Work Text:
Riff would, if pressed, generally be able to state that he was very good at anticipating his master’s moods and needs, that he could feel when his young master Cain was looking at him, about to speak. It made it easier to be ready when he was needed, helped him anticipate his desires. Riff was glad when Cain needed him. But there were times when he could feel those golden eyes on him and no summons followed, just a silence so taut he was afraid that it would snap under the strain. It happened several times a day, when he was in the garden or serving tea, or helping his master dress in the morning, bent over well shined shoes and he could feel that there was something his master wanted. It was there, words almost said, a breath away, and then nothing, swallowed like bile. He looked up once, in time to see lips suddenly press closed, white from the pressure and a look in his master’s eyes that made his chest feel tight. But he turned back to his work. Best not to encourage that sort of look. Best to pretend it had never happened. That the tight feeling was not blooming even now into an ache.
It really was for the best. Down that path, the path Cain seemed to want so desperately, lay only heartache. He would not hurt Cain in such a way. No matter how much Cain wanted him to.