Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12816264.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, F/M, Gen
  Fandom:
      Durarara!!
  Relationship:
      Heiwajima_Shizuo/Orihara_Izaya, Kishitani_Shinra/Celty_Sturluson, Orihara
      Izaya/Shiki_Haruya, Other_Relationship_Tags_to_Be_Added
  Character:
      Orihara_Izaya, Heiwajima_Shizuo, Kishitani_Shinra, Celty_Sturluson, Shiki
      Haruya, Akabayashi_Mizuki, Yagiri_Namie, Shiki_Haruya's_Wife, Tsukumoya
      Shinichi, Rokujou_Chikage, Kadota_Kyouhei, Awakusu_Akane, Other_Character
      Tags_to_Be_Added, Original_Female_Character(s), Tanaka_Tom, Heiwajima
      Kasuka, Ryuugamine_Mikado, Mentions_of_Kida_Masaomi, Simon_Brezhnev
  Additional Tags:
      Triggers, You_Have_Been_Warned, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence,
      Slow_Burn, Masturbation, Medication, Mental_Health_Issues, Infidelity,
      Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Emotional_Manipulation, Emotional_Baggage, Child
      Neglect, Neglect, Anal_Sex, Blow_Jobs, Oral_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Implied/
      Referenced_Underage_Sex, Daddy_Issues, Mommy_Issues, Family_Issues,
      Awakusu-Kai, Chatting_&_Messaging, Rough_Sex, Car_Sex, Pedophilia, Shizuo
      and_Izaya_Rape_No_One, Panic_Attacks, Side_Effects, Other_Additional_Tags
      to_Be_Added, Food_Issues, I_Tag_Accordingly_With_Each_New_Chapter
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-28 Updated: 2018-01-25 Chapters: 3/26 Words: 12073
****** The Anatomy of a Camellia ******
by BeautifulBlueBird
Summary
     When a flower doesn't bloom, you fix the environment in which it
     grows, not the flower.
     -Alexander den Heijer
Notes
                                        
                         THE WHITE CAMELLIA JAPONICA.

                   Thou beauteous child of purity and grace,
                   What element could yield so fair a birth?
                     Defilement bore me — my abiding place
                   Was mid the foul clods of polluted earth.
                 But light looked on me from a holier sphere,
                To draw me heavenward — then I rose and shone;
                     And can I vainly to thine eye appear,
                Thou dust-born gazer? make the type thine own.
                From thy dark dwelling look thou forth, and see
            The purer beams that brings a lovelier change for thee.

                           Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna
***** Seeds *****
Chapter Summary
     Shizuo.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It is Shizuo's seventh day visiting.
     Shinra pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and sunlight reflects
off them, catching into Shizuo's eyes. A cigarette sits dry between his lips,
sticking to them with the humidity of his mouth. Shizuo sets his nape on the
back of the chair, closing his eyes with the first inhale of toxic smoke. His
fingers catch on bleached strands with a certain rough elegance only he can
muster before traveling down his neck, easing the constricting feeling around
his collar by tugging at his bow tie. He releases an open-mouth long sigh, and
the smoke weaves with, “he pisses me off,” but there’s no palpable malice in
his timbre, and the tone is wistful as opposed to gruff. In the distance, the
sun sets under the skyline, and the metal of skyscrapers turn orange and pink,
but when he opens his eyes, behind tinted sunglasses, Shizuo can only see in
shades of blue.
      Shinra’s voice comes out bittersweet when he says, “I know,” a muted
smile on his face. He doesn’t mind Shizuo’s company, but he knows the unsaid
words concerning the reason why Shizuo keeps coming. He brings his arms to the
cold railing, setting his chin on his inner elbow. His hair sways in the
breeze, a halo on top by the light of dusk. There’s irregular rhythm in the
tapping of his shoes, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the interlacing
scent of tobacco, disinfectant, and strawberries. His eyelids open to stare at
the people walking in a rush, umbrellas on hand, waiting for the rain he’s not
sure will fall. Garbage overflows from waste containers and old chewed up gum
sticks to concrete, but Shinra’s eyes stay soft behind his clear glasses, even
as they aid him in seeing the city for what it truly is.
     In the small crowd, there's a child with black hair in a red shirt,
talking to his mother with a smile, wolf teeth blinding against the sunset. She
looks at him, eyes half-lidded, and a detached expression on her face. A tabby
cat distracts him, meowing, claiming him by rubbing its body against his legs,
its eyes full of wonder and affection. He picks it up, nuzzling his nose into
the cat’s ginger fur. It jumps from his embrace, and when he tries to catch up
to his mother, he falls. The cat cries, he gasps, but she doesn’t stop. With no
tears on his cheeks, no voice calling “mom, please,” he stays in place, staring
at her retreating back as if he expects her to notice like she’s meant to do
something. He stands, dirt on black jeans, scrapes on palms, blood on arms, and
lifeless, he follows her, but she can’t tell the difference between his
presence or his absence.
Shizuo's veins appear around his neck, but Shinra laughs inside of his.
     Shizuo averts his gaze, a growl barely contained in the back of his
throat. He shifts his vision from empty-afternoon streets, dead-end alleys, and
gold tinted rooftops, but it’s been a little over a week and he can’t hear,
“Shizu-chan,” anywhere. There’s hope tucked in the pockets of his vest and it
weighs heavy on his chest when he stops by Shinra’s, only to be met with
dissatisfaction, returning late at night to his home with nothing to show for.
He bounces his leg in place, inhaling sharply around a cigarette, and his lungs
catch on fire against the lowering temperature in the air, but the tension that
grips his shoulders barely gives way. He exhales the smoke through his nose,
losing the warmth that no longer quells gravity’s pull on the corners of his
lips. He flicks the ash off the end of the butt and looks at Shinra now, who
stares at the burning paper before diverting to stare back at him, a
contemplating glint in his eyes.
He doesn’t have to, but he feels the need to fill the silence.
     “I’m sure he’s planning some shit. I haven’t seen him in days,” and Shinra
chuckles, shaking his head in disappointed disbelief. “He’s observing his
beloved humans right now!” and each word is punctuated with his usual
nonchalant cheerfulness. He waves his hands dramatically towards the city, eyes
blown wide with maniacal enthusiasm. He nods his head absentmindedly, giggling.
Shizuo is sure; Shinra has no idea what an honest thought should sound like. He
leans back, letting his body sag against the support of the chair, his blond
hair hovering in the air, caressing his forehead and the tip of his cold ears.
He removes his sunglasses with a swift motion of the wrist and his eyes are
gentle when they set in the general direction of Shinjuku.
     The day turns dark once the sun disappears below the horizon, and that’s
how days pass, how unknown stories carry on. The purr of car engines can be
heard from miles away, echoing through the stillness of the night. It is under
the obscure, below the black blanket of security, when the city comes alive. In
anonymity, people crawl out with gore and sex on their sleeves, prepared to
drive fast and live with no breaks in sight, welcoming death young, but in the
kitchen, Celty fills a kettle with water and watches as the blue flames touch
the metal of the teapot. If she could, she would hum a tune of contentment,
sing along to Japanese folklore. She takes a few pastries from the refrigerator
and places them on the counter so they can lose some of their chill as the
water boils.
Shinra's phone breaks the silence.
     He chuckles sheepishly at the way Shizuo jumps, startled, and in return,
Shizuo furrows his eyebrows and throws him a narrow-eyed look, grumbling
incoherent profanities and insults that he can’t pick up on. Shinra takes the
device out of his lab coat and looks down at the contact’s name, leaping to his
feet, leaving the chair rattling in place. Shizuo blinks, but before he can put
any thought to words, Shinra blurts out, “Sorry, I have to take this,” and
springs off, shoulder meeting door frame and hip hitting the corner of the
sofa. A few steps further and he stumbles over his own shoes, fumbling with the
phone until it falls, battery cover clattering on the floor, and, "shit," comes
under his breath, clear and flustered, but the phone keeps ringing incessantly,
like a fire siren at dawn, like a church bell at a funeral, crackling the calm.
Shinra makes it to the guest room and sits on the edge of the bed. The sheets
are soft under his fist, but he can’t feel the silk, and he takes a deep
breath, holding it in as he answers the phone and brings it to his ear. There’s
silence, there’s static, there’s a voice, and Shinra’s lungs clean out of air.
"Hello? What's wrong?"
“Take the medication.”
“I don’t care what you want!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“Wait for me.”
"I promise, I'll see you later.”
“No, I won't forget."
"I know, I know.”
“You did? Good.”
“If you want you can go to bed.”
“I’m sure you’ll fall asleep eventually.”
"Ok. Yes. I promise. See you soon."
     He snaps the phone shut, and lets it fall into the pocket of his coat with
a sigh. He stands, dragging his feet on the floor like a dying worm. He sits on
the couch and stares down at the palm of his hand as if he could find the
meaning of the universe between the slightly crooked headline, and an almost
undetectable heart line. Shizuo puts outs his cigarette and enters the
apartment, closing the glass door behind him. The temperature change is
instant, the living room being much warmer than the world out in the balcony,
where his nose had tinted pink, and his skin roused. He allows his weight to
drop on the gray single, facing Shinra. He separates his legs, and he appears
as casual as someone who woke up on a Sunday afternoon, but his stomach is in
knots, and he doesn’t why; Shinra is not running in a panic, there aren't any
guts splattered across the carpet, and he doesn’t even know who was on the
other side of the line, but the memory, the feeling he got by that phone call,
keeps him high-strung.
"Sorry about that, you know how it's like, the life of an underground doctor
and such. Celty, dear! What type of tea are you making?"
[Chamomile]
"Ah, how wonderful! Perfect selection! Leave some. For later."
She angles her PDA so Shizuo can't see.
[Is... everything alright?]
"Oh, nothing much my dear Celty. A few pastries will do, lemon perhaps?"
[I'll prepare a box.]
She walks back to the kitchen, where the teapot whistles.
                                        
     Celty pours milk into a cup, placing it in front of Shizuo and he drops
six sugar cubes into the bamboo mug, mixing the hot tea, allowing for the sugar
to dissolve as the white turns into a slight cream. Shizuo cuts a piece of
cheesecake, fork glimmering under the yellow light, clinking against ceramic as
he takes a bite into his mouth, purring around it. Shinra watches amused,
“Don’t you think that’s overkill?” Shizuo blinks and stares at Shinra’s goofy
smile, following his line of sight, and he places the back of his hand in front
of his lips as he laughs, the vibrations moving around his chest in a pleasant
current he hasn’t felt in days. His eyes crinkle, the muscles in his face start
to hurt, and he gulps the barely chewed up piece by the interruption. Still
smiling, he takes a deep breath to steady his voice and says, “Y’know I like
sweets,” and Celty slaps her knee, shoulders pushing and pulling in on
themselves as she giggles by the understatement.   
    Celty wonders if this is the way it will always be; tan colored walls,
mahogany wooden flooring, grey cushions, and Izaya making his way into their
conversations. It's a mystery to her, much like the man himself. There's
something about his name, she realizes, that is strangely romantic. Even when
it's hate, even if it's admiration, his name travels through open parks in
murmurs of the innocent and dark backstreets in growls of the guilty; it's
always so distinct, so pleasing to the ears, she imagines that it must be nice
on the tongue too. He's infamous; known in neighboring cities and countries
overseas; an urban legend, much like 'the black rider' or 'the monster of
Ikebukuro;' he's 'the informant of Shinjuku.'
“He should just stay out of Ikebukuro,” and she’s certain, he doesn’t really
mean that.
“May I give you some advice? You may disregard it, of course."
“About?” It’s not like Shizuo doesn’t know, but he asks anyway.
“Orihara-kun, who else?” and Shinra’s smile turns condescending
His teeth ache, heartbeat accelerates, blood rushes to his ears, but it’s not
anger, and it's not hate, and when he says, “ok,” the two-letter word drones
with finality in a low register.
Celty is stunned by the ease with which Shizuo agrees, but Shinra isn’t all
surprised.
     “I’m going to tell you a secret,” and Shinra takes a bite from his slice
of lemon cake, chewing slowly, stealing time from under Shizuo’s feet like he
knows this is what he’s been waiting for the entire week. Shizuo can feel his
fist coil, adrenaline sparking his short-temper, and he sees the moment Shinra
notices his fisted hands, but he only tilts his head to the side while showing
his derisive fox teeth, a sly expression on his face. The thought of breaking
Shinra’s arm again is incredibly tempting. He watches him take his glasses off,
cleaning them with his coat, placing them back on his nose, and Shizuo must
count from ten to one as Shinra finally finishes drinking his lukewarm tea.
      Shinra tends to be evasive when he speaks, spurting riddles and vague
suggestions, if not deflating the topic altogether. In the same vein, Shinra
doesn’t talk about Izaya at all, unless asked, and his word count is limited by
reiterating what the person believes Izaya to be, or lying by saying he knows
nothing, even if he’s heard all the details straight out of Izaya’s tongue.
Therefore, when Shinra leans forward, holding himself up with his forearm on
the table, shifting his eyes side to side before curving his hand around his
mouth and whisper-shouts, “Orihara-kun is fond of you!” Shizuo can all but feel
his jaw slacken with an, "Oh," and he looks at Celty who nods her neck as if
she understands that he needs the assurance of Shinra’s truthfulness.
He blinks a couple of times, and the word fond ricochets in the muscles of his
face as they try to pull into a smile.
The thought of Izaya not hating him is like a pure shot of tobacco into his
bloodstream.
“Yes! He was quite excited to meet you!” He sighs in mock grief. “But alas,
that was crushed straight out of him, not blaming anyone in particular, of
course,” and Shinra stares pointedly at him, his laughter grating against
Shizuo’s guilt.
“Now that we have the basics down-” he clears his throat, “-you always announce
yourself to him, and anyone else in a hundred-mile radius, when you see
Orihara-kun, correct?”
“Yeah, so?” he raises an eyebrow. 
“Even if he does nothing?”
“Well, yeah, but-”
“What if you don’t?”
“What?”
“Instead, why don’t you pull an ‘Izaya’ on him! Yes! That would be perfect!
Follow him around, watch him, It might be compensating, don’t you think? I’m
certain Orihara-kun can turn out to be quite the fasci-“
“This plan of yours is shit.”
"What? How? It's brilliant!”
[It’s not.]
Shinra gasps, hand on chest in a poor imitation of hurt. “Celty! How can you
side with him! Shizuo-kun, if you want to kill him, this is the way to go!
Running after him hasn’t worked, so, why not jump him?!”
"The entire city fucking shrieks when I leave my front door and you think he
won't notice me casually stalking him like some kind of creep?!”
Celty nods.
“Wouldn’t it be fun if he did catch you though?”
“No, It wouldn’t!”
[Stop that!]
Shinra raises both hands in surrender, and with a kind of exasperation in his
voice says, “ok, ok,” like he doesn’t understand why no one laughs at his
peculiar brand of humor.
“Look, I’m only suggesting that you give him the same amount of attention you
already do, but differently. Aren’t you a bit curious to see what you can
discover about Orihara-kun? Not even a little?”
“…no…?” Shizuo almost face-palms at how soft and unsure his voice sounds.
In a sing-song tone, “Of course you aren’t!” and Shinra cackles, high-pitched
and jarring, sounding both sincere and underhanded. His eyebrows are raised and
his eyes almost glint red, like Shizuo is an open book who wears his
intentions, his emotions, on the tip of his fingers, and Shizuo can see it
clearly now, can see Izaya in Shinra, or is it the other way around? They're
like people who begin to share the same mannerism after too much time together;
and even if Shinra is surgical, and Izaya is automatic, they are both sharp,
metallic blades.
"You don't have to, but I think it will be good! This coming from Orihara-kun's
friend."
"Since when?” It’s not disbelief, it’s an accusation.
“Eh? I’ve always been his friend.”
"Never would have guessed.” It’s an insult, and Shinra recognizes the jab but
ignores it.
“It's just a thought; you do whatever you want!"
Shizuo lets the silence expand between them, he has nothing left to say.
“You know Shizuo, you really don’t know Izaya,” and his voice is soft like the
tilt of his lips, a melancholic expression on his face. 
Shizuo finishes his cold drink, thanks them, and leaves.
                                  ----------
[Why did you tell Shizuo that?]
“What do you mean, my dear?”
[You gave him advice on Izaya.]
“Yes. I do recall something along those lines.”
[WHY?!]
"I think that with a little push, this might just prove to be one of the most
enthralling experiments I've ever done with an equally entertaining conclusion.
I enjoy their fighting to some extent, but maybe this will make them stop once
and for all. They’re similar yet different enough to complement each other.
Don't you agree?"
[No, I mean...it makes sense.]
"Regardless, it's not like they really hate each other anyway. One of them had
to make a move, so I did it first! Besides, if they become friends, then I can
get rid of them both to concentrate on you and only you, Celty my honey!”
[Shinra!] Her shoulders dropping as if on a surrendered sigh [Do you think
he’ll take your advice?]
“Hm, Shizuo can be quite unpredictable, but I think he will. Dear Shizu-chan
can't live without Izaya-kun!" he giggles, clapping his hands like an over-
excited child. "The real question is, what will he find and how he’ll react to
it! Oh well, if they kill each other in the end, it couldn’t be helped!”
[Don't say that!] 
Shinra laughs. "Well, is everything ready?"
[Yes.]
"Let us go then, my dear Celty."
                                  ----------
 
 
Shizuo’s afternoons have become peaceful, dull.
     He lies on his worn-out futon playing with the lighter, spinning it around
his fingers. The faint sound of the plastic when it hits the top of his nails
echoes in the otherwise silent apartment. He thinks of his insufferable doctor
friend and the nonsense he speaks, the babbling jumble of words Shizuo can’t
ignore. He ruffles his hair, lights a cigarette between fingers and inhales the
poisonous fumes into his desolated lungs. The air whistles as it passes through
the window to caresses his bare chest. The curtains sway in the corner of his
vision, but he stares at the city lights against the darkness of the night.
     It’s been ten years total since Shizuo’s known Izaya but it’s been nine
since the last time Shizuo felt anything remotely close to hate for the
informant. Following him around screaming lies is a habit he likes to keep,
part of his daily routine that he’s missed for a little over a week. It’s
strange; Izaya’s silence, his lack of presence, it creates a cloud of dread
that screams of Izaya fleeting like sand in a storm breeze behind Shizuo’s
back. He doesn’t want to believe there’s anything truly wrong but Shizuo is a
being of intuition and the few times he’s ignored the gut instinct he ended up
in more trouble than it’s worth.
     There’s an insatiable craving deep in his stomach for the itch of warm
sweat pouring down his temple and low in his abdomen, he can feel a yearning
for the chase. He throws the cigarette out the window and he wouldn’t mind
watching it burn the city down into ashes if only to catch a glimpse of Izaya’s
arms outstretched on a taunt like a dragon’s wings. He would create a blaze
himself if to hear Izaya spur that godforsaken nickname, scalding under his
fiery pink tongue. The crackling of his shoes, the dark hair springing like it
does, when Izaya skips to his own beat. He wants the smooth of a black fur-
lined coat to be close to touching, just like the vision of red sequins that
swim in Izaya’s irises that can only be seen when being mere inches away from
his face. He doesn’t remember when it occurred but he imagines it was before
graduation when thoughts of Izaya had diverted to imagining the feel of his
lips left raw by Shizuo’s own teeth. Even now, there’s an endearing desire to
watch bruises emerge on Izaya’s skin only if caused by love bites instead of
ferocity. In his teens, as well as his mid-twenties, Shizuo finds himself with
words of admiration and beauty pushing down on his sternum when he so much as
thinks Izaya near.
     It’s not love. He can’t be in love with someone he doesn’t know. Izaya is
a mirage of images he recollects through the years. The noir-haired is an
abstract painting, a vague metaphorical poem, an aloof tale of a famous
character that may have existed or perhaps it’s a figment of someone’s
imagination altogether. Izaya’s face is unreadable when he isn’t smirking, and
even back when they were sixteen there was nothing that could tell Shizuo of
who he was or how he felt, in fact, he might have been quieter, even more of a
dying star too hot and too far for an idiot to grasp. Perhaps that’s why Shizuo
never tried hard to befriend him, never tried to change the rules of their
games, maybe it was just easier that way. 
“You leave well enough alone,” but Shizuo won’t anymore and he wonders if a
change is something Izaya wants, something he’s open to.
     Shizuo stands, walking into the kitchen and opening the refrigeration,
trembling slightly by the sudden chills. He picks up his left-over lunch and
warms it up, eating a banana, an apple, and two cookies in the process. In the
distance, Shooter’s robotic neigh can be heard, and Shizuo cocks an eyebrow
before shrugging soon after, turning the news on as background noise. The fried
rice is hot and cold in different places but he eats, ignoring how weird the
two temperatures feel on his tongue around the grains. The rice doesn’t last
long, and he drinks some strawberry milk to wash it down, eating a piece of
chocolate cake and melon bread right after.
Shizuo falls asleep to the distant sound of infomercials and Izaya’s genuine
smile behind eyelids; the informant’s name asking to be released on a growl, a
gasp, a grunt, so he does, letting it die in a whisper right before falling
into unconsciousness.
Chapter End Notes
     This is my first time writing a fanfiction!
     I hope you all enjoy this first chapter and the ride that lies ahead
     for these characters!
     Are there any errors? Let me know in the comments below.
     Tell me your thoughts!
     -BeautifulBlueBird
***** Roots *****
Chapter Summary
     Izaya.
Chapter Notes
     Possible Triggering Content!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
A bottle of half-orange, half-green pills stands on the coffee table.
     Namie flips papers on her side of the desk and the sound fuses with the
rhythm of Izaya's finger tapping the spine of books on his shelf. He walks,
sway on his hips, barefoot and silent; just another ghost. His breath bounces
off the walls, echoing in the impersonal corners of the hollow loft. He slides
a red hardcover novel out unto his palm, a gift on a day he doesn’t remember
from a faceless father he doesn’t recognize. The weight of two-hundred and
fourteen pages brings solace to his heart even if the black signature of a
familiar stranger is a throbbing stab wound on his chest. Elbow on the table,
she outstretches her arm, his glasses on her open hand. He reaches out and his
fingers are soft against her skin, the cold breeze of his gentle movement
raising the hairs on her neck. He places the frameless glasses on the bridge of
his nose, and the swivel chair creaks as he sits. He opens the back cover and
engrosses himself in the end of the story. 
She can’t admit he’s a corpse when the sun sets on the west and his skin glows
gold.
“Namie, do you think it's true?"
"What is?"
"If I talk about it I'll end up missing them too?"
     The silence is kept by each repeated beat of the long needle. She shifts
one leg atop the other as he stands, swift, shoulder blades expanding like
wings. Hair in disarray, purple shadows under his maroon eyes and with her
sharp vision she captures his displeased smile. She moves her gaze downwards
and drags the pen on paper, the sound soothing against the surface. Numbers and
letters. He has everyone who’s ever lived in Ikebukuro and Shinjuku as named
pliable pieces on a board, memorized positions and functions. She catches
Yagari Namie on a cream-colored folder, but she doesn’t bite the bait, doesn’t
read the file, and she denies it's because she craves his trust. She would
never confess that each laugh he sends over her incestuous tendencies and every
scowl she makes over his blasphemous inclinations are pretenses; habitual
banter. 
     He passes by her and the air around him is scented of lemon cake. He
places the book back on its spot, blending in with the rest of the red spines
on the shelf. He glances back at her, the light reflecting high on her
cheekbones, before he turns, dragging his feet down the steps to the living
room. She’s there. He can see her in his peripheral vision, just as he can see
the people in the far-off windows of adjacent buildings, but solitude spreads
around him in infinite loops. He’s transparent, unseen, disappearing in a world
that unravels and shifts without him. "Orihara-kun, an unsteady head doesn’t
help a heart.” He stares at the offending brown bottle on the coffee table and
wonders if this is what paradise is meant to be; a place filled with
unrecoverable things, a place where he can’t recognize the person who wears his
skin and talks in his voice each time he drinks a plastic bullet filled with
powdered poison.
     Izaya isn’t trying to deny that sometimes he drops glasses just to hear
them break, that he doesn’t shred pictures he saves to hear the rip, that he
hasn’t set his game board on fire multiple times just to admire the flames. He
can’t pretend that he doesn’t take words to heart, that he hasn’t thought of
suicide more than once, that he doesn’t like the way Shizuo’s name rolls off
his tongue. Izaya doesn’t deny his selfishness, but he’s still not as selfish
as Shinra. A friend who sees him as a forgotten experiment, an unimportant
specimen he studied and prodded, but he’s not Celty and so, Shinra can’t get
his head out her shadows enough to concern himself with anything else for a
long period of time.
Izaya resents the fact that he’s the one that cares.
     Namie hears the audible shake in Izaya’s breath, hears the snap of the cap
opening and the slight tap of a ceramic mug lifting. She watches his head tilt
back, blue lines on white skin, sees the pill drop on his mouth from trembling
fingers, Adam's apple dipping as he swallows it with a gulp of cold chamomile
tea. The door closes with a soft thud, no words shared, and alone, she glares
at the bottle, grabs her cellphone, and dials.
"Hello?"
"Kishitani-sensei."
"Ah, Namie-san! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Why haven't you taken him off the medication?"
"What?"
"The medication. It doesn't react well with his chemistry."
"It's only been a week. He needs to get better."
"No. There’s no cure.”
"He can stop if he wants to. You are a doctor too, tell him to stop then."
"It has to be you."
"He’s entertained killing himself before, Namie-san"
"If suicide won't kill him, the side-effects will. I expected you to have an
honor code, even for a miscreant underground doctor."
"That's harsh, Namie-san! It’s not like you’re one to talk."
"I don't pretend to be his friend."
"I won't tell him to stop."
"You are not worth the jail time."
Shinra laughs vividly.
She hangs up, exasperated.
                                  ----------
     The noise of the world mutes with the slow burn wait for the day to turn
dark. Izaya feels grown up in the backseat of Shiki’s car. It’s nonsensical,
but he manages a small smile behind bitten nails; a bad habit he’s acquired,
much like allowing Shiki’s hand to trail over his thighs as if reading braille.
Shiki complains about work; how hard business has become. Izaya blurs his voice
in the back of his head as another rattle of the engine, another bump on tar.  
  
     Shiki drapes his wrist over Izaya’s shoulder, knuckles brushing against
his neck. Shivers travel down his spine, eyes flutter close; he’s sixteen all
over again. Shiki grabs at his elbow with a rough tug and he continues to talk
like nothing’s changed. Izaya winces, forearm twisted between their pressed
bodies, he’s never been more estranged. Long sleeves, black coat, heater on,
fast pulse; they're too close, and Izaya can't grasp on air as if a giant
malignant mass was lodged inside his lungs.  
     He pries his eyes apart, a myriad of colors shadowed by tinted windows. He
stares outside where houses stay the same, where roads are fragmented, waiting
years to be fixed. He focuses on stop lights, and from where he seats, he wants
to will the steering wheel until all that's left is splattered guts on polished
steel. He wants to speak to Shiki like there’s something left to say, but the
thoughts dissolve as if he had nothing on his mind, and the few words he can
remember catch in his trachea, so he keeps silent; he's gotten good at it. 
     Shiki smokes his fourth cigarette in the ten minutes he's sat in the car,
the leather smells of burnt nicotine, and so does his cashmere suit. There's an
agitated humming in each minute mark, each lowering movements of the sun, and
Izaya's arm is numb. Shiki brings a full glass of vodka in front of Izaya's
face, and he scrunches up his nose before licking his lips, tossing his hair,
and turning on a smile, faking laughter, catching invisible strings of bravado.
He takes a few too many sips, and he knows this ritual is archaic, but Izaya's
successful at keeping his eyes closed, even when they're blown wide.
     He constantly allows the battles to choose him, permitting the restless
dog day heat to make way with him. It's non-consensual, but even if he cries
out, he will still be hit where the discolored skin is. Shiki can be delicate
except when he's in search for blood, and he hates to admit it, but somewhere,
his heart desires chaos, the calculated care he's given if only to feel human
warmth against his liver. The obvious implication of gray lie promises leaves
him awake in bed, and he swears he doesn't think about death, he doesn't; until
he does.
Underneath discontent and rejection, he’s thankful; Shiki doesn’t kiss him on
the lips anymore.
                                  ----------
     Shiki is a sunstroke in the middle of the hottest summer afternoon. Izaya
breathes in rapid gasps with every short, sudden, harsh thrust. Sandpaper lips
on his collarbone, and muggy fingers on hips; revolting. He can't make Izaya
curl his toes, can't make his spine flex, can't make his nails scrape at his
back, not the way he could. Sheets perfumed with artificial Sakura petals make
Izaya dizzy, complaisant, dejected. He looks to the side where an ironed blouse
hangs from the armchair, next to an aster patterned cushion Shiki obviously
didn't choose.
       He was here first, giving Shiki someone to touch, but now, when he
caresses his cheek and grunts, "Izaya," all he remembers is sitting in the back
bench listening to Shiki's gruff voice say, "I do," to someone else. He doesn't
even have the decency to hide the fact that he's been inside her today, he
smells like her beneath the alcoholized cologne. Scolding between her wide
hips; does she wrap her legs, knees pulled in around him? Her voice must be so
lovely when she whines for more; does it have a hard-sweet taste too? 
He used to groan "further," mumbled "deeper", stifled "harder;" Izaya used to
feel, used to desire, now he only plays along with fleeting want.
      Shiki sucks on the junction between his neck and shoulder, magenta bruise
left in the shape of his mouth. He hits, Izaya’s sight falters, he moans, it
stops; Shiki isn’t that generous anymore. Arms lifeless on his side, crucified
to the mattress, legs apart haphazardly with mild discomfort on the joint
between thigh and hip. He’s sure if he was slightly aware of where he is, it
might hurt more. Shiki shudders, exhaling shaky tobacco breath on Izaya’s face,
and he comes inside him, as he always does. His weight falls on Izaya’s ribs,
it’s suffocating, but he barely notices the lack of oxygen going to his brain.
Shiki smiles with affection like it will fix the million shards of broken glass
in Izaya’s eyes.
"You're beautiful." He knows, but the word has lost its meaning. 
     Shiki’s dry lips scrape at his chest, sharp canines press on his abdomen;
he brings Izaya into his mouth, shaping himself like water around him. He can’t
keep his voice down, can’t stop his throat from closing on a breath when Shiki
knows the rhythm that works, as if he’s studied Izaya’s body like an
instrument. He knows where and when to press his tongue, until his bones tense
and lock, as having eyes closed and still perfectly placing tacks on a world
map. It feels so good that Izaya’s waterline stings with self-loathing. Shiki
misses when Izaya used to call his name, used to pull on his hair to press him,
nose first, into himself. Instead, Izaya comes silently, and when Shiki looks
to his face, he finds impassiveness, unfocused eyes trained at the ceiling, and
a limp body mirroring a stunning carcass.
Shiki doesn't let him come during sex because the act is meaningless, but he
swallows him up like it’s intimate, like Izaya can’t see past the reverse
psychology.
Izaya controls the urge to vomit imagining a picturesque beast, a god’s golden
halo on his head.
                                  ----------
     Lukewarm water, soft bubbles, late nights, more muddles. Izaya sits at the
bottom of the bathtub with Shiki's finger pads on his scalp, like his mother
did once; in a dream. He closes his eyes and leans in to the touch,
instinctual, like the lost malnourished child of a bird of prey. He pretends
he's drunk, more than what he truly is; it's the only reason why he yearns for
this, it must be. Shiki's hand travels down his back, circling over his
stomach, grasping at him under the soap. He distorts his awareness until
Shiki's skin fades, until his body seems to be further away.
"I'm tired," even if his mind is bursting with bright colliding colors.
"You secretly love this." Izaya wishes he was drunk enough to ignore that.
     He allows Shiki to continue the friction, hand gripping firmer than
necessary, but it doesn't matter how much motion he instils on his wrist, Izaya
isn't aroused. He forces a sound from the back of his throat that sounds more
pained than pleasured. He focuses all his energy on faking tremors around his
body, moving his legs more than he should so the vibrations can travel through
his muscles into Shiki's fist. He makes the water ripple, and he allows a last
exhale before dropping his head atop Shiki's shoulder. Shiki lets him go,
oblivious to the fact that Izaya didn’t climax; wasn’t even hard.
     The robe on Izaya’s body is smooth, warm. Shiki’s arms around him is a
pleasant reassuring pressure. The heartbeat that thumps steadily on his back is
acknowledgment, and the kisses behind his ear is validation. He hears Shiki
breathe in from the crook of his neck, and the dream falls apart, aware that he
smells like Shiki’s wife instead of anything else Shiki might like. His body
misses the touch when Shiki frees his limbs from his torso. He falls in slow
motion on the bed, pushed, like a once expensive collectable rag doll that has
lost value over the years. Shiki's fingers tangle themselves in black strands,
just the way Izaya likes it, the way it makes him amenable. 
“Even if one else can see your worth, I do.”
     Izaya has himself to blame, silently agreeing to have Shiki take him if
only to see if he can slam some sense into him. He’s under sea, over galaxies,
and nothing works, functioning through the pain, numbing the fact that words
hurt. He trusted when Shiki said he could see Izaya’s face in his future. The
lies make Izaya’s feet spin, makes his logic fall, but when he sways, vertigo
in his head, Shiki doesn’t so much as pretend to catch him. Izaya lies too. He
doesn’t feel the same way he did when he was fourteen. Izaya doesn’t love him,
doesn’t want him, but he can’t think of Shiki wanting someone else, loving
someone else, can’t think of how to end it. 
"I have to go," it's the closest thing he's ever come to saying no.
"You’re right Izaya-kun. We should get dressed. My wife and Akabayashi will be
here soon.” Shiki doesn’t mention how Izaya’s face contorts into a sneer with
every word.
     Dressed, Shiki outstretches his hand, staring wide-eyed as Izaya slaps it
away, loud like a gunshot. His bitter laugh cuts through Shiki's chest like a
rusted switchblade. Overnight sharp eyes halt Shiki's thoughts. The room's
wooden door hits hard against the frame, wedding pictures rattling on the
dresser. Shiki's wife jumps from where she stands in the hallway. She's seen
him before, a business associate of her husband. He looks back at her from the
corner of his eye and stops next to her. She doesn't know what Shiki does when
they're alone, she doesn't know he walks naked in her home, she doesn't know
business extends to the sheets too, and she rather pretend she doesn't know to
not let Shiki go. They both smile at each other and he hears her heart break a
little more, but she knows Izaya broke a long time ago. 
Outside, Akabayashi stares. "Orihara-san?" He looks like he wants to say more.
“Akabayashi-san.” Head held high, he walks away.
                                  ----------
“Sir Shiki."
“Yes?”
“You’re lucky he hasn’t tried anything yet.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Then you don’t know him at all.”
“You think you do, Akabayashi?”
“No. I simply see him for what he is. One day, he’ll move on.”
“I’m all he has.”
“He can always find more to have.”
“It’s fine.”
“'Don’t get too confident,’ aren’t those your own words?”
                                  ----------
     Glass doors open, and the electric bell chimes with Izaya’s presence. He
stands on the sidewalk, teeth catching neon pink hues and eyes reflecting
bright red lights. His black hair catches sequins of blue stars and his shoes
tap on concrete, a lilt jump to his step. He opens the carton and places a
cigarette between fingers. The sound of his thumb pressing against the flint
wheel of the lighter travels through the empty streets. Instantly, paper
catches on fire and he inhales, mint flavor washing over the roof of his mouth.
He blows, watching the smoke disappear into the heavy clouds of pollution. He
stares at his reflection on the convenient store’s window and turns around,
walking to Shinjuku.
He smiles as his ears recognize Shooter’s neigh, and down a few blocks, he sees
the black rider and the monster of Ikebukuro racing into the night.
                                  ----------
The lock clicks open.
     Namie stands in front of the door, watching the handle turn. Izaya enters
the apartment, smirk in place, and he lets the door swing shut behind him. He
stands before her, back straight, hands in pockets. She trails her eyes across
his body, half expecting to see him bleeding out, and half waiting for him to
collapse on the spot. She finds proof of neither. He raises an eyebrow and she
shifts her gaze, taking a sip of tea, refusing to breathe out an audible puff
of relief. He walks past her, shoulder bumping shoulder. He takes his trademark
coat off and drops it on the arm of the couch. That’s when she notices the love
bite on the curve of his neck, but she doesn’t ask; she doesn’t want to know.
She focuses on his lazy smile instead, glassy lashes dropping close.
“I like peppermint.” 
“I thought you were dead.”
“Wouldn’t you like that?”
"Don't you miss Ikebukuro?"
"Why?"
"You've been staying uncharacteristically away, unless at night like some
cowardly rat."
“Do you wish to distance yourself from me? Am I too irresistible for you? I’m
sorry, you’re not my type, Namie.”
“No, of course not, I’m missing a penis.”
He laughs and she hides the tilt of her lips behind the mug.
"Do you think Shizu-chan misses me?"
"Maybe."
"I like maybe. You're dismissed Namie. I apologize for being late.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“Of course. I’ll call next time.”
She leaves the empty cup on her side of the desk, and locks the door on her way
out. Alone, his smile becomes non-existant and up the stairs, in his bathroom,
he turns the scalding water on, and gets clean.
                                  ----------
Izaya's nights are vacant, familiar.
     He lays on the bed, face up, staring at the swirling motion of the smoke
that emits from the lit cigarettes that lay scattered around the room. Scent of
burnt mint surrounds his body, engulfing his senses in wishful thinking of
jumping, falling, floating, catching himself with hands up. He knows he’s been
gone too long, away from the streets and all its gray dust. He misses the
fluttering butterflies inside his ribcage as he evades capture, followed into
alleyways filled with trash amid laughter. Back pressed against a brick wall,
russet eyes staring at Shizuo’s perfect design as it gives control on a fit of
pleasure.
If he crosses the line, finds a sign, will he hear his name on a tiger’s roar?
    Purple tinted bruises always look better on his chest than any yellow mark
Shiki has left on his hips. Pink lips on his, strong like any other bone in
Shizuo's body, can they make his pretty face shine behind shattered disguises?
Blonde hair catching gold tinsels of sweat, dropping into Izaya's choked
grumbles. Brown eyes staring down at him, fate bright like a helix on his
irises; we were meant to be, perhaps, in another time.Blue hole for a heart;
Shizuo's fingers tearing his coat apart, opening him up, falling into him like
a well-aimed dart, flaring vision fogging on a start.
Shizuo’s name, a gasp that ends on a whimper, drifting away in a haze.
                                  ----------
Ikebukuro is a carnival.
     Izaya's neck is surrounded by a metal collar when he used to wear golden
necklaces. A jester with a lopsided miniature crown, a kind smile, and spiteful
eyes pulls on the chains, choking bright bruises left with each wrench. Izaya
remembers when he used to be king, when his crown wasn't a replicated parody on
someone else's head. He sits on a mighty white plastic steed with a damaged
yellow mane. Violins and pianos replaced by bells, accordions, and the hissing
murmurs of the beautiful fallen prince.
     Izaya catches sight of a majestic monster, letting out smoke through his
nose. He rides a plastic white horse with a black mane, armored fists, scowl on
his lips. Izaya wants to believe its fate, but he keeps his daydreams inside,
to shield his hopes from the raining sky. They travel down the same path, but
he can't tell if they are running from each other or trying to catch up. It
doesn't matter, he will never make it out alive on a carousel that gets him
nowhere. The jester pets Izaya's hair with careful hands, as if he was a
sedated black panther that can't show teeth anymore; can't manage to snarl.
"That monster is only a commoner. He's not worth anyone's time."
     Izaya barely hears his voice, fascinated by the monster's sun kissed hair
and his blue shadowed brown eyes locking with Izaya's. His long legs step off
the horse making the lights flicker with his weight, and Izaya's body vibrates.
He takes the horse off its hinges with a battle cry, brows furrowed and throws
it in Izaya's direction, but he doesn't move, he can only feel his heart
accelerate, mouth agape; he needs to be mine.
     A stifled scream is heard, and the leach on Izaya's neck is pulled, the
force cutting the air from his lungs. He doesn't let go of his false steed, all
his strength concentrated on holding on. The jester lets go of the metal loops,
falling off the carousel. Izaya stares wide-eyed at the bloodied jester, and he
scrambles off his horse, falling with knees and palms on floor. His body
twitches with the intention to flee, eyes trained on the exit. One leg in front
of the other too late, the monster takes a hold of his chain.
    His hand comes to the collar, finger tips brushing against Izaya's jugular
and pulls, breaking the metal with his bare hands, Izaya gasps and the clinks
create a tune as it falls, a sing Izaya names freedom. The monster massages the
bruises on Izaya's neck, and stares him down with melancholy. He takes a hold
of Izaya's hand and looks at the exit too.
"Unhand him! He's my servant!"
"Shi-"
"Yes, my dear?" The jester interjects.
In the middle of the commotion, the syllables of "Shizuo," are clear. 
At this, the jester's fists tighten, his skin becomes ashen, and slowly he
withers away like dried leaves, falling as crumpled pieces on the ground, the
wind picking the particles of what he used to be. 
Izaya smirks at the remains and his eyes glimmer red as he takes a step off the
carousel. The people leave a pathway as they murmur over the evil prince and
his beast, but when he looks at his monster, his smile is kind and Shizuo
stares in awe at his king.
Chapter End Notes
     The novel Izaya read is "Catcher in the Rye," and its 214 pages long.
     The question he asks Namie is paraphrasing the last two lines of the
     novel which reads: Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you
     start missing everybody.
     ---
     Are there any errors? Let me know in the comments below!
     Tell me what you think!
     -BeautifulBlueBird
***** Phloem Vessel *****
Chapter Summary
     Izaya.
Chapter Notes
     Phloem Vessel: A tissue that conducts food throughout the plant.
     Possible Triggering Content.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                    DOLLAR$
                      "Are the Giants of the City Dead?"
===============================================================================
      The linoleum is cold against Izaya's flushed skin. Sweat falls from his
temples, rolling down his smoldering neck to the small of his back. His cheeks
are tinted pink and the bridge of his nose tingles, as if blood has stopped
circulating to his face. Hand on throat, trachea closing in, he gasps for air
in quick successions, fighting the ocean in his lungs. Mouth open on a silent
scream, he chokes on a sharp inhale, struggling to swallow downy feathers on
his dry tongue. Fast pulse, heart beating slow, hitting hard against his
breastbone. Arms shacking with his weight, unsteady fingers reaching out, and
nails scraping on the floor, cracked and bleeding. He crawls on weak knees,
moving backwards, stumbling on his own constricted limbs and prickling toes. He
falls upside-down, drifting, dropping chest first. The angle of his legs
catches under his backbone, head under the bed. The walls close in on him and
his eyes are wide, shifting across the dimly lit room. In the clutches of the
vivid unknown, whispered scattered thoughts scream:You’re dying! I’m dying!
      On a heat daze, the world around him spins uncontrollably inside his
unfocused pupils. He can see himself lying on the floor, a pitiful creature,
and he jolts, jumping back into himself. His abdomen cramps, nausea flairs,
spine spasms, and his vocal chords strangle themselves, shattering with the
effort to push the words out between his ebbing self-control. “It’s just a
panic attack,” comes out calm, as if the careless clarification will help with
the issue at hand, and then, “breathe,” is said in Namie’s commanding timbre,
as if that is sufficient to halt the outburst, as if he was a child throwing a
needless tantrum.
      She maneuvers his body between her legs, pulling her skirt towards her
stomach. She holds him close to herself, trying to contain his convulsions. She
places his ear on her chest, knowing the sound of her paced heart may help ease
his overcharged nerve system. His skin is sensitive and hyperaware; when she
draws circles over his hand with her thumb, the hairs on the exposed flesh
rise. He quivers with each gasp of breath he takes and tears trail down his
cheek, forming damp smudges on his shirt. Every pour trembles, but his
breathing begins to calm and his sobs mute into small hiccups and quite
snuffles. She drags a cotton ball drenched in alcohol around his bleeding
fingers, but he doesn’t flinch. She wraps bandages on top of his nails tightly,
eight in total, but he remains unresponsive. She releases his hands and furrows
her eyebrows when they fall limp beside him, before he embraces himself. As she
shifts positions to cradle him, he detangles himself from her and leans against
the bed frame, mind terribly blank as the thoughts rush through him, too fast
to catch up.
“You’re alright. It will pass,” and it did.
     The walk down the stairs is a treacherous process, like going down the
nine circles of hell. His knuckles turn white on the railing and his forehead
creases with the force of his concentration. She can clearly see the wound-up
coils in his shoulders, the set grinding of teeth with the tense shape of his
lips, and the wince that settles in the corners of his eyes with each
millimeter he moves forward. Her open palm is outstretched, hanging in the air,
while he pretends she hasn't offered any help. She supposes it’s a good sign
he's still this stubborn, holding on to unnecessary pride. She can't imagine
that he doesn't realize he's standing on trembling legs that can't properly
hold his bones up, can't catch the error of his stiff muscles if he so much as
slips, but he stops, not even half way down the stairs, to catch at his stolen
ragged breath. Next to his thigh, he forms a fist, frustration clear in the
veins that rise on the back of his hand. He slogs, gaze fixed on each step he
takes, as if the very act of blinking can cause the stairs to dissipate before
his very eyes, like fog in a summer’s day afternoon.
     On the very last step, he frees his feet from the slippers, toes touching
the floor first, allowing the cold to enter through the soul, traveling inside
his legs towards his spine, and expanding like a river from his shoulder
blades. A shuddered exhale, and he treks towards the sofa. When Namie takes
hold of his forearm to help him down to the living room, he doesn’t protest,
but he does start from the touch. He lies sideways on the gray sectional,
cocooning himself in soft faux-fur blankets; the delicate fibers tickling his
neck. The hem catches on the bandages, and the pull between both materials
sting on his spoilt nails. His chest no longer hurts; his heart all but calm
now, but his senses remain on high alert, and he can still feel tremors vaguely
tugging and shoving in his bloodstream.
      Izaya blinks slowly with the weight of his lashes drooping his lids, but
they don’t remain close, and the bruises under his eyes speak of long sleepless
nights, adjusting towards sunlight, spent this way. He yawns, but sleep won’t
cease the triggers that generate painful exploding flickers behind the darkness
of his eye sockets. Secretly, he blames his mother, who gave him life, gave him
this overactive mind, but he doesn’t want an apology, he just wants to rest for
a few hours a day. He yearns for unconsciousness to envelope him in its warmth,
and he can almost feel the urge to pull at his hair by the sheer power of
boring, infuriating, exhaustion.
“I’ll make you some valerian tea.”
“Coffee.” His hoarse voice disagrees with the smooth lower tones of Namie's
words.
“You’ll get wired.” 
“I need to be functional if I'm going to be an insomniac."
“Fine.” She huffs, as if brewing a cup of coffee was any more trouble than a
kettle of tea. 
The chatroom notification tune comes through the speakers of his cellphone, and
Izaya would never admit to jumping at the noise.
                                  ----------
                               Private Messaging
Gaki: Orihara-san.
Kanra is online
Kanra: May I ask why you're contacting me?
Gaki: Awakusu Mikiya has just been named heir to the Awakusu-Kai. He's aware we
think of him as a weak link and unfit for the position. He's gotten it in his
head that he can prove himself if he tames that lad, Heiwajima. 
Kanra: Go on. 
Gaki: He plans to fire him by hiring the services of a biker gang unrelated to
the Awakusu. The mess would cause the bar to separate themselves from his name
and reputation.
Kanra: How did he come to this conclusion?
Gaki: Sir Shiki.
Kanra: I see.
Gaki: You do with this information as you please.
Kanra: Will do. 
Kanra is offline
Gaki is offline
                                  ----------
     Izaya is not lost when he doesn't obliterate what he holds, when he
doesn't annihilate the people around him; that's not who he is, but that’s not
to say he wouldn’t do it, that he can’t find pleasure in watching bleeding
teeth scrape against asphalt to those he deems deserving. He can't help
imagining Shiki skinned alive for his audacity to involve Shizuo's name under
the Awakusu's radar, for making him the object of want for someone as
inconsequential and unworthy as Mikiya. Izaya wants to be logical, wants to
rely on his observational skills, but his intuition makes a point of throwing
in the forefront; personal. He can picture Shiki smirking down at him,
convinced Izaya doesn't know, confident that even if he did, he wouldn't dare
counterattack.
    Izaya can feel the adrenaline assault his arteries, can feel the fleeting
high of excitement rippling through his frontal lobe. His arms still twitch
with the remnant of dominating anxiety, but the temporary distraction
standstills his brain’s incessant begging for melatonin. The gears in his mind
start to shift, rotate, falling into place with new-found purpose. It’s a
little foggy, a little unsure through the medicated mist, but he can still
grasp the ideas forming behind his darkened lashes.
He switches his profile account and opens a new window. 
                                  ----------
                               Private Messaging
Chrome is online
Shinichi: Chrome-san, can I interest you in any information this fine morning?
Chrome: Mikiya.
Shinichi: I know of plans to ruin your precious monster's life. Yes?
Chrome: Information.
Shinichi: Awakusu Akane. I hear she knows about her family's line of work. I'm
sure you'll give her a helping hand, am I correct, Chrome?
Chrome: Gang. 
Shinichi: Dragon Zombie. They have already been contacted. The leader is Li-pei
Ei, but you already knew that, didn't you, Chrome.
Chrome is offline
                                  ----------
     He exits the chatroom and scrolls through his contact list before pressing
the call button. The phone rings once, when, “Izaya-san,” comes through,
muffled by strong winds and booming laughter. The sound of motorcycle mufflers
as they accelerate drapes over Li-Pei’s smooth childlike Taiwanese accent.
Izaya clears his throat, "Ei-kun, I have a job for you." There’s a bell, and
the gust of the breeze is the first one to disappear. “Wait a moment.” The
mumbling gets stronger, but the engines of vehicles is only a soft background
noise now. A few stray chuckles, a few shouted names, and it all dulls before
hearing a door close, and then, there’s silence.
“Sorry about that, Izaya-san. I’m listening.”
"My job is simple. I need you to secretly refuse the mission provided by the
Awakusu-Kai.”
"May I ask why?"
"Classified. I don't give information for free." His voice is believable
enough, but the languid muscles in Izaya’s face protest to the forced well-
known smirk he tries to emulate.
Ei laughs, “Understood. What are the details of this job?"
"You are to pretend you're still working for the Awakusu. Initiate first
contact with Shizuo. Be mindful though, he will be accompanied by the daughter
of the heir. I will send another biker gang to create a distraction for you,
this way, Shizuo can leave with the girl, seemingly, undetected. I will provide
payment for the treason.”
"You have a deal," is said with rushed determination.
"Don't let me down, Ei-kun."
"Of course not. My gang will be pleased to work for you again. We will always
be available to assist you." 
"I'm glad to hear that."
     Izaya hangs up the call and lets the blanket fall from his back, caressing
the junction between neck and shoulder. He forces his torso up with the
strength of his legs pushing him against the force of gravity that threatens to
pull him towards the rug. His movements are irregular, his swiftness slower
than usual, but he heads up the two steps with no hesitation. Namie places the
coffee mug next to his computer and goes to the sofa, slippers scuffing on the
floor. She bumps into him, watching him stumble and grasp for balance with the
back of the armless single. His jagged edges and sharp bones hurt when they dig
into her muscles, but when she flinches, she makes a point to look away so he
doesn’t take notice. Namie folds the throw blanket and walks back to her side
of the desk. She hears the creak of the chair when he sits, hears the lifting
of the mug from the surface, hears him blowing at the steam.
     Porcelain between lips, it tastes bitter, salty. Izaya can see Namie
smirking in his peripheral vision and only because he’s more alert, only
because he has regained an ounce of his cheeky nature, does he swallow it down
to spite her. He’s careful, allowing not a single drop of distaste to present
itself in his features, though he can feel his stomach recoiling from the
absolute atrocity he drinks. He hums with false contentment, “Namie, this is
delightful! You’ve clearly outdone yourself. Truly, I’ll have to promote you
from secretary to barista.” He flails his arm in a dramatic gesture, to show
just how much mock he means to say, if the words themselves weren’t enough.
She scoffs, but she’s grateful for the banter. 
     Namie sips her coffee, the slurping sound making her cringe with self-
disgust. Izaya’s dexterous fingers work at the keyboard and she places her cup
down to continue updating the files with new information. It doesn’t take him
long to find what he’s looking for, and it’s obvious by his pleased “aha!” He
hides himself behind the monitor, away from her view, to drink the rest of the
coffee, allowing the repulsion to show on his face. His eyes close on a strain,
and he sticks out his tongue on a shiver of revulsion before turning his
computer off and standing up. “I’m heading out,” and the statement startles
her, causing a reflexive whip of her head in his direction, and in a
disbelieving tone, she all but whispers, "out?" as if the very idea of Izaya
anywhere except in the loft is unheard of, as if she doesn't spend more time in
that apartment on a regular basis than him, yet this doesn't stop her from
asking, "To Ikebukuro?” and her voice couldn’t possibly come out more
incredulous if she tried. He can’t help but sigh with a “yes,” that sounds
equal parts exasperated and equal parts annoyed as he slips his arms through
fur-trimmed sleeves and appreciates the feel of the material, the secure weight
on his shoulders. His shoes are constricting, but the outside world awaits.
With narrowed eyes and a sly smile, “Oh, by the way, I have emailed you
instructions on a time and place where I will need you to pick something up for
me.”
"Wh-"
She can hear his laughter careening through the cracks of the now closed door,
and she grunts, pinching the bridge of her nose. 
                                  ----------
      Ikebukuro hasn’t changed since he’s been absent; the people on the
streets are still an unrecognizable gray mass, the glass windows are still
unbreakable and immaculate; it’s all as loud, as dazzling as it was a month ago
and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. The vibrating aftershocks
of his attack still rumble between his joints, and he holds his breath to stop
the incoming hyperventilation by the mere thought of losing control with the
sudden erratic throbbing in his sternum. His rhythmic wildfire strut gives
nothing away, and he counts the sound of his heels on hot concrete ignoring the
dizzying feeling in his head, the tunnel vision that comes and goes. He can’t
collapse to a split cranium like some cornered animal, falling prey to the
volatile mechanical heart of the city just so it can eat him up and chew him
out.
     The wind whistles, the grass sways, and children laugh as they hang from
still rings. They scream, intoxicated with happiness, throwing their arms up
while being pushes down the yellow slide. He furrows his eyebrows; he doesn’t
remember ever doing that as a kid. He scrunches up his nose as nausea settles
on his stomach at the image of a mother eating a donut messily, the glaze
sticking to the tip of her nose. The thought of food makes him ill, so he
averts his head to see Kadota sitting not far from him, head tilted back,
staring at the clear blue sky. Izaya walks his way and stands straight next to
the bench, despite his spine opposing the position. “I’m sure that’s a dragon,”
he laughs, “how are you, Izaya?” and he doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m doing great!”
like lying about himself has always been second nature, an involuntary slip,
“you?”
"Good, good. Why did you call me here?"
“Down to business, I see. I have a favor to ask."
"Shoot."
"I need you to contact your friend, Chikage Rokujo."
"Alright. What should I tell him?"
It takes a moment for Izaya to blink the abrupt blur.
"I…I have a job for him. I need Toramaru to serve as a distraction for Dragon
Zombie. They don't have to worry about anything. They’re also working for me."
"I'll let him know."
"Give him my email and tell him to contact me so we can discuss details."
"Alright."
"Want a thank you kiss, Dotachin?"
Kadota chuckles, shaking his head. "That won’t be necessary.”
"It's your loss!"
     Izaya makes to leave when his vision flares black before coming back
distorted. He’s almost sure, he hopes, the unrecognizable blur of shapes in
front of him is Kadota. His first instinct is to desperately reach out for what
he believes to be a shoulder and Kadota winces by the sudden force in which
Izaya’s fingers dig into the hollow space between his bones, despite the many
layers of clothing between their skins. He sways where he stands, and distantly
he hears, “Izaya!” over the ringing in his ears. He tries to take a lungful but
it’s like Earth is being stripped of all its oxygen, and Kadota watches with
dread as the color in Izaya’s face drains. Izaya feels his hand being taken,
his body being moved and his entire weight being pulled into someone else. He
blinks a couple of times, naming the elements in the periodic table to calm
himself enough to find Kadota’s eyes staring back at him with concern.
     “I’m alright Dotachin, I just,” he licks his lips, takes a deep breath, “I
didn’t have breakfast,” and that’s not a lie, in fact, he can’t remember the
last time he ate anything close to a sustainable meal. “Oh,” and Kadota buries
his hand on the pocket of his jacket, taking out a dice caramel. He unwraps it
and places it near the corner of Izaya’s mouth. Izaya blushes; he’s never
encountered such kindness before, but Kadota doesn’t mention it, he only
gestures for him to open his lips, as if this was an everyday occurrence
between them. It startles Izaya when a fleeting thought of, are we friends?
flashes by, and his chest swells with something Izaya can’t place.
Eventually, he takes the caramel, chews, swallows, and he finds himself feeling
better. “Thanks, Dotachin,” and his voice is softer than Kadota has ever heard
it before, “I’ll be leaving now.”
“I can give you a ride home.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Alight. Be careful, ok? Don’t scare me like that again.” Kadota chuckles.
Izaya nods, waves him goodbye, and leaves.
His chest still feels heavy, constricted, but it’s different; he likes it.
                                  ----------
On his way back to Shinjuku, Izaya receives a call.
     Izaya tries to concentrate on the smell of leather instead of sandalwood
cologne and Shiki’s sweat. He stares at the setting sun, the trees they pass,
ignoring Shiki’s lust filled eyes and pleased grin reflected on the glass. He
welcomes the cold that seeps into his open palm from the window as opposed to
Shiki’s warm calloused hand holding him down by his nape. Shiki tugs at his
fingers, opening the unhealed wounds on Izaya’s bandaged fingers, and he
scrunches up his nose with the sting, the feel of blood soaking through. Shiki
questions what he desires and Izaya lies through his teeth, “only you,” but it
tastes like truth when he watches Shizuo walk out of Russia Sushi. Shiki
catches on to the ease in which Izaya speaks deceit, but when he sees the
blonde he knows the words are honest if they are not directed at him. Shiki
thrusts into him with a type of viciousness Izaya hasn’t felt in a while, and
he shuts his eyes, swallowing around the rust in his taste buds, working around
the pain spiking up his tailbone.
     “You told me I didn’t have to worry about that monster,” and they take a
sharp, fast turn, where Shiki's grip tightens on the bones in Izaya’s wrist,
before shoving his arm away all together and digging his nails on Izaya’s hip
to keep him in place. Izaya whimpers with another harsh push into him, and when
he opens his mouth, no sound come out. He can feel panic pump inside of him
with his heart’s every beat, stealing his voice away. When he pants, he’s
almost sure his lungs are infected by consumption. He can feel his lids
becoming heavy with fatigue, with the ache that runs through his body, and all
he wants is to collapse, to fall asleep, for Shiki to find release. Shiki
grunts, and his pace becomes erratic and Izaya can only think, finally, with
the idea of getting off the limousine.
      Shiki comes and pulls out, pushing Izaya by the curve of his back, the
force leaving Izaya to fall on the floor. Shiki can’t help the sadistic elated
pleasure in his chest at seeing part of himself trickling out of Izaya. He
wonders how everyone else would react to know one of the strongest man in
Ikebukuro is brought down to his knees so easily. The most beautiful man he’s
ever seen found underneath him; it’s too bad, Shiki thinks, he couldn’t get a
taste of him the first time he laid eyes on a thirteen boy with the most
enthralling eyes. Izaya is the most cunning, smart, manipulative bastard he
knows, and yet his silver tongue can’t defend him when he’s reduced to this by
his own touch-starved mind. Shiki draws his pants to his hips, closing the
button, and tucking his shirt underneath the waistband. He reaches for a small
cloth and dampens it with the melted ice the vodka bottle sits on. He kneels in
front of Izaya and separates his legs, cleaning between Izaya’s pale thighs
with tenderness, his fingers all but hovering on top of his skin. Izaya almost
feels the need to replay the events in his head to be sure he didn’t imagine
the aggressive mistreatment. Then again, he can see Shiki’s print on his wrist,
can see the bandages coated in blood, can feel a pounding against his forehead.
Shiki leans back on the seat and lights a cigarette, looking out the window as
the car comes to a stop. He blows smoke out of his mouth in Izaya’s direction
and in a detached manner says, “Put your clothes on, we’re in front of your
building.”
Izaya doesn’t blush, doesn’t object; he’s too numb to think, instead, he puts
on his clothes in autopilot, and gets out of the limo without looking back,
both sharing the silence. 
                                  ----------
      Izaya’s hands shake as he grasps the handle, turning it upwards for hot
water. The steam makes the world blurry, washes away his surroundings, gives
his skin a red tint. He tilts his head back and tugs his hair out of his face,
allowing the scalding water to drape over him, getting rid of Shiki’s filth.
Izaya was fourteen when he met a man wearing gold who gifted him old books
about legends of Greece, fairytales of bliss, and Celtic myths. Izaya was a
moon stealing light from the sun, but Shiki was a magnificent eclipse,
demanding admiration in the way he walked, talked, in the way he kissed. Izaya
was sixteen when he unrolled himself, when Shiki’s white suite came off. It
took months for him to see Shiki again, to be able to ask, holding down tears,
“Where were you? Where did you go?” and Shiki downplayed his emotions,
distracting his brokenhearted focus with a warm bubble bath, champagne dripping
down his tongue, and Shiki’s mouth on his cock.
     Izaya tried to forget who Shiki was to him, tried to let him go like a
healthy person would, but there he was again, in his silk, in his limousines,
with his money and fancy trips, with his smiling lips, his brown eyes behind
half-lids, remembering Izaya why he stayed, why he couldn’t stop giving himself
away. Every time Shiki touched him, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for
thinking they didn’t fit, for believing he wasn’t first on Shiki’s list, for
considering leaving him. Shiki told him not to grow his hair out, short brought
out his boyish charms. Red, it looks so good against your eyes.Shiki said he
didn’t believe in true love, he didn’t want a relationship, and months later he
had a golden band on his left hand and a woman he called his wife. It changed
nothing. Izaya was still a neglected toddler turned lover who didn’t grow up
enough to stop searching for attention, validation, a man in his life that
could remain present.
Izaya brings his hand over his mouth and his laughter bounces off the tiled
walls.
By the time he turns the water off, they sound more like muffled sobs.
                                  ----------
     He sits on his desk chair, legs crossed, drowning the ear-piercing silence
by tapping the heel of his juddering foot on the floor. He caresses the frayed
edges of paper with shaky fingers, changing his gaze from the words in the book
to Shinjuku. The apartment is dark except for the cold blue glow that shines in
through the panoramic window. He admires how the city lights allow for the
night sky to remain bright. He wonders what Shizuo is doing now. Is he getting
ready to work at the bar in that ridiculous uniform only he can pull off? Is he
getting angry with his poor ability to prepare high-end whiskey on the rocks?
Is he disquieting the establishment by yelling at senile drunks? He chuckles at
the thought.
“Izaya onii-chan?” the voice is soft, but loud in the deafening quietness.
He looks over his shoulder. “Yes, Akane-chan?”
“I can’t sleep.” She fidgets with her pink hoodie, eyes half-lidded.
     The corners of his lips soften and he closes the novel, letting it rest on
the desk. When he walks, there’s no sound, and she stares; she’s never heard a
man move like a phantom. He lies on the sofa like an elegant English man in
those movies she’s seen, and he beckons her by patting the empty space next to
him. She grins and sprints his way, lying half on top of his chest, hugging
him, feeling his bandages under her fingers, but she doesn't ask. Izaya is to
her the equivalent of a Japanese prince; there’s no other boy that compares to
how kind, how pretty he is. Her hair reflects purple with the neon sings, and
absentmindedly, he cards his fingers through it, causing her to close her eyes.
“Can I stay with you forever?”
“Only if I live long enough for forever.”
Intuitively, she tightens her hold on him.
“Does love conquer all?”
“Of course, but you will do well to believe otherwise.”
Izaya’s heart was raised to withstand pain, built to break, and when it bleeds,
it’s because it’s meant to be. Shizuo might never give him a chance, might
never know the truth of all he does, but if it hurts when Shizuo smiles at
someone else, he understands, it’s all as it should.
It’s the way he learned love works.
Chapter End Notes
     "The nine circles of hell" is a reference to Dante's "Inferno".
     Valerian tea has sedative properties and people have used it for
     sleep and anxiety.
     I tagged pedophilia because Shiki was much older than Izaya when he
     was thirteen, and, at least in the United States, to be diagnosed
     with pedophilia you have to be sixteen or older and lust over
     children thirteen or younger.
     On the same note, that Daddy Issue tag really makes more sense now,
     doesn't it?
     I know Shizuo and Izaya haven't even been in the same room and we're
     already heading to the fourth chapter. I promise it will happen soon,
     but when I tagged slow burn, I meant it, haha.
                                      ---
     Thank you for the support and patience!
     I'm curious, where are my readers from?!
     I live in the United States, but I'm from Puerto Rico.
     Tell me what you think! Comments and reviews are the food of writers!
     -3B
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!