“Yeah.” Shinji nodded.
He’d expected it. The most difficult part of dealing with spirits was their jumbled memories. If they could remember everything from the very beginning it would have made his job much easier. But, of course, nothing could be that easy in this world. Not in life and not in death.
“But,” Yamato continued, “I think I remember something about my… my murderer.” He looked down at the floor as he said it.
“Tell me,” Shinji encouraged.
“Someone sat by my side, watching me… while I was drowning in blood.”
Shinji’s eyes widened. “Who was it? Anything distinctive about the person?”
“They were crouching next to me. A hood covered their head and my vision wasn’t clear so I didn’t see the face.” Yamato’s immaterial body shook and a wave of cold mist flew from him, bringing the temperature even lower.
Was that why the murderer had gone through all the trouble? To see the moment their victims drowned in their own blood? For entertainment? Only a person with a deep grudge would do such a thing or maybe someone who got off on seeing people suffering. Shinji glanced at Yamato’s translucent frame. Perhaps he and Ozawa did have an affair after all and the person who’d been cheated on decided to exact revenge.
Shinji left the ghost in the living room and headed for a much needed shower. Tomorrow was going to be a long day of speaking with Ozawa’s parents and trudging through all the evidence and to put the pieces together.
As he rubbed his body clean, a shiver went down Shinji’s spine. Despite the hot temperature of the water, he felt cold. Was Yamato stressed because of all the questioning? Ghosts tended to pour out a lot of freezing mist when agitated. Shinji sighed and resumed his washing. He’d speak with Yamato, try to calm him down or risk turning his apartment into the arctic pole. He chuckled to himself as Hayashi’s words came back to him. His boss wasn’t far off with comparing the ghostly mist to an arctic wind.
Dry and changed in fresh, warm clothes, Shinji walked into the living room, but Yamato wasn’t there.
Panicking, Shinji searched through his small apartment, even stepped out into the block’s hallway and stair case. He returned to the living room, opened the window wide and looked out. Yamato’s spirit had drifted off.
Shinji hit the window sill with his fist. “Damn it!”
CHAPTER 7
Teruo
Moonlight slanted across the room spilling on Miyazaki's naked body, his wet skin glistening under the faint rays. Tendrils of white wind twirled around him, moving like the waves of an ocean. He looked eerie, otherworldly, stunning.
A drop of sweat traveled down his pec, around his nipple, over his abs, getting lost in the soft curls at the base of his throbbing, bouncing cock.
He rocked back and forth, impaled on Teruo's shaft, his tight channel holding Teruo’s erection in a prison of fiery pleasure, and rode him slow and languid. Teruo skimmed his hands over Miyazaki's thighs, sliding up, caressing his smooth skin, and gripping his ass.
Miyazaki gazed down at him, lips parted, moaning, and slapped harder onto Teruo’s groin. He grabbed his own cock, dragging his hand over it, reached the head and squeezed, leaking pre-cum on Teruo’s abdomen.
The rhythm of his hips quickened and his gaze burned into Teruo’s, his lips curling up in a sly smile. There was something beyond the dark brown of Miyazaki’s irises; cold, intense. Something Teruo couldn’t understand...
He woke up with a start in his bed, breath ragged and eyes wide. Shame washed over him at the dream he just had about his coworker. His erection ached underneath the duvet and he could still feel the phantom sensation of Miyazaki’s hot, tight hole entrapping him.
What the hell, man...
Teruo skimmed a palm across his face, then down to his chest and abdomen, pushing the cover aside. Apparently, he didn't feel guilty enough not to jerk off to the image of Miyazaki riding his cock. He wrapped a fist around his dick and pumped fast as he massaged his balls with the other hand. Only a few strokes and he was spilling all over himself, groaning as the streams of cum splattered up his chest and neck.
Fuck.
He hadn't come that quick and strong in a while. Too long a while. After his breath calmed and the cloud of his inappropriate dream lifted from his mind, Teruo reached to check his phone. It was almost half past six. Too late to go back to sleep.
Teruo sat up, only now realizing he was soaked with sweat and headed for the shower, grumbling to himself. As the steaming water hit his body, he thought about the dream and what it meant; that he was starting to have a thing for Miyazaki, clearly, especially after their discussion from last night.
Maybe what he needed was to get laid, so he'd stop fantasizing about his work partner. But grabbing some random guy to screw had zero appeal whereas just thinking of having sex with Miyazaki almost made him hard again. He wondered whether Miyazaki entertained the same kinds of desires and had a feeling he might have.
Teruo seen the way Miyazaki looked at him yesterday, though he pretended he hadn’t. He barely had the courage to admit to himself that he enjoyed the hungry gaze in Miyazaki’s eyes. If anything, the dream confirmed it. But at the end of the day, even if they both thought about it, this was all it was: a fantasy.
The presence of that strange white wind in the dream eluded Teruo. He wasn’t sure what to make of it in reality, let alone in his fantasies. Whether the wind had been the result of a tired brain or a hyperactive imagination due to seeing so many peculiar things as a homicide detective—or perhaps something else—he couldn’t tell.
But the most problematic part of all was the fact that this little dream had been the highlight of Teruo’s past few months, if not more. He hadn’t felt so aroused in a long time, not since his ex abandoned him three years ago. Time passed, he buried himself in his work, and the crippling loneliness had become a part of him. He’d gotten used to coming home, with no one to welcome him but his cats, to eat alone, watch TV alone, relax alone… and sleep alone.