Jaime and More made a beeline to their usual spot, the table at the far end of the Mess Hall, by the windows that overlooked the Athletic Fields. They were quite early compared to the rest of the Dorm, saved for the clusters of jocks drifting in twos and threes after morning practice. The open space was filled with freshly baked whole-wheat bread and cooked rice, traditional greasy eggs and bacons and a slight hint of soy sauce. More’s nerd boys was already lounging across the table and benches, poring over their textbooks and mock-exams, each chewing his food mechanically.

They greeted More, clapping hands in ritual. To Kenneth, they nodded, grinning in an easy-mannered. Keir Herring, a blubber ginger boy who did better than him in Physics, inquired about his sleep last night, to which he responded by rubbing the tender swell around his eyes and said it was the only thing that marked him as a human, the only thing that proved he has his flaws just like the rest of them. The group bursted out laughing, clapping him on the back, and Jaime might or might have covered his flushed face with his hands in exasperate.

By seven thirty, the entire rugby squad had situated themselves at the four centre tables in the Mess Hall. At this point, the Mess was a chaos of noise and shrieks, of plates clatter dully against laminate surface and spoons shovelling rapidly into hot, hungry mouths—entirely unsuitable to concentrate, much less for studying.

Jaime and More went the opposite way from their group, both heading for the third floor for Anthropology and Sociology. They passed the rugby team on their way to the Main Staircase, and Jaime walked quickly through the throngs of people, not eager to meet anybody’s eyes. However, More sniffed thickly brought his attention, and he finally was forced to turn slightly and eyed More.

“What?”

More jerked his chin, a blush bloomed across his cheeks. “Nothing, I’m fine.” Jaime reluctantly backpedaled on More’s gaze and raised his eyebrow at Tamar Ahmed. Jaime pasted a polite tight-lipped half-smile, did a quick scan over the Left-wing’s darkened clothes and stream of sweats running down the sides and the back of his body, well aware that Ahmed’s steel eyes were doing the same thing on him, possibly mirrored the same disgusted look at his crisp, newly ironed outfit and the bronze locks frozen obediently in place. Ahmed’s lips twisted into a mocking sneer, and Jaime could already hear him mouthing fucking Draco Malfoy across the space.

“C’mon,” Jaime sighed, hitching his bag up. “I want to ask Mr. Khaled about something.” They both knew Jaime didn’t need to ask anything, but thankfully More only nodded and went along. Jaime accidentally made eye contact with Fishburne, and his lips parted slightly in a way that was ghosting between a genuine smile and a disdainful leer, but since Fishburne’s eyes became warmer, he decided Fishburne had seen the former.

His gaze slided over to grinning Passmore and he promptly yanked his head, stepping over the door and gestured for More to hurry up.

They were rounding the corner when Jaime decided to break the silence. “You’re an idiot. A bloody broken-hearted idiot.”

“Tell me about it.” More retorted, the playfulness seeping slowly back to his voice. He inhaled shakily, and carded his fingers through his hair. “I thought, you know, it might work out. I mean, we were together for six months, doesn’t that count for something?”

“Couples stayed together for at least sixty years before it is something,” Jaime replied drily.

More snorted at that.

“You don’t actually have a fifty-eight, do you?” Jaime asked.

“Well—” More started. But Jaime pinched his nose and waved off the rest of the sentence.

“Forget it. You’re the biggest idiot on this whole wide world.” Jaime said.

One would think More should ace Anthro, considering how smooth he was with words and deep-thought, out-of-the-blue philosophy questions, yet apparently he was scraping by. Jaime suspected More was lying, since he was awfully loud when announced his average to the entire class while casting a not-so-subtle glance at Tamar Ahmed, the one More was leeching onto at that time. That was, until a week ago.

“Seeing his bitch purposefully scored lower than him must have pissed Ahmed to no end, and knowing his bitch was trying not to hurt his feeling must be a blow between his eyes.” Jaime remarked. It was a general rule that the rugby team milled out kids with serious height, vulgarism and ego issues. Ahmed was the exact epitome of that. It was easy to figure it out.

“Why, you sound irrationally rational for a person who never been in love.”

“I had my share,” Jaime said airily. “I’m glad that he cut tie with you, though.”

“You’re just happy that you don’t have to witness make-out sessions 24/7.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “God Blessed.” Jaime, honest-to-God, never figure out what More loved about Ahmed. He had a great physical appearances, Jaime would admit, but his brain was an useless blob of gray matter poorly slapped together and shoved in his skull. To attract to someone so disturbingly easy to read or predict, Jaime mused, baffled at the idea. He would rather go with an cripple whose intellect and unpredictability was just quite his reach, not so much that would overwhelmed him, but enough to little excited discoveries every day. But then again, perhaps he had thought too highly of More.

He was indeed glad at More’s break-up, and now more so, though More could conjecture whatever reasons he wanted as he pleased, giving Jaime never let out a wistful advice and what-not. Previously, he was delighted that at last he waking up to the impudent prick that dared to swaggered into his place like he owned it. But, now, though, with More still tender from his wound and Jaime with a hatching scheme that in need of a pawn, Jaime could easily taken advantage of More. More had been spending the week whoring himself to boys of all sorts, and Jaime had witnessed enough of More’s melodramatic breakups to know the pattern would continue for at least another month before he landed himself in another imp’s arms.

More made a long exhale as they finally reached the third floor and made a left, voice dreamy but bitter. “Everybody at this age love too much, you know.”

Jaime did not hesistate when answering. “We were birds, and the Dorm was a cage. After a while, cocks would just start to chase around any available holes to stick their needs in, and have mistaken their sexual drive for what-so-called love.”

More huffed. “The person who loves you must have a hard time.”

Jaime smirked. “I recalled someone said ‘If I was into the cold-shell-but-warm-heart, I think I’d be madly in love with you.’”

More was half-way through his protest and angry renounce and repeating You’re not even my type, dude. There’s the word If, okay? When Jaime was aware of footfalls shadowing theirs. His alarmed face reeled More out of his ramble, and both stimutanously glanced behind their back.

“Seniors,” There was the lofty Passmore, jogging behind them, slightly out-of-breath. Jaime shushed his resentment, and nodded a greeting at the Sophomore. “How fair your day?”

“Is there something you need from us?” Jaime said.

“I, uh,” Passmore halted a few feet away from them, rubbing his flushed neck, his blue eyes darted at Jaime, to the wall, down to his hanging hand and his feet. “You were quite upset yesterday so I just want to—”

“I haven’t die from the cold, but I might die from your kindness, Passmore,” Jaime said, trying to keep his teasing tone high and light.

More snickered. “Don’t piss your pants, lad. This guy is borned looking like he’s going to fucking put a bullet through people’s head most of the time. A military brat, he’s.”

Passmore frowned.

“If you keep running that mouth of yours, I’ll.” Jaime said. Then he turned to Passmore and gestured. “Is that all?”

Passmore shuffled nearer, pulling on his cuffs. Jaime didn’t miss that his fingers twitching in anxious. He cleared his throat and finally croaked. “Are you mad at me for being chosen as the Head Boy?”

Jaime stiffened, but quickly relaxed his muscles under both Passmore and More’s scrunity. He paused, selected his words carefully. “That’s awfully blunt, Passmore.”

Passmore shifted, caught between feeling proud and feeling guilty of his position. “Well, you were intense and work hard for it, so—” Passmore cuts himself off and tried again. “I really think I don’t deserve the position. I don’t have much experience or the stamina like you. I mean, you’ve been here for three years, worked along side Olle for just as long. You know the ins and the outs, while I’m still adjusting with the whole planning and executing plans. You seem to have a specific vision of how you want Castleton to be.”

“But you won’t give up your position to me, I assume?” Jaime snapped. And Passmore’s words died in his throat, the slope of his shoulders bowed. Jaime’s mouth quirked into a surpressed snarl. He stepped forward and let his hand rested awkwardly on Passmore’s shoulder. He spoke, slowly, clippedly, harshly. “You’ll learn, Passmore. You must. I’m willing to help you learn the ropes. Because I’ll rather dig my grave than acknowledge that I lose to a pessimistic, whiny, spoilt son of a bitch.”

He gave Passmore a hard stare until Passmore nodded stiffly. He abruptly turned and stalked off to the classroom just down the hall.

He didn’t miss More’s giddy whisper, Hey, don’t cry. Jaime is just unused to show his caring side. He’s a cold bastard who scared fire might burn him, that’s all, and Passmore’s tentative, I know.

Jaime jeered at their naivety inwardly.

They would never suspect he would be the one who light the flame.