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Broken Dreams

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Even as MC Kamiyama collapses on the set, all that Honma does is watch.

He deserves it, Honma tells himself. He deserves it for everything that he's done, especially for what happened when I brought him back to my apartment. I brought him back to my territory, my own personal space, and he repaid me by poking around where he had no right to look. He had no right to go looking through my memories like that. He had no right to remember Misaki on his own.

Not only had Kamiyama's actions threatened to ruin Honma's plan of controlling his mind, it had felt like an intrusion on his very self. Misaki was his to remember, and her loss was his to bear, not Kamiyama's. She had promised herself to him, not his friend – because Kamiyama was your friend once, do you recall? - and for Kamiyama to stumble across his albums of old photos, his newspaper cuttings, his archive of memories and regrets and sorrow, that had been too much for Honma to bear. He seems to have already have forgotten, however, that he had brought Kamiyama into his home because he had wanted to keep him safe.

Kamiyama's investigation of Honma's photo albums had been the reason why Honma hadn't given him any information before this week's show, though. If the man was so keen on remembering things himself, he could damn well struggle through with the questions as he saw them, rather than having prior warning of their content. Honma's reasoning had been that the information they revealed would painfully jolt Kamiyama into recalling some of the details of that fateful day... and he had not been disappointed.

Honma had noticed the signs even before Kamiyama's distress had become great enough for the rest of the staff to see them. An anguished look here, a tense squaring of his shoulders; it had been expcted, and Honma would have been lying if he'd said he hadn't experienced a certain sick thrill at seeing the man collapsing before him. He'd known full well that the rest of the staff would oppose Kamiyama continuing with the show, but it was a testament to how well he had broken the man's spirit to his will that Kamiyama had done his best to continue filming.

Or perhaps he is so desperate to discover the truth that he is willing to endure anything in order to remember.

Either way, Honma could only gain from this. That was why he had watched, seemingly impassively, when Kamiyama had collapsed again during the Dream Chance, having to be carried once more from the stage as the rest of the staff panicked and fretted about the future of the programme.

Such petty concerns. They're worrying about the future of a television show when there is the spirit of an innocent girl in need of justice. They'll understand, in time. They'll all see.

Sighing, he accepts that tonight's broadcast is over and offers some empty platitudes to his colleagues, ignoring Saejima's furious stare as he makes his way to the door. Nobody sees the smug grin on his face as he walks out.

Now to find Kamiyama. I have some things I need to say to him before the night is through. He deserves to suffer; he brought this upon himself. Even so... I hope he's alright.

The last thought slips in unbidden and Honma mentally chides himself, yet again, for allowing such a sliver of weakness to even exist. He's not supposed to be looking after Kamiyama, he's supposed to be making him pay for what he's done, but... but it had felt so good when the man had been in his own bed, in his own apartment. Kamiyama hadn't been the only one who had woken up during that night; several times Honma had awoken to find the other man lying asleep across his bare chest, his breathing soft and measured, one arm draped over his shoulder, and he had felt... content. As though he was the only one who could offer him comfort. As though he belonged there.

No, it's nothing but my mind playing tricks on me. It should be Nitta Misaki in my bed, not Kamiyama Satoru. He's a substitute, nothing more. He's a toy.

Doing his best to hold that thought in his mind Honma walks to the stage door of the studio itself, only to be told that MC Kamiyama has now returned to one of the dressing rooms; with a fake smile and an insincere 'thank you' to the crew, he finds his way to the dressing room in question, pushing open the door to find Kamiyama slumped on one of the old, worn-out sofas, his head in his hands. He is alone, clearly upset and feeling very distraught. No doubt he blames the disastrous early finish of the broadcast on himself. Good.

“Kamiyama.”

He looks up when Honma says his name, his eyes still blurry and unfocused, his body still shaking from the after-effects of his collapse; he nods in acknowledgement of the other man's presence, and Honma notices from his red eyes that he has been crying. Much to his annoyance that causes a pang of remorse, although he quickly does his best to try and smother that with cruel satisfaction at Kamiyama's distress; he walks over to stand before Kamiyama, staring impassively down at the other man.

“I'm sorry, Honma-san.” Kamiyama's voice is hoarse, further evidence of his upset. “It's all my fault, isn't it? I couldn't hold it together. I couldn't do it. I tried. I tried....”

“You remembered.” Honma's expression is cold and hard, his expression neutral, certainly not betraying any trace of sympathy for Kamiyama's current condition. “Didn't you, Kamiyama? You remembered.”

“Yes.” Kamiyama's voice is small, apologetic. “Misaki....”

“What about Misaki?” The edge quickly returns to Honma's voice. “What did you remember about Misaki?”

“The plane crash...” His voice trails off, his eyes close, reliving the events of that day, replaying them again and again like some awful video on repeat which he cannot turn off. “On the plane... me and Misaki... you weren't there, but the pilot... Shibata Yuuki...”

“The pilot...?”

“It was the engine.” There's a stab of clarity in Kamiyama's words and his expression clears, as though he has just had a revelation. He reaches out to cling onto Honma's arms, his enthusiasm causing him to suddenly become very animated. “It was the engine, wasn't it, Honma-san? That's why the plane crashed, because there was a fault with the engine...”

“Yes.” Honma nods, confirming what Kamiyama has managed to work out by himself. “The engine failed, and that's why Shibata crashed the plane. You got him to admit that much, at least.”

“But it wasn't his fault.”

“It wasn't his fault?” A surge of rage rises up within Honma, something so undeniably strong that even Kamiyama can feel the waves of tension emanating from him; his shoulders tense, his eyes flashing with anger. “It wasn't his fault?”

Kamiyama stifles a whimper, trembling and bracing himself for a blow which thankfully never comes; he cowers before Honma as the man continues to snarl his disgust.

“In the end, Misaki died because of him, Kamiyama!” Honma's lip curls into a sneer. “No matter what was wrong with the engine, he was the one piloting that plane! He knew it wasn't safe, and he flew it anyway! And instead of coming clean about the crash, he accepted a payout of two million yen to stay quiet! Is that all she was worth to you, Kamiyama? Two million yen?”

“It wasn't like that!” Even Kamiyama doesn't know where his defiance comes from, but something within him is telling him firmly that he is right. “He's a victim too, Honma! He was betrayed by the company he gave his life to---”

“At least he still has his life!”

“And so do we!” Kamiyama finds his courage somehow, letting go of Honma's arms to ball his hands into fists. “We're still alive, and we need to honour Misaki and remember her as best we can, don't we? Is that what she was like? Wasn't she always kind? Wouldn't she have wanted to give this man a second chance?”

Honma hesitates, because – even though he may not be aware of just how much – Kamiyama is right. It's obvious that Kamiyama doesn't have clear memories of Misaki, but he can at least recall her gentle, forgiving nature and the fact that she always saw the best in people. It's true that if she had still been alive she would have forgiven the pilot for his errors, because he, too, has suffered for the sake of his company. He scowls but some of his anger subsides, a plan already beginning to form in his mind.

“So you want him to attain his dream after all, Kamiyama?”

“Yes.” Kamiyama nods, his expression one of naïve, innocent determination. “I think he's earned it.”

“Then perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement.” A wicked smile makes its way across Honma's lips, sadistic and calculating. “Maybe we can give him what he wants... but you're going to have to work for it.”

“Honma-san...?” Kamiyama looks up questioningly at the other man, but really, he already knows what will be expected of him. “Honma-san, I... what do you want me to do?”

“What do you think?”

With steady hands Honma fiddles with the buttons of his trousers, already feeling himself grow hard at the thought of forcing Kamiyama to pleasure him in exchange for granting the pilot his dream. He pushes aside the thought that he would want this anyway; that he would come to Kamiyama for physical comfort and relief, that he would want to couple with the man no matter what since he is all he can think about when he's lying alone in his bed. At least this way Honma can pretend he is only demanding sex to make Kamiyama suffer.

Taking himself within his fingers Honma begins to slowly stroke at himself, drawing out his firmness, making himself fully erect as he watches the tentative expression on Kamiyama's face. The other man know what is expected of him without Honma even having to tell him what to do. He reaches out with a shaking hand to touch at Honma's arousal, his fingertips brushing against the smooth, silken skin of his length; as Honma moves his hand away Kamiyama replaces it with his own, drawing his excitement closer towards his mouth, leaning forwards to kiss softly at the head.

Although he remains somewhat confused from tonight's ordeal, Kamiyama is still certain about one thing; he wants Honma. He has not forgotten the pleasure they shared in the man's apartment; he has not forgotten the thrill of Honma's body moving against and inside his own, the sheer ecstasy of hearing Honma cry out his name at the height of his passion, the relief of his own climax and the comfort of having the other man beside him when he awoke. The truth is, he realises now, that he would want to do this to Honma regardless of whether the man was ordering him to or not.

“Kamiyama....”

Honma gives a long, low moan as Kamiyama takes him further between his lips, savouring his taste, breathing in his scent as he presses his tongue against the throbbing length of his arousal. He sucks hard, moaning as he does so, sending a delicious series of vibrations throughout the man's flesh which causes him to stifle a loud cry of delight; his fingers move down to touch and squeeze gently at his balls, caressing them, cupping them and fondling them enthusiastically yet tenderly while his mouth works hungrily at Honma's hardness.

As Kamiyama sucks on him Honma places a hand on the other man's head, tangling his fingers within his hair, ruining the hairstyle which had been so carefully prepared for the filming of tonight's show – not that it matters any more. He tightens his grip, holding the man in place as he begins to move his hips against him more eagerly, breathing his name with every thrust and softly moaning his enjoyment. It's not long before trickles of his essence begin to leak from him, staining Kamiyama's tongue, spurring the man on to work him even harder for the promise of a mouthful of his taste.

“Don't stop...” Honma murmurs, although from the way he is holding Kamiyama so firmly against him, the man has very little choice. “Keep going, Kamiyama... just a little more... just a little more, and you can have what you want...”

Not that Kamiyama needs any more encouragement. God, it just feels so good to be pleasuring Honma like this, knowing how much enjoyment the man is getting from his attentions, knowing that nobody else can make Honma feel the way he does. He picks up the pace in no time, his lips sliding up and down his length, briefly pulling away once or twice only to swipe his tongue across the tip and gather up the blossoming drops of musk forming there only to plunge his mouth back down around him once more.

It's the sudden sensation of Kamiyama's lips slipping down around him again which finally pushes Honma over the edge. Biting his lip to avoid crying out, Honma's fingers pull so hard at Kamiyama's hair that loose strands of it come away in his hand; his entire body shudders as he surrenders his essence to Kamiyama's mouth, defiling his throat, still thrusting as he spends the last of himself between the other man's lips.

And Kamiyama eagerly swallows down every last drop, moaning his appreciation, swallowing it all and wasting no time in cleaning Honma with his tongue, even when his passion is spent. He runs his lips from base to tip, kissing him as his hardness subsides, finding pleasure even in the man's softness as it returns. His fingers touch and stroke at Honma lovingly, showing his gratitude, his happiness at having been allowed to please him like this. Despite himself he smiles, glancing up at Honma and biting teasingly at his lip, feeling the arousal between his own legs now and impatient to receive his own relief from Honma's body---

“There's a good boy.” Smirking, Honma fumbles with himself, tucking his manhood back inside his trousers and wiping his hands on the hem of his shirt. He ruffles Kamiyama's hair patronisingly – affectionately? - and steps back, grinning down at the other man with a very satisfied expression. “That wasn't bad. I suppose I can give you what you asked for, after all.”

“Honma-san...?”

“What is now, Kamiyama?”

“Honma-san, I...” Kamiyama blushes and bites at his lip, torn between begging and shutting up completely. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his current condition making it rather awkward for him to move anywhere. “I need you...”

Honma's eyes are drawn to the noticeable bulge between Kamiyama's legs, the lump in his crotch betraying his arousal, and he laughs.

“Oh, that's your problem now.” There is a part of Honma which very much wants to relieve Kamiyama – I could touch him, taste him, wrap my fingers around him until he's crying my name – but on the other hand, there is enjoyment to be had from knowing he has left the man in a state of torment. “You wanted to give Shibata his dream, didn't you? You wanted him to be able to fly again? That's what you're getting from this. You can deal with that later. Alone.”

With another wicked chuckle Honma turns on his heel and heads for the door, leaving Kamiyama by himself in the dressing room. Yoda-san will collect him shortly and return him to his cell, where it's very likely he'll seek his own relief. So be it. Perhaps Honma will visit him tomorrow for a little more relief of his own.

Kamiyama isn't to know that the letter has already been written, the arrangement already made for the pilot to resume flying again. It was a precaution taken by Honma before the show had even been filmed; he'd had to prepare for the possibility of the man reaching the Dream Chance and admitting the failings of the company, even if he hadn't liked it. The Quiz Show was fair after all, wasn't it? If its contestants could be honest with themselves and admit their sins during the Dream Chance, then yes, they deserved to achieve their dreams... even if those dreams came at the cost of their jobs, their livelihoods, their freedom.

That was the price of a dream, after all.