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…