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The Political Science department always seems to get a little colder during History of War classes. Cain is not very used to the cold, having grown up in a tropical country where it’s always sunny, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. It’s december, and the air creaks with the freezing cold, a type of stillness that makes time go slower, and when he is in Professor Owen’s presence, it stops completely.
Cain loves History of War.
He has always been a little too bold, too shameless, but he has taken it a step forward this time as he walks to his professor’s office with a wrapped gift in his hands. He is ready for rejection, but hey, it’s Christmas. The holidays are a time for introspection and altruism, and even if Owen doesn’t seem like it most of the time, he is only human. Maybe he can accept Cain’s affection for what it is, for the sake of Christmas spirit.
He knocks on the door, trying to keep his expectations low.
“Professor Owen, it’s me,” Cain tries. “I just came to wish you happy holidays.”
No reply.
“I have a gift,” Cain tries again. “And sweets.”
Silence. Cain starts to think maybe this is a lost battle until he hears shuffling behind the door, and when it creaks open, there is no one behind it, like he is in a horror movie. He smiles. It’s just so like him.
“Sorry for intruding,” Cain says, walking in anyway. He finds his professor hidden behind the shadows of the partially closed door, which Cain closes completely to give them a little privacy — not that he has any underlying intentions with his gift and his visit, but his professor often behaves like a scared animal about to jump and attack on whoever dares to step too close.
“Where are the sweets?” Owen says first of all, and it makes Cain chuckle.
“Merry Christmas to you too,” he says, but hands him the cup with the hot chocolate he made. It’s full of sprinkles and marshmallows with whipped cream on top, disgustingly sweet, just like Owen likes it.
“Whatever,” his professor says, and gets the cup from his hands and immediately dirties his face with the whipped cream. “What are you doing here? I told you I have a strict “no students during the holidays” policy.
“Well, I didn’t come here as a student,” Cain shrugs. “I really just wanted to give you this.”
Before Owen can react negatively, Cain shoves his gift on the hand not occupied by the hot chocolate cup. Owen looks at it like he’s offended, but doesn’t immediately throw it in the trash can, which is a good sign.
“Open it,” Cain urges, and his professor sighs and puts the hot chocolate cup on the table so he can unwrap the present.
Cain watches Owen’s face as he unwraps his gift. He is so angelic, almost porcelain-doll-like, but his bright red eyes are off putting like headlights to a deer on the road. There are very few wrinkles on his face, despite being in his early forties. He is pristine and cold like the snow that falls around them, and Cain can’t deny he’s enamored.
“Where did you get this?” Owen’s voice takes Cain out of his trance, and he realizes he has finished unwrapping his gift, and is now holding in his hand a one of a kind antique dagger that has cost Cain more than he cares to admit.
“I saw it in an antique shop when I visited home during the summer,” Cain says. He’s lying. He got it online, and ordered it months in advance after he found out Owen has a dagger collection at home. He doesn’t like lying, and he’s not sure he's very good at it, because Owen looks at him with a lifted eyebrow and an incredulous expression. The dagger is so pretty, though, with a curved blade and a handle with carved golden details that are proof of the legitimate craftsmanship of whoever made it. “Do you like it?”
Owen holds the dagger in his hands, moving a finger to touch the tip of the blade. It’s sharp , and Cain watches as a drop of blood runs down his finger to his hand. Owen looks back at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
“I'm not sure about the quality,” he says, and then the corner of his lips curve into a sick smile that Cain usually sees when his professor is describing medieval torture methods he’s particularly fond of. “I'd have to try it.”
The implication sends a shiver down Cain’s spine. He smiles back. “Well, then,” he says. “Why don’t we do it?”
Owen keeps his gaze locked on his, as if he’s analyzing what Cain said. Then, he steps just a little bit closer, and just that is enough to make Cain hold his breath. The tip of the blade is oh-so-slowly pressed right there against the center of his throat, a single point of connection between them. The air in the room is so thick all of a sudden, and he has felt this tension before: it’s always there between them, Cain knows , but Owen refuses to give in no matter what. It drives Cain a little crazy, but the best things in life are always the ones you have to work hard to get.
He almost doesn’t feel it when blood starts to drop from the small puncture in his throat, so focused on Owen’s gaze, which refuses to look away from him. Cain can’t take it anymore.
He swiftly removes the blade from where it’s pressed in his neck and pushes his professor against the door with practiced ease. Owen yelps, but Cain puts his arms around him and cages him in, refusing to let him get away this time.
“Let me go,” Owen says, and his voice sounds high-pitched, which is strangely cute. “Cain Knightley. This is highly inappropriate.”
“I don't think it is, Professor,” Cain says, grinning. He has Owen where he has been wanting him for months now, and he is not letting go so easily. “No one has to know.”
“This is pathetic and pitiful of you,” Owen says, an attempt at a sarcastic smile showing in his face, but Cain can see right through him. “Did your daddy not give you enough attention when you were a child, so now you seek it from older men to fulfill a void that is never going away? Poor Sir Knightley, always so lonely.”
Cain hums, ignoring the attempt at mocking him. “No, not really. Dad and I get along just fine. I just so happen to like pretty men.”
That seems to render Owen speechless for a moment, and the way his eyes widen is so amusing. There are many things Cain can see looking at him now: shame, guilt, want, a little bit of anger. He wants to kiss it all away, to make Owen give in to the feeling, to let go.
“This is disgusting,” Owen says again, but Cain notices he has stopped trying to get away. “I will never allow myself to partake in something like this.”
“Why not? It's not like you’re forcing me. In fact, I'm the one who has you against a wall right now,” Cain teases, getting even closer, and he can practically feel the unnatural coldness that comes from Owen’s skin. It feels nice against his own warm body.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Owen says, but his eyes move away from Cain’s for the first time to look at his neck. Then, he moves his hand tentatively closer to Cain’s throat, and Cain lets him, watching his every move. He runs his finger softly in Cain’s neck, gathering the blood that came out of the small wound. His touch is light, ghost-like; it makes the hair in Cain’s neck stand. He watches fascinated as Owen takes his now blood-stained finger from his neck and puts it in his mouth, making a show of licking it.
“What the fuck,” Cain says, but he watches everything hypnotized, his heart drumming inside his chest, a heat creeping up in the pit of his belly. It feels like someone turned off winter and put him in hell instead with how hot he feels at the sight.
“I hated your gift,” his professor says, licking his lips. “I never want to see your face in my classes ever again.”
“You say that, but,” Cain smirks playfully, and traces a finger against Owen’s cheek. He is so pale it would be almost comical if he tried to deny how red he has gotten, his cheeks beautifully cherry-colored. Cain half expects him to try to bite his finger off. “And I can’t just quit classes like that. We're in the middle of the semester.”
“I'll kick you out,” Owen says, but he doesn’t sound threatening at all, not with the way his chest rises up and down just as quickly as Cain’s, his eyes fixed on his student with something guilty but hungry shining in them.
“Sure,” Cain indulges, but his finger doesn't leave Owen’s face. He basks on the tension for a few more seconds, until his teacher suddenly grips his cheeks and stares at him intently.
“Leave,” he demands, and Cain smiles, moving from where he is pressing him against the wall and setting him free.
“I'll come back,” Cain says, and Owen looks at him with a mockery of anger in his red eyes.
“Don’t bother,” his professor says, but his tone has no edge to it, completely defenceless now that Cain has stripped him down of one of his walls.
“Enjoy your hot chocolate, Professor,” Cain says as he leaves. “I hope you have a happy new year.”
Cain doesn’t wait to see if he will reply. He just smiles to himself, content to know that the next time he's back, the door will open for him a little easier.