Fandom: You're my Loveprize in Viewfinder

Pairing: Asami x Akihito (so far)

Rating: PG-13, maybe a little bit more for this chapter

Summary: There's no way to know who the real you is. Akihito, a photography student, struggles to find himself within his own mind. Asami fights his own demons as he tries to fulfill one last dying wish. When their paths cross, reality turns into a sea of illusions.

Warnings: Possible spoilers for minor situations, nothing major; smex (for what else should I write fanfiction? :P); AU with possible OOC.

Word count: 3815

Disclaimer: The characters from the Finder series do NOT belong to me. This also applies to anything related to this series. Any similarity with real world situations is pure coincidence.

Author's note: Finally finished chapter 2! I am so SORRY for my absence and for not updating this story soon. A lot happened to me this past one year and I finally overcame my writer's block. Having 2 part-time jobs is not an easy task. Well, thank you for continue reading this story (and I believe you need to go back to the other chapters to check some things) and thank you for sticky to my writing. This is an unbeta text so please forgive for any mistakes. Next chapter will finally have some 18+ action... haha! If you have any theory you would like to share or see developing, feel free to tell me. Hope you will enjoy it! Reviews are love 3

Chapter 2 – The Hanged Man Reversed

"Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?" – Andy Worhol

Akihito woke up at the sound of his mobile phone falling to the ground, a thud louder than it was supposed to be. He had left it in silence mode since morning in hopes to finish his work without any unnecessary interruption. His watch was almost as the same level of his ears and the tickling of the different hands must have lulled him to sleep. A sharp red light blinked every two or three seconds while the silver-coloured phone continued to vibrate as if it was slowly moving towards its owner, begging to be answered. The stuffed toy, slightly bigger than the size of a golf ball that the photographer had as strap, blocked the entire view of the screen, giving no hints about the caller's identity.

By the time the blonde had grabbed the portable device, the other side of the line had already given up and the quivering had ceased. Akihito searched his call log yet no name was written – an anonymous call. He had received quite a few in the past few months. At first, he thought it was just a prank from Kou and Takato to scare him and punish him for being monopolized by Yukiko. After all, he had done the same to his friends (especially when they were dating). Now these calls didn't seem like coincidence or a joke anymore. Maybe it was his girlfriend who did it to sound less possessive; but Yukiko wouldn't do that.

Akihito threw the phone to the sofa, less than a meter away. His studio apartment was the epitome of small and his photographic equipment occupied at least one third of the area. His bedroom with space for his bed only was transformed into a dark room. The typical smell of fixer emanated from the inside (he loved the scent of it) and a few photographs were hung in a wire as they were pieces of laundry waiting to be dried.

He was now sitting in front of his desk, his computer in sleeping mode and his precious cameras resting in a cabinet just beside him. His neck hurt for having slept in a strange position he had no idea how he shifted into it and his back felt too stiff, unable to lie properly. Akihito laughed and prepared for some cramps to attack his limbs and fully awake him. It wasn't the first time he had fallen asleep while editing some photographs for magazines (one has to take different jobs to meet ends). It wasn't pretentious names like Vogue, National Geographic or CanCam[1], but some low profile subscriptions with limited budget. Sometimes there were one or two shots worth his time and patience, and were fairly decent to be put out for the public. The rest of the stash, if not 90% of them, were just amateur pictures taken without the minimal care about the camera, the scenery, and most importantly, the feelings of the photographer.

Akihito didn't know why but he had always loved experimenting with his lenses – playing with all the possible angles, finding every possible meticulous triviality in whatever came to his line of sight, inhale the essence of what surrounded him. He swore he could listen to the melodies a photograph played for him – a new composition with its own movements. A complete suite of melancholic adagios that switched into soothing andantes and finishing with a breathtaking allegro. Taking a photograph was a brand new step into a journey to re-discover himself again.

The publishing business taught him, though, that pretty wildlife pictures and landscapes postcards are not enough for a metropolitan lifestyle. The readers nowadays only digested celebrity gossip or scandals involving politicians. Not that the blonde didn't want to denounce corruption or bring to light criminals and their associates (which was quite thrilling, especially seeing the faces of those losers desperately trying to catch him in vain), but there was something, always something stopping him. An invisible hand pulling him back. He had no strength left to fight it, even less to figure out what was blocking his access to the path of justice. An invisible hand mocking him of his frailty.

Akihito was then stuck with minor jobs, listening to the broken chords (if there were any) of the badly taken images, impossible to reflect his passion for (criminal) photojournalism. His only escape now was a rumor he had heard last week from a group of youngsters (he had no intention of eavesdropping but they weren't discreet with it either) at the entrance of a convenience store, as he left after buying his weekly stock of Pocky and melon soda. It spelled with three words that could give him the scoop of the year: guns – and Club Sion. If he could prove that such elite nightclub, regularly catering high-class costumers, was actually part of a shady black market, his career would, without the slightest doubt, soar to other dimensions.

The last couple of nights hadn't proved to be much rewarding; the security around the club was tight as usual and apparently, the owner was nowhere to be seen. A little research from his part (he had his own acquaintances at the police) came to a single name: Asami Ryuichi. Nothing special – he was the proprietor of a series of luxurious hotels, Michelin star restaurants and lavishing night clubs. – 'A pretty rich guy.' – Akihito thought to himself. Where money was, crime would follow suit. And he loved trouble. He couldn't wait for the night to come to challenge the assumedly powerful man. His mind was already devising some lie to tell Yukiko in case she wanted to see him.

With an improved mood, the photographer resumed editing the last two shots for a fashion magazine. The first one was a female model in a short denim dress. Was the blue fabric the hit of the season? He just needed to add an attractive background, a few hearts to enhance the "cuteness" of the garment, and that was enough to charm the young readers and reinforce their standards of beauty. Those dainty elements, coincidentally, would distract people's attention from the model's dull face (who clearly had no intentions to stand in front of a camera and was probably forced by her agency to accept the job).

The second photograph, by the opposite, evoked an awareness in Akihito he didn't know how to interpret. A restless and distressed throb in his stomach although he wasn't sick or anything near it. It was merely the frozen picture of a male model sitting, legs crossed and a glass half full with an amber liquid in his hand, as the other one dropped casually over the back of the rustic wooden chair. He was still figuring out if it was an advertisement for a foreign brand of whiskey or brandy (not that he was interested in strong drinks) or for the plain shirt he wore, unbuttoned around the collarbone. There weren't enough accessories or any particular eye-catching watch around his wrist.

Maybe it was about the model himself. The way he gazed to the camera or offered his body to the lenses felt as he had surrendered to the one taking the photo. This picture sparked a slight tingling on Akihito's limbs like a normal reaction to a sudden chilly gust of wind. His T-shirt now seemed to cling to his torso in an uncomfortable embrace. The photographer got up and stripped off that piece of 100% cotton fabric. He remembered it was the same one he had worn the previous day. It wasn't stained or emanating any unpleasant odor but it just needed some washing right now.

The temperature inside his apartment was quite cozy: a little bit warm which contrasted with the pale white ink of the walls (and starting to display an ascending grayscale of mold) but it wasn't inviting. Not threatening or somehow hostile. It simply rejected the presence of strangers who didn't know how to appreciate the uniqueness of his home.

Akihito quickly chose a blue tank top from his favorite stash of shirts inside his wardrobe that barely had any space for a heavy raincoat. It was in the midst of winter but he knew his immune system was well prepared enough to handle any influenza virus or just an impertinent bacteria. If not, another cigarette would do wonders. Nicotine was a nice remedy. An amiable distraction once in a while too. Not that he liked the taste of it or was already imprisoned in the chains of addiction. There were occasions where he would feel sick, even throwing up after inhaling some of that burning smoke that persisted in his compacted house. It was simply an escaping route to the frustration he felt when there were no answers for his questions: no clue about his past, no idea of what he was doing, and no direction for his life. Like the useless prayers for a faith that had already died.

He didn't know the brand he had been smoking lately (nor would care to check that) though there was one which he never had the opportunity to figure out the name but haven't tried since… well, he thinks he had smoked once at least. It was definitely more refined and exquisite than those bland sticks he blindly consumed. And again, his head was being distracted by random thoughts with little or no use at all for his editing task. They were subtly better than the morbid state his mind wandered in sometimes. However, there was money now waiting for him to earn.

The background of the last photo was frantically shifting on the screen when Akihito's phone rang again. The blonde's hand stopped those choreographed movements of dragging and clicking the mouse and reached put to grab the ringing device. It wasn't on the desk and the photographer cursed himself for switching it back to sound mode and swore he would change to some other ringtone but not that ear killing lame song. He got up, remembering he had mercilessly cast off the gadget on the sofa.

The same red light was blinking, a couple of seconds before each time it vibrated as if it wanted to hide away or protect itself from being answered. – "Yes? Who's speaking?" – He didn't bother to try figuring out the person behind the private number.

"Takaba-san? Good afternoon. I'm glad you answered the call. It was nearly impossible to reach you this morning."

"If you are another of those telemarketing sales or distant relatives from some unknown province, I'm too busy to listen to you right now."

The other side of the line must have thought he was a favorite pick of those companies entering bankruptcy. – "Rest assured Takaba-san and I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Kirishima and I would like to talk about business."

The name didn't ring any memories or had any hint of familiarity. – "Kirishima-san, I hear about business deals every day. A signature here, a confidential policy promise there. I know perfectly what is behind all these well covered disguises and legal excuses. What makes you think I'm going to suddenly accept what you're willing to offer me?" – He wasn't just bluffing, although there were some lies cocooned in between with arrogance. There was no proposal or job offer yet, still he unconsciously shifted to a defense mode by the manners of the man self-entitled Kirishima.

"100 millions." – A hint of impatience leaked from the other side of the line.

"Excuse me?"

"100 millions for Remembrance. In cash."

"Wait a moment. You want to buy one of my photographs? They don't cost that much." – Akihito sat on the edge of the sofa as he heard the sum for the second time, almost falling to the floor. Something wasn't making sense and he couldn't figure out what.

"As you can see Takaba-san, it is a very lucrative proposal and I suggest you to consider it." – The voice in the opposite side was almost mechanical, like a message in a recording machine except for its subtle persuasive tone. It clearly belonged to an older man.

Kirishima was already experienced in dealing with the market – buy and sell, make profit, seal contracts, honor both parties, and dispose of any unwanted inconvenience. Asami had always entrusted him with most of the matters, no matter how trivial or how crucial they were. And he learned from the very beginning that Asami should never have to personally intervene in any business transaction. Yes, the name of Asami Ryuichi was enough a guarantee of success. And also the synonym of serious repercussions.

"Kirishima, find out where the author of that photo is. Track him down. Bring him to me. Listen to his requests and comply with them. But remember, I need to see him."

"I believe you heard me Kirishima-san, that photo is not worth that value. Besides, I have no idea who you are. All that money might be from some prostitution network, human traffic or you may be simply cheating me. If Remembrance was such a masterpiece, don't you think I would have won an award already? I do thank you for your appreciation of my skills, though."

Akihito knew he had to be cautious even though the mentioned photo couldn't incriminate anyone and was taken during a stroll in a park. He had just seen a very captivated scene that screamed to be captured and that was what he did. How could he imagine that someone was willing to pay a fortune for it? Curiosity swelled in his mind, like a tumor that grew in size with each second. He had published so many photos before, some of them even on exhibitions (Yukiko had forced him to participate in those), so why the sudden interest?

- "Kirishima-san, who is behind the proposal? I believe you are just an underling obeying orders. I hope we are being sincere with each other."

Kirishima never imagined the photographer to have such a sharp intuition. At the request of Asami, he had investigated the young boy extensively but there was practically no relevant data that he could use to blackmail or persuade him.

- "What do you mean by 'nothing' Kirishima?

- Asami-sama, there is no information regarding the boy. Takaba Akihito has no profile anywhere – no hospital, birth or study records. We know he has friends but he had only met them two years ago. His identity card number is fake.

- Are you saying he is staying illegally in Japan?

- Not illegal Asami-sama... Takaba Akihito doesn't exist."

- "Takaba-san, perhaps you would like to reconsider your position in this case? If you are not interested in money, how about a studio dedicated only to your photos or..." - The secretary was interrupted by the younger male's voice.

- "I want the name of the person you work for." - Akihito glanced at his watch. He was sure the man on the side of the line could track him down by the time they had already spent negotiating. Well, he didn't believe Kirishima had all the necessary equipment to do it or went for such measure.

- "That, I'm afraid Takaba-san, is impossible." - Besides astute, the young photographer was definitely smart. An interesting character Kirishima wouldn't mind to meet. Still, he could not fail Asami so he was just waiting the photographer to accept his offer. A yes was imperative.

- "I was already expecting that answer. I don't need money if you did your research well Kirishima-san, so if you excuse me... - Akihito was the one losing patience now. His editing assignment had to be finished as soon as possible (or else he would have to rely on cup noodles for the rest of the month) and he would try his luck again tonight... wait. If the man was really interested in his photo then this was his chance. -... a membership card for Club Sion."

- "Takaba-san?" - Kirishima was confounded by the request. Did the boy know something regarding his identity or Asami-sama's relation to this case?

- "I will sell Remembrance if you arrange me a way to get into Club Sion." - And hung up the call.

*_*_*_*_*_*VF*_*_*_*_*_*_*

21:09, the clock marked. A week later, Takaba Akihito was standing in front of a modern styled building in Shinjuku guarded by two strong men in pitch black suits and a menacing face. The photographer gripped hard the plastic card that was inside the back pocket of his pants. He was glad his suit was still in a good condition (it was his only one too). Excitement rang through his veins as well as a dreary uneasiness that contaminated him through that doomed object. He shook his head and took a deep breath. He would definitely obtain his breakthrough story today.

The few steps leading to the main door was an effortless obstacle and Akihito quickly stood in front of the security, who didn't allow him access inside and were asking for the black card. He hand it in smiling confidently at the two men who seemed to mock him with their previous tone. One of them inspected the plastic pass, a little warm from Akihito's sweating palm. The rectangular object went back and forth in his fingers, rubbing and kneading gingerly to see whether it was a real one or not. Although his bodily movements were reduced only to the necessary ones, the eyes of the security guard read carefully each number of the card, while the other searched him thoroughly for any recording devices or weapons.

The young photographer felt a cramp in his stomach. How could other people just have access to the highly prestigious club without any second look while he was scrutinized by those two gorillas? If the membership card he got from his deal with Kirishima-san was a fake one, that man would deeply regret it. They haven't met yet but he had his ways to track him and make his life an inferno. Hell is merely a euphemism.

- "I am sorry for the wait... - One of the tall sturdy man spoke, his croaky voice shattering his solid and strong exterior -... please enjoy your stay here in Sion. - And moved to the side, allowing Akihito to step into the building. The young blonde took back his card, re-adjusted the collars of his suit and walked through the barely illuminated entrance. His breathing was slightly erratic, his chest rising and lowering in a quicker pace than usual. Maybe it was the thrill of diving into danger that was starting to suffocate him.

Club Sion had a classic, vintage atmosphere that didn't betray Akihito's expectations. The dimly lit interior and the dainty leather seats catered guests with an intimate familiarity. A faint scent of bergamot invaded his nostrils as well as the aroma of luxurious wines and stronger drinks. The photographer recognized immediately most of the faces who were present – politicians, celebrities, old acquaintances in the fashion business. The remaining ones were probably personal escorts that resorted to the most conventional way to obtain information: sex.

Akihito sat on an empty table far away from the corner stage where a piano and cello duo was playing a jazz tune. The singer clad in a turquoise long dress, hit some low notes, uncharacteristic for a woman. She was beautiful and had charisma but didn't catch his attention. Apparently, no one there was focused on the show; the different songs were only a way to fight silence. The air had some chilly edges to it and yet Akihito loosened his ties enough to give his lungs more access to oxygen. He took a sip from his Angel's Tip [2], sharpening his senses. He also noticed that the cello player, a man probably in his 30s, was neither looking at his partners or at the strings. His vision was focused on Akihito, an inviting gaze married with the nimble, sensual movement of his fingers. The photographer felt uncomfortable, a disturbing heat arising on his cheeks. It must be from the alcoholic drink.

- "Akihito..." - Who was calling him? He looked at his surroundings but no one was even looking at his direction. The blonde quickly blamed his excitement and got up, determined to do some investigation as the front tables seemed to be pretty normal. He wouldn't leave with empty hands – that was his ultimatum. Akihito walked further into the club, past the stage where he encountered an elevator. Why was there no security, not even one of the gorillas like outside?

The metallic doors of the transporting platform opened suddenly in a sluggish movement and finished with a screeching break that pierced through his nerves like an extremely pointy needle. The pain only lasted for a second but Akihito's vocal chords almost betrayed his cover as a regular guest. There was no one inside the lift and he stepped inside, both doors shutting almost immediately.

- "Akihito..." - There was this calling again ringing inside his head, so intensely chanting his name and yet with a hint of gentleness, like hypnosis. He recoiled until his body hit the wall, his back sliding down the mirrors as his legs gave in and lost all strength. - "... no... stop... please..." - A different voice this time. Was it... was it his own voice? The pain had dissipated and the blonde realized that the elevator was going up, even without he pressing any button. He glanced at the small monitor on the right corner. It was going straight to the top. - "...no... uhmm... more..." - Yes, it was his own voice. Was he dreaming or was his memories? A rising fervor ran directly to his waist, his pants much more tighter now. A dry, sultry breath escaped his lips. He felt as if a pair of hands ran down his body, caressing his skin. - "...please..." - He was pleading for more. Moaning of pleasure. Begging for release.

The metallic doors disclosed again. Akihito snapped out of his trance and noticed he had arrived at the rooftop. The heat was gone and his consciousness was free from any noise, besides his own thoughts. His watch marked midnight sharp. A full moon hung high in the starless sky. A mild breeze blew some dust which made him cough. There was a man standing close to the railings dressed in a suit. Akihito walked closer to the man, an invisible force pulling him to those broad shoulders. There was something about the way he smoked. An immense panic ravaged his senses commanding him to flee. Akihito didn't move an inch though. He... he knew this man.

- "Asami..."

TBC

[1] Cancam is a japanese fashion magazine targeted at young women, especially university students and office ladies.

[2] Angel's Tip – A very weak and sweet cocktail consisting of cream, milk and crème de cacao, garnished with a cherry.