swept his eyes over the kitchen counter, and peered at the bottles lying around. “I need you to make Passmore mad. Mad, as in, murder-mad.” He said as concluded that the six-pack beer had ran out. What left was half a bottle of Coke and Fishburne’s own-brew. Jaime grabbed the nearby empty bottles, quickly rinsed them and poured Fishburne’s self-brew liquor in, sniffing it, before slotting six bottles into the six-pack. “Where’s Reg? Do you have some left-over coke?”

More grappled to hold him still. “How am I supposed to make Cassidy Passmore mad? And why? He’s drunk shit-head already.”

Jaime bit out. “You never ask How. Not even Why.”

“Now I did,” More snapped. “Because literally the only tactic I think might be successful is fucking you in front of him. But then I don’t even think Prince Charming would dare to step in out of politeness or whatso.” More hissed. “Cass is unflappable. Tell me how many time he get slightly irritated, and here you want me to make him murder-mad.”

Jaime inhaled deeply, gripping More’s slender wrist. Panic thrummed to them both. And as Jaime and More deadlocked their gazes, Jaime wondered if More could see the anxiety pulsing in his eyes. “Figure it out,” Jaime said, removing More’s hands off him and sidestepped. “Just do what I say. You know I would never do anything reckless.”

He sensed More’s wry, somber smile in the half-light darkness. “Right.”