Drake had only spent half an hour in Diana's dorm room before she and Caine started up their little game. It was past eleven, Coates' lights-out. He and Caine weren't supposed to be in the girls' dormitory at all, but Diana had forced one of her various admirers to make a copy of the dorm mother's key. Drake hadn't wanted to go at all, but he couldn't stand the thought of listening to his idiot roommate's nasally snoring one minute longer. Going out past curfew was a good way to pass the time, even when they inevitably ended up in Diana's dorm.
At first, Caine had insisted that they go just because Diana's current roommate—she bragged constantly about how she'd scared off or otherwise antagonized all the other girls rooming with her in an attempt exhaust Coates' staff until they allowed her to get a room all to herself—supposedly had some contraband to smoke or drink, but Diana's roommate never was there. There was only Diana. This time, when she let Caine and Drake in, she was wearing an oversized nightshirt that showed off her long legs. Drake could tell Caine was eating it up as they entered her room, which was covered in clothes, hangers, and many packets' worth of unfinished school assignments. On top of that, the room stunk of a nauseating mix of air freshener and vanilla perfume. Diana told them that the messiness was another way of irritating her roommate into leaving, but Drake strongly suspected she was lying. This time, the bed on the opposite end of the room was empty and stripped-down, the walls devoid of photographs or posters. Apparently, Diana had been successful yet again.
As Caine and Diana started flirting with each other in that obvious way they had, Drake stewed on the unoccupied bed, picking sullenly at a hangnail. He didn't even have any booze to stave off the boredom; despite what he claimed, Caine didn't drink or smoke. He was totally straight. Diana did both, but Drake would rather die than bum a cigarette or beer off her. The game they played consisted primarily of asking Drake to do shit for them while they made eyes at each other in private. Drake only did what Caine said because of his telekinesis, but Diana apparently thought she had the license to act like an authority over him, too. He couldn't do anything about it but sulk, because Caine would be on his ass in a minute if he lifted a finger to hurt his precious crush. So sulk Drake did, restlessly awaiting the minute Caine would ask him to do some menial chore. Sure enough, half an hour in, Caine broke away from his and Diana's flirtatious conversation.
"Hey," he said in his easy, smooth manner. "Be a pal, Drake. Get us some coffee from the cafeteria. I need to work on a paper that's due tomorrow." "Put two sugars in mine," chimed in Diana. She smiled, sickly sweet. Drake resisted the strong urge to snarl at her in return. Instead, he grunted, "Bite me," and continued to pick at his hangnail like it was the most important thing to do in the world. He heard the sound of footsteps coming closer. Drake looked up, seeing the coldness in Caine's dark eyes.
"Drake," he said softly. "Get us some coffee. Now."
He held up his hand in a way that was now familiar to both Diana and Drake. A pink mechanical pencil began drifting upward from its place on the floor, hovering right in Drake's line of vision. He swallowed.
I know what you're doing, asshole, he thought, staring into Caine's eyes. He wondered if the other boy could feel the raw hatred he felt for him in that moment. Remember what I can do, Caine's eyes were saying as the pencil began to rotate idly in front of him. Remember that I can spear this pencil through your eye if I wanted to. Now get me and Diana some goddamn coffee.
Drake's eyes darted to Diana. She was smirking like she always was. She looked as satisfied as a cat that got the cream.
Drake stalked out of the room, muttering darkly to himself the minute he closed the door behind him. He began walking down the stairs to the girls' common room. The girls' dorm had a coffee maker that still worked, unlike the guys'. As he began brewing the coffee, he brooded. Caine was an asshole, but he hadn't always acted this way. When Caine first started developing his telekinesis, he and Drake had almost been something like co-conspirators. They started making plans of how they would monitor Caine's power every day through hourly practice, write notes down in a spare notebook kept in a secret place. Looking back, Drake found himself feeling bitter rather than nostalgic. Both of them had been stupid, then. Inexperienced. He in particular had dreams bigger than being popular with the female population at Coates, but Caine was willing to throw it all away for the sake of one of them. He was abandoning their plans. Real telekinesis had possibilities beyond getting laid. Drake was smart enough to know that. Superpowers like that meant authority.
Just thinking about it made him get excited. Power was the one thing he'd been deprived of—he was just one lone fish in a big pond at Coates, even if most of those other fishes were terrified of him, and rightfully so. There was no joy in scaring kids who, despite being tough guys in their other lives at home, turned into cringing, pants-wetting babies when you beat them to a bloody pulp one too many times. Drake had power over those kids, but it was the power of a lazy cat over a mass of slow, idiot vermin. There was no fight to it. Caine was different. Caine was a challenge.
Drake couldn't quite puzzle him out, which thrilled him. It didn't matter who it was—he'd never met someone who didn't fade into a sort of placeholder image in his head, all interchangeable, all boring as hell. There was a mind-numbing sameness to all these people. They were all too emotional and not emotional enough. It was maddening. More than that, it bored Drake out of his skull. They were just too predictable. It was too easy to feel spite for them. It was too easy to feel hatred for them. As far as Drake was concerned, there was no one like him—no one really real, no one not worth despising. Physical and emotional fragility was a disease inherent to mankind, after all, but he was made of different—better—stuff.
If people's lives were mind-numbing in their sheer predictability, death was a never ending source of fascination for Drake. Death was fascinating. There was something so pleasurable in provoking that kind of reaction out of something—the squealing, the whimpering, the swelling contortions of, say, a puppy roasting in a microwave. Death, injury, pain—it cut through the dull haze of everything else. The puppy, Drake remembered, had wagged his tail and licked his face before it went into the microwave. It was warm and wriggling and alive in his arms. But the gooey look in its big brown eyes meant nothing to him. He might as well have been watching a puppy on a television screen. When it died, though...that was different. Felt different. He could see its flesh melt off in real time. He could see the stuff inside, the guts and blood. It excited him. It made him feel alive. That was real. Not the licking or the jumping or the tail-wagging, but the blood. The sounds of pain emanating from the dully humming microwave. The pleasure rolling in waves over him, like hits from a potent drug.
Caine was different from everybody else, to a degree. He was a little like Drake. They could talk on the same level, almost. They knew each other. They both saw through other people. They both knew the fine art of manipulation. When they huddled at their lunch table, talking about Caine's manifesting psychic power, it was like they were the only real people in the whole cafeteria of gibbering morons. Drake couldn't let some bitch with a superiority complex take that away, no matter how much Caine liked the way her hips moved when she walked. It was too important for them to continue working together.
Diana was a thorn in Drake's side that grew bigger every day. She thought she could be a bitch because she had a good body. She thought she could do whatever the hell she wanted because she had Caine wrapped around her goddamn finger—both of them had the nerve to act like Drake was the third wheel of their group, but Diana positively relished in bossing him around like he was their errand boy. And, like everyone else in the world, Caine was a slave to his own animal emotions, even though he thought he was above them. Despite him constantly going on about the telekinetic powers he was developing, Drake knew that Caine would give it all away for a chance to get into Diana's pants. Hell, half the reason he was working on his power at all these days was to impress her. Caine didn't know it, but Drake knew, bitterly so. Diana was an obstacle wedging them farther and farther apart. Their whole dynamic was being disrupted, all because Caine couldn't stop drooling over a bitch just begging for severe attitude adjustment—preferably of the physical sort, administered by him.
Drake paused to enjoy the idea: him back into Diana's room, relishing the wide-eyed look on Diana's face—not so smug now, huh, bitch?—as his fist popped her square in the mouth. The bright red blood streaming down over her mouth would probably match her lip gloss. Drake felt the prickle of goosebumps on his skin. He gave a little shiver of pleasure.
Then, his dreamy grin faded. He was standing in the empty, silent common room once again. He began pouring coffee for the very people he was inwardly railing against.
He wondered, as he brought the mugs back out into the hall, what Diana and Caine would be doing when he entered the girls' dorm again. Guys snuck out of their dorms after curfew for one thing, he knew. But Diana didn't like Caine—unless he forced her to do stuff with him, which Drake didn't think Caine was into. That was the one saving grace of their relationship—it would never happen. Diana was too smug, too in love with her own power over him and other male students at Coates, to think about screwing Caine. Drake had relayed the rumors about the latest guy she'd messed around with to him a few days ago, in the vain hope that it would deter him, but he didn't seem to care. He didn't even seem fazed when Drake told him, with relish, how Diana had even been seen skulking around with Dekka Talent, the school outcast.
"Diana's not a lesbian," Caine had stated, cool as a cucumber. He stuck one of the cafeteria's greasy French fries in his mouth. One of the delights of Coates Academy was that, despite their dietary standards being supposedly much higher than the average public school's, the cafeteria food still tasted like shit.
Drake picked at his own tasteless burger with a plastic fork, digging the tines into the soft bun. He leered at Caine. "You don't get it. She's playing you. She's too busy munching Dekka's carpet to even look at you again." He tried not to let the excitement show in his voice. Caine, though, didn't react the way he wanted at all. One of the irritating things about him, Drake thought, was that Caine hid his emotions under a layer of charm-boy nonchalance. He almost never gave anybody the satisfaction of seeing him sweat.
"We talked about it," Caine replied neutrally. "She's just messing with Dekka. It's all a joke." He grinned in a way that most people found unnerving. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's got to work to gain her trust. Dekka's a very closed-off person."
Drake didn't smile back. Humiliating Dekka Talent would be fine if Caine wanted to do it, but Diana was working alone—and still, she shared her plan with Caine, like they were attached to the hip. God, it was like they were married already.
In the present, Drake entered Diana's room with the mugs in hand. He ignored Diana, who was luxuriating on her bed in her oversized nightshirt in a way she undoubtedly thought was sexy. He offered Caine his mug first. It was petty, but pettiness was all Drake had to work with; Caine would abandon him completely if he lay a finger on his crush's precious head.
The more he thought it, the more impotent Drake felt. He could feel himself starting to clench his teeth.
Caine finally stopped ogling Diana's thighs when Drake handed him his mug. He took a slow sip. Caine liked his coffee black. He hadn't bothered getting Diana her sugar; hers was just as black as Caine's. To his displeasure, though, she took her mug and sipped it smoothly. "Thanks," she said, flashing him her smug smile.
Drake resisted the urge to slap that insolent grin off her face—she knew exactly what she was doing, the bitch. Seething, he took his place on the bed opposite her. Caine was still in the computer chair at the desk, Diana's laptop open on top. Diana's laptop was covered in a smattering of stickers from bands Drake knew she only had on there to impress the horde of guys she slept with. It infuriated him. She was so two-faced and manipulative, and Caine didn't even seem to care.
Caine was working diligently on his essay as he sipped his coffee. Despite eagerly joining in on Drake's various diatribes on why Coates was a hellhole, he still cared about maintaining his grades. This irritated Drake. Why bother keeping up the facade that he cared? There was no point. He himself didn't bother with grades—the emails sent home to his parents were littered with remarks about his so-called "attitude problems." His parents sometimes called in an attempt to talk about the emails, but Drake had stopped picking up their calls long ago. His parents were wholly ineffectual, whiny, insipid. He hated hearing their yammering on, in between beatings from his dad, about his potential, his future, how he needed to care. Who the hell did they—his teachers and parents both—think they were, anyway? What did they know about his future? They'd shit their pants if they knew about the puppy he'd stuck in the microwave—never mind what he'd done to the raccoon digging in their trash cans over the summer. And their neighbor's parrot.
"Enjoying the view?" Drake snapped out of his brooding. He'd zoned out while gazing at Diana, who was now smirking at him from her spot on her bed. Her lips glistened; she'd recently re-applied a layer of her lip gloss. She gracefully crossed one light brown leg over the other, then flexed her toes, playful.
Drake's lip curled. God, she was such a narcissist. "Yeah, 'cause everyone wants to screw you," he snapped, tone icy. "I'm probably one of the last guys you need to cross off your list—"
"Shut up, Drake," said Caine flatly, still typing away at the desk. Drake glared daggers at the back of his head. His dark brown hair was perfectly coiffed.
Diana sat up on her bed. Her cheeks were pink, Drake noticed. He felt some satisfaction; he'd struck a nerve. She flashed him a small, insincere smile. Her voice dripped honey as she said, "Sorry, I don't sleep with psychos. Especially ones who can't get it up without—"
Drake saw red. He lunged at her just as Caine swiveled around in his chair. Diana instantly curled up and rolled onto her side to protect herself. He grabbed the fabric of her nightshirt, meaning to forcibly roll her over and get at her face, but then felt some huge, invisible pressure press at the flesh of his neck. Drake stopped and put his fingers to his throat. Something was beginning to crush his windpipe. Drake struggled not to gasp for air.
Suddenly, incredibly, it came to him: Caine was using his powers to choke him.
The realization made his blood run cold.
This was Caine's newfound way of telling him to lay off. Down, boy.
Drake relented, retreating to the bed. Now was not the time to get into some petty fight with Diana—not with Caine's weird power to reckon with. He could figure out how to somehow beat him later. It wasn't ideal to be under Caine's thumb. Even besides that, antagonizing Diana when she somehow knew of his proclivities wasn't smart. Drake knew that it was prime blackmail material, the kind that led to psychological treatment if the rumor was spread to Coates staff.
When he saw Diana's fear evaporate upon realizing Caine had handled the situation—her admirer had come to her rescue once again!—Drake felt both angry and befuddled. How did she know about that? She had to be lying, just making something up because he fit the type—antisocial, violent, with a (justified) dislike of Diana and all his other vapid, petty female classmates. She had no idea that it was true. Besides, he thought venomously, of course a slut like her would know about that kind of stuff.
Diana was breathing hard, but her insolent smirk was beginning to return. Drake's eyes darted down; their scuffle had momentarily rucked her nightshirt up, revealing her underwear, pearl-white against the light brown of her skin. Drake felt a little instinctive jolt of desire, as primitive and low as the act of salivating upon smelling food. He felt nothing but contempt for Diana, for her whole damn gender, but sometimes his body betrayed him. It wasn't enough to turn him on fully—Diana wasn't scared or humiliated enough for that—but Drake felt a pang of disgust at his own wayward feelings. He needed to stop being so excitable. Diana was too eager to weaponize her body against him; he couldn't be even remotely vulnerable to her charms.
Caine glared at Drake. "Don't do this now," he said coldly, sitting back in his chair. Drake saw nothing in his eyes. They were flat, devoid of depth, except for a twinkle of anger. He'd do anything to impress his precious Diana, even break his facade of neutrality. Drake remembered when he'd used his powers to threaten her science teacher that one time. He'd been livid then. Drake had never seen him like that. It wasn't scary, exactly, but it was interesting to see him so blatantly emotional. Satisfying, almost. Satisfying...and disappointing. That was his first indication that, deep down, Caine was just like any other teenaged boy, despite his pretensions—he'd do anything for even the vaguest promise of sex. It meant that Caine wasn't like Drake after all. They were close, but not the same.
Drake was alone.
"If you guys want to fight like a bunch of animals," Caine continued curtly, "do it when I'm not in the middle of an essay." He swiveled back around. Soon, the air was filled with the tapping of keyboard keys and the occasional click of a mouse. Diana, apparently unfazed at seeing her pseudo-boyfriend telekinetically choke someone, got up and started rifling under her bed. She soon pulled out a couple half-full bottles of nail polish—one neon green, the other navy blue. For a girl who was perfectly made-up in public, Drake thought spitefully, she was a slob in private. She didn't even have a roommate anymore to blame it on.
Diana got up and tapped Caine gently on the shoulder. He turned around in his swivel chair, eyes softening. "What shade?" she asked, almost playful. Drake wondered if she was purposefully angling her body so Caine could get a proper look at her breasts—an impressive feat, considering the shapelessness of her nightshirt. Knowing her, of course she was trying to get him to look at her. Everything she did was a calculated form of manipulation. Caine was eating it up, his essay forgotten—his eyes were alive with an embarrassingly naked hunger as he watched Diana paint her nails and talk about nothing substantial. It was disgusting to watch.
If he could see himself right now, he'd puke, Drake thought to himself, folding his arms. God, he couldn't take this mess anymore. He got up. "Taking a walk," he muttered to Caine. He didn't answer. He was too busy levitating Diana's nail polish and luxuriating in her muted amusement.
Drake walked back to his dorm with his hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket. It was cold, despite it being only the tail end of August. Drake knocked on the door until his roommate—who, as he expected, was too meek to scold him for waking him up—let him in. He took his time getting into bed, despite it being one in the morning. Wake-up at Coates started at six-thirty, seven at the latest; breakfast started at promptly seven-fifteen. Drake wasn't worried. He could always sleep in and skip breakfast. His dorm parent would be watching him like a hawk for the rest of the week, but oh, well. Soon enough the staff at Coates had to realize that he wasn't going to play their game.
As he lay in bed, staring dully at the ceiling, Drake thought about what had unfolded that evening. The fact that Caine had hurt him with it had shocked him to his core. Even now, he could only regard that fact with an almost clinical detachment; Caine, his only friend, had tried to choke him for defending himself against a girl who was only leading him on.
The thought filled him with a dull, almost depressive fury. Of course, Caine would betray him. He was just like any other screw-up in this school—pathetic, easily distracted, susceptible to seduction. He wasn't looking for real, tangible power. He wasn't looking to rule Coates' student body or any of the junk they'd said to each other. Drake felt angry and stupid just thinking of it. Caine was worse than all the others in this school, in fact, because he had the balls to act like he was like Drake, like they wanted the same thing.
And now Caine had the power to hurt him—even to kill him.
Drake's blood ran cold for the second time that night. He rolled over, restless. He'd never been an easy sleeper—he was prone to bursts of insomnia—but this was going to be a hard night. Caine wasn't someone to conspire with anymore. No, he was someone to appease, to accommodate. Drake had been naïve to think otherwise.
He bit his lip. Nervousness was an unusual emotion for him.
His roommate started to snore softly. Drake stifled the familiar urge to wring his neck. He forced himself to close his eyes and let his mind drift. He could worry about Caine and Diana tomorrow. He'd just have to be careful. He'd have to be smart—no more needless antagonizing for Drake Merwin. From now on, he'd be the perfect toady to Caine. He'd lull him into a sense of security, keep on his good side. Then, when the moment was right and he had some sort of leverage, he would strike out on his own. It was better to be alone, after all, than hang with a pretentious liar and the school slut.
There was a big chance he didn't have to worry after all, Drake thought. He was overreacting. Caine wouldn't hurt him. He wouldn't get the chance. Once the adults found out about his telekinetic powers, Caine would be carted off to some secret facility, like in X-Men or something. He wasn't in any danger. Drake told himself this multiple times as he tried to go to sleep.
Somehow, he couldn't quite believe it.