Was he not glad, ecstatic that he h

Was he not glad, ecstatic that he had found Akihito?

But he wasn't completely hollow. There was this… brewing… bubbling inside him. Like the womb of a volcano before its mass eruption. The tension wound within the earth plates before the cataclysmic earthquake. The green clouds that settled before tornadoes.

But it wasn't… it wasn't anger, was it? Was this because he wasn't certain yet? That the photographs were...no. There was no doubt about the photographs.

Nostalgia.

Asami mouthed the title again, feeling the word slide over his tongue in his dry mouth. Saliva had sucked itself back into the gland. But the photographs. They were anonymous, just the tiny initials ST inserted in the lower right corner. Had Akihito been doing that for two whole years, living in a near nonexistent state? Putting up walls between him and the world so that he could stay invisible? Scampering around the globe running away from absolutely nothing?

How painful that must have been, living in lies, in deception, in duplicity when his nature, the very core of his existence resisted it. He was born to shine, born to stand out before everyone. He was destined to for… truth… How wretched it must have been…how tormenting it must have been for Akihito to live that kind of life…

What have I done to you, Akihito? Have you dropped to the bottom of the well because of me?

Have I dragged you down to hell, just I promised so long ago?

The photographs had revealed such a depth of personality, a tangled mass of character whose origin wasn't just a single point. There was more to Akihito. He wasn't a boy. He wasn't simple. What had constructed that complexity? Perhaps… it had been there all along, a tapestry and he had never noticed it. Never seen it.

Before he left, could Akihito had been trying to gain some sort of recognition?

What went on in Akihito's mind wasn't a one-track railroad. It was a mosaic, a modern frescoe, a labyrinth that Asami felt he could lose himself in, and he was lost in it already. It was a code too cryptic to interpret, sophisticated and intricate like the arabesques of Moorish windows. No doubt he was lost it in. He couldn't just kidnap Akihito and drag him back to Tokyo. No.

No. That wouldn't do. Then Akihito's two years would be in vain because nothing would change. Everything has to evolve to survive. But he had evolved, hadn't he?

Over the two years he had mutated with his addictive fixation on Akihito still in mind for two years, hardening parts that weren't meant to calcified and mineralize. His obsession, his mania. His syndrome. Akihito was his one source of high and now his gut craved it. He could feel his internal organs pulsating, sending messages to a beacon somewhere.

It was still there. The intensity was still there. In fact, each shred of emotion spoke out louder than before, as if the diaphragm had been narrowed and concentrated the light into tiny points that could burn and start a fire. It wasn't just pleasure, it was ecstasy. Hate wasn't just hate, it was enmity. Not just jealousy, but envy. Anger didn't describe anger, wrath did. Desire came nowhere closer, but lust. In these two years, Akihito had honed something, polished away the roughness.

They said that, didn't they? That time and pressure would form diamonds. This time, he had been melted back into the mantles of the earth, emerged against and was shaved to a dangerous perfection. Too hard. Too brittle. The flexibility, the volatility was being cut away with internal strife. One strike with the hammer and the boy was bound to shatter into a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories. A ticking time bomb, but waiting to implode.

Is this what I have driven you to do?

Or was this new layer just another part of Akihito's deception?

The car rolled into the hotel driveway, and a hotel employee opened the door.

"Genji?" Asami had last directions before heading in.

"Yes, sir?" the window slid down.

"Find out who the head of the gallery is, contact him and tell him an anonymous collector wants to purchase the entire exhibit. I will speak to him personally for the details."

"Yes, sir." His body guard's face disappeared behind the tinted glass.

Gyles looked out from the car window, "Take care of yourself."

"I will," Takaba smiled meekly, "I'll see you tomorrow then." He turned toward the apartment only to be stopped by Gyles' voice calling out his name.

Gyles paused, admiring Takaba's slender form, then smiled back, just tell him you love him… "Goodnight."

"…Goodnight…"

Strange…

Takaba shivered as he waited in the elevator, watching the red number count up until it hit the fourth floor, and the door slid open slowly. It was absolutely freezing outside. He could almost feel his bones and his marrow constricting and crystallizing from the still, icy air, and all he wanted was to get inside. Although… his apartment was probably just as cold since he hadn't left the heater on.

Takaba fumbled with the keys, his fingers resistant to his commands in their numb state, the tips of his flesh tingling as they touched the warm metal key, which had been hidden deep in his pocket. He finally it into the hole and turned the lock with a faint click.

The first thing he did, even before turning on the light, was rush to where he knew the temp control was and adjust it so that he wouldn't be cryogenically frozen or otherwise an ice block when he woke up (or didn't wake up) the next morning. They would probably have to get an ice pick and chisel, maybe a blow dryer, to crack and melt the layer of ice he would accumulate if he slept in the cold like this.

Then he took off his shoes and carefully arranged them near the door. Two years ago, he would have just tossed them aside, kicked them into a dusty corner. He hung the damp coat on the stand near the door and looked around into the quasi darkness, the light from the yellow street lamps filtering in through the cracks of his navy curtains, before flicking on the light.

It was a rather small place, a bit dark for his taste (the old European apartments had a knack for having little to no windows), but it suited his needs well enough: a kitchen, a living room, two bedrooms and one bathroom. It was certainly more spacious than in Tokyo. He had furnished it with what little budget he had back when he first moved, adding different items one by one with time, filling in the gaps.

The process was… fulfilling. He remembered throwing out the furniture in Tokyo, how much it had ached when he watched them driven off to the landfills. Watching the empty corners of his new apartment slowly being occupied by something tangible… By fleeing from Tokyo, he had torn apart a puzzle set, and as he filled the gaps of his new residence, he was slowly starting to see the image of the puzzle, something he had forgotten long ago, piece by piece. The furnishing of his new apartment was a sort of cure, a haphazard antidote….but not quite…

Not quite…

Three black leather recliners sat around a coffee table that looked more like a huge black cube sitting in the middle of the living room. It was supposed to be "contemporary." The flat screen TV and DVD player were purchased only about a year ago; Gyles and Takaba watched a DVD together for the first time the day they were delivered.

Random photographs were hung on empty white walls, mostly ones he took himself and was unwilling to exhibit but liked. Exhibitions meant he lost them forever as they were almost always auctioned or sold off. Perhaps one day he would return to the negatives and bring to life those photos again.

As for the darkroom, anyone entering it would see most of the wall occupied with shelves and dozens and dozens of albums of negatives. He had collected his photos for months and mailed them to London before his departure, boxes of them. There were several desks and sink-like apparatus where he could wash the developed pictures. In addition, there were two metal cabinets where he stored his equipments and materials. All in all, a mundane room, just like all the rest.

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 y