He hangs off the edge of the world.
"So," a familiar voice begins mockingly. Proud, almost.
"What do we have here?"
In the moments before Shizuo responds, he could swear he felt the deafening silence wrap its claws around his neck and relieve him of his humiliation. He opens his eyes.
"Izaya."
It sounds like a curse coming out of his mouth. But this time, there's no lingering bite, no sharp edges. There is only stillness, a calm acceptance of all he'd never been able to accept before. He's reminded that he never once spoke Izaya's name without screaming, raw and angry and determined.
He decides he's long given up.
Izaya stands above him, disturbed. He watches as Shizuo struggles against some irretrievable memory of now, of an unreachable sliver of himself, of the days when he would charge up the streets with blood in his mouth and Izaya on his mind. He watches, disappointed.
"Shizuo."
No longer Shizu-chan. Shizuo doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
And that was the crux of it. Many a time they found themselves in a situation like this—wrapped up in a web of their own creation, unaware of the passing world around them, caught up in each other's presence. But this time, there is nothing holding them together. No promise of pain; no spark of indignant fury.
Shizuo was probably the first to realize it. For an informant, Izaya was rather slow in adapting to the changing landscapes of the events in his own life.
It started off slowly, like the first drop of rain on a warm summer day. The clouds gather, and he thinks, there's no way it could pour. It was the middle of August when Izaya approached the blonde man in sunglasses and thought, I could fuck with him a while longer.
The man dressed in all black turns, a shallow glance, and whispers, "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Izaya smirks, gathering himself together for the chase. But it doesn't happen.
The clouds gather and bodies move off the road, looking for shelter because they know. But the stealthy informant and the honest bartender stay where they are. A shadow lingers between them, some cacophony of the past intertwining with their present selves. It fills them with lead, makes them heavier than the entire weight of the world. They stay where they are.
"I heard about your brother. A shame, really. With a face like that, he could've made it big."
There's no hiding the malice behind Izaya's carelessly threaded words. He expects Shizuo to come after him in a blind rage. He wants him to pin him down, to carve his anger on his body.
But it doesn't happen.
Instead, Shizuo stands there, empty, and lets the rain fill his clothes, until there is no part of him left untouched by its persistent attack, no part of their conversation left unscathed by its deafening roar.
"Leave."
He is tired. Izaya is taken aback.
They stand there, saying nothing, meaning everything, acquiescing in the cleansing spirit of the rain. Izaya turns, and for the first time in his life, quietly leaves. Shizuo doesn't watch him go.
Since then, their former routine ceased to exist. It was tried, and Izaya found it to be untrue.
Shizuo hangs off the edge of the world and Izaya watches. He's got a death wish, he thinks.
Irrationally, rationally, he reaches out and takes Shizuo's hand.
"Don't—" Shizuo begins, but thinks better of it, shakes his head slightly and closes his eyes. Maybe, he thinks.
But he never lets himself get any farther. He'd linger in the time before the rain, and after a few moments of fervently trying to capture it, he'd set it aside. Try to put it away. Try not to ask himself questions that he already knows the answer to. Try to stay in that space between what he did and didn't do, all that he chose not to say and all that he managed to choke out. Force himself to close the book.
He knew, and still knows, that the rain had washed away all that was left of them. And that's okay. That's okay, okay, okay. He repeats it until it becomes true, until the words die out inside of him, until there is nothing left but silence and echoes and light.
This will be the last time, he tells himself.
But he says that every time.
Izaya watches Shizuo's quiet surrender. It takes all his strength not to cry out. He wants to reach out, wants to hold him, wants to crush his bones under his weight and rebuild him from the ashes.
Shizuo regards him fiercely as Izaya breathes out, shakily. Scared, even.
"One last ride, huh?"
He smirks and his tears are warm drops of rain on Shizuo's face. How bizarre, Shizuo thinks. If Izaya could hear him, he'd agree.
"Yeah. See you in hell."
And with that, Shizuo lets go.
Izaya watches him fall.
a/n: because a friend made me rewatch Durarara! and I don't know how I feel about its sequels.