Chapter Text
Izaya woke up, and it was a problem.
He wasn’t supposed to open his eyes again. Still, he did, and the dim light of a gloomy early morning hurt him. He winced and wanted to stand up, but there was tension around his wrists, and Izaya looked down, straining his eyes. His wrists were wrapped in bandages all the way up his elbows. He was strapped down.
“Ha!” he breathed out and closed his eyes. “Haha!”
He felt strangely lethargic, not hurt but aching. It was deep inside. The pain emanated from the left side of his chest, all over his tired, heavy body.
It was funny, actually, that in the darkness of the night, someone saw him in that back alley. And not only saw him but actually decided to help.
Oh, the people still amused him! Maybe there was something to live for after all?
***
He was walking past the hordes of people, in the opposite direction of the colorful, cheerful crowd. It was a late Friday evening, and there were too many people, hurrying to drown themselves in sake and a fake sense of joy and connection. With ease, he was moving against the stream of people he used to love. That night he felt only irritation.
All his plans, all his intricately woven schemes, were destroyed by the ridiculously clichéd concept of love and friendship. And not the love he could relate to, that of amusement and curiosity, but the elevated kind of love that meant support, understanding, sympathy, and forgiveness. It was a funny thing. So funny that it made Izaya want to puke.
The last straw was his recent chat with Tsukumoya Shinichi .
He was sitting in a secluded booth in an internet café. His wet coat was hanging on the wall, dripping wet lonely streaks of dirty rainwater. The screen was illuminating his face, accentuating his knitted brows and pursed lips, making his face a mask of pain and sorrow.
CHATROOM
Orihara Izaya, reborn!
[…]
Tsukumoya Shinichi
And once again, defeated by the power of love.
Orihara Izaya
Quit it. I’m paying you for the information, not for your distasteful comments.
Tsukumoya Shinichi
Hah hah! Do you even need to know? It seems that your game is over.
Orihara Izaya
......
Tsukumoya Shinichi
Say, informant, are you lonely?
Orihara Izaya, confirmed dead!
He was strolling along the Ikebukuro streets that turned emptier with each step taken away from the center of the things, of the city’s heart where the life itself was beating.
His head was pulsating with Tsukumoya’s nonchalantly said but selectively chosen word. Lonely. He, who loved all humanity, a detached observer, a witness to people’s flaws and weaknesses. Could he be lonely? Ever before, he would laugh away that preposterous and abhorrent argument. Right now, betrayed by his beloved humanity, left on the sidelines of life, he felt low and powerless. Izaya knew he had to stand up from his knees, dust himself off, laugh at the face of those stupidly in need of friends and family ties, and go on. Come up with a new plan. Start searching for the information. Fire up a conflict. Start a decisive clash between those close to each other and warm himself by the fire of betrayal, deception, and treachery.
It was pointless.
Izaya couldn’t do that anymore.
He was a point on the timeline, while others happened to be additional vectors seizing the future. He was left alone in the past. The sorrow and misery of his lonely childhood were slowly creeping behind, and the bitter taste of rejection and desolation of his youth was clenching his heart in its icy grip.
What was he doing? Where was he going?
The people around him moved forward; it was he who stagnated as a result of his poorly made choices and wrong moves.
A loser. A sinner.
A tingling pain made him shiver with cold.
Izaya never saw a trash can, flying at him. The sudden impact made him fall on his knees, one hand against the ground, the other wiping blood off his temple.
“What have I told you about staying off Ikebukuro, you damn pest?!” growled the beast, and Izaya chuckled bitterly, licking his dry lips.
What a coincidence. Another ghost of the past came to haunt him.
“Ah, Shizu-chan,” he smirked, looking up at the beast. “Aren’t you supposed to have a nice nomikai1 with your boss and that lovely kouhai of yours?”
“Shut up!” the beast spat.
Izaya was still on his knees, dizzy from the recent blow. Taking a ragged breath, he tried to stand up, but his legs gave way underneath him.
It was his downfall; he could see it.
Shizuo was watching him, and as always, Izaya hated to stay under his scrutinizing gaze. The beast could always see right through him. It might be for that reason that their relationship hadn’t worked out. Shizuo must have seen from the very beginning that Izaya wasn’t worth trying for. A treacherous snake, a lousy bastard, a lying worthless piece of shit were only some epithets Shizuo gifted him with. Still, what hurt Izaya the most was the very first thing the beast said about him,
“I don’t like him!”
It was a premonition, a harbinger of eventual doom. They were destined never to be together, and still, they couldn’t prevent it.
It started as a love/hate thing, minus the love part. Just hate sex with occasional staying the night. Izaya never noticed when it turned out to be something they call a ‘relationship’. Sometimes, it was so sickeningly warm and domestic that Izaya couldn’t help detesting it. He needed no one, for he had all the humanity around him to love, observe, and absorb.
Still, it was Shizuo who severed ties.
Izaya smirked. In the long run, it was a good thing to happen. Devoid of any connections, he rose above the fragile dependence of humans on loving and being loved in return.
He needed no such thing, for he was the observer.
Propping himself on the wall, he rose to his feet, his legs shaking. Only then did Shizuo speak.
“You look like shit, and I’ll give you a head start. Run!”
And Izaya ran, his legs burning with strain, his heart thumping in his chest. With all his remaining strength, he ran, and there were tears welling in his eyes, for the cold wind was so strong. No one was following him.
He collapsed in another back alley, just next to a dumpster.
It was it. He had lost.
Izaya never believed either in cults or religion, but he couldn’t help feeling the cold dread as he flicked his blade open. His jacket fell off his shoulders, the fur grazing his skin in the last caress. Propping his back against the cold stone wall, Izaya tilted his head backward and laughed curtly.
Funny, but there was no person to whom he wanted to say his goodbyes. But for one. He was happy he would die with the beast’s face burned on the retina of his eyes. He knew that with the image of that calm face framed by golden hair, death would be kind to him.
He put his arm on his lap, palm upward, and pressed the blade to his wrist. He was good with knives. Two horizontal cuts, just a final joke to humor him, and Izaya chuckled, imagining people find him. They would certainly think he was a pathetic, attention-hungry poser, wanting someone, anyone, to come and save him, but fatally failing.
Izaya laughed mirthfully.
It wasn’t his case, and he pressed the blade just below the crease of his arm. He could feel the metal cutting through his skin. In the dimly lit alley, his blood seemed black.
He closed his eyes and fell into the warm embrace of the darkness.
***
With his eyes closed, he suddenly became aware of the other presence in the room. It was unnerving, and Izaya opened his eyes and turned his head to the left.
The beast was standing beside his bed.
Dressed in his usual attire, he bore an unreadable expression.
“Why am I still your emergency contact?” he asked, and his deep voice made Izaya shiver.
Because they used to be close. Because it was the last thing that connected them. It felt like a point of no return to change it. Moreover, there was no emergency expected. It should have been the end.
Izaya turned away and closed his eyes.
1. Traditional social drinking among colleagues.