Author's Note: I recently finished the series and figured I might try my hand at writing a one-shot character analysis of Shizuo.
I do not own Durarara! nor any of the Anime's Affiliates.
He's careful in removing a cigarette, plying the stick from its carton before placing it in the corner of his mouth; it jostles between his lips for a moment before settling. Lifting a lighter, Shizuo ignites the tip and inhales deep; grey ash replaces paper; miniature grey moths dance to the pavement below.
From where he stands on one of the city's myriad street corners, Shizuo smokes. Neither the taste nor image is appealing to him. Strange as it is to admit, he's addicted. Such weakness is rarely if ever associated with him, but with each cigarette it's evermore self-evident. His mind wanders as he shifts his weight, anticipating action.
It's a slow night in Ikebukuro.
He begins to walk in no particular direction, following his feet as they take him past streetlight after streetlight. Past Russia Sushi and its charismatic giant of an owner. Past the largely abandoned park. He slinks along, head down, shoulders hunched; blue glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, slipping an inch before he rights them.
Steady steam rises from vents and vanishes.
A familiar knicker sounds in the distance, and before long he feels her presence beside him. Celty Sturluson, in the undead/partially-alive/quizzically animated flesh. She rolls along on her horse-turned-motorcycle, keeping pace.
"Not the only one with time to kill, I see," Shizuo mutters, still walking.
Tap t-tap tap.
[Is that a bad thing?]
He's unsure how to reply to her unconventional response. Small talk he can begrudgingly manage, but the abstract he tries his damnedest to avoid. Shizuo furrows his brow.
"You shouldn't text and drive," he advises. It's a passing sentiment, something of a joke if he were in any way prone to making them. Celty drums at the device in her hand before rotating it to face him.
[Hah.]
She replaces her single word answer with a sentence shortly afterwards.
[Is there something on your mind? You're out after curfew.]
He stops the playful, nigh-flirtatious tone of the conversation in its tracks before it has a chance to brighten his mood. Wouldn't want that.
"Nothing at all, today bored me half to death. The night looks just as unpromising," he says, then takes a final drag from his cigarette. Shizuo holds the smoke in his punished lungs and cranes his neck, releasing the white vapor upwards as if to imitate a certain Dullahan.
[Is my company really so tortuous?]
He reads her message from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the street ahead. Of course her company isn't tortuous. She's never lit his short fuse, never tested his limited patience. Celty has, all in all, been somewhat of a friend to him. So he answers thus:
"Only when you're droning on about Shinra."
Classic deflection. The rapidness of her fingers shows that his comment pushed her buttons.
[I've never talked about him with you!]
"Once or twice."
[Once at most!]
"Fair enough," Shizuo concedes, reaching for the carton in his pocket. He stops - decides against it. "Where's Doc at tonight, anyway?"
[Out on a job.]
"You're not worried, are you?" He asks, surprising himself with unfeigned concern. Celty shakes her helmet 'no.'
[He can handle himself.]
"Sure," he replies, his tone ambiguous. Shinra is a capable man with numerous skills, and he can surely negotiate his way out of a bind if need be. If this wasn't the case, Shizuo might find Celty's calm air offensive, considering their relationship.
[Have you eaten dinner yet?]
Several passing Yellow Scarves give the duo a wide berth.
"I haven't had anything since lunch a couple hours ago. To be honest I was planning on rounding back and hitting Russia Sushi," he states before adding, "Have something in mind?"
Celty brakes and like a dog told to heel, Shizuo stops as well.
Back at Celty's shared apartment, Shizuo loosens his starched bowtie; the cuffs of his dress shirt unfasten under his ministrations. He's seated at a table, back turned towards the hostess; she busies herself by throwing together something resembling supper. Collard greens, white rice, fish...
The zipper on her shadowy catsuit is drawn low enough to tease a hint of cleavage. Shizuo briefly imagines her wearing something more casual. A sundress perhaps, maybe jeans and a hoodie. He reclines, balancing on the back legs of the chair beneath him.
The domesticated life confuses him. It's been so long since he's tasted it. And as if on cue a plate is set between his fidgeting hands. He glances down, grimaces inwardly, and accepts the chopsticks offered to him. Celty approaches the opposite end of the table.
"Thanks, it looks great." It's an unconvincing lie he puts very little effort into.
After situating herself, Celty types a response:
[Your welcome! Enjoy.]
Shizuo feels slightly guilty and unappreciative, mumbling out a "Really, thanks," before raising a conspicuously colored piece of cod to his mouth. He chews, swallows, forgives the lack of drink. At moments like this, Shizuo fights an inner battle. He refuses to let his armor slip, not because he's 'scared of getting hurt' or is 'tender and misunderstood' but for another reason entirely. The armor: there's nothing behind it. He's an unbreakable safe that's empty. A carnival game with no prize - test your strength.
Most of his substance is born from fables, false tellings and skewed retellings that cast him as a hero. An anti-hero. He associates himself with neither of these things. But if the mystery is gone, then what? Then he's left eating shitty fish in a "friend's" apartment out of pity.
A charming thought to dwell on.
[Do you like it?]
"It's edible, if that's what you mean," he deadpans, proceeding to the less offensive rice. Despite its tribute, his stomach is thankful. Shizuo breaks the stiff atmosphere with a perfectly mundane inquiry. "How's the search for your head coming along? Must be tough to juggle that with the jobs you get."
[It's been pretty unfruitful. I know it's somewere in the city though, I can sense it.]
He nods, neglecting to mention her typo in 'somwere.' Japanese isn't her first language after all. Hunching her shoulders, she expurgates her mistake, having noticed it on her own.
[I know it's somewhere in the city though, I can sense it.]
Shizuo finishes his meal and places his utensils side by side on the cleaned dish. A period of comfortable silence comes next as he balances his chin on his hand, and his elbow on the table.
"So," he begins casually, "What kind of music do you enjoy listening to?"
Celty pauses-
...
-then answers.
Reviews are always appreciated, I hope you enjoyed it. :)