Reprise - Ekor/Kelas

[xkelasparmakx]

conducting-cardassia
Reprise, n.:
an act of repeating something
music: a part of a song or other piece of music that is repeated

Ekor paced in the small closet the university staff had appointed him to change and prepare. There hardly was any space at all, but he was glad he had what was there to himself. The tunic he was wearing was of a simple but trim cut, black, with ornaments sparingly applied to the hemlines and the slope of his collar. Ekor had saved credits for more than two years to have it made, and the figure he cut in it was dashing.

Outside, his classmates were heard preparing, warming up their instruments: it was pandemonium.

He crossed his wrists in front of his chest, halting the tremor in them by pressing them against each other. His stomach sat high, clenched with nerves, and Ekor deeply regretted not having thought to bring a flask of hot rokassa juice.

This was it.

Tonight’s concert was unofficially part of their graduation rite: each year, Central University invited their dignitaries, their best professors and functionaries as well as some of the more promising student body to hear the graduating class of the State Conservatoire for Music in an evening-long concert. And although it wasn’t codified anywhere in the regulations, to do well here meant a great deal. To do poorly, even more so.

Ekor swallowed hard. His throat was tight and his stomach was in knots, but as he opened the flat oblong box that contained his conducting baton, he knew he had made the right choice.

It had been more than thirty years since any of the Conservatoire students had chosen to perform as a conductor—by far the more common choice was to play as an instrumentalist and leave directing to one of their instructors—so the official announcement of tonight’s concert (and those that were to follow on their tour of Cardassia’s universities) had caused a little bit of an anticipatory stir.

Breathe, Laset. He heard instructor Partak’s dark and calm voice in his mind. You cannot beat the nerves, but you can force your body to ignore them.

Expelling his breath, Ekor pushed the air out of his lungs completely, deeply emptying himself. His body’s instinct was to draw in more, but Ekor resisted the urge, compelling it to relax. In a fight, Cardassians’ lips would be ever so slightly parted, taking in the scents on the air for any advantage or early warning.

Ekor closed his with purpose, slowly relaxing his jaw and touching his tongue to the roof of his mouth, signalling to his nervous system that there was no danger. After a few minutes, he felt his throat begin to loosen, and when he held his hands out in front of him, they were steady, for now. There was still time until the concert started, and he would have to repeat the exercise.

Ekor had never been on the campus of a university before, much less that of the Central University in Culat. He had of course seen footage of their main auditorium, and like all of them, had been warned of the venue’s difficult acoustics—but when their transport had first arrived three hours earlier, Ekor had been awed by the sheer size of the place. Multiple buildings were connected to each other by a system of walkways, it was almost like a whole town of its own. As they passed, Ekor read the plates of each entrance; the sprawling edifices were dedicated to various sciences:
E 35 a: Mathematics, C 17 m: Exobiology, P 8 d: Law and Justice, G 23 a: Medicine, and so on. It was dizzying.

The Conservatoire was small by comparison, but that far from the only difference. There were no children here, and most of the students were women.

Like Ekor himself, his classmates were quiet as they took it in. Like him, they had been brought to the Conservatoire at varying ages during their childhood, and what seemed like a vast and terrifying space then, had in fact been relatively small and quite sheltered in more ways than one.

As Ekor had expected, the final rehearsal went poorly to middling, and now, just few minutes before the event, tension could be felt keenly in the stiffness of their limbs, the curtness of their nods and the hushed tones of their voices.
Taking another deep breath, Ekor pocketed the baton inside his waistcoat and stepped out of the closet.

As was custom, the whole ensemble took their places in silence behind closed curtains. Ekor spoke a few words with each of them as they walked onto the stage; he would join when the curtain went up.

This was all or nothing. His future depended on all of them as much as theirs depended on him and each other, but Ekor knew them. He knew what they were capable of, what was difficult for whom, he knew when to moderate and when to draw them out. Mistakes would happen, as they always did—but they were the best Cardassia had to offer, disciplined and excellently trained.

When Ekor finally took the stage in absolute silence, he didn’t feel nervous any longer.
Cardassian music was by and large played in ensembles of varying sizes; there was no room for soloist histrionics, and in music, as in all of society, each individual person was only valuable insofar they contributed to the whole.

The students were seated where they could keep contact both with Ekor and with each other. As conductor in chief, it had fallen to him to make selections and arrangements, to plan out the whole concert from the first bar to the last note. Ekor had taken pains to choose pieces that let each of them show themselves from their best sides without showing off, had switched around parts where some found themselves struggling, had replaced some of the pieces with others that would allow for the proper dramatic progression of the music as the concert went on.

This ensemble was his very own instrument, and he was going to make it shine.

As the first solemn notes rang out into the darkened auditorium, Ekor’s focus narrowed, and the world around him fell away. And when the last sound of the ultimate bar had faded into a whisper, and the audience remained transfixed in their seats for several more minutes, Ekor knew he had done well.

Kelas slid his fingers nervously along the polished wooden beads. He slid them up and down the slender braids woven here and there into his hair, making them click, making them clack, against each other, against his claws. The music should calm him once it began.

He had been unsettled lately between the increasing workload from his studies, and his attempts to keep himself away from his bad habit. He hadn’t expected that he could be completely successful, knowing his own mind and his obsessive tendencies, but he was pleased that he had managed to decrease the frequency with which he visited the clubs and sought out the pain. He would have been more pleased with himself if he could have stopped completely. But he was trying not to be too harsh on himself. He wasn’t certain he could handle that just now. On some of the nights he stayed in he would take to hurting himself to find his pleasure but that could only go so far when he longed for certain things.

He was certainly downing an unhealthy amount of Rokassa juice to try and handle how wound up he was becoming. This years room mate, Mira Elan, said that he reeked of the juice constantly now and when she said it she wrinkled her nose at him. He told her that she wasn’t very attractive as a Bajoran when she did that–which irked her.

He had tried a few other remedies to find some calm but some of them didn’t do anything, another had him out for four hours–and he certainly couldn’t waste that amount of time in a nap coma these days–and another had sent his skin blistering up in a nasty rash and bad shed that had put him in quite the ill mood for the better part of a week.

In misery with his skin itching and peeling and his nerves on edge he had gone out one night to haunt the bridge over the sluggish river, near the docks, to remember the taste of fruit juice on fingers, and he had gone to the inn and up to the door–but of course Ekor was not there.

When he visited the Regnar he half hoped to see Ekor seated at the bar, or stepping out of a shadow, and Kelas could take his hand and they could leave that place behind and–do what?

Sometimes Ekor handled him roughly. Sometimes their encounter was an improved replay of the real one, but a more successful version, Ekor’s cock down his throat fingers closing his nose choking him on it–Ekor fucking him, making the bed shake, making it hurt in the best way–Ekor’s claws on his skin and his teeth at his throat…

And sometimes it was Kelas pressing his chufa against Ekor’s palm, nudging for a pet like an eager hound, leaning against Ekor’s shoulder, taking in the scent of him, and the rhythm of his breathing.

When Kelas lay awake at night, in the depths of unforgiving insomnia, brought upon by his own anxiety, he would allow himself to use Ekor as a calming salve. He would allow himself not just to think about things, but to feel things. To stroke his own fingers through his hair but imagine they were Ekor’s, to speak into the darkness if Mira wasn’t there and imagine Ekor was listening, to wish and fool himself into thinking the pillow beneath his head was a strong pair of naked thighs and that he needn’t be worried. He was safe.

Only at night. He couldn’t turn to that silly fantasy during the day to calm himself. He knew how his mind was and if allowed himself to call upon Ekor too much that would soon become his only way of coping and one unhealthy outlet would only shift to another. That was not his goal.

After all Ekor was gone. He was a phantom and a good memory and that was all. It was unlikely Kelas would see him again any time soon and even if he did happen upon him…
Kelas leaned forward in his seat, shifted, clicked the beads. Stop thinking about him, Kelas. Jas–Ekor is gone and he is now your Cherished Memory. Visiting his memory infrequently will keep it safe. If you recall it too often it’ll only cause you to yearn too much.

But at least Ekor had inspired Kelas to try and tame himself a bit. He knew he could only change so much, and there parts of him that would never budge, but if could figure out how to control himself better, and how to behave a bit better, then it was possible that at some point in his life he could find someone like Ekor–someone who would treat him well, or at least well enough.

“Kelas, stop fidgeting,” Mira was a very tall and lanky girl made up of warm brown tones. She swatted him.

“Slap me harder, I might enjoy it,” Kelas quipped at her.

“Hush,” she nudged him with her pointy elbow, “don’t be crude.”

He pursed his lips, tugged one cuff down over a slender wrist, then another, and then after a few moments of forcing himself to sit still he couldn’t take it any longer and returned to toying with the hair beads.

“I don’t know why you wear those. Only to annoy others?”

“I wear them, now and then my dear, because where I come from that’s what we do. The various colors, the number of beads, even where they’re worn–the front, sides, back, near the top of the hair or at the bottom… they’re not merely a decoration. They’re a form of communication. Though I admit I do wear mine only for decoration when I feel so inclined to wear them at all. I choose the colors because I enjoy them… and the more you complain about my habits the more I intend to irritate you with them.”

Click-clack.

Mira sighed.

“If you were interested in women it might be that the we were courting, the way we argue,” Mira said.

“And if you were interested in men,” Kelas added.

Mira’s lips twitched at the corners.

“How could anyone be interested in men when there are women?”

Bantering with Mira was a good distraction for him and he appreciated her for it. He placed his hand briefly atop hers where it rested on the arm of her seat; a small nod of affection. He felt better as the curtain began to rise.

The entire program was stunning–breathtaking–and Kelas had been so immersed in it that he not fidgeted with beads, tugged at his cuffs, or counted the tiles on the ceiling at all. His focus had been tethered to the performance completely and it washed over him in a way that felt like cleansing. It chased thoughts and anxieties out of his mind and gave him a space, for awhile, in which could exist apart from anything else. It was intoxicating.

After it had ended he sat still in his chair, his eyes hooded, still soaking everything in as though basking. If only they hadn’t been so far in the back. He would have loved to have been closer, to have heard more, to have seen the faces of the musicians and more of the conductor too–Kelas had been so drawn to his movements and they had commanded his attention just as strongly, perhaps even more so, than the music itself.

At least people around them began to drift into conversation as Cardassians love to discuss everything, and Kelas the odd one, still slouched down in his chair and just feeling… he could have stayed there in silence for quite a bit longer if everyone else would have allowed the silence to endure.

After the concert had ended with the customary silence followed by a long, enduring round of applause, the auditorium began to empty as people stood and filed out into the reception area. From backstage, Ekor could hear them discuss the concert on their way out.

“… too bold,” someone said, but was passionately interrupted by their seating neighbor:
“You have got to be joking! Something daring, for once!”

Ekor didn’t hear what else she had to say as they made their way out, and not even his ears were sharp enough to catch their conversation anymore.

“He’s too young for Bakhret’s Elegy at the Oasis!” someone else exclaimed.

“Oh, come off it, Peldek! You’d say the same if he’d been 81 years old and halfway in his grave! Mark my words, that one’s gonna be remembered.”

“Yes, for butchering the Elegy!” came the heated reply from the one called Peldek. “I’ll give you that he’s got guts, taking up the whole—”

“Vass’st, he’s got more than ‘guts’! I cannot believe I’m hearing these words out of your mouth—the whole concert was a complete power move, and the counterpoint in Remembrance was sublime!”

Ekor allowed himself a wide grin. Those two were as good as on their way to an empty room, he speculated, satisfied with their reception. He did take pride in the counterpoint in question. Midnight Remembrance was a classic which required an immense amount of coordination: based on a rather simplistic tune, it went on to vary and expound upon the theme, over and over. Performers were expected to interchange parts, and to add their own elaboration of the theme, always repeating, never copying. Ekor had composed the closing section for tonight’s concert himself, a counterpoint after the ancient Hebitian way to honor his sponsor and instructor, Orma Kovok.

As he made to join the other musicians in the anteroom, he heard another voice proclaim its owner’s disagreement, though with what he had no idea: “no, no, no, no! It’s no secret that Cardassians aren’t the best at hearing, but not even you can be as deaf as that!”

Cardassian audiences: it didn’t matter if they passionately agreed or disagreed, as long as there was passion. Passion made the difference of having engaged with something, of having made it a relevant part of one’s memories, of allowing it to shape one’s perception, of feeling rather than just sensing. Passion made it personal, worth debating with someone respected or loved.

It didn’t matter that some thought he was too young, or that others thought he’d butchered this or that piece—disagreement was all part and parcel of what it meant to become a renowned musician on Cardassia Prime. There was no performance so perfect that everybody would love it: if it was worth listening to, there would always be those that violently disagreed with it; if it was simply bad, or distastefully contrived to be deliberately provoking, people would shrug and get on with their lives.

Someone who only ever invoked apathetic indifference could never hope to ascend to any sort of recognition as an artist.

Controversy, real controversy, the ability to stir the minds and emotions of an audience: that was the most important test a performance could be put to—and Ekor knew he’d passed with flying colors.

Back in the anteroom, the musicians were celebrating. Someone had broken out some blue kanar, which flowed copiously as it was passed around. Someone pushed the bottle into Ekor’s hands and cheered.

“To success!” cried one, “to the future!” another, “to Cardassia!” a third; Ekor nodded, grinning: they could agree on that last one. Under their combined cheers, he took a healthy swig of the stuff, enjoying its peculiar, sweet-and-mint taste, and the burn it left behind as it went down.

Perhaps a little too much of the burn! Ekor coughed, eyes watering. “Oh, chaos! What in the world is this!?”

“Special edition,” sing-songed Rekat gleefully, “with extra zing!”

Ekor gave her a glare but didn’t refuse another good swallow. “You’re going to be the end of me yet,” he wheezed, feeling even his ears burn. “I have to get to the reception. Anyone with me?”

Everybody tried to make themselves invisible. Ekor rolled his eyes. He guessed it was fair enough that he went there first: after all, it looked like his name would be the one on everyone’s lips, and nothing would be gained by not letting them have a bit of fun first.

After the excitement and anticipation of the concert, the reception was just a minor issue, although if pressed, Ekor would have admitted to feeling nervous. He didn’t know whom he was going to meet—all he did know was that as a conductor in fact (not only on record), receptions like this were going to make up a major part of his work.

He needn’t have worried over much; instructor Kovok was handling the inquisitive and excitable, and had everything well in hand when Ekor joined her. Although she never lost her formality around him, he knew from the expression in her eyes that he’d made her proud today. He’d vindicated her tireless conviction to support him, even if he had been anything but easy. Her nod as he stepped up to her side told him she saw him making Cardassia richer in the future, and that simply felt glorious.

There was a flurry of activity while Ekor answered questions and dutifully and gratefully gave credit to all the ensemble, but most of all, to instructor Kovok herself. He owed her so much, the least he could do was to acknowledge his debt in public.

After a little while, the other musicians began to mingle with the crowd—all of them visibly relieved (and somewhat disinhibited)—and some time later, Ekor found himself wandering aimlessly back into the dimly lit auditorium.

He climbed the stage and sat at the edge, letting his legs dangle. Carefully, he removed his baton from the pocket inside his tunic and weighed it in his hands. Today had been a great success for him, and he was grateful, profoundly grateful to his instructors, and Kovok especially, for the work they had invested in him.

Still, he didn’t know if he felt any… different, now that it was over. It was oddly disappointing, although if pressed, Ekor couldn’t have said why. This was supposed to be his moment of truth, but it didn’t quite feel like that. It didn’t feel like…
… like the day after his spontaneous trip to Culat a month ago.

When he’d returned to the capital, he had been vibrant with new experience, with realization and epiphany.

Today, when they had arrived in Culat—this time in a shuttle transport and with a distinctly more reputable destination than the Horned Regnar night club—Ekor had forbidden himself to look for that bridge near the docks. The one that tasted of arati fruit and body paint on neck scales. That sounded like yielding little gasps, and the word Jasi, whispered in his ear…

They had probably not even driven by close to it, but regardless, Ekor hadn’t let his mind go there. It would have distracted him terribly if he had.
He’d focused on his task all evening, compartmentalized to the best of his ability, but now that that part was over, Ekor couldn’t help but let those other thoughts flood back in.

He must be close, he thought. Kelas had told him about being a student at the university, so he had to be close… the thought thrilled Ekor who bit his lip, rolling his baton between his thumb and two fingers.

Oh, he had thought of Kelas often, after that one night. Sometimes he had been huddled in his sheets, tracing the seam of his slit with eager fingertips, imagining the slickness there to be Kelas’… Or it had been quietly, never making a sound as he everted into his hand in the communal shower late at night, spilling himself over cold tiles and incandescent thoughts of taking possession of Kelas’ mouth. His ajan. Owning his pain and pleasure. His jubilant soul.

After, he felt guilty for using him in this way. Kelas had been so much more than that, would always be so much more than that to him. Would such thoughts even be welcome, after what had passed between them, if he knew of them?

Ekor was used to dismissing this thought. Both of them had known they would never see each other again. They had both accepted that, and there was no reason to wish otherwise. No practical reason, at any rate.

But now it was like a voice inside Ekor whispered promises of close by into his mind, and as he sat there, with his baton twirling idly about, he couldn’t bring himself to be… practical.

He let himself remember Kelas’ face, the halo his wild hair had formed against the backdrop of the stroboscopic club lighting. His strange way of speaking. The way he had struggled, the way he had finally surrendered. The fierce, unrelenting protectiveness he had inspired. The tenderness that came after the ordeal.

His own catharsis.

He owed Kelas too much not to let himself think of him on this night of triumph.

“To Kelas,” he whispered into the silence, wishing he had brought his glass.


Kelas and Mira sat on the edge of the fountain just outside the auditorium. Now that the calm trance of the beautiful music had fallen away Kelas was eager to discuss the pieces. He was going on about Remembrance while Mira nodded, occasionally responding enthusiastically, but she was also watching the brightly color fish swim in the fountain and now and then she would dart her hand into the moonlit water to try and catch one.

“The entire performance was so… powerful,” Kelas said, and then he gave a little indignant cry when Mira splashed too hard and sent droplets of water spraying his face and the lenses of his glasses.

“Sorry,” she said, “I almost caught it that time,” she gave her hand a flick to rid it of access water while Kelas used the hem of his shirt to clean his glasses. “Music is all about neuroscience, you know,” Mira said, “the pauses, the building up to a climax, it stimulates increased activity in the caudate. The abstract pitches become a primal reward cue. Temporal cues signal that a potentially pleasurable auditory sequence is coming and this can trigger expectations of euphoric emotional states–a sense of wanting, and reward prediction. It gets the dopamine flowing!

Our neurons search for order within the music. We’re trying to make sense of this flurry of pitches. Some of the notes we can predict, but not all of them, and that’s why we listen and wait for our reward– for the pattern to be completed.”

Kelas listened to her intently and near the end he peered up at her through the shadows, lingering on some of her words, thinking deeply.

“If our brains are wired to find the completion of patterns as rewards, and upon that completion chemicals are released that make us feel good… hm. Perhaps that’s why I have such a preoccupation with counting, keeping things neat and organized, repetition… why Cardassians in general have a particular appeal to creating elaborate filing systems, sameness among us, orderliness…”

“Yes,” Mira said, growing eager at the discussion, “of course we know of Voran Eket’s riding hound, the one he trained with the bell–”

“Of course, it’s one of the experiments we first learn of in basic psychology–”

Mira leaned in closer, interrupting, casting her voice low.

“The hound has been trained to hear a certain sound, to anticipate, to expect the reward and he drools and he feels good anticipating his reward. It goes beyond completion of patterns. It is training. It is why most of us never stray from the path of our lives set out before us. We continue on in the same class as our families because it is a pattern that we have been trained to complete. We don’t question our duties because they have been trained into us, reinforced by the ringing bell of the State, the anticipation that if we complete the expectant pattern of a ‘good Cardassian’ that we will–somewhere–in the end I suppose–have a reward for our sacrifices, for following along dutifully, for completing the pattern. Each step along the predictable way completes a bit more of the pattern and we have been trained to be happy with that, to drool, to need to finish it as it ‘should be’. Few stray from the patterns of Cardassia, Kelas. It doesn’t feel good to us. We have all been trained like hounds…”

Kelas was listening to her even more intently now, their faces so close, her voice hushed–he was hanging upon her every word and it felt like she was violating him deeply some how to express this and yet–he knew it to be true. Perhaps since he himself deviated so drastically from the pattern the State set forward, perhaps he was so inclined to find it other things, to obsess as he did, because he needed other outlets that would allow him to keep a pattern–some Cardassian bit of normalcy when he was very much not following along a normal pattern in life.

His mouth was half open, his eyes wide, with all sorts of things to consider and perhaps he was on the edge of discovering new ways to understand himself. He had taken several psychology classes and learned many things but the way Mira spoke to him now–it hadn’t occurred to him.

“Kelas,” Mira drew back suddenly, and placed her fingertips to the left side of his chest. “You’ve lost your student badge.”

“Oh,” it took him a moment to bring his thoughts in. He glanced down at the spot. It was empty and he couldn’t show up to classes tomorrow without it properly displayed. Soon he would be able to turn it in and the colors on the medical badge would be changed to that of a full-fledge doctor. “I must have lost it in the auditorium.”

“You’d better check,” Mira said, “oh–don’t expect me back tonight. I’ll be staying with a friend. You can have the place all to yourself.”

“I expect I’ll be doing a lot of thinking,” Kelas said.

They parted ways and Kelas headed back into auditorium. He counted out the rows that would bring him to the row where he and Mira had sat for the concert. Counting, patterns, anticipating his reward of finding his badge. How wonderful it was to have a friend in neuroscience. Mira was incredibly intelligent though if she had ever expressed her idea of the hound and the bell as the citizen and the State to the wrong person she could find herself in a bad situation. Mira was too smart for that.

Kelas wandered down the row until he came to their seats and then he got down onto the floor to search. There was the pin glinting in the shadows. How had he lost it anyway? He’d probably been fiddling with it without realizing. He stood up and fastened the pin to his tunic but then he realized that he was being watched. He could feel it, and when he turned to see who it was there was a figure seated on the edge of the stage.

Even in the shadows there was something that struck a cord of familiarity. He drew a breath through his mouth to scent. He could smell himself and the lingering scent of Rokassa, and he could even smell Mira still there, and there so many scents of all around him the people who had all been there not long ago–stale scents but still lingering–but one was not stale yet and despite the distance between himself and the figure on the stage he could smell it and it was Ekor’s scent. Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

His heart began to pound as he made his way out of the row, into the main aisle, and towards the stage. What if the figure was just an illusion of his longing body and mind? The scent?

Ekor had mentioned that he had a talent for music.

He paused a short distance away from the stage.

His mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, his heart still hammering–he wasn’t certain he could even find his voice to call out the name. But he took a deep breath and gathered himself. He wanted to see Ekor again, but this could be a great disappointment if it wasn’t him, and only a shadow of yearning instead.

“Ekor?”


Before he could catch himself, Ekor had lost hold of his baton, and it spun out of his hand, landing a few paces ahead with a clatter. He winced, hoping it hadn’t broken on impact, but then, a moment later, that worry became a minor matter.

There was only one person in Culat who would call Ekor by his private name. His heart missed a beat. “Kelas…?”

Ekor slid off the edge of the stage and picked up his baton, sliding it back into its pocket as he walked towards the figure in the shadow. Something about the shape of his hair was different, but as he took a closer look, he was sure.

“Kelas!” he breathed, taking in the familiar, gently curved build of the man. He grinned, almost running, suppressing the urge to close the distance between them.
“You were just on my mind… I’m so fortunate to see you again!”

As he stood in front of Kelas, he wanted to embrace him. He wanted to ask so many questions, all of which would be entirely too exposing: if he had sometimes thought of their night together, if he had regretted it, if he had touched himself to the memory, if his heart was pounding right now… and many more. Ekor held his tongue, with difficulty, but he offered Kelas his palm to touch.

His skin had felt so warm in that little room. In Ekor’s mind he was there once more, feeling flushed, pliant scales under his fingertips.

As he blinked the thought away, he noticed the badge proclaiming Kelas as a student of medicine. A future doctor… Ekor’s respect for the other man increased some more: it couldn’t have been easy to get into the most prestigious university program Cardassia had to offer, as a man no less, and on top of all that, Ekor reckoned, Kelas must be a fair bit older than his fellow students.

The memory of their night came back in full force. Ekor remembered the words and thoughts they had exchanged, what being here meant to him: this was Kelas’ sacred duty.
How much had he worked, how much pain had he endured, how hard had he fought to realize this dream of being good, in that particular way that only Cardassians dreamed?

Of course, none of these questions was a fit topic to address in their current situation—which, in all honesty, Ekor did not even know to define. Kelas looked tense, almost nervous. Was he as excited about meeting again as Ekor himself was? Was he feeling the same, bone-deep longing?

Oh, only one way to find out, Ekor thought. When in doubt, strike up a conversation.

“Did you enjoy the concert?” he asked with a bit more eagerness than was entirely seemly. “Be ruthless, please. I shall suffer your displeasure nobly,” he added. “And if it should be harsh, I shall nurse my broken heart for a while, after which, of course, I shall teach you the error of your ways,” Ekor grinned.

It was such an ambiguous thing. Half of Ekor wished Kelas had enjoyed himself immensely, and half—the flirtatious half—hoped Kelas would say something outrageously critical (and uninformed), so that he might debate and persuade him over to his way of thinking.

Kelas wasn’t certain, for a moment, that he could breathe. As ridiculous as it was it seemed that for the briefest moment his lungs had just forgotten how to work until his chest was burning for air and he had to make a conscious effort to draw breath, to remind himself to do it again, and then he was a little better.

He pressed his small palm to Ekor’s larger one and before thinking if it was a correct response or not, he slotted his fingers in between Ekor’s and curled them over against the ride of Ekor’s knuckles. The warmth seemed to go right through him–from palm to his very core, and he relaxed a bit.

“Oh–” how did he respond to that question? His head was still swimming a bit just from seeing the other man again when he was certain he never would, at least especially not this soon.

To argue that the concert had been horrible would probably have been more proper–to get Ekor riled, for them to banter as he bantered with Mira, but unlike the routine of Cardassian socializing Kelas felt all strange about the various aspects of it. To him it seemed more natural to banter with Mira even though they were only friends and it meant nothing more. To argue with Ekor under false pretense that the music had been subpar in any way felt very wrong to him. For one thing it hadn’t been at all and why wouldn’t he want to express to Ekor how he really felt?

Since he could never really untangle the rules or fit them into making sense in his own mind he did what he usually did and just ignored them.

“I would like to argue with you and see you flush dark but… I’m afraid I must tell you it was beautiful. Moving, sublime–I think I may have gone into a trance at the end. I just sank down into my chair and… felt. Things. I know I should put them into words, to discuss them with you like a proper Cardassian, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. My lack of words does not mean a lack of feeling, Ekor. It means that I feel so deeply that I… I can’t find words,” it was almost a shaming thing to admit to.

A Cardassian who couldn’t find words?

But Kelas was certainly alive with excitement both over remembering the performance, and seeing Ekor again. He could barely keep himself still and his mind was going in so many different directions he was going to lose track if he didn’t focus on something.

“My dear friend Mira was speaking to me after the concert about patterns in music, about how our brains are wired to enjoy music because it’s all about anticipating a reward–we can predict many of the notes, but not all of them, so if done correctly with the right amount of unpredictability, we will become euphoric when the notes come that complete the pattern. It’s brilliant and you’re brilliant–all of it, the entire–it was magical!”

So magical that it has brought us together again, Kelas thought.

He wanted to say more, to delve into a deep discussion with Ekor, but he was simply staring up at Ekor’s face, at the light in his eyes, as enrapt with him as he had been with the concert. Was there some sort of pattern that they needed to finish? Is that why they found themselves together again?

But Kelas had no way of knowing if Ekor would even want to see him again in that way. After all the first attempt had not gone well. This might be better if it was just conversation, and yet Kelas wanted it to be much more. He knew better than expect anything but how many times had he already imagined seeing Ekor again? Could it be possible that Ekor had ever thought the same about him since their parting?


Ekor stood there, listening to Kelas, barely hearing the words he was saying over those he wasn’t. There was desire, so plain on his inflection that Kelas might just as well have come at him, accusing him how ill-advised the whole concert had been, instead of paying him one of the sweetest, most heartfelt compliments Ekor had ever received—and if Kelas’ tone hadn’t given him away, his fingers slotted between his own, curled over the back of his hand, would have done it.

Ekor didn’t know how Kelas did it. There was something so enticing about him, better than his fantasies, better than the solitary peaks he had given himself to those images in his mind.

There was something that lured and ensnared him.

Instead of gently extricating himself, Ekor mirrored Kelas, pressing his hand closer and tightening his grip, digging his claws into the back of Kelas’ hand. This was improper, but Kelas’ breath rushing out of his lungs was a reward that rooted Ekor on the spot.
He slowly came closer, grateful that his conducting tunic concealed the thrum of his pulse lodged in his throat. His heart was beating as fast as when it had been time to enter the stage.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the night had opened to an even fuller potential for Ekor. Could they… would they try each other again, tonight? How Ekor wanted to make those imaginings of his a reality…!

Ekor watched as Kelas’ eyes widened, their foreheads were almost touching—if the wrong person were to come in now, there would be questions. Consequences. Ekor leaned in, only his breath touching Kelas’ neck scales as he spoke in his ear.

“I’ve heard the conductor is too inexperienced for Elegy at the Oasis,” he whispered hoarsely. Was that a shiver in Kelas’ frame? Oh, he hoped it was, he hoped Kelas felt like this too.

“I’ve even heard he butchered the whole piece with his excessive youth and boldness,” Ekor incited, pressing their bodies closer together. Heat, pure heat… the beast in him stirred, and Ekor welcomed it. He could do that boldness he stood accused of.

Kelas’ compliments from before were still ringing in his mind, his endorsement much hoped for and welcome, and he wanted to see his passion rise in the heat of his defense.

“One such as him couldn’t even begin to comprehend the musical depth of Elegy, he’s barely more than a hatchling! And a service class hatchling at that…” Ekor said with a convincing imitation of the snobbery he sometimes encountered, “you really surprise me with this talk… of magic… I would have taken you for a better judge of the arts,” he provoked. “Debate me, Kelas. Prove me wrong.”

They were standing so close together now, Kelas had nowhere left to hide, but he wasn’t trying to.

Ekor let his fingers hover a bare few millimeters over Kelas’ neck, feeling the warmth gathered there just from their exchange of words, indecent, almost obscene; Ekor wanted nothing so much as to sink his teeth and claws into the flesh there and make Kelas bleed and scream in delight and pain.

But this was not the place—he was very aware how much trouble they both would be in, if he were to show the kind of bad judgment that would see them forgetting themselves here; no, they had to keep a modicum of decorum, at least until they could get away elsewhere…

Kelas’ mouth went dry as Ekor spoke, and continued to speak, his words growing more and more harsh, his contact bolder, closer–demanding of Kelas to debate him–and those claws digging at the back of his hand. It was entirely arousing, and the fact that Kelas had gone some time now without this sort of contact, it made him wish to be wild and desperate and drop down to Ekor’s feet right there and beg to pleasure him.
Control, Kelas.

He was being asked–no demanded–to channel that passion into his words. How best to argue? Would he do it correctly? He had been so poorly socialized that he was aware of those shortcomings and often worried over it. But Ekor had proven to have been so understanding before–more had gone wrong between them than a simple flirtation so he trusted that if he mangled this gesture, that Ekor would not react to him poorly.
Still, he very much wanted to get this right.

He took a deep breath and gathering his thoughts, he took a small step towards Ekor. They were already so close that that closed the gap completely. For Kelas it only served to emphasize how much smaller he was but he tilted his head up, gave his hair a shake, burned Ekor with his most defiant look–

“Whoever would say such things is a foolish hekant and furthermore is as bland as a handful of groat,” Kelas said.

“Perhaps the conductor is young, still wet from shrugging off his egg sac, but youth does not dictate experience and passion. And besides–there are some things that are quite pleasant… when wet… dear Ekor.

I see no reason his age should matter. His soul is where his passion was born, and what has spurred him to hone his craft, and a soul is not dictated by number of years. And yes he may have been bold–very bold–but I find that quite appealing. In our society we are not encouraged to risk, are we, unless it benefits the State? Oh… in which we do not call it risk, but service. Otherwise we must never step out of line with what is dictated to us as ‘right’.

Through being so bold the conductor has allowed us a freedom to experience ‘risk’ without any consequence to pay. We are allowed to feel that obscene rush of defiance vicariously through the music. And that is the best that art has to offer–to stir, to cause the observer to feel and experience so forcefully that it causes one to question. It is a dangerous art, however. Some people are afraid to find that they feel alive, truly alive and awakened, when they connect with such risk.

An observer may become angry or ashamed for having been brought to such an experience. They may wish to hide their shame by attacking the creator, pretending that what was sublime was dull. Cardassians lie as a rule, and we lie most often to ourselves. To be truthful is to be naked, without protection, and few are willing to bring oneself to such a state of submission.

But the piece–the climax of such a daring piece and the naked truth of it is that it has nothing to do with age, or class, and I think…” Kelas lowered his voice to a whisper, daring to say it, “that it is a longing little bud trapped down deeply inside many of us, even some of the most repressed citizens, that is yearning to blossom, if only for a moment to be above the constraints of order and mundane normalcy. The conductor has commanded not only his instrument, but with his mighty baton, he has guided those who are willing to truly accept the experience to rise to a height that is beyond a simple melody. The height of the performance, the crescendo, the orgasm at which we burst apart at last by his design… that is a gift.”

Kelas stood there trembling with anticipation against Ekor. The passion was alive in his eyes and everything he said, to his feeling at least, had been completely honest. He was aware that he had riddled his argument with innuendo from trapped buds, to blossoms, to orgasms, but Kelas found that he related the experience of many great things to sex as a rule. It was normally a relation that he had to be aware of and to manage cutting out of speech when it would be offensive or inappropriate. This conversation was most certainly the later… and he wasn’t certain that this too was not too bold… probably obscene of him to say such things.

But perhaps in this situation it would be appreciated.

Ekor was holding his breath. He felt Kelas' little shivers and tremors thread through what little space was left between them; he didn't dare move, lest he close the distance and forget decorum and ruin his career before it even got off the ground. But oh, how he longed for Kelas' lips delivering on the promise they had alluded to with their lurid language, how he longed for them wrapped around the thickness he felt pressing against its confines inside, straining, wet, and devoted in their service.

"What an engaging tale you weave, my dear Kelas," Ekor growled deep in his chest. The dust of the old auditorium was heavy on his voice and bursts of sound and laughter from the reception going on outside flowed into the relative silence of the deserted lecture hall. "A fascinating take," he repeated, his lips centimeters from Kelas' skin, "in which you outrageously equate orgasm to climactic submission, and submission to honesty in service, and service to risk... and all that, to music."

The truth was Ekor had never felt so known. "... in which you further equate this young conductor's performance to climax itself, the pinnacle of lust," Ekor breathed, letting the sibilants linger softly. "And perhaps you are no further from the truth than many in the audience, and closer..." he blew air over the neck ridge closest to him, raptly watching it flush a darker shade of blue, "closer than most.

"For what do they know about his passion, but what they allow themselves to hear in the music filtered through minds that are trained into toothless subservience to convention? What if you're exactly right, my dear? What if this is the pinnacle of his lust: to offer an opportunity to defy that learned ennui, a moment of utter, honest nakedness?"

Ekor took a half-step back, delighting in the look of barely concealed longing Kelas gave him. The hand still twined with his own was gripping hard as the images Ekor had provided seeped into Kelas' mental landscape.

"There is risk for him, too," he said, squeezing his fingers tight. "He must never go too far as to become attached to the extremes of atonality and dissonance, for that would surely ruin what he might have otherwise built." He swallowed thickly. "Because it simply wouldn't do to strike down even the most daring minds with too much force, incite them against him... no, he must never do that... but too little dissonance is no good either.

"He must make them want to let him guide them." Ekor lowered his gaze to Kelas' chest, noting that his student badge was pinned to his shirt with a little tilt to the right. He took it between his fingers, turning it a little, like he had twirled his baton, before straightening and re-pinning it. "He must make them want to listen, he must make them long for more, and he must make want to trust him with their submission."

Ekor took the baton out of his tunic pocket. "This," he said, digging the wooden tip into the slope of Kelas' chin where it dipped down into his throat, "this is nothing without..." He applied a twist of pressure until he felt Kelas explosively release the air through his nostrils, "... without that."

"Any fool with a pair of hands and a rudimentary grasp of proper dramatic progression can hop on a stage and wave their wand about—and surely even that fool would find those in the audience who mistake conventionality for creation and think themselves enchanted. But this conductor of ours, he risks it all... he must pour his passion into every inch of wood, into every stroke of this cane." Ekor drew the sharp tip over the laryngeal protrusion of Kelas' throat. A thin, dark line formed in its wake. "He must make count every release of tone and change of rhythm. And tell me, Kelas: does he not, by the control he exercises, and the freedom he offers, serve in turn?

"What if this service is what he longs for, what if it is everything he has ever dared to look for? What if your submission is not coincidental, not as clandestine as you might have thought? If it is not without consequence, nor even unexpected? What if it's what he wants? What if that is the shameful secret of his love for music, would you still be defending him so fiercely?

"Would you still let him touch you then, Kelas?"

Will you? Ekor thought, but didn't ask aloud. He felt all the inexperience of his youth at once. Oh, he had thought long and hard about what he had done wrong the first time they met. He'd often imagined having done better, and now that they were standing mere centimeters apart, exchanging heated stares and innuendo, Ekor wanted nothing more than that.

Kelas's mind began to swim with all the words, finding them difficult to hold onto while Ekor was so close, the baton at his throat, the press and release, the controlled force--he tried to pull Ekor's words into meaning and hold onto them long enough to figure out a proper reply. They were important--he did not wish to disrespect Ekor by appearing lost in the conversation when it meant so much. He knew that it meant so much.

Kelas closed his eyes just briefly, opened his mouth slightly to taste the air--there was barely any between them it seemed and it was heavy with Ekor's musk which Kelas wanted to grasp and rub all over his bare skin, to bite, to inhale. His free hand rested briefly on his chula, slightly swollen beneath the collar of his shirt, and then the delicate fingers slid up his long and tender throat to trace the thin line of raised skin left by the press of the baton, and then the fingers moved towards his neck ridge. He watched Ekor through hooded eyes, smirking ever so subtly as his fingers hovered just shy of fondling his own neck scales--then instead he curled his a lock of hair around his fingers and the light glinted from the shine buffed into his long claws.

"I would defend him still. There is no shame in passion," Kelas said. "And I would allow him touch me--I might even beg... on my..." Kelas paused and glanced briefly, as if to make sure they were truly still alone, "on my knees if it would please him... and I think it would."

Kelas let go of Ekor's hand, took the smallest step back, giving a bit more room for them to breathe.

"Hmm," Kelas glanced down to his student badge, and tilted it back again, even though it bothered him as well for it to be off-kilter. The action was completely deliberate for another reason. He tried his best not to smile too much then--to keep a serious expression instead of revealing how much he was enjoying even testing Ekor by fiddling with the badge. The smile touched his lips just briefly before he was able to school it away but his eyes were still twinkling, giving him away anyway.

"You speak of attachment, to one thing or the other, how this could ruin his music one way or the other... so there must be balance. It is key."

Deciding to drop the talk of the 'conductor' as though he were some third party, Kelas stepped close again, holding his own hands together, on the verge of wringing them as his playfulness edged away towards nervousness.

"We could balance each other if we tried," Kelas said, lowering his voice, "I believe we could... and I would never wish to ruin you--him--the ambitious young conductor. We both must serve, we both risk each time we meet, don't we? Our desires endanger either of us... and yet... we cannot put them off entirely, can we? But... if there need not be an attachment one way or the other, that it might... ruin the music... it is understood. No one else need know of his desires, or whom he may choose to guide, who may listen to him, who may long for him. He keeps his secret wrapped in notes and rests, deep down behind bars of written music, perhaps he thinks of it only in perfect measures structured neatly to keep everything in the 'proper' places... but sometimes there are moments when the music must live on its own, when he must direct it out from the place where someone else has written the rhythm and rules.

We all have our secrets and we all have music that we long to play, that we long to hear so badly it aches. I can be your secret too, Ekor. You can keep me tucked away where no one can find me, in a song that only you and I know, and you can conduct me as you wish. We can serve one another in our secret ways, in the ways that we long for," Kelas tipped himself up on his toes, leaned towards Ekor's ear, let his breath ghost warmly there for a moment before dropping his voice to a whisper. "And there will be no one there to tell us that we must not."

Two paces back now, really leaving some space, and straightening the badge again.

"My room mate has gone out for the night," Kelas said, "and it is a bit late. Perhaps I should take myself to bed for good nights rest."

He paused to partially unzip his tunic, revealing a peek of the undershirt, as he retrieved a mini-padd from the inner pocket, and then zipped it again. His fingers danced briefly across the smooth screen and then he sat it down on one of the benches.

His heart was pounding hard now. He wanted to hurry away before Ekor could respond to him. Things were becoming heated between them and either they would continue, or they would not, but if they were to continue they would need to do so elsewhere. This way they would not be spotted leaving together, if Ekor chose to deliver the 'lost padd' to him tonight, or leave it at the lost items kiosk, he would have to wait and see--though he was betting on one answer over the other.

Kelas hurried away quickly.

If Ekor lifted the padd and viewed the screen he would find Kelas's building name and room number, along with the word 'unlocked'.

And if he came after to follow-up on their game, perhaps to even punish Kelas for running away so abruptly, then Kelas would be waiting for him seated naked upon his bed. He was not certain when the reception would conclude, but Kelas was willing to wait until then, drawing his fingers carefully along the mark left on his throat.

Ekor growled under his breath as Kelas playfully undid the work, such as it was, he had done on his badge. He wanted to grab the little minx by his wrists, twist him, slam him into the wall and leave a good, strong bite mark on his neck for provoking him so brazenly. But he couldn't, not here, not while the reception was still going on just beyond the entrance of the auditorium, so Ekor bit his tongue and left it at the non-verbal warning.

And then Kelas... seemed to offer himself to him, and Ekor's mind blanked completely. Even though they had only met the one time before, even though they had been little more than strangers about to fuck the living daylights out of each other then, even though both of them had accepted that they wouldn't be seeing each other again—even though all of this was true, Kelas was offering something more.

Ekor stood there, listening, his baton fittingly upright at attention, but unheeded in his hand. Kelas was right, oh if only he knew how right he was. They were both risking much just by being in this room together... and yet, Ekor couldn't stop listening to what Kelas had to say. He couldn't stop himself imagining it in vivid detail.

"Nobody would need to know," said Kelas, flashing a sly little grin, and Ekor knew he was lost. "I can be your secret," and in a fit of utter madness, of feverish desire, Ekor agreed with it.

They could be each other's secret: Kelas—Atsi— would be his to have, to take control of, to punish for his insolence, to open, lay bare and possess. And he would become Kelas'... Kelas' what? He asked himself. His lover, his taskmaster and disciplinarian, his... Jasi.

Ekor was still trying to wrap his mind around the proposal when Kelas took a few steps back, flashed his undershirt as he removed a padd from inside his tunic, and left—not without leaving the padd gently glinting its invitation in the dark, and not, Ekor noted with amusement, without straightening his badge again.

My dear Kelas, he thought, watching him retreat. Run, little prey. I'll catch up with you later.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Ekor gathered himself and pocketed his baton once more. He should find its case and put it away properly, but, remembering the beautiful way Kelas had yielded to its pressure, he decided against that.

He returned to the reception in a haze of scent-memory powered fantasies. Ekor could barely muster the patience to remain there until even the most ardent of the audience were satisfied, their questions answered, nods and polite small talk exchanged. When Instructor Kovok finally dismissed him, he didn't even try to hide his relief—a fact that, by her answering knowing smile, did not go unnoticed.

Ekor cleared his throat. "Instructor...?"

"What is it, Laset?"

Ekor flushed darkly. "I... nothing, Instructor. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Laset." She looked after his retreating form fondly for a moment. "Have fun," she muttered to herself, once she was sure he was out of his earshot. This wasn't her first graduate concert, and some things never changed. She would make sure they found Laset in time, before they moved on to their next venue.

***

His bag slung over his shoulder, Ekor met a few of the others on his way out, but didn't stop to converse: they'd have much time for that on their tour of Cardassia's cities, yet, and besides, he needed to find a building.

Which meant he either needed to ask someone, or would have to find a campus plan. He only vaguely remembered where they'd driven by the medical building, but even so, there was no way he could be certain that the building Kelas had indicated on his padd was anywhere near there.

A quick check of Kelas' padd didn't provide anything helpful, and once he'd exited the main building, he found the square in front of it devoid of any helpful signs. There were some pointing out where to find the Mathematics department, even Medical—but nothing to do with student housing.

So, when a pair of students came along, Ekor had to ask for the way to the building.

"Why?" asked one of them curtly, sweeping a strand of hair out of her field of view. "What do you need to be there for?"

Ekor was taken aback by her rude, flirtatious manner and excessive curiosity, but answered in kind, nonetheless. "A... friend lost his padd. I'm returning it, not that it's any of your business."

The student narrowed her eyes at him. "Why don't you just leave it with the kiosk? If your friend isn't completely disorderly, he'll find it there."

"I'm afraid he's really... quite disorderly," Ekor said, grinning. "Extremely so."

The two women exchanged a glance. "How disappointing," said the one who had stayed silent so far, with an openly appraising look at his neck and hips. "If you change your mind, we're going out. There's a bunch of musicians on campus, it's gonna be fun."

Of that, Ekor had no doubt, but he had different plans. "So I've heard," he agreed, "but I really need to help out my friend with a padd..." ling, he thought to himself.

"Oh, well, if you've made up your mind... Go straight down here, until you reach Math, then take a right toward the canal, but make sure you turn left again at Astrophysics. Then follow the road until you come to a small square lined with dorm houses. It'll be the fifth off the right hand side," said the first of the students again. "And tell your extremely disorderly friend he's a lucky man... to have such considerate friends, of course."

Ekor smirked. "Of course, thank you," he agreed. "And I promise I will make sure he knows exactly how lucky he is."

***

Ekor found the building without difficulty. It was one of many student dorm buildings, drab and utterly unremarkable but for the square layout of its many windows, each belonging to another tiny flat. There was still light behind several of the windows.

Kelas' floor was a few levels up, and when Ekor tried the door, he found it as the padd had promised: unlocked.