Chapter 9
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Hello - to all of you who read and kindly reviewed this story, my apologies for the delay in updating. I have finished the other story I was working on (a GW story, Ice on The Heart), and hope that I'll be able to finish this one soon. I find Iason's POV hard to sustain, but I'll try. LH.
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"Almost twenty years," Raoul says, in his cool, even voice. He sits on Katze's chair and is talking to Iason's back. "Twenty years of sweating my way through exams, of cramming and sleepless nights, of research and hard work. You know it. This made me who I am. This is what made you, why we have been chosen."
Iason stands by the window, his hands linked behind him, his posture rigid. He is wearing his most formal suit of office. Beneath him, Eos looks dull in the rosy light of the rising dawn. He makes no reply.
Raoul shakes his head, a tiny frown of irritation on his forehead as he rises and smoothes out his formal tunic. "I wish you would be less headstrong."
"Determination." Iason turns, meeting his gaze unsmilingly. "That is what got me here."
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Katze steps in the moment the door slides shut behind Raoul. He holds a steaming mug out to Iason. "Coffee?"
Iason takes the hot drink.
"Is he saying he should be in my place?" Katze asks.
"He is saying he won't be compared, let alone displaced. He's accepted that I won't sell you."
"Unless big momma tells you?"
Iason steps close and leans in as he hands the mug back to Katze. He grips Katze's wrist, and his lips touch Katze's ear. "It's personal," Iason murmurs. "And I'm not telling."
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Katze looks on edge as Iason runs first his fingertips, then his palm, over his bare arm. A small breath shudders from Iason's lips. He slides his hand into Katze's hair, combs through the messy strands, then trails off. Iason turns his back to Katze and takes off his coat. Katze is quick to catch it and drape it neatly over the hanger. The office suite is really a penthouse, topped by the peak of Eos tower, and the pyramid ceiling of elegant carbon trusses and photosensitive glass gives it a surreal air. It contrasts oddly with the mundane – the corridor that leads to Katze's room and the kitchenette he uses but that also serves the few visitors Iason has up here; the large bedroom to the other side of the office, with its walk-in closet and expansive bathroom. The only luxury though is the space afforded to Iason; the interior is spartan – stark white and grey, steel, glass, diffuse light, a mirrored wall in the bathroom. The closet is nearly empty, containing a couple of soft suits like Katze's but black, and Iason's office garments. Each is prescribed by tradition and heavy with meaning, status symbols that make their wearer appear taller, wider but at the same time weighing him down and draining him of individuality. Even at the top of Eos tower, Iason remains firmly welded to the pyramid beneath him.
Iason steps to the panorama wall and looks down on the darkening streets of Eos. He folds his arms and just stands there, in silence, watching the shimmering bands of traffic, red and gold, weaving through the thickening dusk.
Katze settles on the edge of the desk and lights up.
"This," Iason says at last, "we must not feel." He is talking at the glass and through his own image that is reflected in the smooth surface. His expression is concentrated, matching his tone, as if he is about to solve a tricky political setup.
Katze says nothing. Iason's shoulders rise and fall slowly. Drawing a deep breath, he turns to meet Katze's eyes. Slightly drooping lids shading deep amber irises, smoke swirling lazily around sharp pale features. Katze waves the wisps away. Iason's gaze has a strange edge, something he hasn't let Katze see before. He knows he looks off-balance, and this time he doesn't try to hide it. It is a first for Iason, but if he is sliding, he is also controlling it.
"Katze." The name tastes strange. Scratchy. "Why did you agree to come here?"
Katze shrugs, sweat beading on his upper lip. Iason watches, warm, sticky emptiness pulsing through him. It is, he thinks, as if things had flipped, taking on a completely new meaning. As if a veil had dropped, and suddenly everything had become clear and raw at a stroke. Iason knows that the balance of power is shifting between them, and he is curious. Not afraid, it drifts through his mind, not like Raoul who is scared... of too many things, of what he doesn't want to know, of life and of dying.
Afraid? Why should I be? And how close is too close?
"You asked me," Katze says, and Iason wonders whether he is trying to save himself from too much thinking. "I mean, you wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides," a wry smile tugs at Katze's thin lips, "you were right. I needed a chance to get out of there."
Iason steps closer. "I am... useful to you?"
"I'm trying to make myself useful, too," Katze offers hoarsely. It is not quite an answer, and Iason watches him with interest – the way he squirms, the half-smoked fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, and how he is trying to appear cool when he radiates nervous energy from every fibre of his body.
Katze settles one hand loosely over his crotch. It is a small, self-conscious gesture, and he is a fraction too late. There is a small pause, then Iason moves in, his body in perfect harmony, powerful, measured and self-assured, a big animal in motion. He is aware of the effect, and he is using it to bear down on Katze who looks away, perhaps scanning the glossy floor for something that might snag his attention, draw it away from Iason's presence.
"Your laws," Katze says into the sudden silence, "aren't that special. It's like in the slums, only here I'm at the bottom of the pile."
And we all must get used to it, Iason thinks, order and discipline, they are the foundations of our world; where would we be without it? We would all sink into chaos. Dana Bahn has been a warning. No, we cannot be without laws.
But he doesn't say it. He braces his hands to either side of Katze's thighs and leans forward. Sat on the desk, Katze is caught because getting up would be just as bad as staying put, a yielding of territory, an admission of defeat Katze seems unwilling to make – and it would push him against Iason's solid form.
Iason can see the tiny hairs on Katze's temple, and watches a shiver run through him. He imagines he can hear Katze's heartbeat in the pulse at his neck and smell the sharp aroma of clean skin and cheap cigarettes.
"Look at me," he says, his breathing touching Katze's skin. Iason can't tell whether he wants this to be or not, and he feels as if he'd climbed up Eos Tower and now he's balancing at the tip of the glass pyramid, looking down at his world that is holding its breath.
"It's not allowed," Katze grinds out.
"Come now." Iason draws in a deep breath and lets it go slowly, savouring this strange moment. Avoiding Iason's eyes, Katze stares into Iason's hair, the shimmer of light filtering through it, the line of silver that gleams off every strand.
"Say my name." Iason's tone shifts, drops, becomes almost a question, but he can feel his lips moving against Katze's skin now. It is damp and warm and tastes of salt.
"It's agains the rules," Katze replies, his voice hollow. "This is like having a mega-hangover, you know. Like getting hammered in the clubs, and all you know afterwards is how much your ass hurts." He shakes his head, his hair brushing over Iason's mouth. "It's okay for you, but nobody's gonna believe me if it comes out."
"It won't." Iason cups the back of Katze's neck, gently and boldly all the same.
He realises just how much he's hoped for this when Katze suddenly leans into his touch. There is no break, no hesitation; it is as if the redhead had waited for this to absolve him from all restraint.
It runs through Iason like a living flame. He can feel it connect, heat streaming through him from head to toe, tingling in every fingertip, and it shoots into his brain, making him dizzy with elation. It also pools down below, and he is suprised by the intensity of it. Different from the listless, pointless sensations that came from watching a good show, the reaction of his body is so prompt and forceful that it threatens to switch off his brain. Iason grasps for control, and finds it difficult.
"You look," he murmurs, pressing his lips into Katze's hair, "as if you wanted to jump off a rooftop."
Katze makes a strange sound, a gasp or a groan, Iason cannot tell, but it echoes through him in long, burning pulses. Katze grabs Iason's waist, and Iason moves towards him, taking the momentum from him. The redhead seems relieved. Perhaps, it drifts through the haze that consumes Iason's mind, it is better this way, with Katze less guilty of doing the unspeakable than Iason who knows, who isn't supposed to feel or do any of this.
"I watched you," Iason says breathlessly, Katze's warmth seeping into him through layers of clothes. "I heard you. I wondered... I want..." He sighs heavily and starts tugging off his jacket without stepping back, never letting go completely. He feels Katze moving against him and struggles with the tight wool, pent up energy rippling through him.
Katze pushes his bare fingertips under the hem of Iason's shirt. He yaps something Iason doesn't get, but he can feel his reason yield at last as he yanks up Katze's tunic, almost tearing it off him as he pulls it over his head, and takes Katze's face between his hands.
"Look. Look at me!" Iason orders, asks, pleads.
Katze's fingers clasp Iason's wrists, his short-bitten nails pressing jagged, pink half-moons into Iason's white skin. His body his tense, heaving, his breath comes in deep, fast gasps; his throat jumps as he swallows, and his lips are dry. "I... Ias... Iason..."
"Look!"
And when Katze's eyelids slide open, Iason sinks into liquid fire.
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On to chapter 10
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