Passmore jerked awake at Jaime’s sharp footfalls, blinking rapidly, hands automatically rummaged down his body. The kid looked around with a disoriented expression. The moment he spotted Jaime’s approaching figure, however, he straightened, folding his knees to make space for Jaime, looking giddy and dumbfounded. Jaime allowed himself to crack a small derisive smile as he parked himself next to Passmore.

Passmore scouted closer, twisting to face Jaime from where he was sitting at the bottom step of the stair. “Hi,” He said, almost like a giggled, and Jaime flinched from the out-of-place shrill octave.

“Wipe that stupid smug off your face,” Jaime sighed.

Passmore nodded, but only grinned wider, his neat rows of teeth gleamed when caught the feeble moonlight filtering from a nearby window. “I’m just—” Passmore started, cutting himself off. Then started again, beaming brighter with every word as though that was possible. “I can’t believe you come back.”

Jaime plucked a bottle and held it to Passmore. “Drink more. Then I could at least blame this whole stupid ordeal on the booze and not our idiotic selves.”

Passmore scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head. “No, thanks. Don’t want anything bad to happen.”

“So that’s how it is between us, huh?” Jaime mocked. “Something bad.”

“Do you want it to be something else?” Passmore asked without missing a beat, and Jaime almost did a double-take. He found himself glancing away from Passmore’s hopeful, searching gaze.

He thought Passmore would blush, or stutter, or pull off his Sorry acts again, certainly not the hopeful eagerness in his voice.

“Whatever,” he shrugged and leaned back, elbows poised on the edge of the step behind him, fingers wrapped loosely around the bottle neck. He tipped the bottle to his mouth, cool liquid pressed against his sealed lips, and gulped noisily without actually taking a sip.

Jaime decided to wait and see if the kid would grab one bottle by himself, out of awkwardness. If he didn’t after a few minutes, then Jaime would proceed to prob him in the right direction. But the point was he needed to appear as impassive as possible. He needed to maintain the idea that Passmore was making a choice for himself with Jaime had little influence over him. Only then would the guilt of “anything bad” caused by Passmore during his drunken rampage crushed Passmore emotionally.

In case Passmore decided to mention that Jaime was the one who brought the beer in the aftermath interrogation, Jaime could argue that he was bringing the beer for himself, and he could claim that when passing the beer bottle to Passmore, Passmore had insisted he could handle more. Jaime would still be held accountable for indirectly supplying the beer, of course, but Passmore would be ridden with more guilt.

Jaime turned the steps over and over in his head, stitched up the loopholes and prepared his story. He knew his plan would work, still, he couldn’t help but felt under-prepared for his own fate. Because now, suddenly, he had to admit that perhaps he didn’t know Passmore enough.

Initially, Jaime’s plan evolved around Passmore and Fishburne’s guileless trust. Honest, good-natured idiots would assume people around them would also honest and good-natured as themselves, which eventually bring them to their downfall. However, if either Passmore or Fishburne turned out to be not the way they were, Jaime would be fucked. In many ways.

Jaime gave a cursory glance at the soft clink of glass bottle that signaled Passmore had given in to the temptation. Jaime raised his bottle, and they wordlessly conceded a toast. Jaime feigned another sip, watching Passmore’s Adam’s apple bobbed down his long, strong-built neck. There wasn’t any light in the hall, so Jaime couldn’t use the light trick to confirm whether Passmore had actually drink the beer or not. He banked on the muffled bleh and hoped for the best.

“I’m impressed that anyone can drink this shit and compliment Fishburne like it’s the best thing on the world,” Jaime said. When Fishburne first gave them each a shot, Jaime had immediately sputtered the piss-tasted liquid and indiscreetly further voiced his disgust when Fishburne informed that he had brewed the liquor in his bathtub.

“You know they bloody of course had to,” Passmore snorted, referring to Ahmed and his deigned enthusiasm.

Jaime chuckled absentmindedly, running a hand through his hair.

What if Passmore this was where Passmore showed his true face that had been hidden underneath the good-boy show? What if this was where Passmore wouldn’t act as expected?

Jaime tried to convince himself that although it was possible, the chance was tiny. If Passmore wanted to bring down Jaime, he had has plenty of chances. After all, it wasn’t like Jaime hide anything from anyone. The whole Dorm knew Jaime was vying for the Head position, Passmore himself knew Jaime only kept up the neutral face in front of the teachers and Fishburne. For fuck’s sake, the whole world knew Jaime detested Passmore.

Yeah, Jaime wore indignation and determination like they were fucking insignias on his sleeves.

Yet, despite his pathetic try at optimistism, Jaime could feel a tenseness foreshadowing choking his conscious.

Have to think about positive things so that positive things can come to you, he reminded himself, laughing at the irony of it all.

He forced himself to focus—focus on the present, focus on what was unraveling in front his eyes instead of drilling on what was yet to happen. But, with the beer lingering in his veins and the night was heading down a one-way road, self-control was becoming very difficult. His thought was either twined with fear or pumped in excitement, both emotions would easily give way to impulse.

“God,” Jaime breathed, sagging in his seat, completely unconscious that he had said anything aloud. “I just wish this to be over.”

“This? As in the school year, or the party—” Passmore asked softly, pausing. His hand gestured at the intimate empty space between Jaime and himself. “—or this thing of us?”

Jaime thought a smoke now would be nice. Let the nicotine handled the situation and warped his words. “I don’t know. All, I guess.”

Passmore cleared his throat, masking a wounded sound. “Your mother,” Passmore started in a low voice, almost tender, as though if he wasn’t careful Jaime would lash out. “Is she alright?”

Jaime contemplated the question and the endless sarcastic answers that would shut Passmore down. However, in the end, he only said, “Don’t poke your nose in business that ain’t yours, Passmore.”

“I’m sorry. I—” Passmore paused, breath hitched as he searched and failed to continue his sentence with the right words. Passmore sucked in a sharp breath, the sound of fabric rustled followed.“I didn’t know. I wish I could help, you know.”

“What can you do about it?” Jaime said, his voice came out scratchy. “You can’t be a saviour to everyone.”

Passmore stuttered a bit. “Not that.” He clenched and unclenched his hand, frowning at the toes of their shoes, the slope of his shoulders curved inward. “I just don’t want you to go through this alone,” Passmore muttered a curse under his breath, struggling and stuttering through his words. “I know you’re strong but—” Passmore looked up him, unfolding slowly, fingers reaching forward and stopped short of Jaime’s knee, fingertips almost touching Jaime’s. “I know how it feels like. My Gran died a few months ago, and I’m dealing with it still.” Jaime stared down at Passmore’s fingers, hovering, touching but not quite touching him. Jaime’s heart was beating in his throat, painful. “I know she’d die, but it still hurts when she was gone. I wanted to cry for her so bad, but it was, like, a deadweight in me at the time. I thought it was unreal. Sometimes I’d dream of her, you know.”

Tears pricked Jaime’s eyeballs. He pressed his hand against his upper face, hissing through clenched teeth. He could already see his mother splayed in the wooden coffin in the white dress she had insisted to be buried in, flowers haloed around her skull in place for her fallen out dark auburn hair. He would be sitting at the front row again, slouched, head bowed, teeth ached from trying not to snap at the Preacher rambling on about God shits and redemptions. He would be in the same black-tie suit too tight for him, sitting besides a solemn Aunt Myra, across from Aunt Henna, and would drive off in the opposite direction of where his mother’s casket would head to.

He had taught himself to stop playing the scene in his head all the time, but suddenly, the familiar aching foreshadow ebbed back.

Passmore’s palm was warm through the fabric of Jaime’s jeans. Quietly, Passmore rose to the same level as Jaime, fingertips always lingering near Jaime’s skin. Jaime almost let a sob slipped from his lips when Passmore tentatively pat him between his shoulder blades as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s alright.” Passmore murmured against Jaime’s temple. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Jaime almost fell apart at that.

At that exact same moment, it hit Jaime hard in the stomach. The realization. Realizing he was leading himself into a plain trap.

The want to let himself sink into Passmore’s druken, soothing embrace vanished, and he swallowed his half-formed sob—his injudicious—down to his stomach, washed it all away with acidic truth and raging, burning reality.

Jaime hauled himself above the drunken waves that kept pulling him down, finally regained his critical senses. A conclusion. A concede.

Passmore’s honest, good-natured was all an act. Passmore had saw through him and decide that he has screw Jaime over first before Jaime could screw him. After all, considering his lineage, Passmore was well cultured in this kill-or-be-killed society. Tomasz Passmore was a ruthless businessman, renowned for his perfectionist and extreme high-achieved goals for his employees. Cunning and intelligent with his wording and planning, and always was the one who walked into a deal totally in control, and walked out with more than he needed.

Jaime had always pegged Passmore as the cliche case: a rebellious rich son who would choose to be the opposite of their father—Passmore would try to be energetic to contrast his father’s placid coldness. Jaime had thought he was correct, but Passmore had played his role well as a seemingly-friendly, harmless child who just wanted to escape his father’s shadow.

However, he was fooled the entire time. The approach Passmore took tonight was another indication. They had said that liquor brought out the real human hidden inside, and if real Passmore was one who was willing to take what he wanted, then what would stop him from flicking and. His fault was focusing too much on the Headmaster and Fishburne rather than his opponents. He was too quick to build up their whole profiles with only a handful of basic details he knew from rumours and quick observations. Had he also pay attention to Passmore and other boy candidates, he would have know Passmore would be another Dominic Austin to eliminate.

Like father, like son, so they said.

Passmore was acting. He was manipulating Jaime. Coming from a house of sociopaths, Passmore would master the art of control. Control the feeling and you can control the thinking, control the thinking and you can the reaction. This was exactly Passmore was exerting on Jaime. He exploited on Jaime’s mother, weakened his defense. And Jaime fell for it, almost spilled his guts again.

Jaime’s raspy breathes disturbed the otherwise tranquil air. The temperature in the vacant hall was bordering freezing, so their breaths came out of faint puffs of cloud. Indistinctly, through the walls and the ceiling and the open space, he could hear chatters and occasional hoots when one was caught buffing. Sprinkled here and there were discussions on the rugby game on Friday. Passmore slowly withdrew from Jaime when he sensed Jaime’s muscles tensing up. Passmore went to retrieved his bottle from the bottom step and returned at the exact spot by Jaime, elbows resting on his splayed-out knees, quietly sipping his beer.

Jaime retreated to the silence, made no apparent move about the hairbreadth space between them. He waited until Passmore gulped down a particular large amount and said, “I won’t tell anyone.” Jaime traced the faint amber outline of Passmore’s flesh, sensing Passmore was mentally doing the same to him. Passmore paused, then continued slowly. “You’ve always so insecure.” Passmore put down his empty bottle—confirmed by the clear click when the bottom contacted the floor—and sighed.

Jaime smirked sardonically even though they couldn’t see each other’s face, saying nothing.

Ten more minutes, and there would be no going back. He ran his plan through his head once more, but driving away the worry rugging on the side. Passmore could potentially be a threat, but so what? So what if Passmore figured him out? So what if he would be expose?

If he went down, better went down with a fight. If he went down, better went down as a villain and not a feeble side character.

Time was already trickling away before Jaime had even started the plan. The winter semester would end in a month, exams would follow and after the two-week break, Fishburne would be gone. Dal Bland would be no use, by then. Fishburne, along with the Headmaster was on the top of his revenge list, and Jaime would rather die before allowing his enemies to escape his grip without serious scalding.

If he went down, he would make sure to first overthrow Fishburne, sever his fragile, newborned relationship with Dal, and smash Passmore’s reputation to pieces before he was expelled. Some way or another, Jaime would reach his goal.