Aromatic and exotic coffee beans floated in the forms of thin, steamy tendrils, coaxing many into drinking the intoxicating sip of caffeine while baked goods accompanied its sinful lure. The small chatter of humans and clinks of spoons against cups and plates filled the roomy café, and the jazz music set a calm atmosphere that many people loved to enjoy, be it morning, afternoon or evening. This was the perfect atmosphere to sit down and just observe, intake, and watch his lovely humans.
With papers scattered about him in an 'organised' mess, Orihara Izaya sat with his rectangular framed glasses perched on his nose, a finger curled around the handle of a short black that kept his mind stimulated while he concentrated on the screen of his laptop. The calming music around him did nothing to ease his agitated nerves, though the amazing espresso shot might have soothed him a little bit. A half eaten lemon tart was pushed to the corner of the table, and the echoing voice of his daunting editor simply echoed in his head, which was what inspired his unstoppable 14-hour writer's block.
Frowning, his brow furrowed and his lips twitched downwards, a look that was rare upon Izaya's face, but still existent.
"What is this?"
"Dear Namie, it's another one of my fantastic works of course!" an arrogant Orihara had said smugly, fingers laced together across his stomach as he leaned comfortably in a leather chair that most people would not have been able to afford as easily as he.
"It's rubbish," the woman scoffed, throwing it back down onto the desk that separated the man from woman. Current man blinked owlishly, unused to hearing her say something condescending or 'rubbish' about his work. Sure, there were begrudging 'it's alright's or 'it's okay', but never rubbish.
"Excuse me?" he asked, disbelieving. Finally having found something to irk the pompous ass of a writer Yagiri Namie crossed her arms with a smirk and leaned against his desk haughtily.
"You heard me. It's crap."
Ujnhnyujyhujnh-
Words of gibberish littered his 'rubbish' work as Orihara Izaya head butted his keyboard several times over, cursing himself to be so weak at such a crucial time. At the top of his prime, well known for his sickening yet suspenseful novels, he was holding a name in the top author's list, his first books becoming best sellers in a matter of no time. Deaths, torture, homicide and detectives was his fort, but at his prime, in his rising fame, he wanted to try something new, something different, something-
"Rubbish."
And apparently something rubbish.
Watching his fascinating humans from day to day was a great hobby, an inspiration in which he could observe different perspectives, reactions and personalities, and form one charming, exclusive character that screamed 'I was made from Orihara Izaya's hands'. However, this time he was shot down by his editor, sniper style.
"What do you mean, it's rubbish?" Izaya hissed, unused to being criticized so bluntly. Namie pinched the bridge of her nose, knowing that this 'you're actually not better than everyone in the world' talk would not be easy to drag Izaya down from his pedestal.
"Izaya, crime was your fort, what made you go to this genre that is totally alien for you?" Scoffing as though she had asked 'do you know what 2 + 2 is,' Izaya twirled his chair halfway around away from her.
"My silly humans have all fallen at least once for this disgusting trap that lures them in, lulls them into a dull sense of security, fools every single one of them, and yet in the end, they crash and burn. I find that most interesting, my dear Namie, and I was planning to incorporate that into my recent book which you just called rubbish!" Spinning back around, Izaya glared at his editor angrily. He would have none of those wishy washy publishers publish his works of God, no, he would only have the best. Nor would Namie work with wishy washy authors, she would only work for talent. But the two at the moment seemed to be clashing and conflicting quite harshly as Namie sighed.
"Izaya… you've never fallen in love before have you…"
"If you mean I've never formed a disgusting incest love for my younger siblings, then yes," Izaya grinned, exploiting his editor's little secret fetish. Bristling at this, Namie took a defensive stance.
"You wouldn't understand, no, you don't understand, which is why you can't incorporate love into your books!" Namie snapped at him.
"But Namie! This emotion is the worst of them all! It leaves you with pain physically, emotionally and mentally, it eats you from the inside out, it destroys you, all of which I think I am quite good at writing! What's wrong with my interpretation of this stupid word love?" Leaning close, Namie bared her teeth.
"See, that's the exact problem here Izaya. Your interpretation of love is love as a word."
"But I just told you all its effects and-"
"That's all you see. That's all you know, because that's probably the closest you've ever been to love, which is miles away. You don't know love, and you can't write about it!"
"I've assisted suicides, I've ruined some people's lives, I've watched humans struggle without helping them, I haven't murdered anyone, and yet my crime novels have reached the top best selling charts. If I haven't murdered anyone, how can I write about it-"
"You've read enough research, you've slaved away for hours in libraries all over Tokyo, you've watched it, you've heard it, it's everywhere-"
"So is love-!"
"But you've barely gone near love. It's foreign territory to you; it's something that apparently, just doesn't exist to you, but to other humans. You only observe humans that are suffering, and because of that, your character, who is in love, is just fake. It's disgusting, it's useless, it's wrong, and it's rubbish." Steaming from practically telling a child that 'people can't fly', Namie straightened herself, grabbed her jacket off the top of Izaya's luxurious couch, and left for the front door. And just before she slammed the door behind herself to leave the infuriatingly frustrating and inexperienced 'child'-
"Just improve your writing, or don't write about love at all."
Which led to Izaya sitting in his position now, head banging his keyboard until some brilliant idea bounced out of nowhere. Which of course usually came naturally as the sadistic man was talented like that, but unfortunately, not this time.
But of course I know love! How dare she say I don't know what love is, I love all my worthless humans! Fuming quietly in his own comfortable seat in the charming café that had a small antique, French feel to it, he attracted the attention of a few passing baristas and workers. The sound of rustling gained his attention when someone sat on the seat opposite to him, breaking his furrowed concentration.
"Writer's block?" a deep voice chuckled.
Izaya grunted and collapsed onto the side of his laptop. Kadota Kyouhei laughed at his middle school buddy and lightly clapped him on the shoulder, dressed in a loosely buttoned white collar shirt, black slacks with a lengthy black apron covering from above his belt downwards.
"Come on, what happened. This rarely ever-"
"Never," Izaya grouched.
"Okay, never happens to you. What's up?"
"Dotachin, what's love?" Izaya asked quickly, snapping back up into a sitting position. Blinking at the sudden question, Kyouhei laughed. Irritated and seething, Izaya glared at his long time friend. "I'm being serious, please don't laugh at me." The words sounded kind and slightly agitated, but Kyouhei knew Izaya was probably fingering his flick blade right now. Settling himself down to chuckles, Kyouhei just smiled and ruffled Izaya's hair.
"You're not ready to write about that stuff yet-"
"Why does everybody say that?" Izaya huffed, throwing his hands into the air disbelievingly. "I'm a 21 year old grown man, I've watched everyone fall out of love, and using this in my next crime novel would make the ultimate badass psychotic killer! Luring humans into a false belief of love, and then breaking them right before their eyes before killing them, I have it all planned out, a fantastic psychopath! But-!"
"Listen to yourself Izaya," Kyouhei said calmly. "You watched everyone fall out of love? That doesn't sound like love to me, that sounds like heartbreak-"
"It is-"
"But that's probably just it. You've gone through your parents divorcing each other, you watch humans suffer as a hobby, and this is exactly why you can't write about your victims falling in love. All good writers need to know their stuff, to drag their readers in, as if they too, are the victims. But if you've never seen love, how can you write about it?" Scoffing, Izaya pouted angrily, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
"If humans have never seen God, how can they have so much faith in him?" Izaya said scathingly in his atheist point of view.
"Some humans have visions," Kyouhei replied calmly.
"Well I have had visions of love, I bet I could write a bible on it."
"You need to have faith in it first."
"Faith in love? Or faith in God. Why should I have faith in something I can't see?" Izaya argued exasperatedly. Kyouhei just smiled at him, feeling affectionately a little sorry for the boy he's looked after for 8 years. He reached over to ruffle his hair again, to which Izaya slapped his hand away.
"This is exactly why. You're too blind and naïve-"
"I'm sorry, has God been sitting next to us this whole time? I didn't see him," Izaya voiced with heavy sarcasm.
"Faith is believing in what you can't see."
"That's just stupid," Izaya hissed. "Why would I stoop down to such a human level and believe in what I can't see." Kyouhei shrugged.
"Some people, once you have faith enough, begin to start seeing things they couldn't see before."
Izaya silenced himself, pursing his lips and glaring at Kyouhei, signaling he was done-too stubborn- talking. Kyouhei stood up, chuckling.
"You're just not ready. Keep that psychopath in mind, and when you can write about love, bring him back out and become a millionaire. For now, just stick with psychotically crazy killers, you're good at that aren't you?" Rolling his eyes and muttering a distinct 'I'm good at everything,' Kyouhei left him alone to brood. Sliding his plate of half eaten lemon tart towards himself, he unwillingly forced forkful after forkful into his mouth and then let the fork clatter onto the plate. Chewing as though he was a child forced to eat his broccoli, Izaya continued watching his humans, sitting for the past 4 hours to see if he could observe love from any wandering couples.
He just didn't understand, what was wrong with his interpretation and writings of love? He watched couples snuggle together, feed each other cake, share the same mugs it was all the same! What was wrong with what he wrote and what he saw? What was he possibly lacking-
The ring of a bell signified a customer entering the small café, which grabbed Izaya's attention immediately. Possibly a new couple which could give him a new insight? A couple that 'knew' what love was? However, the new customer was none of those, and Izaya did a double take. Dressed in a navy blue button up rolled up to his elbows, a white singlet that hid underneath defined his toned body, while black slacks confining long, model-like legs. Eyes the colour of pure honey gazed around the room quickly before settling on Kyouhei, messy sandy coloured locks gracing his beautifully handsome face.
A model? Izaya inquired day dreamily before snapping out of his trance quite embarrassingly. What the hell was that, I've seen good looking people before. Hell, I own a mirror! Izaya thought haughtily before holding a cautious face and turning to look at the man once again. The blonde spoke with Kyouhei briefly before nodding and scratching the back of his head awkwardly, and bowing slightly. Kyouhei laughed and clapped his back, showing him forward towards the counter. Oh, Izaya thought curiously. A new worker! This should be interesting. Having come to the café years ago when it first opened, Izaya knew all the workers quite comfortably and attaining a new employee was quite rare.
Sighing, Izaya knew he was wasting time, procrastinating his life away as his new novel begged to be written. Grabbing his signature fur lined jacket off the back of his plush chair, he quickly waved to Erika and Walker who stood at the front counter, and made brief eye contact with the new employee. Ringing, the door bell signified his leave and Izaya sighed once again, drawing his jacket tighter around his skinny form. Winter was coming soon, and his new novel was supposed to be in its climax right now, but no, his work was rubbish. Snorting, he blended into the late night crowds of Ikebukuro and sought for the underground subway to head back home to Shinjuku, in his toasty loft with high-end furniture he could sink into.
Just you watch Namie, Dotachin. Everybody. I'll find out what the stupid deal about love is, and once I do, I'll break it down until it shatters to pieces, Izaya vowed in his mind.
And then when I do, everything will fall under my control again.
Just you watch.
This is my second DRRR! fanfic, seeing as I seem to have formed a deep affection for it, this idea came to me while I was being educated about the struggles of Germany post-world war I. :/
Hope you enjoyed the first installment, I enjoyed writing it actually :) I'll try to update weekly for both my stories but until then~
Reviews and Criticisms appreciated!