Nov 19, 2007 22:13
It has been almost six months since his last contact with Asami. As he makes his way through evening traffic, Akihito once again gets distracted by thoughts of the past. After rescuing him from Feilong, the yakuza spent two weeks with him at his luxurious house outside Ozaka. Their reunion was paradise. Endless hours of mind-blowing sex, interrupted only by lazy sleep, delicious food, and soft whispers. He can still see the image of his lover dozing off on the silk sheet, his face calm and peaceful, his seductive body bathed in the golden sunset. That was happiness... As he waits at the street lights, Akihito feels his eyesight blurring. Why did it end? Why? He buries his teeth on his lower lip as the first tear drops trace slowly the curves of his cheeks. Two weeks. And then Asami announced that it was over. No explanations. “I won’t come for you anymore, Akihito, and I hope you don’t contact me either. I wish you a happy life. Try to stay out of trouble.” Tears are now raining down freely the young man’s eyes. Fuck you, cruel bastard! I told you I love you...
As he pulls at the parking lot of the French Embassy, Akihito switches off the engine and stares at the void. He has not seen Asami since that bitter night of separation. He tried to call, but he was never able to reach him. He left messages, some angry, some bitter, some coaxing, some even loving. But Asami never called back. Then he heard from his contacts at the police that the yakuza had left Tokyo for Europe; apparently he was working hard to expand his network outside Asia. Of course, no one knew exactly what he was up to. Or when he is coming back. If ever.
The pain in Akihito’s chest becomes unbearable. He wants to see him. He loves him and he hates him at the same breath...
Focus Akihito. Control yourself. You have work to do tonight. He rejected you. He never contacted you. Damn, he’s been avoiding you for six whole months! He’s obviously forgotten about you. You were just a whore. He’s done with you. And *you* are done with him!!! Taking a deep breath, the young man steps out of his car, grabs his cameras, and turns around to face the Embassy. His mission tonight is to cover the reception for Ambassador’s 60th birthday. He was already paid a fat check by the newspaper he is working for; the editor stressed time and again how the readers want to see beautiful pictures of celebrities and Akihito is so damn ready to capture them in his viewfinder! Plus I get to drink free Champaign and keep the expensive suit! The young photographer smiles to himself as he briskly walks up the stairs of the beautifully decorated entrance and shows his invitation to the taxedo-clad guard.
Two hours, eight film rolls, and four glasses of sparkly Champaign later, Akihito finds himself having a lively discussion with a beautiful model, Jun, about the pros and cons of shooting in a studio. This is great fun! he thinks to himself as he grabs his fifth glass of Champaign from the tray near-by. The guests, la crème de la crème of Japan’s business, politics, and arts, are chatting cheerfully all around the large ballroom. The air is filled with tipsy laughters, soft music, and the heavy smell of cigars. As Jun gets distracted by an old acquaintance, Akihito grabs his camera once again, determined to shoot the four gorgeous actresses who are chatting away-quite appropriately-in front a marble status of Venus. Camera in position, eyes looking for the right moment, fingers ready to press the button.
And then his body freezes. His mind goes blank. His whole existence hangs from the pair of golden eyes that are burning his own through the viewfinder. Akihito’s hands are trembling badly. He may drop his precious camera any minute now, but he doesn’t dare to lower it from his eyes. What if the golden eyes disappear, if he does? What if they’re still there? Confusion turns to panic. What to do? He’s losing control! I must leave. Now! Akihito lowers his head, puts his camera back to the bag, and dashes across the ballroom to the exit. Halfway through, he starts doubting what he just saw. Was it really Asami? How could it be? When did he come back to Japan? How come he didn’t notice him before among the guests? Maybe I’m just drunk. Maybe I imagined it. The young man comes to a halt just in front of the door and turns around, part of him expecting to dispel an illusion, part of him hoping in shame that he can cast his eyes once again on that perfectly built man that made an ever-aching wound in his heart six months ago. Akihito looks around, scrutinizing every corner, every shadow, every group of drunk guests. Blinks once, twice. Nothing. The tall figure who once held him tightly is nowhere to be found. Akihito closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. Relief or disappointment? He can’t tell. No, he doesn’t want to. His eyes burn with tears. Slowly the blond walks through the exit. Enough for tonight. He had all the photos he needed. He had more Champaign than he should. And he had his heart shaken more than he could handle.
The drive home was brief and uneventful. Except for the occasional tears. Akihito walks into his apartment, toes off his shoes-slightly losing his balance-and throws his jacket on a chair. He sheds the rest of his cloths here and there and closes himself up in the bathroom. He turns on the shower, hoping that the hot water will wash away the emotional tide of his heart. Tears come back, this time with violent sobs. Akihito collapses on the floor and his shivering body finds no consolation in the warmth of the shower. I am nothing to him. And yet I miss him. I want to see him, to caress him, to make love to him. I am the worst! Countless tears fall before the young man finally drags himself out of the bathroom and, still dripping, falls exhausted on the bed. As his swollen eyes close and his consciousness fades away, his dreams bring back the warmth of those days in Ozaka.
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