The kitchen had a small table with

The kitchen had a small table with two chairs on either side along with a medium sized fridge that was usually half empty. It was probably the most unused quarter in the apartment. He bought a three person meal set with spoons and forks just in case, but he used it so little that he often had to wash the plates before hand to make sure the food wouldn't be set on dusty plates. The pantry was empty save for a box of cereals past its expiration date but hadn't even been opened yet.

His bedroom was just as scantily clad. The bed was a decent, comfortable size for two people if neither moved too much during sleep. Like his curtains, it came with a dark navy color theme to it. Navy sheets, navy comforter, navy pillowcase, etc. etc. The work desk where his laptop and external hard drives were stacked was positioned against a wall, near the window where sunlight could illuminate the surface. It had several drawers beneath it, and the bottom most drawer had a false bottom.

It was in that secret compartment that Takaba kept proof of his past existence: his real passport, his real identification card, two pictures, one with his family, another with his two best friends. His friends… I wonder if they remember me even… His parents didn't know where he was either. If he died now, woke up cold and lifeless the next morning, would he be buried in Japan or be cremated here, an unclaimed body diminished to ashes. His secret would be revealed then, wouldn't it?

And the gun.

Enough.

Next to the desk, there was a bookshelf containing books on… photography. Not much surprise there. There was a night stand to one side of the bed with a lamp that was fitted with a light bulb needing to be replaced; he had bought the wrong watt two weeks ago and it was just too dim.

His closet was half empty, a reflection of his inner state. His general style and taste hadn't changed much over the course of two years. If anything, they were even more casual and geared toward comfort and movement; his travels had taught him that. He still wore his t-shirts, his vintage jeans, and his hooded sweatshirts with pouches where he hid his hands. And most of the time, his feet were clad with a pair of running shoes or something along those lines. Comfort and movement.

But with the first chance he got, he had thrown out all of his old clothes he had brought over from Japan. Dumped them into a large cardboard box, sealed it with masking tape, and out the door they went. It had nothing to do with physical capability. He could physically still wear them.

It was the smell. The scent. The aroma.

The fragrance.

It was like incense, a drug that induced and triggered memories and images he would rather did say that olfactory memory was the strongest and most enduring of all, didn't they?

There were two sets of suits in the closet, one black and the other dark grey. He had bought them for random occasions and still considered them a waste of money. Putting on these suits, these formal attires only reminded him of him. The cuff links. The buttons. The tie.

The tie especially. Takaba could envision those strong, forceful hands, those expert hands snaking through the silky texture. Working their way past the collar. Tearing apart buttons. Brushing against his stomach. Down. Down. Past the belt, past th-

Shut up.

Takaba lowered himself onto the mattress, settling in motionlessly into the plush comforter. He hadn't been on his bed for almost a week, and it was just… nice to feel the same texture beneath his fingers. But on the other hand, what he had dreaded was true.

There was no heat in this bed.

Just him.

And him alone.

And those… wretched… awful… neon stars on the ceiling. One of them had fallen off while he was gone, near the pillow.

Did you miss me? He picked it up and held over him.

He lay down completely, his back against the bed, an arm over his eyes. Gyles had literally forbidden him to go home alone (upon hearing that Takaba almost got hit by a taxi), giving him two choices. Either he took Takaba home or Takaba would wait to go home with him.

Takaba didn't really want to make Gyles leave the gallery and opted to stay. People didn't realize that they were whispering with the photographer right behind their back. It was a cunning little advantage, and he had been able to pick up a handful of good constructive criticism.

Though he had to admit, some of the comments he had heard had really… hurt. Words like "immature" or "ambiguous" felt like stakes going through the back of his hand, severing the ligament of his index finger that pressed down on the shutter release button. He would have to live with such criticisms however… critiquing was something that every artist had to go through, whether it was music or art or literature, and that was the life he had chosen.

And he had other things on his mind: Mr. Carthen's offer. Gyles had recognized something in Takaba; he had realized that his lover wasn't meant to be sedentary, that if his life in London wasn't fast paced enough, it would drive Akihito insane. He would end up hunting for thrills and danger like before. If Gyles was willing to make amends, to sacrifice six months for the sake of his lover's recovery, then Takaba should at least be understanding and grateful enough to accept Gyles' plans… shouldn't he? It was probably safer, as Mr. Carthen had said, to be touring Europe than war torn zones where he woke up every other day to the sound of explosions.

But he didn't want to leave.

You're growing complacent, Akihito…

Takaba buried his nose into the pillow and inhaled a lungful of Gyles' cologne.

So what if I'm content…but…

Was he losing Asami? Was that private chamber he had reserved for his previous…lover…being taken over by Gyles' overwhelming presence?

And so what if it is…

He propped up his head with his right elbow, letting the injured arm rest against his body. It had begun to heal fairly well, except for a thin puckered line of scab. Another scar to add to his collection. Gyles wasn't too happy about it though. Ironically, the man blamed himself for it.

Gyles…

If Takaba hadn't been so previously preoccupied, and even if he was, Gyles was still the perfect lover that anyone have could asked for. He had unlimited patience for his troubled lover.

How do you put up with me…

Even he grew of his very self sometimes. For someone else to stand beside him with such devotion…

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

Nhà bếp có một bảng nhỏ với hai ghế ở hai bên cùng với một tủ lạnh có kích thước trung bình là thường một nửa sản phẩm nào. Nó có thể là khu phố đặt không sử dụng trong căn hộ. Ông đã mua một bữa ăn ba người thiết lập với thìa và nhánh chỉ trong trường hợp, nhưng ông đã sử dụng nó như vậy nhỏ rằng ông thường phải rửa tấm trước khi bàn tay để đảm bảo rằng thực phẩm sẽ không được đặt trên tấm bụi. Phòng đựng thức ăn được sản phẩm nào lưu cho một hộp ngũ cốc qua ngày hết hạn của nó nhưng thậm chí đã không được mở được nêu ra.Phòng ngủ của mình chỉ là scantily clad. Đáy là một kích thước Phong Nha, thoải mái cho hai người nếu không phải di chuyển quá nhiều trong khi ngủ. Như màn cửa của mình, nó đi kèm với một chủ đề màu tối Hải quân để nó. Tấm hải quân, Hải quân comforter, Hải quân gối, vv vv. Bàn làm việc mà máy tính xách tay của mình và bên ngoài ổ cứng được xếp chồng lên nhau được bố trí chống lại một bức tường, gần cửa sổ nơi ánh sáng mặt trời có thể thắp sáng bề mặt. Nó có nhiều ngăn kéo bên dưới nó, và dưới cùng hầu hết ngăn kéo có một đáy sai.Nó vào mà khoang bí mật Takaba giữ bằng chứng của mình qua sự tồn tại: hộ chiếu của ông thực sự, thẻ nhận dạng thực của mình, hai hình ảnh, một gia đình, khác với hai bạn bè tốt nhất của mình. Bạn bè của mình... Tôi tự hỏi nếu họ nhớ tôi thậm chí... Cha mẹ không biết nơi ông là một trong hai. Nếu ông qua đời bây giờ, đánh thức lên lạnh và không hoạt động sáng hôm sau, nào ông được chôn cất ở Nhật bản hoặc được hỏa táng ở đây, một cơ thể unclaimed giảm để đống tro tàn. Bí mật của mình sẽ được tiết lộ sau đó, phải không?Và súng.Đủ.Bên cạnh bàn làm việc, có là một kệ sách có sách ngày... nhiếp ảnh. Không nhiều bất ngờ ở đó. Có là một đêm đứng sang một bên của đáy với một đèn được trang bị với một bóng đèn ánh sáng cần phải được thay thế; ông đã mua các watt sai hai tuần trước và nó đã được chỉ là quá mờ.Tủ quần áo của ông là một nửa sản phẩm nào, một sự phản ánh của nhà nước bên trong của mình. Phong cách chung và hương vị của ông đã không thay đổi nhiều trong suốt hai năm. Nếu bất cứ điều gì, họ đã thậm chí nhiều hơn bình thường và hướng về hướng thoải mái và phong trào; chuyến đi của ông đã dạy anh ta đó. Ông vẫn còn mặc áo thun thể thao của mình, ông quần Jean vintage, và áo nỉ đội mũ trùm đầu của ông với túi nơi ông đã giấu tay. Và phần lớn thời gian, đôi chân của mình đã được mạ với một đôi giày chạy hoặc một cái gì đó dọc theo những dòng này. Tiện nghi và phong trào.Nhưng với những cơ hội đầu tiên ông có, ông đã ném ra tất cả quần áo cũ của mình, ông đã mang từ Nhật bản. Đổ chúng vào một hộp các tông lớn, đóng dấu nó với che băng, và ra khỏi cửa mà họ đã đi. Nó không có gì để làm với khả năng thể chất. Ông vẫn thể chất có thể mặc chúng.Đó là mùi. Hương thơm. Hương thơm.Hương thơm.Nó đã như hương, một loại thuốc đó gây ra và kích hoạt những kỷ niệm và hình ảnh ông sẽ thay vì đã nói rằng bộ nhớ khứu giác là mạnh nhất và lâu dài nhất của tất cả, phải không?There were two sets of suits in the closet, one black and the other dark grey. He had bought them for random occasions and still considered them a waste of money. Putting on these suits, these formal attires only reminded him of him. The cuff links. The buttons. The tie.The tie especially. Takaba could envision those strong, forceful hands, those expert hands snaking through the silky texture. Working their way past the collar. Tearing apart buttons. Brushing against his stomach. Down. Down. Past the belt, past th-Shut up.Takaba lowered himself onto the mattress, settling in motionlessly into the plush comforter. He hadn't been on his bed for almost a week, and it was just… nice to feel the same texture beneath his fingers. But on the other hand, what he had dreaded was true.There was no heat in this bed.Just him.And him alone.And those… wretched… awful… neon stars on the ceiling. One of them had fallen off while he was gone, near the pillow.Did you miss me? He picked it up and held over him.He lay down completely, his back against the bed, an arm over his eyes. Gyles had literally forbidden him to go home alone (upon hearing that Takaba almost got hit by a taxi), giving him two choices. Either he took Takaba home or Takaba would wait to go home with him.Takaba didn't really want to make Gyles leave the gallery and opted to stay. People didn't realize that they were whispering with the photographer right behind their back. It was a cunning little advantage, and he had been able to pick up a handful of good constructive criticism.Though he had to admit, some of the comments he had heard had really… hurt. Words like "immature" or "ambiguous" felt like stakes going through the back of his hand, severing the ligament of his index finger that pressed down on the shutter release button. He would have to live with such criticisms however… critiquing was something that every artist had to go through, whether it was music or art or literature, and that was the life he had chosen.And he had other things on his mind: Mr. Carthen's offer. Gyles had recognized something in Takaba; he had realized that his lover wasn't meant to be sedentary, that if his life in London wasn't fast paced enough, it would drive Akihito insane. He would end up hunting for thrills and danger like before. If Gyles was willing to make amends, to sacrifice six months for the sake of his lover's recovery, then Takaba should at least be understanding and grateful enough to accept Gyles' plans… shouldn't he? It was probably safer, as Mr. Carthen had said, to be touring Europe than war torn zones where he woke up every other day to the sound of explosions.But he didn't want to leave.You're growing complacent, Akihito…Takaba buried his nose into the pillow and inhaled a lungful of Gyles' cologne.So what if I'm content…but…Was he losing Asami? Was that private chamber he had reserved for his previous…lover…being taken over by Gyles' overwhelming presence?And so what if it is…He propped up his head with his right elbow, letting the injured arm rest against his body. It had begun to heal fairly well, except for a thin puckered line of scab. Another scar to add to his collection. Gyles wasn't too happy about it though. Ironically, the man blamed himself for it.Gyles…If Takaba hadn't been so previously preoccupied, and even if he was, Gyles was still the perfect lover that anyone have could asked for. He had unlimited patience for his troubled lover.How do you put up with me…Even he grew of his very self sometimes. For someone else to stand beside him with such devotion…