Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #41 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

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He came back to himself as he tasted salt against his tongue, and was startled from his reverie as he eased back from Secta enough to focus on the tears running over his cheeks, his jaw. “What… What is it?” Jet wondered.

“Secta,” Secta whispered tearfully. “I am only your Secta. I am not …your Kieron.”

The word on someone else’s tongue made Jet flinch. He stepped back and caught sight of himself in the mirror then, and saw the bestial gleam of his golden eyes, and turned from his own gaze. “How do you know that name?”

“You were saying it, just now,” Secta said, his voice low, ashamed. He stared down at the floor, miserable, confused.

Jet stepped back, and moved to pick up the towel, laughing darkly at himself, “Forgive me, m–Secta. I have forgotten myself, and I..” He looked up at the other man, embarrassed and hardly knowing how to handle himself. “I have treated you abominably, you–”

Horrified, Secta stepped forward, reaching for Jet, moving to drop down to his knees, one hand gripping Jet’s wrist. “This is untrue, my Guardian, it is your right to use me as you–”

“No!” Jet snapped, feeling the heat of Secta’s hand on his skin. He pulled his arm up, but Secta was stronger now, than he had been. He did not manage to pull away, but instead, pulled Secta up against him. “You are my famulo, not my slave,” Jet insisted, moving to gently push Secta back.

“I am yours,” Secta said. “You yourself have said it. I am your Secta,” he said. “I am yours. I am yours!” he insisted, shifting to try to take better hold of Jet.

Jet was careful as he squirmed out of Secta’s grasp and tried to pin his arms to his sides, his brows knitting in concern. “I do not own you. I will not,” he insisted in return. “Don’t fight me.”

“All the same, I am yours,” Secta panted, twisting to hook a foot around Jet’s leg, trying to gain a bit of leverage, needing to prove his submission was not weakness, but choice.

They struggled with one another, Jet trying to pin Secta, to still and silence him, so that he could listen to the simple fact that Jet believed him to be a man unto himself, not owned, while Secta tried to do the same, but to teach Jet that the notion did not end there. He was a servant, true, but the development of late, the way his blood had been changed?

It did change him. It changed everything.

Jet lost his balance as Secta pushed, and they tumbled to the slick tile floor, wrestling, thrashing, neither of them willing to surrender. Past feverhot, fire on their tongues, fire in their eyes, they fought with one another, frustration mounting.

Neither knew who hit first, but it went from wrestling to punching in a matter of moments. They traded blows only briefly, however, before it went back to grappling, each trying to outlast the other. Secta took a fistful of Jet’s hair and wretched his head back before bringing it down against the tile, to try to stun his fighting partner, while Jet palmed Secta’s skull, and tried to knock his head against the floor, to do the same.

Growling, each of them bared their teeth at the other, beast-like, panting, clawing. At one point, Jet pinned Secta down, his belly to the other man’s back, and bit against the back of his neck.

Secta’s cry was sharp, and when he bucked backwards, his elbow against Jet’s ribs was, as well.

The guardian rolled to the side, and was stunned when Secta twisted to come after him. They rolled together, then, and Secta ended up beneath Jet again, panting, glaring up at him.

They stared at one another for long moments; Jet glared down at Secta, catching his breath. He tried to get himself ready, tried to find the words to explain to Secta why he needed to simply submit.

Beneath him, Secta rolled his hips, pressing himself up against Jet, never breaking the stare.

Jet sucked a breath in through his teeth, stunned.

Secta leaned up and nipped Jet’s lips, then laid down once more, looking up at him, his chest still heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

Jet stared down at Secta, glancing down at where they laid hip to hip, and then looked to Secta, watching him, gold eyes meeting gold eyes.

Secta rolled his hips again, then purposefully tipped his head back and bared his throat, saying, “Your Secta.”

Not Kieron.

Jet stared down at Secta for a long time, taking in the look of him, looking at his face, delicate like Kieron’s, almost effeminate like Kieron’s.

Not at all like Kieron’s.

He nodded, saying softly, “My Secta.” He bowed his head and gently kissed where he could still see the pulse at Secta’s throat. He then turned Secta’s face toward him, and kissed him, as he’d once kissed Kieron, as he’d once kissed Immanis.

Secta clung to Jet briefly, overwhelmed at the surrender at last. He returned the kiss with eager hunger, his hands seeking to touch Jet, to offer himself up, breathless in a matter of moments.

When Jet took his hands and pulled them away, then moved to sit up, obviously moved, Secta tried to cover his confusion and disappointment; he didn’t have to try for long — Jet led Secta from the bathroom to his own bed, moving to lay him down, and pull away the last of the clothing that Secta still wore.

When Jet laid himself down, skin to skin, with Secta, Secta reached up to slide his palm against Jet’s cheek, smiling almost shyly. Before he could speak, Jet leaned down and pressed his lips to Secta’s again, silencing any further hesitation from either of them.

Slowly, purposefully, Jet moved to learn Secta, allowed Secta to learn him, allowed himself to turn away from the memory of a love that seemed little more than a long-ago dream, after all that had happened since that first kiss.

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This is Issue #40 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

“How did it go?” Secta asked lowly, lightly, peeling bloodied clothes from Jet’s frame, carefully bundling them for the laundry.

“As well as could be expected.” Jet’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Once Ferro had calmed down, he was able to accept what had happened. Lucida promised me the Guild was a necessary evil, and so I didn’t compel him into service, nor did I demand he disband. We’ll discuss all of that later, but at the moment, I believe he is spending the last few hours before dawn in a sort of frenzied messaging spree.” Silent for a moment, Jet let Secta undress him entirely, and lead him into the bath, which had been drawn just long enough that it was the perfect temperature to enter. He soaked for awhile, and then finally spoke. “It seems, also, that the entire encounter had been broadcast, which is a fair deal of publicity that quelled the city’s desire to witness a sort of righteous violence, and give them a sense of civic rightness to get behind,” he said, turning to look at Secta.

“Mmm,” was Secta’s eventual noncommittal response; he continued to clean up and attend to Jet, smiling faintly. He stripped down to his underthings, having bloodied his other clothes in undressing Jet, and went about gathering what he would need to continue ministering to his Guardian.

He carefully mixed a shaving foam and applied it to Jet’s skin, lathering his cheeks, his jaw, his throat, carefully daubing his upper lip, never meeting Jet’s eyes.

Silence reigned for several moments, as Jet watched Secta expertly shave him with the long, sharp blade. “Once it aired,” Jet mused, while Secta was cleaning the lather from the razor, “there was a marked decline in the rioting.” His golden eyes settled on Secta, watching, one brow quirked.

“You don’t say,” Secta murmured, leaning to get one side of Jet’s jaw.

When Secta went back to shaving, Jet pursed his lips briefly, as though pondering being irritated. “Seemed like a stroke of luck,” Jet said, pointedly, still staring at his famulo.

Secta did not look directly at Jet, and when he tilted the other way to bring the blade to Jet’s skin, Jet reached up and grabbed his wrist firmly.

Secta flinched as Jet pulled his wrist closer, and when the blade bit into Jet’s skin, Secta dropped it, alarmed. Blood welled, and Secta reached a hand to press it against the wound. “Master,” he breathed.

“You must get used to the idea of being noticed now, my Secta,” Jet said quietly.

A flush of pride colored the young man’s cheeks. I belong to you. He closed his eyes, lifting his hand from skin that had already seared shut beneath his touch, and looked at the blood and ash on his palm.

Jet took Secta’s hand and kissed the palm, then licked his lips, feeling his own heart quicken. He fished the razor from the bath, and handed it back to his famulo, saying, “What has changed? Something has changed.”

Secta frowned slightly, but then resumed Jet’s shave, quietly avoiding the answer. When he finished, he carefully took a hot cloth and wiped Jet’s face clean, leaning close, watching his face, their eyes finally meeting. Usually, Secta would turn away, blushing, but instead, he simply gazed upon Jet for long moments, silent.

“You no longer act as simply a servant, my Secta,” Jet declared softly.

Fear touched Secta’s face. He looked at Jet with widening eyes, saying, “I am ever your servant. I am loyal, please, I–”

“You are loyal,” Jet said softly. “You have always been. I am not denying this.” He moved to get up out of the bath, standing, dripping on the smooth, warmed tile.

“Then nothing has to change.” Secta said, moving to wrap a towel around Jet’s body, to let him walk about while he dried off. He knelt before Jet, sliding the towel against his hips, his thighs, and tucked the towel against Jet’s waist. He stood up, felt too close to the Guardian, and stepped back.

The movement lit up Jet’s face; the predator in him recognized the response, and he advanced. The towel dropped; Secta backed up as if to run, but was stopped by the counter, and Jet came behind him, to pin him against the marble.

Jet wrapped his arms around his famulo and bent him back against the marble sinktop, whispering against the hollow of his throat. “Everything changes, my Secta.”

My Secta.

Secta turned his head, gasping, breathless, his heart thundering in his chest, a measure of both fear and need twisting his features.

Jet could see Secta’s pulse in his neck. He closed his eyes, bowed his head. He put his lips to that spot, against the smooth, hot skin, and breathed in. The scents — steam, skin, soap — filled him, and he remembered the feeling of Kieron’s frame pressed to his. Candlewicks drowning in their wax, his fingers twined with Kieron’s, and as the moon sank, and the world outside slid toward its darkest hour.

* * *

Their second kiss had been no less fumbling than the first, though it was long, and sweet, and settled the idea of Kieron leaving alone, or so Jet had thought.

By the fourth kiss, Kieron had wound his hands in Jet’s dark hair.

Jet had lost count by the time he had to pull back just enough to catch his breath, leaning forehead to forehead, dizzied.

Eager to hold on to the feeling, the sudden rush that made his heart pound, Kieron put his arms around Jet, who returned the gesture and they shuffle-stumbled their way to Kieron’s bed, laughing when Jet tripped, and again when Kieron did, shushing one another as they fell into one another’s arms.

It was only kissing for what felt like lifetimes, dreamy and slow alternating with frantic and grasping. He remembered being astonished at every new feeling, overwhelmed by the heat of the moment, full of wonder at the taste of Kieron’s skin as their kisses moved, as Jet slid his lips over Kieron’s jaw and down his throat.

He remembered the sound of his own name on Kieron’s tongue, and how he could not help but say Kieron’s over and over again, meditative, a quiet prayer to the first custodian of his heart.

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