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It’s been exactly a year since Inaba, but he still has those dreams. Ones that take place in a broken room with a silk noose hanging from the ceiling, on a broken bed with splinters that dig into his bare skin every time he moves. Ones where he’s hot and bothered and disoriented, watching the slow turn of the ceiling fan in the yellowed shades of the TV world without really seeing it, right before the vision’s stolen and replaced by messy hair and a crooked smile.
It’s the stuff of old samurai films and noir, fighting your almost-lover in some dark place, feeling yourself get hard every time your blade sinks into his flesh, hears him scream. That man died for all the right reasons – he was a nightmare they destroyed, to save people, to gratify themselves.
He’s in a prison cell thousands of miles away from him, but every night’s exactly the same.
Souji’s made it a habit of waking up early since Inaba, because he doesn’t want his mother to wonder why his sheets are always soaked in sweat and cum in the washing machine. It’s at Christmas when he sends a postcard to a small prison out in the middle of nowhere, with a single line.
I’m thinking of you.
He’s not surprised when another year passes and he receives no answer. It just makes that recurring dream of his a little more twisted, a little better.