It's me again! Can you believe it, I actually wrote a multi-chapter … whatever it is? Seriously, I'm not sure what the heck is going on here. Anyway. Here you go. Chapter two. I tried REALLY hard to squeeze some smut into here, because there ended up being (too) much back-story!
Also, some people were asking about ages… Langris is 25 in this. Malachai is 37. That means, yes, he is older.

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Chapter 2 : Manners and Melancholy

Malachai is no longer in his bed. He knows his surroundings somewhat but the precise location is unknown to him. There are people talking. He turns, trying to trace every voice, but it's dizzifying. His breath is ragged. A silent yet comforting hand strokes his head. Somehow, he is thankful for the blindfold covering his eyes. He feels around him and realizes that he's sitting on a fine carpeted floor, beside a large object of some sort. A chair? Someone close to him clears his throat. Immediately, the voices stop. Even he stops. Holding his breath, he tries to identify all the objects in contact with his body. He registers fabric, marble, skin…

The meeting begins. Langris sits at the head of the long table, his chair moved somewhat away from its edge. His left hand, gloved, rests on the padded leather armrest. His right strokes the blonde locks he had just spent half an hour lovingly brushing. His prized pet sits obediently at his side; he can feel the weight of the man's head against his thigh. This was real. A man clears his throat and stands. This is Lavolt Karsim, the head accountant and treasurer of the Kass group. He is losing his hair and hates meetings. His only redeeming quality is his ability to crunch numbers and find legal and financial loopholes. As he speaks on the recent financial downfall of one of their competitors, Langris shifts his gaze periodically to Malachai. He is, as always, quiet and still. The blindfold, a little more dressy today, is securely in it's place, as if it has never been moved. He adjusts his glasses, turning his gaze to his subordinates. "Very well. Assume no responcibility for this. They refused to help us with the Jyunka raid last year, so I do not believe our involvement is nessesary." His voice is clear and firm. He neither raises it not lowers it. Malachai remains where he is, listening in his own invisible way. He tries to pick apart voices and sounds. By now, his conscience no longer tears at the thought of having to obey someone again. Other things are discussed; relations with official authorities, the supply of ammunition and weapons, the increasing control over sector 7... Malachai takes innitiative and begins licking at the fingers of the hand that was stroking his hair. A part of him wishes he could see the man's face, the secret smile tugging at his lips. Something tells him his master would be proud. "I do hope you realize, Mr. Hagren, that there is a reason my grandfather put me in command. If you object to his decision, you are welcome to nominate a better candidate." Langris says at one point, his tone laden with icy coldness. It is clear he does not tolerate people going against his will. The rather loud objection and the heated exchange that follows it makes Malachai freeze somewhat. Like an animal startled by a far-off gunshot, it takes Langris' hand stroking his cheek to bring him back to reality.

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Langris clears his throat. "Gentlemen, the meeting is adjourned. I must see to my pet." He says curtly, standing up. The others around the table exchange confused glances. "Sir, we have yet to go over the plans for the next week's gathe--" A short, stocky man by the name of Cliffel Prans comments. A former military officer, he was taken in by Jericho Kass to be in charge of security and arms supply after being discharged from his post. Langris says nothing, but the expression in his eyes is enough to make all those present withdraw their comments.

Soon, Malachai finds himself in a tub full of water. Soapy, warm water that laps gently at his skin. He can feel heat from an electric source on the exposed parts on him - his face, shoulders, back... The room is luxurious... he can feel it without needing to see it. He can sense movement at his side, wet hands caressing his back and shoulders and chest. Soon, those hands are joined by something slippery and wet, and at first cold... He swallows. Carefully, he feels each and every inch of his skin become clean, each and every hair on his head. His hair is getting long now. At times it even falls over the blindfold in a rather irritating fashion. At times, if he feels it would be appreciated, he gives a faint little moan at the hands wandering his body. Somewhere inside stir up faint memories of a time past, memories which he tries to push away. This is now. That was then. The angle is awkward. Langris would very much like to be closer to his beloved pet, but he cannot as of yet. His dress shirt is rolled up at the sleeves. There is a faint knock on the door, but he orders them away. His pet comes first.

Malachai lets out a sound that can be described as a supressed, shameful request. The eyes of Langris Kass, the oddly-shaped, almost unearthly eyes that would strike fear into the hearts of people search out the pools of destiny hidden behind that blindfold. Normal behavior is rendered useless, stripped away, and thrown aside. This is the me only for him, the me not even I will ever know. Water splashes onto the marble tile floor. Wet fabric clings to skin, and skin to more skin. There is movement, and confusion, and gasps. Shadows lurk behind black velvet, behind memories and responcibilites.

He moans.