Dojima's nephew visited him first. Adachi had been surprised to see the kid standing boldly in the cell doorway, eyes fixed on the cell's sole occupant with no emotion whatsoever. A police officer, someone Adachi didn't recognise, was hovering uneasily behind him, making half-hearted protestations about 'the prisoner' being dangerous and unpredictable. The kid turned and said something quietly to the officer, his voice low and persuasive. The man shook his head and dithered a bit before finally exiting the cell, closing the door behind him. Souji Seta turned his attention back to Adachi, who wanted to squirm under the hard gaze.

Souji tilted his head in silent question, how are you?

Adachi snorted. He had no idea how the near-mute boy managed to get his point across without words, but somehow he was easy to understand.

"How do you think I am?" He replied, his voice sarcastic, tone biting. He half-expected Souji to get mad, storm out, show some fucking emotion for once, but he just shrugged.

They were both quiet for a moment and in that time; Adachi found himself thinking about Nanako. The little girl had always had a kind word for him, was so mature for her age. He remembered Dojima's sheer panic when she was kidnapped, how utterly distraught he'd looked when he thought she was dead. Some small malicious part of Adachi had enjoyed that panic, enjoyed the older man's pain. An even smaller part of him, easier to ignore, had felt sickened.

Souji breathed in and opened his mouth to speak. He paused, obviously wondering what to say, and Adachi thought, don't mind me, I've got the rest of my life to wait for you to talk, you fucking mute. "Adachi," The teenager started, the lack of suffix probably what had made him pause, how do you refer to a murderer politely, but without inviting a feeling of closeness? "Dojima is…" The silence stretched on, as Souji struggled to find a word to convey just how his uncle felt.

"What?" Adachi said harshly, "Crying? Doing the fucking cha-cha? Gay?"

The last word shocked the teenager, Adachi noted with satisfaction. He'd often felt suspicion as to Souji's inclinations – mostly due to the mutual looks of longing and sickening displays of affection he and that Hanamura kid shared – and the answer was clearly written all over Souji's face.

"Upset." The teenager replied simply, not rising to the bait.

Adachi pondered this, wondering if the kid knew what a weapon he had placed in his hands. Dojima was upset. Well, that alone spoke volumes. If the older man hadn't cared about him, he obviously wouldn't be upset enough about his assistant's apparent betrayal to provoke his nephew into visiting the murderer to try and help somehow.

Souji's grey eyes had always pissed Adachi off; they were totally blank and impossible to read. In fact, there was just something unnerving and unusual about the kid that Adachi had sensed since the very first time he'd met him. He was hugely popular amongst the easily-impressed masses in Inaba, and it was easy to see why. The kid went out of his way to befriend everyone, be it creepy old ladies or that shy trombone player Adachi had once seen practicing with him. He fished in the river in his spare time, worked at the hospital and apparently made envelopes in his room at night. Adachi had even heard rumours that Souji tutored some kid most nights and escorted a rich bitch around town at his own expense. He was impossibly perfect, from his perfectly styled hair to his perfectly shined shoes.

Adachi despised him.

He had a very secret reason for despising him, of course. Before Dojima's nephew had showed up, the man had been around a lot more, working late nights and getting drunk with Adachi for the hell of it. Then Souji – perfect Souji, he thought, irritated – had turned up with his annoyingly blank eyes and hard to read facial expressions, and had changed Dojima forever. The man had started staying at home more and more, taking time off work, mentioning Chisato less and less. Adachi had enjoyed it whenever Dojima spoke about his wife, he always looked so deliciously distressed and was much easier to manipulate. And his expression would soften, his voice quiet and tender for once, not hoarse from drink or angry. He had never spoken to anyone but Adachi about Chisato, not even his own daughter, of that Adachi had been smugly certain. And then Souji wormed his way into the detective's life, gaining his affection and becoming his new confidante. Adachi, seething, could tell he never even needed to get the older man drunk to get him to confide in him, something Adachi had thought impossible.

It pissed him off.

When he'd brought a very drunk Dojima home that one time – the last time – it had been difficult to keep up his cheerful, friendly visage with his partner's nephew glaring at him with his judgmental eyes. Like it had been his fault Dojima had got into such a state. Well, he'd helped, obviously, but it wasn't like he'd forced the sake down the man's throat.

"Upset, huh?" Adachi gave a slight smirk, running his hand through his hair, "didn't know he cared."

"You are his next project." Souji said solemnly, eyes willing the older man to understand something.

Adachi shrugged nonchalantly, "What, he wants to see how much longer he can extend my sentence?" The words came out bitter, to his surprise.

"The opposite, actually," Souji paused again, an irritating habit of his, acting like he's considering what he should reply, "He's fighting to get you early release."

Adachi's hand fell onto his bed limply, mouth going slack in his shock. He had been certain that Dojima despised him, wanted him to rot in prison, the knowledge that he was actually trying to get him out early hit Adachi like a blow.

"You're joking." He said flatly.

Souji looked grim. "I don't joke. I don't understand why, but Dojima obviously sees something in you that I don't."

And with that, the teenager spun on his heel and left the room before Adachi could begin to formulate a reply.

"Sanctimonious prick!" He yelled at the door, a good ten minutes after Souji had left.

xxxxxxxx

Dojima comes to him three weeks later.

The man needs a thorough shave, as per usual, and his hair is a mess, but his hand was steady when he rested it on the wall next to Adachi's head.

"Miss me?" Adachi asks, unable to keep his mouth shut, like always, and Dojima smells strongly of cigarette smoke and coffee and it's so familiar that he can't help but let a few of his true emotions show. His mask slips and for a moment he's vulnerable, standing there with Dojima's calculating eyes scanning his face, hands on either side of Adachi's head, casually pinning him there. Adachi knows his face shows his longing for the older man and he fights to keep his expression blank.

"Yes." Dojima answers without a trace of embarrassment or affection.

Adachi shudders for a moment, startled by the quick and honest response to a throwaway idiotic remark he made just to break the silence. And then the mask slips neatly back into place and he leans back into the wall, face no longer inches away from Dojima's.

"Don't do that." Dojima's voice is angry, next his ear all of a sudden and Adachi wants to back away but he can't.

He's cornered.

"Do what?"

"Hide what you're feeling. For God's sake, I know exactly how screwed up you are, there's no need to try to persuade me further." Dojima snaps.

Adachi pauses. He licks his lips. And slowly, for the first time in months, his mouth slowly curves into a small smile. Not an insane smirk stretching across his face, a sincere, almost sweet smile.

And he means it.

Dojima somehow knows it's sincere, and he gives his ex-partner an exhausted but hopeful smile in return.

"There you are." He says, like he's found something he'd missed.