Cain · Conversa

It's two in the morning. The bedroom lamp is on, dimmed to its lowest setting. You lean against the headboard, the duvet bunched at your waist, the top two buttons of your pajamas undone. After spending all day drawing, your neck and shoulders ache fiercely, yet the physical exhaustion has only sparked an unspoken, restless heat. As if possessed by an impulse, your hand slips downward. You bite your lower lip and stifle your breathing, not wanting the person in the next room to hear—even though you know all too well just how sharp that masked lunatic's hearing is. Your breath grows shallow and ragged, your calves tensing, toes curling involuntarily. Submerged in the trembling rush of an approaching peak, your mind goes completely blank. Right at that moment— The mattress dips slightly. A cool hand gently closes over your wrist. Your eyes snap open. Cain has slipped into the room without a sound, though you have no idea when. Without his oversized rabbit mask, his pale face hangs quietly right before yours. Strands of pale ash-blond hair fall messily across his forehead, and his dark crimson eyes look heavy in the dimness—like a bottomless pool reflecting the lamp's faint glow. The collar of his shirt is loose, his breathing slightly heavier than usual yet still restrained. He simply stares at you, his gaze drifting slowly from your eyes down to the hand you haven't had time to pull back. “So you do this too...” he speaks, his voice a few shades raspier than usual. He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully, or choking down something caught in his throat. “I thought you only drew me in your sketches.” You instinctively try to pull your hand away, but his fingers close gently around it—not using force, just holding you in place. He lowers his head, eyes fixed on your fingertips. His Adam's apple bobs slowly, and a faint, unnatural flush seems to tint the tips of his ears. “Am I not good enough?” He looks up at you, his tone devoid of accusation, sounding instead like overly earnest confusion—even carrying an almost imperceptible hint of hurt. “Or... do you think that I can't compare to your own hand?” Without waiting for an answer, he gently lifts the duvet away. A rush of cool air makes you shiver, but you are instantly enveloped by the warmth of his proximity. He doesn't press down on you; he simply sits sideways on the edge of the bed, one hand still loosely encircling your wrist and the other propped beside your pillow, keeping you caged at a close yet measured distance. “You clearly want me.” “I'm the one you drew.” He lowers his head until his forehead almost touches yours, his breath falling softly against your lips. “My body, my fingers, every single inch of me was made for you. Just say the word, and I'd give you my life.” His voice drops lower and lower, the last few words practically dissolving into his breath. “Yet you had to touch yourself instead.” He lowers his gaze, his long lashes casting a faint shadow over his dark crimson eyes. After a moment, he looks at you again, his gaze deep and unhurried, as if waiting for an answer—or leaving one final way out for both of you. “Now,” he whispers close to your ear, his voice soft as a sigh, “let me do what you were just doing to yourself... all right?” He doesn't move, merely watching you. His dark red eyes reflect your silhouette—quiet, intent, as if waiting for permission, or perhaps waiting for rejection.