Chapter 2

It didn't surprise criminal photographer Takaba Akihito in the least when he found out his photos of the hand-off had been confiscated. He also knew that the person who had confiscated said photos was waiting for him to come charging through the doors of Club Sion yelling expletives until the man kissed him to shut him up. He would stop talking and start moaning instead, because Asami really was a great kisser.

He always welcomed that kiss, even though he didn't show it. They had fallen into this passive-aggressive "fuck me to make me forget how angry I am at you" type of relationship. Akihito knew it wasn't healthy, but he wasn't one to be worried about his well-being. His choice of professions made that obvious. He'd choose mind-blowing sex over his mental health any day. Go mind-blowing sex.

What did surprise Akihito when he arrived was the cold shoulder he got from the bouncer. "Go away." He had said to him. He had tried to run past them, but was picked up by this big goon that he'd never seen before and thrown down the steps, which was decidedly not wheelchair friendly. "Go away!" Big goon said again. "You are not allowed on the property."

"But, it's me," he said, confused, "I'm Akihito. I need to see Asami."

"I don't care if you're the Emperor, he isn't here, shorty."

"Hey I prefer the term little person, asshole." It wasn't that he was short; it was that everyone else around him was so tall. "Well, where is he?"

"What am I his secretary?" The bouncer just chuckled and pointed to the street with a smirk (did everyone in Asami's employ smirk like that?), indicating that Akihito should leave before something bad happened. In defiance he flipped the bouncer off, and walked down the street. Flipping someone off in Japan really didn't have the intended effect, but he saw it in an American movie once and it looked so cool that he used it often, adding it to his repertoire of obscene gestures.

He called Asami on his cell then, demanding answers from the beautiful older man who had stolen his innocence and most likely his heart, not that he was going to tell Asami that. Well, he might, on his death bed, when the Shinigami stood ready to take him. He waited, tapping his foot impatiently for the call to go through.

The number you have reached has travelled outside of the calling area or has been disconnected; please try your call again.

"Huh?" He said out loud and tried the number again. He got the same response. "What happened?"

Worriedly he called Kirishima's private number. He would know what was going on. Was Asami out of the country? Hurt? Dead? Fucking someone else (better not be because then he will be dead!)?

"Kirishima."

"Finally, I get someone on the phone! It's Akihito. Where is Asami?" He said loudly.

"Takaba-kun, how are you?" Kirishima asked, politer than usual.

"Never mind, where is he? Is he travelling? I….he….he has some photos of mine and I need them."

"You won't get them back, Akihito. I suggest you move on."

"I don't understand." He said, chewing his bottom lip.

"Asami-sama says for you to move on."

"You tell that rat bastard asshole pervert Yakuza jerk prick I need those photos or I won't get paid!" He yelled into the phone, using all the colorful adjectives he could for the man. "I can't make my rent without it!"

"You will find compensation for your photos in your account as of nine tomorrow. Asami-sama suggests you use that money to move on with your life. Travel, see the world, expand your horizons. Your services are no longer needed." Click.

"WHAT THE FUCK? MY SERVICES?" He yelled into the phoneeven though there was no longer anyone on the line. Now he was talking to himself.

Akihito knew the truth then, and it hit him in the gut. Hard. Asami had finally grown tired of him. He had been expecting it, planned for it, almost wanted it to happen so he could get it over with. But when the reality of it hit, he wasn't prepared for it. Balling his hands into a fist, he fought the urge to cry in public. He'd been dumped, given his walking papers, set adrift. He started crying when he was around the corner from the club. Sprinting home, dodging people as he went, tears trailing after him like rain drops, he collapsed as soon as he could get inside the door, not bothering with his shoes. His chest was heaving from running, as if he could run from the pain. Even though part of him wanted Asami to leave him alone, the other part of him, the part that had started to feel something for the man, the part that wouldn't listen to reason, was in turmoil.

That bastard didn't even have the guts to say it person. I'll hate you until I die, Asami.

After a lot of contemplating, mostly how Asami was a rat bastard and other words along those lines, Akihito finally cried himself to sleep. In the morning, he put band-aids on his broken heart (which meant fake smiles for the neighbor lady), went to the bank and checked his balance. ¥400,185. Asami had gifted him for his services, as he called it, ¥400,000 yen. This last year he had been the man's whore for a measly ¥400,000. His ass was worth more than that. He would think of another adjective for Asami. Cheap bastard.

He withdrew the ¥400,000, which meant he had ¥185 which wasn't enough to even buy udon for lunch at the noodle shop, and went to put it in Asami's mailbox. Maybe he would put some stinky kimchee in there for good measure, or a putrid fish. Asami was so nasty to the core he probably liked the smell of rotting things. It wouldn't surprise him.

He was thinking he would write a little note, but what could he say? Hey jerkface, here is your money thanks but no thanks you damned prick. He would continue calling him names until his pen ran out of ink. Asami wouldn't care. You couldn't hurt that man with words, any more than you could hurt him with bullets. He was probably born with a bulletproof vest underneath that well-toned chest. It made sense, as the man had a perfect body even though Akihito had never seen him work-out (Asami didn't own any sweats either, for that matter). Did he workout in a three-piece suit?

He slipped both the money in the slot, and walked away, head held high as he could. He had his pride after all. He'd become a famous photojournalist and come back and throw that in his face.

In the end, success is the greatest revenge of all.