His apartment was a bit of a walk f

His apartment was a bit of a walk from the nearest metro station, which was closed for night maintenance anyway, so he had had to walk to a nearby area where there were pubs and bars open. That was about half an hour of walking in the snow, which had his hair nearly wet and his clothes damp.

"You can drop me off here." He told the taxi driver, who glanced back and pulled up in front of the gallery. The only person there was the night guard, a young fellow a few years younger than Takaba. From the outside though, the gallery looked dark and abandoned.

"Are you sure? Didn't you want to go a bit further to the-"

"No, no. This is fine." Then he added, "I'm exactly where I want to be." The driver shrugged as Takaba counted the money and handed it to him, "This is a bit too much, young man."

"Keep the change, it's late out," Takaba ducked out into the cold and closed the door. He pulled his coat tighter around him, puffs of air escaping his lips as he went around the side of the gallery through the side door, where the sentinel wouldn't spot him come in.

He had the keys of course. It was among the four keys he had: his apartment key, the mailbox key, Gyles' apartment key, and the gallery side door key. It was broad and flat with odd, rectangular shaped teeth. He slid the key in where the key pad lit up, added for security reasons with codes that even the sentinel didn't know. With his hand trembling from the cold, Takaba managed to type in the four digit number and the lock clicked, inviting him.

The back hallway leading into Gyles' office was empty and desolate, Takaba being extremely careful so that the wet, rubber soles of his shoes wouldn't make squeaky noises against the slick floor. This was the first time he had been here at night, and the mood was entirely different. Shadows were still and dead, the ventilation hummed with a different timbre. The hushed voices of people no longer echoed back and forth from the high ceiling. The lighting on the photographs was no longer lit, and every image was blurred into the darkness, lit only by the faint moonlight that crept in from the spaced out sky lights on the ceiling. When the clouds passed over the moon, then even that meager source of light was destroyed, leaving Takaba treading softly in the black labyrinth hall to where 'Nostalgia' was, and it didn't take long to find.

He knew exactly where it was.

The floor and the wall felt raw and frigid even through the layers of clothes as he sat down quietly, leaning back so that he could face the photograph. In the quasi darkness, Asami was even farther away. His back was broader and his stance more domineering, militant almost. He stood, undaunted by the world around him.

If I went back now, Asami…would you take me again…

The soft light cast on the photograph went black again, and Takaba fell asleep, holding his knees to his chest, gazing up at the photographer a lover that won't look back.

The night guard had seen Takaba come out of the taxi and walk around to the side entrance. He knew there was no malevolence in him, coming out at three in the morning to the gallery. He didn't really know who the man was, but on the few occasions that he saw him, it was with Mr. Tennison, his employer, and there was a silent acknowledgement between the two, a sense of trust that ran deep beyond the superficial. Indeed, the young Asian man was striking, his body, his face, the air about him was graceful and somehow crude at the same time.

He had had suspicions as to what kind of relationship the two had and his questions were cleared up one evening when he was checking in for his night shift. He had been wanting to ask Mr. Tennison something and was heading into the office when he heard some noise from office. Curious, he peeked through the slightly open crack to see the two lost in a kiss, their lips locked in passion, lost to the world around them. He forgot then what he wanted to asked and slipped out, never uttering a word of it to anyone.

So when he saw his employer's lover walk around to the side door, he thought better of it and stayed where he was. The man obviously had a reason for being there, and if he went through the side door instead of simply asking the guard to open it, then he probably wanted privacy in the moment.

He waited then, for the man to come out and leave, but no one did. He waited for twenty minutes, then thirty, then forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five, and an hour. It was probably cold inside the exhibition hall, and the night guard was going worried.

Sure enough, there he was, crouched against a wall, asleep, bathed in the little bit of sunlight.

Do I wake him up or what?

He knew Mr. Tennison's phone number though. Better call the man. Tell him his lover's sleeping in the gallery.

At four in the morning, Gyles' phone went of again, drawing him out from less than peaceful slumber. He groaned, flipping on the lamp, which temporarily blinded him, then grabbed the phone. If it was that collector again…

"What…" his voice was a dry croak, dragging on lethargically.

"Mr. Tennison, this is the night guard at the gallery and-"

Gyles bolted up, suddenly called to attention.

"Is there a problem?"

"Do you know that young Asian man who visits the gallery frequently?"

Oh God…Sei…

"I do."

"He's here, Mr. Tennison."

Jesus Christ…

"I'll be there in half an hour. How is he?" Gyles stood up, heading towards the closet in his boxers. He yanked a nearly folded pair of jeans from the shelves and shook it open.

"He's sleeping, sir."

"Don't wake him up. Just wait."

"Yes, sir." He closed the phone and slid up the jeans the rest of the way, zipping it up and buttoning the end. His car keys were also on the night stand; he shoved it into his pocket along with the cellphone and took the jacket that had been hung over the back of a chair.

Sei…what now…

Gyles rapped the glassy entrance to the gallery, shivering in the cold. He rubbed the edge of his sleeve against the glass and peered inside. The night guard rushed out, unlocking the door for him.

"Where is he?" he asked as he blew hot hair into the palm of his hands then rubbed them together.

"At the far end of the exhibit hall, Mr. Tennison."

"Thank you, I'll take it from here," Gyles made his way into the exhibition hall, into the quasi darkness, his footsteps echoing and resonating from the walls and ceilings, resounding eerily through the twists and turns of the hall.

…why do you do this to yourself…

He stopped at the last turn. Takaba was crouched against the wall, hugging his legs tight against his chest, his chin resting on his knees. Black strands of hair, slick and glossy, glistened from the moisture. Eyes were closed in exhaustion, long lashes curled up, casting distant shadows against his pallid skin. His shoulders rose and fell in rhythm, slowly, calmly. If only he could have this kind of serenity while he was awake.

Gyles knelt beside Takaba and brushed the damp strands of hair from his face to reveal a dry trail of tears that disappeared beneath the jaw, starting from the corner of his eyes, such sad, dejected eyes. When they were open, the amber iris whirl pooled into the black pupils, disappearing into nothingness, into the hollowness which sat at the throne of Takaba's heart, commanding everything else that followed.

He placed his arms beneath Takaba's knees and behind the back and lifted him from the cold floor. He turned back and-

Jesus…

Gyles clutched the body tighter against his own.

Nostalgia…

That man in the photograph… with his back turned to the viewfinder.

Gyles stepped closer, squinting slightly.

Even in the darkness, the black and white photograph, or rather, the man in the black and white photograph, radiated power. He was the center piece, the fortress towering over his territory, a lion watching his pride, watching and expanding his parameter, calling everyone and everything to their knees before him. With his presence, he overshadowed everything, claiming even the empty train tracks as his own. Obedience and attention.

Takaba's head leaned into Gyles' chest, taking comfort in the warmth; a soft gentle sigh escaped his lips as he snuggled closer in the strong arms. Gyles felt his heart constrict. Takaba's body felt…ethereal, intangible. It didn't feel human… too light, too weightless. Like carrying sheer silk, insubstantial, fragile, immaterial. He felt Takaba's small form could vaporize into the air, disintegrate into fine, white sand and slip through the cracks of his fingers like grains of an hourglass.