Written for a prompt, just being "Kill". Whitney chose for Kida to kill Izaya, and. Yeah. I wrote about it in the only way I really knew how.
The songs used to write this were all my Lovers & Liars, "Nothing Left Here to Burn", "Buried Alive", and "Holding On to Nothing". Those are basically my Kida theme songs.
THIS IS A BAD FIC TO GIVE FOR A BIRTHDAY, BUT. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WHITNEY. 8)
while you keep fading
Your name is Kida Masaomi, and you have never wanted to hurt someone as much as you want to hurt Izaya Orihara. You have dreams where you make him suffer and run into the sunset with Saki, bringing her with you more out of guilt than love. Dreams where you can toss them both away and finally be free, be happy, somewhere far away. And you have nightmares of what could happen if you don't do anything at all. You've never wanted to kill anyone before. You've never wanted to kill anyone so badly, either.
And he underestimates you. He underestimates you when he tilts his head back in your company and laughs, his neck exposed and adam's apple bobbing. You feel your hands open and your fingers become razors. You have never wanted to hurt someone as bad as you've wanted to hurt him—he took everything from you and sits behind his safe glass walls, just outside of ground zero, with his red eyes and burning chess sets. You see the scalded board on his coffee table, between the two of you, and it's the only thing keeping your nails from digging into his neck and ripping out his veins, his vocal chords, his tongue.
You are grown now. You're older. (You are you are you are; even though you aren't, not at all.) You're better than—him. Than him and his stupid words, his lying and his cheating and his excuses, the way he dips out of anything once it gets too close to direct involvement, even though he's always directly involved, somehow, you know it.
Months, years, go by, and it sounds silly, because, hey, what's a couple years? In the grand scheme of things, it's nothing at all. But, god, but it feels like a long time. You feel weariness in your bones and just want to lie down where you stand sometimes, sleep for a week, wake up and pretend he doesn't exist. Sometimes, you're so tired, you want to cry, and when you hear his voice, it's like being bitten by ants, all up your body.
When Izaya Orihara finally dies, it's your fault. It's a terrible accident—that's what everyone says. An accident, even though it's your fault. You did it. You're not even quite sure how. You remember him taunting you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pretending to be your friend, and you—what did you do? You pushed him. You pushed him, and then there was oncoming traffic. Faster than he could respond. Faster than you could register and you hear the disgusting cracking noises like crinkling paper. Tires screeching, people shrieking. You stand and slowly turn your head and see—his broken body on the asphalt. The truck driver leaps out of the front cab and is on the phone with the police, and you—fall to your knees. Your legs give out and you fall over and catch yourself before your face hits the ground, painful, and you vomit the sparse contents of your stomach.
You said you wanted him dead but seeing him now, his face scraped, his limbs broken, blood seeping from his lips, and his eyes open, staring, looking at nothing—you wanted him dead, you did, but you still feel like you've had your guts ripped out and you're gasping, gasping, choking and heaving for air. You hate him. You hated him, but—god, it shouldn't have been like this. Not this kind of accident. And it's worse because you should be celebrating. You hear the sirens and you feel like blacking out. There are people asking if you're alright, you think, and your head is spinning and your mouth tastes disgusting and your eyelashes are damp, and someone's hand is on your back, rubbing circles. The ambulance is here, the police, and they take him away, question the truck driver, and you push yourself up and stagger away before they can talk to you. No one follows.
It was a mistake. You have nightmares that night, twisting and bloody, and in the morning you go to the hospital and ask—is Izaya Orihara here? He was hit by a truck yesterday afternoon, and I—and the nurse at the reception desk exhales softly, looks sad, and says, he's in the ICU. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you're not sure how you feel about that.
(Is he alive? you ask, hardly breathing, and she says, Barely. He's on life support.
Has he woken up— she cuts you off, placing a hand over yours, comfortingly, sadly, We don't think he will.
God, you just don't know how to feel.)
A week later, they let you in to see him. He's tiny against the hospital bed, smaller than you. You look at him and then at the heart monitor and think he might as well be dead. He's a vegetable. He's bruised and destroyed and—you wonder, did he feel it? Did it—does it—hurt? You clench your teeth. It's silent and eerie and you leave before your time is up. Two months later and they pull the plug. You're still not sure how you're supposed to feel.
Your name is Kida Masaomi and you killed Orihara Izaya. You pushed him in front of a truck and you watched him fade away in the ICU. You have insomnia and anxiety attacks and nightmares on the rare nights you do sleep. Saki never tries to find you. His sisters don't look for you. No one says anything, even though you are a murderer and you killed him. Apparently you're the only one that blames you for it.