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Broken Dreams

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Although he would never admit it, Honma Toshio is afraid.

He almost lost everything tonight. It almost all fell apart. Not just his control of the show but his hold over Saejima, the life of her daughter Minori - one of his most valuable playing pieces, although Saejima doesn’t know it yet - and… Kamiyama. What would Honma have done if it had been Kamiyama and not Minori who had been kidnapped? What would he have done if it had been Kamiyama whose life had been threatened instead? Would he still have been able to keep his cool and resolve the situation?

No, he tells himself, stop thinking like that. I would never have let that happen. I would never have been so foolish as to let somebody take him away from me.

But he had lost control. For all his seemingly calm facade, Honma’s heart had been racing in his chest when he’d realised their contestant, Katsuragi Makoto, had been playing games with him. At first he’d been furious; how dare the man mock him like that? How dare he think that he was better than Honma and his staff, that he could so easily throw the TV station into chaos? Honma’s smug assessment of Saejima following the show had been an assertion of his superiority, as much as anything else. He’d taken out his insecurities on her, even if she hadn’t realised it.

And then there had been the unexpected appearance of the Yamanobe Kengo, the producer of the previous Quiz Show. How arrogant of him to approach Honma like that and tell him he didn’t even know how to run his own show! No, Honma knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly why he’s doing it, and he won’t let the opinionated words of some has-been producer sway him from his path.

Still, Honma is not taking any chances. Katsuragi's actions have shaken him more than he first realised, and that’s why he’s done the one thing tonight that he never thought he’d do; he has brought Kamiyama Satoru into his home. Having initially deposited Kamiyama back into his cell, his meeting with Yamanobe had further angered and upset him and - with Yoda-san’s help, of course - Honma has bundled Kamiyama into the back of a car and had him brought back to the small, one-bedroom apartment in which he has lived alone for several years now. Here, he knows that Kamiyama will be safe. Here, he is under his complete control.

Honma’s living space is almost bare in its austerity, perhaps reflecting the cold, precise focus of his mind. A short, compact hallway leads through to what serves as a kitchen and lounge, tatami mats on the floor along with a couple of rugs which add little warmth but at least provide some comfort for bare feet. Stark, white shelves hold a bizarre collection of books on a wide range of topics covering everything from aviation to medicine, astrology to economics; a TV stands on a small side-table in front of a black sofa, a small collection of DVDs to one side which look as though they are rarely, if ever, watched. The kitchen is more of a cubbyhole than a separate room, and it, too, does not appear to have seen much use, although it is far from dirty. What little food Honma does prepare is eaten alone, and he is not one to tolerate mess.

As for the bedroom, it’s not somewhere Honma spends much time other than to sleep. The bed is flanked by a small table upon which stands a lamp, a bottle of water and a half-read book on independent journalism; there’s also a box of tissues and a tube of some kind of lotion, evidence that he does plenty of thinking about Kamiyama when he’s on his own. Despite his loneliness, however, Honma’s bed is big enough for two, and that’s where the two men are now, sitting on the edge of it together, Honma practically cradling Kamiyama in his arms.

I almost lost you once. I’m not going to lose you again.

Honma chides himself for allowing such a sickly-sweet sentiment to cross his mind, but he cannot deny that holding Kamiyama like this gives him some feeling of comfort. Reassurance that his plans are still on track, perhaps? Or maybe he is just finding some relief from the knowledge that Kamiyama is still his, belonging to him like a favourite possession or a treasured pet. Certainly there can’t be any deeper feelings involved. There just can’t. Because if he found himself somehow falling in love with Kamiyama Satoru, then...

It’s because he’s valuable. Yes, that must be it. Kamiyama is an asset, a means to an end, his revenge. He’s not a person, he’s a commodity; a valuable commodity which sells TV magazines and boosts ratings, and he has to keep his commodities safe.

“Honma-san?”

“Hmm?”

Kamiyama’s voice stirs Honma from his thoughts; his tone soft, almost apologetic.

“Honma-san…” Kamiyama bites his lip, still sounding a little afraid. “Please, I… that tickles.”

It’s only now that Honma realises what his hands are doing; he has one arm wrapped about Kamiyama’s waist, holding him against him, whilst the fingers of his other hand are tracing lazy patterns across his forearm. Kamiyama is still dressed in the white clothes of his confinement, the thin material not doing much to soften Honma’s touch, whilst Honma remains wearing the same black clothes which he put on for tonight’s filming, leather jacket and all.

“I’ll stop.”

And he does, pulling his hand away from Kamiyama’s arm with a final, gentle stroke. He can’t recall ever being so tender with the man before, but… something about tonight just feels different.

“D-don’t stop touching me.”

“Huh?”

“Please, Honma-san. Please. Don’t stop.” And Honma isn’t the only one feeling a change this evening. There’s something more bold in Kamiyama’s statements, despite the way he sounds so timid. “Touch me…”

Not that Honma is complaining, of course. Hasn’t part of his plan been to groom Kamiyama so that the man is eager for his touch, so that he can torment him with affection? No, perhaps it wasn’t part of his original design, but… ah. It can’t hurt to take advantage of it now. Whatever the reason, whatever his intentions, it certainly brings Honma pleasure to hear Kamiyama pleading with him like this.

“And what will you do if I don’t?” Honma responds cockily, sarcastically, pushing down the inexplicable urge which rises inside him to silence Kamiyama with a kiss. No doubt there will be a kiss to follow, but not until he’s had a chance to mock the other man and put him in his place. “Will you whine at me, Kamiyama? Will you cry? Or will you just sit there and make those big puppy-dog eyes at me, hoping to make me change my mind?”

Kamiyama responds by just clinging even more tightly onto Honma, his fingers bunching into the leather of the man’s jacket. He’s coherent, albeit somewhat confused; the journey here from his cell has jolted him into lucidity, his mind aware that something very much out of the ordinary is happening. His only escape from the cell over the past two years has been for rehearsals, for filming shows or for doing publicity shoots, and never before has Honma treated him quite like this. There’s something surprisingly intimate about being in Honma’s own bed for once, and Kamiyama doesn’t know what to make of it. The one thing he can be sure of is that he welcomes the physical connection between them right now, the way that Honma seems almost playful rather than cruel.

“Or perhaps you want me to touch you somewhere else?” Honma smirks, allowing his free hand to wander along Kamiyama’s outer thigh. “Is that what you want?”

“I… I just…”

Kamiyama attempts to find his words, too timid to try and risk expressing how he really feels at this moment. The filming of tonight’s show had scared him, too; for all that he had, like Honma, kept a steady appearance in front of the cameras, he had been alone on stage with a man threatening to end the life of an innocent child. Much as Kamiyama has faith in Honma’s abilities as a producer, much as they have managed to work together as a team in the two years of his life that Kamiyama can remember, it had been horrifying trying to hold things together on live television as Honma had attempted to regain control behind the scenes. It had taken all his strength of will for Kamiyama to improvise the question which had led to them rescuing Minori, and Kamiyama needs this physical affection now just as much as Honma does, if not more so. It’s not just affection which he feels, either; there’s excitement too, the arousal which seems to keep rising whenever he is close to Honma, the need to touch and be touched, to find his relief in servicing the other man, to submit and to please...

“Yes… I want it somewhere else...”

It’s exactly what Honma wants to hear and he takes great pleasure in taunting Kamiyama by running his fingers slowly along his leg, touching him through the fabric of his trousers, smirking when his hand strays dangerously close to the bulge which is growing between Kamiyama’s legs.

“Good.”

Honma laughs softly, deliberately brushing the back of his hand across the visible hardness of Kamiyama’s crotch before hooking a finger into the waistband of the man’s trousers and beginning to pull them downwards. Kamiyama whimpers - a plaintive, submissive whimper, leaving Honma in no doubt that he’s just as eager for this as he is - and shifts his hips to give Honma better access to his body, helping him to hitch down his trousers until he can kick them off and leave them lying on the floor. His lower half is naked now and he blushes, biting his lip, even though they have been naked together before; it feels different because they’re in a far more intimate setting than the bare, harsh confines of his cell, touching each other on a proper bed rather than the one he is used to sleeping on. In that sense, Kamiyama almost feels like a shy girl undressing for her boyfriend for the first time.

And Honma loves it. The evening’s events may have left him feeling unsettled but he’s definitely back in control now, pushing Kamiyama down onto the bed and already stripping him of his top as well as his trousers; there’s a growing hardness in Honma’s crotch too, and Kamiyama whines when Honma leans over him, the excitement within Honma’s trousers brushing against his leg.

“Oh, stop complaining, Kamiyama! I haven’t even started yet!”

But that’s exactly why Kamiyama is complaining; his body is already trembling with desire, his every nerve-ending feeling as though it burns with sheer need.

“You’re so impatient.” Honma grins wickedly, running a hand along Kamiyama’s inner thigh. “So spoilt.”

God, he thinks as he torments the other man, when did Kamiyama start looking so damned good? It had been one thing to make Kamiyama submit to his will in his cell, but having him here, ready, in his own bed… Honma is going to make sure that their time tonight isn’t wasted.

After making sure that Kamiyama is lying back amongst the pillows, Honma shuffles himself down the bed and gets comfortable beside his crotch, his fingers now travelling across the expanse of skin between Kamiyama’s bellybutton and the thin layer of hair which surrounds his stiff length. It’s the first time he’s ever really looked at him like this; oh yes, he’s already handled him several times before, but he’s never really paid much attention to what he was playing with. Now that he takes the time to actually look at it, though, Kamiyama’s manhood is beautiful. It stands proudly between his legs, several inches of hot, firm flesh, the skin smooth and warm beneath his touch. Honma brushes his fingertips against it, closes his hand about it and squeezes gently, leaning his head over towards Kamiyama’s inner thighs.

His tongue finds the most sensitive spots around the base of Kamiyama’s arousal, his mouth pressing and teasing at his skin, licking at the place where his excitement juts forth from his body; he moans loudly, hungrily, savouring the other man’s taste as he experiences it for the first time, a shiver of pleasure running down his spine at the high-pitched, wanton groans escaping Kamiyama’s throat.

“Honma-san…”

Kamiyama dares to touch at the man’s hair, his fingers grasping feebly at the dark strands atop Honma’s head, wanting to pull him closer, to beg for more. He’s almost surprised when Honma doesn’t stop him and he bucks his hips forwards, daring to hope that the man’s mouth will find its way further along his length, closing his eyes and imagining the feel of those soft, full lips brushing against his sex…

He isn’t to be disappointed. Kamiyama is not the only one whose body is trembling with anticipation, whose nerve-endings are aflame with desire. Breathing in Kamiyama’s musky scent, Honma continues to kiss at the man’s flesh, his mouth playing at the base of his cock, his lips tracing their way further upwards, slowly but gently, until he reaches the head; there he pauses, glancing up at Kamiyama with a look which manages to be both predatory yet filled with adoration at the same time. He smiles, allowing his tongue to flick out and swipe up the bead of moisture which has formed at the tip of Kamiyama’s length - and then his mouth is closing about the head, swallowing it, taking the first inch of him between his lips with a loud, eager moan.

It’s the first time Honma has ever done anything like this. It’s not something he would even have considered before now - at least, not before he first coupled with Kamiyama on the bed in his cell. But having the man here, in his own bed… seeing his naked body helpless and ready for him, knowing the delicious sounds he makes when he reaches his release, breathing in the scent of his skin, the soft touch of his hair… Honma finds himself unable to resist, eager to touch and taste, to fully know Kamiyama in every way possible.

As for Kamiyama, it’s a feeling like nothing else he has ever experienced before. He’s had Honma’s fingers around him, of course; he’s played with himself once or twice, and he’s reached his completion beneath the other man’s touch. But to have his length buried within such deep, wet heat - to have his skin pressing against warm, slick flesh, to feel the vibrations of Honma’s moans throughout his entire body - he’s already dangerously close to hitting his climax already, and even as the other man begins to slide his mouth further down around him, Kamiyama has to make a conscious effort to control himself in case he finishes before Honma has barely begun.

Kamiyama’s fingers tangle further within Honma’s hair, drawing him further down around him; he pushes his hips upwards to meet the man’s lips, matching his pace, careful not to go too fast and cause Honma any discomfort. He knows now what it feels like to pleasure another man like this, and he takes care not to anger Honma by being too rough, too eager. For Honma, he is quickly discovering that this is another way to take control - that he can rule Kamiyama in whatever way he wants to, draw out desperate cries from his throat by suddenly sucking hard on his flesh, make his gasp and whimper by threatening to press too hard with his teeth, bring a shudder of excitement by lapping his tongue against the underside of his length...

“Honma-san…” Kamiyama breathes his name tenderly, his hips moving in slow circles, more trickles of his essence leaking from his manhood to stain Honma’s hungry tongue. “Honma-san… th-thank you… yes… Honma-san…”

But Honma pulls away quickly, suddenly, drawing a cry of dismay from Kamiyama as he feels the loss of his partner’s mouth; Honma sits up, smirking, swallowing down the lingering taste of Kamiyama’s body as he settles in a kneeling position between his legs.

“You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” he laughs, shrugging off his jacket, his shirt following soon after to join the pile of their clothes on the bedroom floor. That done he begins to fiddle with the buttons of his jeans, although the fact that his hands are beginning to shake makes the task somewhat difficult. “If you really want me, Kamiyama… you’ll have to beg…”

Not that it looks like Kamiyama will be kept waiting. It’s obvious that Honma wants him - needs him - but even so, Kamiyama knows better than to disobey a direct request. Stifling a moan he squirms and glances up at Honma’s face, only to look away again as his cheeks blush a deep shade of red.

“I want you…”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Now it’s Kamiyama’s turn to consider just how alluring the other man looks. Honma is kneeling over him, topless, his pale skin a beautiful contrast to the dark shades of his hair, the deep brown of his eyes; he glances at his crotch as he manages to free himself from his trousers, his excitement just as firm as Kamiyama’s own, his jeans falling away to reveal the perfection of his naked body.

“I want you, Honma-san… please…”

And Kamiyama really does mean it, his words catching in his throat as Honma shifts closer, reaching over for the bottle of lotion on his bedside table and coating his fingers with a generous amount of the stuff before beginning to slick his hardness with it. It’s not only his arousal which he touches, either; his fingers slide down to find the tight, hot entrance to Kamiyama’s body, the cold lotion causing him to cry out, the sensation of his hand pressing there pushing him even closer to his imminent climax.

“I want you… I need you…”

“Oh, you’ll get me.”

Honma, too, is eager for their bodies to meet and become one, but he forces himself to hold back for just a few more moments - just long enough to position himself so that the head of his length pushes insistently against Kamiyama’s tightness, just long enough to take hold of the other man’s thighs and lift them up, angling his body for a better thrust - and then he pushes forwards, his voice thick and heavy with lust, a low growl tearing at his words.

“You need me…”

He slips inside Kamiyama so easily, filling him with a single thrust, slow and gentle; Kamiyama responds with a moan of his own, his fingers tangling within the bedsheets, his hips bucking upwards once more to meet Honma’s body. The man is actually smiling down at him, without a hint of cruelty or malice. It’s unusual enough for Kamiyama to expect some kind of a trap, but when Honma begins to move inside him, all thoughts of danger are completely abandoned in favour of sheer, ecstatic bliss.

They move together at a leisurely pace, both of them shifting slightly so that Honma can fill Kamiyama as much as he possibly can. His thrusts are sure and determined, eager yet unhurried, and he leans down over his partner to plant a row of soft little kisses along Kamiyama’s jawline, cradling his cheek in one hand as he does so; his lips find Kamiyama's own and he presses them together, his tongue snaking between them, sharing the musk of Kamiyama's body, sharing his taste. Kamiyama is already close thanks to Honma's attentions between his legs, and as their kiss deepens he reaches down between the two of them to close his fingers around himself, touching and stroking, squeezing and moaning, the presence of Honma inside him finally pushing him over the edge to fall into a wordless chasm of sheer ecstasy.

Kamiyana’s entire body shudders as he comes, his muscles clenching and tightening around Honma’s throbbing length; creamy, sticky essence spurts forth from his erect cock, clinging to Honma’s skin, spattering against his own chest even as the other man continues to move inside him. For a moment he fears retribution, anger from Honma at reaching his climax without the permission to do so, but Honma merely smirks down at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his expression one of smug pleasure and enjoyment. Honma, too, nears the height of his passion, his own body tensing and trembling, and just when Kamiyama thinks he is about to reach his peak - he’s learning it now, the moment when Honma is about to finish - the other man suddenly pulls out of him, suddenly shudders and moans, spending himself over Kamiyama’s bare skin, spilling his load across his chest to mingle with his own musky essence. He gazes down at Kamiyama as he does so, his hands still clinging tightly onto him, that physical connection still something strong and tangible.

“Kamiyama…” Having ridden out his orgasm over Kamiyama’s chest, Honma all but collapses against his partner, panting and gasping, only just managing to find the strength to clamber from his body and lie beside him, trembling, shaking, spent. “Kamiyama Satoru…”

It’s the first time Kamiyama can remember Honma calling him by his full name. Because that is his name, isn’t it? Kamiyama Satoru. He has a name. He has a past, and Honma knows far more about it than he is willing to tell. All he has to do is keep behaving, and he’ll find out the truth. He just has to keep on pleasing Honma like this… keep performing well on camera, and doing as he’s told in bed...

With trembling fingers Honma traces the shape of Kamiyama’s cheek, his jaw, noting as he does so that the other man is trembling too. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed his slip with the man’s full name, and without even thinking he slides an arm behind Kamiyama’s back and draws him close, kissing at his forehead, the contact soothing and calming them both. They’re safe now. Kamiyama is safe now. Nobody can wrestle the situation away from him, not while they’re together like this.

Kamiyama, too, feels his body begin to relax as Honma holds him, the hunger of his desire having been washed away in the delicious warmth of their pleasure. This has been unlike any of their previous meetings; this has been almost loving in its intensity, and he dare not shatter the peace of the moment by saying something which might ignite Honma’s volatile temper - not even during the apparent tranquility of their post-coital bliss. Instead he chooses to just moan softly, nestling within Honma’s arms.

They stay that way as they drift together into sleep.

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Within a few hours, however, they wake again, their bodies already eager to be sated once more, and they feed their hunger willingly. Their lovemaking is passionate and tender, gentle and affectionate, hands and mouths and tongues touching, kissing, caressing every last inch of hot, bare skin; they couple easily and eagerly, their bodies joining together again and again, alternating between hazy sleep and hungry pleasure. The one thing which remains a constant in Honma’s control; he is always in the lead, always the one giving rather than receiving, filling Kamiyama over and over with his hardness, with his fingers, with his tongue. They lose track of the time but by the time they both fall into an exhausted sleep, it’s already beginning to get light.

=========================

When true morning finally arrives, Kamiyama is the first one to awaken. He stirs gently, a soft murmur escaping his lips, briefly disorientated and unsure as to where he is until he glances beside him to see Honma’s sleeping form still wrapped around his own, and he knows that he is safe. Only then does he recall that this is the first time within memory that he has slept soundly and not woken from a terrible nightmare.

He remains that way for a few moments, happily settled within Honma’s arms, savouring the feeling of being so close, of perhaps even being wanted; but after a time he feels the call of nature and reluctantly slips from Honma’s grasp, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching his arms, wincing slightly when his body reminds him of what happened between the two men last night. He aches, but it’s the most delicious kind of ache; his thighs hurt, his calves hurt, and as for the parts of him between his crotch and his buttocks… he blushes deeply, casting a glance back towards where Honma still lies sleeping. He doesn’t regret any of it.

Having found the bathroom and relieved himself, Kamiyama can’t help but fall prey to his own curiosity. Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s out of his cell for once - perhaps it’s the fact that he knows there are no imminent deadlines he must prepare for, no shows which he has to present, no photoshoots scheduled for at least another two days - but he feels more coherent than he has done in months. Honma has always told him that he is kept locked up for his own safety, that his mind is too shattered and fragmented to be able to cope by himself if he were to live outside of the facility in which he is kept. Now, though, it’s as though the fog has briefly lifted, and he wants to know more about the world outside. He wants to know more about the man he is beginning to… care about?

It can’t be love. Love doesn’t feel like this. Or does it? He can’t remember.

Honma-san. I want to know more about Honma-san. And I want to know more about Kamiyama Satoru.

And so his eyes wander towards the bookshelves, rather than his feet taking him straight back towards the bedroom. What kind of a person is Honma? What sorts of things does he like to do in his free time? He clearly puts a lot of effort into researching the questions for the Quiz Show. Maybe that’s why he has these photo albums lined up and labelled by date, tucked away in one corner of the shelves. They’re not something which Kamiyama had noticed when the two of them had come in last night, but then again, they had had other things on their minds. Reaching out for one of them his fingers brush across the writing on the spine: Lake Shinai, 2001. What could that be? Honma doesn’t seem the sentimental type to keep holiday photos.

His brow furrowing in confusion, Kamiyama carefully lifts out the photo album from the shelf, opening it delicately - being very sure not to bend the spine - and sits down on the floor, wondering. He peeks inside, wondering what kind of memories the album holds, but he is not prepared for what he sees. A picture of himself, standing next to another young man; a cutting from a newspaper, which details a story in which a plane crashes into a lake; a passenger list, from which he is sure he recognises at least one name, and a photo of a young woman, which he---

Misaki.

He remembers a girl with long hair, smiling at him. He remembers her lying at his feet, blood seeping through his fingers. He remembers the rain; a checked shirt; a young man in a cream-coloured jumper running over to him… Honma?

“Kamiyama!”

Hearing his name suddenly announced instantly causes Kamiyama to freeze; his recognition of the anger within it is almost instinctive.

“Kamiyama…”

This time, Honma’s voice is a vicious snarl. Whatever love and affection had infused his words last night has vanished completely, only to be replaced with a cold, hard fury which is reflected in his eyes. He stands over Kamiyama now wearing nothing but his trousers and a hateful glare - he must have woken shortly after Kamiyama, and come looking for him - and his body language alone leaves no doubt as to his quickly-building fury.

“Put it down. Now.”

It was foolish of him to risk bringing Kamiyama back here, Honma thinks. It was a stupid mistake. He’d been so blinded by sentiment, so sure that he had been in need of comfort that, he had overlooked the simple fact that all of his memories of Misaki are stored within this place. He should have known that Kamiyama would somehow stumble across them, and that’s a failing which he cannot forgive. Angry at himself, he takes out his rage on the naked young man in front of him.

“How dare you. How dare you look at her like that!”

Kamiyama’s response is a pained whimper, his muscles already tensing in anticipation of the violence to come. He doesn’t drop the photo album - he knows better than to treat an image of Misaki with such disrespect - but he places it carefully down upon the floor and moves away, his head hanging heavily with guilt between his shoulders.

“Please, Honma-san… please…”

He can’t hold back the tears, his voice breaking as he stares up at the other man, his face etched with desperation and despair. Just as Honma chides himself for his decision to bring Kamiyama back to his own apartment, so too does Kamiyama berate himself for being so bold as to look through Honma’s possessions without permission. He should have known that Honma would find out somehow, and that he would be angry. He has made a terrible mistake, and now he must endure the consequences.

“Get out.” Honma throws Kamiyama’s clothes down at him, the cream-coloured shirt and trousers which had been so hastily discarded last night in favour of their pleasure. He’s sneering down at him, his lip curling in distaste. “Yoda-san is already on his way, so put some clothes on.”

“Don’t take me back there, Honma-san… please don’t let me go…”

Honma hesitates, and visibly so. His eye twitches slightly, his lips parting as if to take back the words he has just spat at Kamiyama; memories of the previous evening are still fresh within his mind, his body also bruised and aching from their repeated coupling, his skin still warm from where Kamiyama’s naked body had pressed so tightly against him...

“Shut up.”

Even though he has been expecting it, the sharp slap of Honma’s palm against his cheek causes Kamiyama to flinch and cry out, the blow hard enough to send him reeling. Falling back onto the floor he curls himself up into a defensive little ball, raising his hands instinctively to protect his face, covering the cheeks which were only last night being caressed by the very same fingers which have just struck him. He goes quiet, but only for a moment; he knows now that he was not always so submissive, so weak.

“Please, Toshio-kun…”

That was Honma’s name once, wasn’t it? Honma Toshio. That’s his name. He remembers. A classroom full of boys and girls in uniforms, Honma walking towards him, his own voice speaking his name - Toshio - and...

“What did you call me?”

“Toshio-kun…”

The next hit is even more powerful than the first, Honma’s hands tearing Kamiyama’s fingers away from his cheek to deliver a blow so harsh that it’s audible, the sound of skin striking skin mingling with another pained cry from Kamiyama’s aching throat. Honma raises his hand to hit him again, but it’s at that moment there’s a knocking at the door which causes him to hesitate.

“That will be Yoda-san.”

It’s not that Honma doesn’t want Yoda-san to know about the way he treats Kamiyama; he knows the man can hear everything which happens between him and Kamiyama when they’re together in his cell. No, it’s more that he wants Kamiyama gone, now, and he won’t waste any more time tormenting him if it will get rid of him faster.

“Hurry up and get dressed, Kamiyama.”

Honma’s hand falls to his side and he strolls towards the door, unlatching and opening it; Yoda-san seems characteristically unperturbed by Honma’s topless state, merely bowing politely and stepping inside, also apparently not at all bothered at the sight of a topless Kamiyama struggling to get into his shirt.

“Take him back to his cell.”

“Shall I arrange for his usual schedule today, Honma-san?”

“I don’t care. Just get him out of my sight.”

Honma folds his arms across his chest and stares hatefully over at Kamiyama, who has somehow struggled to clamber into his clothes. He merely watches as Yoda-san takes a hold of Kamiyama’s arm and steers him towards the door, tears already streaming down Kamiyama’s face, the younger man struggling like a disobedient child.

“Honma-san… Honma-san!” Kamiyama reaches out for Honma, stumbling, trying but failing to break free of Yoda-san’s grasp. “Not back there, Honma-san! Please! Please…”

Hardening his already-brittle heart, Honma steps forward and closes the door behind the other two men as they leave, locking it and closing the latch, shutting out Kamiyama’s cries as well as the rest of the world outside. Only then does he allow himself to crumble; only then does he let out the choked sob which he has forced so hard to keep stifled, the lump in his throat which now bursts forth.

Why? Why did he have Kamiyama thrown out like that? He doesn’t even know. Already he misses the warmth of the man’s body, his scent, his touch; he misses the way Kamiyama has started to look at him when they’re alone together, the complete trust which he seems to have in Honma, despite the manner in which he is treated. He knows that he is one day going to have to shatter that trust when he finally exacts his revenge. And when that day comes, there will be no more warmth between them to share. There will be nothing.

Taking a step back, Honma collapses on the floor beside the photo album which Kamiyama has dropped - the photo album which shows him as a much younger man, arm in arm with the two people who were once his world - and he picks it up with shaking hands, a pained cry escaping his lips as he does so. His fingers trace their way across the page, across Misaki’s smiling face, across Kamiyama’s carefree grin.

Alone, he begins to sob.