He worked a year and a half for a f

He worked a year and a half for a firm in London and found that… he wasn't quite fond of the job, a farfetched understatement. Just in time, a colleague from Harrow had inherited a long standing art gallery from his recently deceased grandmother and was having trouble double managing it with his career as an engineer at BP, being sent to the actual sites, sometimes stranded in petroleum oil rigs in the middle of the ocean for months. He called it "stranded" despite the fact that those oil rigs were gigantic and even had supermarkets on them and practically functioned as a community.

Regardless, he asked Gyles to share the management, making him the other proprietor of the gallery. When he died in an accident at a rig site, a storm had blown over and three people from the floating rig had drowned, the friend among the victims. The friend had a half-sister, but she had a particularly bad relationship with her late half-brother and made the ultimately unwise choice of refusing to quote "touch anything that foul man ever dealt with" unquote. Once Gyles had full control over the management, he made some drastic adjustments and the profit nearly doubled. The half-sister came back one time and tried to file lawsuit for "manipulating the economic status of the gallery" or something along those lines, but the court rebuffed her ridiculously outrageous claims. Gyles was still working part time at the company as an advisor from time to time and hence reaping the benefit of the stock shares, but most of his time was devoted to the management of the gallery.

God that feels like so long ago…

The car's vibrating stopped as he turned off the engine and pulled other the key, his chain jiggling then settling quietly into his palm. He grew tired of sitting in the cramped compartment and eventually made his way out, the car honking twice behind him as he locked it from the key chain attached to his keys, the echoes of the honks resonating in the basement, maneuvering around the concrete and steel columns.

Genji stood at attention behind Asami, who was looking out into the same London scene, except darker, and in Asami's opinion, grimmer. He could still see the snow, but it looked jaundiced, bathed in the yellow glare of the street lamps. The edifices that had looked so aesthetic were now jagged blobs of rectangles and geometric shapes with eerie silhouettes.

He held a glass of scotch in his hands, his second glass. Not that it really mattered to Asami with his tolerance.

"Did you find out who the gallery owner was?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"Gyles Tennison, a lawyer."

"You contacted him, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

"Unfortunately, the photographs have either been purchased or are already scheduled for auction. All except one, sir."

Asami's muscles, which had been so carefully arranged, suddenly tensed.

"Which one?" The intensity.

"Sir?"

"Which one's not being sold?" Voice was edged with a blade, a rough, jagged, serrated blade. Like the teeth of a saw. It was…intriguing. The edge was different. Not icy and razor like, but hot and jagged, crooked.

"Mr. Tennison called it 'Nostalgia,' sir."

Glass shattered on the marble floor, barbed and jagged shards of crystal thrown down like die, scattering light on the warped marble. It was as if the amber liquid had detonated in Asami's hands, as now it pooled and spread like a quiet stain, marking its territory with converging pools of liquor.

Genji winced, the shrill sound piercing his ears; he had been with Asami for a year and a half now, and this was probably the only time Asami had let something other than his cool, frigid exterior show. He couldn't understand why his boss was obsessing over a photography exhibit. He had seen some of them, and admittedly they were extraordinary even to the untrained eye, but they didn't seem like something that would leave Asami-sama so pressed.

"Sir?"

"Tell him I'm willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for the last picture on the condition that the photographer deliver the work. Leave my name out of this, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Asami was silent for a moment, his back still turned to Genji. "Now get out."

Genji bowed slightly as he hurried out. He was more than glad to; the atmosphere was asphyxiating him. He had heard a quiet rumor among the subordinates that Asami had lost a lover two or three years ago, someone that he became emotionally involved with. It was hard to believe, Asami letting himself be carried away like that.

So Akihito…it is you, isn't it…

He felt a bit of... hope and pride that Akihito had withheld the photograph. It meant…it meant that he still had a chance with the boy. It meant that Akihito was unwilling to let go of a memory of his past lover, that it was held too many connotations, nuances, to hold a monetary value. The photograph transcended that. Because it was Asami.

And because he was Akihito.

Have I gotten anywhere…

He glanced down at the pool of amber at his feet. It had stopped spreading.

Gyles was in the living room, catching up on a bit of news when his cellphone went off again. It wasn't Takaba.

What now…

"Gyles Tennison, who am I speaking to?"

"Mr. Tennison, I'm terribly sorry to call you at this late hour, but we talked about two hours about the exhibition."

"I've already went over this. This is non-negotiable."

"It's about the last photograph."

Nostalgia…"Which isn't for sale."

"The collector is willing to offer a hundred thousand on the condition that the photographer delivers the photograph."

What?! "Are you really referring to 'Nostalgia'?"

"Yes, of course."

Why would anyone offer so much on the first request… "I'm afraid for the safety and privacy of the photographer-"

"Mr. Tennison, the collector has assured that the safety and privacy of the photographer will be completely respected. He simply wishes to speak with the artist who took the photographs."

"I'll have to discuss this with the photographer directly regarding this matter."

"Very well, we will contact you tomorrow afternoon then."

"I'll be expecting."

It was clear that the other party wasn't willing to give out any names. Gyles closed the phone and held it in his hand. I was inexplicable that anyone should offer such a huge sum of money for one photograph. This wasn't something from the fifties or earlier; modern photography rarely exceeded four digits, five at best. Something ominous was rising, he could feel it from the base of his cut.

Takaba sat quietly in the back of the taxi. It was the only way to get to the gallery at three o'clock in the morning for him. To be honest, he was exhausted, trying to call sleep that didn't and wouldn't come, and the pills. He couldn't bring himself to take them after a week without. So for about five hours, he looked up at the stars on his ceiling doing absolutely nothing except thinking. About everything and nothing all at once. He thought about Tokyo, his past life. Then about London, his current façade. And went back. And forth. And back. And forth. Until he felt he'd rip his hair and finally got dressed again and headed out alone into the night, bumping into the same trio of girls that discovered him about a year ago, passed out in the elevator.