Title: an ache that echoes
Fandom: Durarara!
Rating: G
Characters: Izaya, Shiki (kind of)
Note: Originally written for a prompt at the fandom kink meme. (This fic has been edited/proofed since its' the initial posting on the meme.)
Summary: This is the moment that his life begins to turn to hell, and he won't let it happen again.
He's aware that this must be some form of narcissism, doing what is essentially babysitting his younger self (but considering how independent the both of them are, he's sure that any form of affection for Izaya is coddling). It's a pity he can't use his old connections to keep an eye on Orihara Izaya however, living in this particular year meant half of these said connections haven't even set foot in metropolitan Japan yet, let alone into Ikebukuro.
Then again, he was lucky to even find a similar enough person to kill and masquerade as for these last ten years. Perhaps he should thank the gods for providing whoever this "Shiki" person was, but then, he was never someone to believe in gods.
If gods existed, then his whole family wouldn't be six foot under. If they really existed, his left hand wouldn't be the way it is now either.
It's reasoning like this that gets him through the next few minutes as Orihara Izaya prepares their dinner and drinks. He eyes his watch and it's three minutes to seven o'clock. He puts the newspaper down that he was reading, checks that his left glove is still on and then hangs his coat over one arm.
Izaya babbles on about work as usual while he sets up the dining table with cutlery and placemats, and Shiki manages to tune him out as he begins to do a mental countdown.
"Grab the tea last," he tells Izaya, who waves it off and laughs.
"But of course! Tea should always be prepared last so it stays hot the entire meal~"
Izaya places the dishes on the table: they're having chicken curry tonight. It's funny how some things don't change between age and universe, and comfort food was definitely one of those things. But he does hope that the Izaya of this time managed to learn the variation of the recipe his (their) mother had made. While his own culinary skills weren't (and aren't) bad, he misses the taste of home.
"Shiki-san, can you get the wine glasses out for me?" Izaya asks him, and adds, "I'd like to be out of the kitchen before seven, hahaha~"
He just nods and cautiously follows his younger self into the kitchen, carrying his coat with him. He takes a quick look around this sparse, tidy kitchen and then sees (an echo of that damn silver kettle before seeing) an old silver kettle. Before he can grab it, Izaya beats him to the punch holding the teapot.
There is no time to waste explaining things.
"Watch out!" he says as he pulls Izaya back from the kitchen, prying the kettle out of the informant's fingers and throwing his heavy coat over the kettle as he quickly pushes the two items into the sink. He then grabs Izaya and forces them both back, down behind the other side of the counter and in
three, two, one
seconds there is an explosion behind them. He waits a few seconds before checking his watch again, and it's now exactly seven-oh-one. This is the moment that his life begins (and once upon a time, had begun) to turn to hell, and he will not let it happen again.
Izaya looks up toward him in surprise, but grins. "Thanks, Shiki-san. I sure am lucky~ sounds like it would've hurt!"
He pauses, hesitating on his choice to reveal himself, for a moment before sliding the glove on his left hand off and revealing fingers and palm that is grotesque in form; welts of old, melted skin and stitches running heavy lines down his hand and wrist which then disappear under his sleeve. It is clear that these injuries were caused by a caustic liquid explosion. His hand pulses and aches from a memory of an event that only happened a single moment (and exactly twenty years) ago.
"It did."