Yet another one-shot, because I can't stop myself. Sad. I'm hoping that my obsession will wait so that I can finish my other fics...
Slight warning of horror elements.
As Red As...
The sun is rising.
Ikebukuro is waking up.
Shinjuku is already up, but not because it wants to be.
Izaya is scared.
Notice that the adjective of choice is scared, not frightened or wary or cautious, which are all fine words but much too sophisticated for his current state of mind.
Also notice that Izaya's not offended at all by this observation. He knows - oh, he knows - the feeling of breathless, appalling, and childish fear. It's a lot more familiar to him than people would think. And no wonder, because fear is the bedrock of his personality, and being the bedrock, it's also the one thing he loves to cause in other people.
He's not scared of being scared. It is what it is, a primitive instinct of fight or flight that's simply too fascinating to reject.
Well, he's not scared of being scared, but he is scared, and he is burning.
It hurts like a bitch to burn. He hates it not because he hates pain, but because it's distracting him from his current purpose. Today was supposed to be a slow day, for crying out loud. Sometimes, even informants wake up not wanting to do anything, and Izaya happens to enjoy laziness as much as he enjoys activity. Much to the surprise of the rest of Ikebukuro, but there it is. And here he is.
And there's a fire. His eyes feel strangely cold and he's searching for an empty jar and the fumes are messing with his neurotransmitters and his left hand hurts and he needs to get out. His fur coat is ruined and charred black, but he doesn't really care. Coats are replaceable. Dullahans are not.
Celty's head is very pretty, almost as pretty as the bright flames licking his elbow. He slides it into the glass jar and promptly jumps out of the window.
The air outside is much colder than the temperature inside, but he doesn't notice as much as he should, too busy trying to maneuver around the balcony of his makeshift office.
Although Izaya manages to catch himself from falling twice in a row on the same jump, he begins to wonder if something in his head has been seriously affected by the smoke. It's quite a sobering thought, so he tucks his calves between the rails and stays there. Cold and soothing, hot and painful. He keeps his wits long enough to shed the fur coat and wrap it around the glass jar. The sky is bright blue, and getting brighter all the time. He smiles at the people bustling underneath his window. The street is full of flashing red lights.
He jumps.
And then...?
When Izaya finally comes to his senses, he finds himself in a white room with gray curtains. His first reaction is to check his hands - one burned red, the other as pale as ever - but what worries him is the fact that they're empty.
The glass jar is on the dresser. He breathes a sigh of relief.
I'm home, says Izaya to an empty house, incredibly puzzled as to how he got there in the first place. Perhaps it was divine intervention.
Or instinct. Personally, he puts more faith in the latter. Dreamily, with his right hand tugging at the collar, Izaya pulls his shirt off. It struggles against his efforts, scratching and tearing and biting. Oh, no, wait. That's just the wounds. Eventually, he gives up and goes straight into the shower with his clothes on. The torrent of water rushes over his head, flattening his black hair and battering his shirt. By the time the sprays of liquid make it to the drain, everything is pink.
Undaunted by the horribly feminine color staining his bathroom tiles, he starts peeling away the shirt and exposing the burns. Not a good idea, usually, but he's always been a fast healer and there's always Shinra if something goes wrong.
Halfway through, Izaya starts wondering if he should call, but he eventually discards the idea because Shinra isn't the type to worry unless it's an absolute emergency. Fires happen all the time, even if this particular one burned Izaya's office down. Oh, wait. There's something wrong with that statement.
Maybe he should call.
So he does.
Hello, he says.
Izaya-kun, says Shinra, sounding as breathless as a beached whale. Are you okay?
For his part, Izaya immediately understands that the fire must have been on the news. He start to reassure his friend with a calm explanation of how he got out.
Shinra does not sound very reassured.
Take two.
Shinra still does not sound very reassured.
Since his attempts to make Shinra feel better via conversation are not effective, Izaya tries for the next best thing. In hindsight, it may not have been such a good idea to send pictures of second degree burns to a doctor. Especially if said doctor has access to a Dullahan who is perfectly capable of dragging an unwilling patient to the emergency room, and let's not forget that this is the same Dullahan that Izaya is partially holding hostage.
Izaya, however, is only too happy to play the chasing game. Instead of waiting for his deliverer, he simply goes for a walk. Yes, a walk: in search of one man and one man only. He's looking for his arsonist.
His arsonist, and no one else's. Possessive of his enemies, that's the way he's always been. Izaya is searching for a doomed man.
His first stop is the drugstore, where he purchases a few props.
The doomed man's name is Hachiro Akira, and he was arrested twenty minutes ago. Not a problem at all for Izaya, who heads for the prison and posts the bail. To this day, he has no idea how much he paid. He still doesn't care.
Hachiro Akira, age thirty six, self-proclaimed pyromaniac, chain-smoker.
Izaya already likes this guy, enough to take him home. Hachiro Akira lives in a nondescript building on the outskirts of Ikebukuro, which delights Izaya for some unknown reason. That city is a wonderful place to be, it really is. They walk up the steps together. Hachiro Akira blinks nervously and glances at him. Izaya smiles back. The other man looks away rapidly, trembling.
Belatedly, Izaya realizes that he hasn't wrapped up his burns yet. No wonder his arsonist is so nervous. He smiles again and apologizes.
Hachiro Akira stutters out a farewell.
Izaya does the same. Then he shakes the man's hand and holds a rag over his mouth.
Two minutes of struggling and twenty more of restless unconsciousness pass. Izaya is sitting on the side of the road, smiling down at a deep, round hole. There are no cars on this road, but Izaya doesn't really remember why. Something about an explosion that happened two years ago. The sewer underneath was also disconnected at about the same time, leaving a manhole that goes nowhere. Now, there's a new use for it. Now, there's a man inside.
You're so lucky, Izaya tells the guest of honor.
Please don't, begs Hachiro Akira after he comes to his senses, I never meant to hurt anyone.
Five minutes pass. Izaya taps his foot impatiently, waiting for the perfect moment. Akira-san is seized by a coughing fit, falling headlong into the black slush around his ankle. For shame, mister arsonist. You should have picked a better victim...and what's worse, you never meant to do it. It was an accident. And that just pisses Izaya off. He hates falling victim to accidents. Conspiracies are so much better.
If you're going to burn my office up, he says, it's not enough to have an excuse like it was an accident. I could have forgiven you if the fire had done something meaningful. If only, if only. It's very sad, Izaya says. Just a little more neuron-firing, and it would have all been perfectly and totally and…
Don't kill me, pleads the man.
Well. Well. Well. What a useless thing to ask for. Izaya's not going to kill him, after all. He takes out the newly purchased lighter and a box of cigarettes. The smell of burning nicotine drips down the manhole and the man starts pleading again.
Enjoy, grins Izaya. Then he drops the cigarette – and the lighter – back into the darkness. They whistle quietly in the air before hitting the ground. The lighter clicks and a tiny flame burns in the middle of the round underground tunnel.
Hachiro Akira. Chain-smoker…
Well, he's bound to enjoy a free cigarette. Izaya pulls the manhole cover back on and seals it tightly with two teaspoons of black tar, just like the recipe calls for.
It's six o'clock exactly, and Izaya is horrified. If he doesn't hurry, he's going to be late.
The sunset waits for nobody, after all.
Ikebukuro, Ikebukuro...
It's six o'clock, and his burns are healing.