Iason slides into the seat in the centre of the great hall and settles his hands on the armrests. The hall is filled with dusk, sparks of light drifting from the dome high above like sunspecks. He watches in deep silence as they surround the floating sculpture of Jupiter with a faint halo. He lets the stillness of this space seep into his mind, and then he lays back his head and closes his eyes.
Now I know pain.
The thought rises in him like the swell of waves, driven by a distant storm. He lets it flow unhindered.
I learned of loss.
The waves lap ashore heavily, washing away at the cliffs that cut into the water.
I found...
He snaps his eyes open and stares at the shimmering sculpture. His throat tightens, as if the silken cord was still looped around it, making it hard for him to breathe. And then the waves crest, the storm raging towards the rocks, battering and breaking away in exhaustion, only to race back with renewed force, beating, whipping, bursting into foam and taking with it a fraction of the shield, a grain of eternity.
Iason rises abruptly, his hands clenching by his sides, his breathing heavy.
I refuse to drown.
xxx
In the darkness of his den, the blinds drawn to lock out every trace of light, Katze crouches between his bed and the blackened window. On the bare concrete floor around him, a handful of small white tablets are scattered among cold cigarette butts, some scrunched up where he's stepped on them. He is unclothed. The room smells of rotting walls and peeling plaster. From the bathroom the reek of waste. The bed hasn't been made in days, the covers are half-dragged off, the mattress bare. The computer screen is empty.
Katze rocks back and forth, a nervy rhythm that helps him pick some of those little pills off the ground and pop them into his mouth. He gropes about, an empty bottle rolls away with a hollow ring. He snorts, remembers something and turns to drag himself up on the edge of the bed. He is too shaky to stand, so he kneels, then crawls on hands and knees, pausing when he gets too dizzy. Nausea is cramping his stomach, but he makes it into the filthy bathroom without missing the door. From a heap on the edge of the sink, he scoops some powder and snorts it up his nose, then he sags with his back against the tiled wall and waits for the effect of the drug to kick in.
While he is sitting there, an idea brushes his numbed mind. He raises his hand and tries to touch his face. He misses, tries again, misses and then hits the spot. He laughs. His fingers, nails uncut and dirty, trace the scar. Feeling every knot, every ridge and furrow.
Again. Scraping over tender skin.
Once more. With more pressure, something cutting into the fog that wraps his brains.
An explosion of pleasure that comes with the pain, the first droplets of blood that smear his fingertips. He licks them, tasting the salt and steel, the cloying sweetness. Hunger springs at him, making him ravenous, for the first time in days he feels as if he can eat, put something else than cigarettes, drugs and booze into his system. He keeps scratching, licking, excitement growing, rippling, coiling deep in his belly, until it blooms in silent pleasure, sobs of release shuddering through him as he loses himself at last.
He's figured it out. And when he's sobered up enough, he cleans himself up, sweeps the rubbish under his computer desk, and picks up the phone.
"Katze here," he says, switching on the computer to start working. "Two things, my friend. I want some special supplies... Black Moon, yes. And someone who can cater to my preferences. I expect your offers. Don't make me wait too long."
xxx
Riki is slouching against the bannister of the terrace when Iason returns. Riki doesn't turn. He is smoking and fraying a length of black rope. Iason pauses by the door across the large lounge, the room with its clinical neatness suddenly goes on his nerves.
Nerves? That's what Riki would say.
"Show me," Riki says without looking.
Iason tilts his head. "What do you wish to learn?"
"All you taught him. I wanna know everything."
Iason feels heat wash through him, so sudden that he is tempted to give in straightaway. Instead, he goes to change from his formal suit into a more relaxed one, made of soft black fabric without the elaborate trimmings of office. When he steps back into the lounge, Riki glances over his shoulder - and swallows hard as he takes in Iason's appearance, the clothes that outline his shape, the swath of silverblond hair that provides a striking contrast, and then he meets Iason's eyes.
Cool blue, barely containing the fire beneath the ice.
"Are you sure, Riki?" Iason's voice is quiet, a raspy murmur that sets Riki's guts churning.
"Yeah, sure," he growls, sticking out his chin. He wants to smoke, but he's used up his packet of cigarettes, their ends scrunched out on the clean tiles.
"You know," Iason says, taking one more step to the exact centre of the room, "what the first lesson was I taught him?"
Riki curls his lips in a smirk. "I have an idea."
"Really." Iason stretches out his hand.
What, are we gonna shake hands now? thinks Riki, but then he meets Iason's gaze again, and it dawns on him.
"Cat got your tongue, or what?" he quips, pushing himself off the bannister. He is not about to chicken out now that the game is on.
He barely gets within reach of Iason's long arms when he finds himself pushed back and down, the weight of Iason's grip making Riki's knees buckle. They hit the floor hard. He yelps, pain shooting up into his legs and radiating from his shoulder as Iason's fingers claw into muscles and tendons as if to pry the joint apart.
"The first lesson," Iason says softly, "was caution."
He lets go. Wincing, Riki draws a hasty breath. Iason stoops and caresses his hair, then his lips touch Riki's brow. "Regrettably, he did not learn it well."
"What, because you weren't a great teacher?" Riki rattles out before Iason's backhand throws him onto the ground.
"Second one was respect," Iason lectures, his features even, his tone unruffled, but Riki can see his gaze flare up.
"Try earning it," he bites out, the words slurred from a split lip that fills his mouth with blood. He spits it out, a fat red glob on Iason's clean floor.
"I will," Iason tells him, grabs his hair and drags him up until they are eye to eye. Iason smiles. Riki glares, and at that moment a burning rage fills him, a hatred that is helpless and overwhelming, fogging his mind, choking him until he thinks he's going to burst. He hates Iason. He hates himself for wanting this, for longing, for the desire that makes him crawl to Iason's feet and let him hit and hurt. But now he senses that he's getting close - and if Iason won't give it to him, he can create the reason for this.
I want him less. I win, it crosses his mind. I have to win.
"How you gonna do that, huh?" he spits, spraying blood over Iason's immaculate skin. "It doesn't work like that."
"Trust me, it does." Iason lets go of him and steps back. "Hate me if you wish. Lie to yourself. I don't care because it does not matter."
"You really think you own me?"
Iason reaches out. Flinching in spite of himself, Riki closes his eyes, waiting...
Iason's caress, featherlight on Riki's cheek, nearly makes him cry.
"Yes," Iason says, barely above his breath. "I do."
And my last lesson? The conqueror will yield to the conquered.
In time, Riki. Everything in its time...
xxx
Wearing only jeans, the fly unbuttoned, Katze lies on his stomach on his bed. He is alone. His wrists are rubbed raw. His head is lolling over the edge of the mattress. He is reading a computer printout with the latest trading data for the goods he deals in. From time to time, he dips a white cotton rag into a plastic bowl with water and slings it back across his shoulders and upper back to cool the welts that mar his skin. He is smoking and enjoying the sensation even though the bedding is soaked through. A small puddle has gathered in the hollow at the base of his spine, but the waistband of the jeans rides so low it exposes most of his backside. His body is still humming with heat but the tension is gone, and for a few precious moments, he feels mellow and at peace.
It doesn't seem important just then that he's given in at last. That, with all his freedom, he has created for himself the illusion of constraints, that he's gone looking for what he's lost by seeking out pain, and that, in the end, he is doing exactly what Iason wants from him.
He knows all of this. And he still has no idea how to deal with it during the empty eternity ahead of him.
xxx
