That Stupid Dream

A Durarara One-Shot

It was an average evening in the office of Izaya Orihara. His desk was stacked with papers, his laptop multitasking with a skill that should have already sent it roasting in flames. The muted hum of the city overtaking the colossal windows behind him kept a smile on his face. All of those people, all of those mysteries…...he hadn't even begun to scratch the surface. He knew virtually nothing, and it excited him at times like this. Izaya was a child with a terribly sweet tooth, and Tokyo was indeed his endless supply of colorful candy.

"Stop it," Namie murmured when he began to chuckle softly. She'd stand for most of his antics, but the poor woman could only take so much. She was convinced that he was a sociopath of some sort already, and she honestly didn't want to have to deal with that fact, too. Reminders were flicked away one way or another. Ignoring him would usually do.

Izaya took a moment to smile at his employee before his gaze returned to the crisp, white papers in his hand. She caught it, but once again ignored it. If anything made her more uncomfortable than Izaya's twisted habits, it was his flattering and almost flirtatious mannerisms towards her. Most of the time he rambled on about his plans and motives- and Namie listened, as they were interesting, if strange- but there were times when he might compliment her unnecessarily, or tease her, or even casually touch her in a way that was too informal for her liking (such as slipping his fingers against the ends of her hair, taking her arm, elbow, or hand to lead her somewhere, and letting his fingertips linger on hers just a moment too long when she handed him his coffee). Knowing him, he was searching for a reaction, but Namie had conjured a theory that Izaya genuinely liked being pleasant. It worked to his advantage, of course, but he may have found a piece of happiness- or something like it- in giving affection. A small gift to individuals, if you will. She speculated that maybe, while he didn't love people as individuals, he still appreciated their diversity and uniqueness. He showed this appreciation in genuine compliments and touches of affection that might have been confused with flirting, had Namie not known any better. However, understanding it didn't make Namie feel any more settled when he did so.

"You know, Namie-san," he began, interrupting her thoughts, "you sure spend quite a lot of time studying me. Am I that much of an enigma to you?"

Namie, while slightly flustered, wouldn't let him tease her any further. "Frankly, yes," she answered smoothly. "I believe you're an enigma to anyone that knows you."

Izaya gave a familiar grin. Namie had given a slightly surprising, if still somewhat predictable, answer. She'd instigated something in Izaya' s mind, and he was about to share more with her.

"Let me tell you a little bit about Shizu-chan, then." Izaya said the man's name with an unforgivingly malicious edge to his voice. "Why I hate him so much. Will that help ease your confusion?"

Namie shrugged, just a little bit intrigued. "Seeing as you hate him so much, I suppose so. People normally hate others with such a passion because they're either too alike or too different to understand one another, after all."

Izaya smirked. "That adds up," he confirmed. "But I won't tell you about him directly. I'll tell you about a dream I had around a year ago that disturbed me."

"How will this tell me about why you hate him?" she asked monotonously.

Izaya shrugged. "Just listen," he said. Namie did.

Izaya was nine years old. The afternoon was hot, just a little bit sticky. His hair proved a deep brown in the bright, fading sun. He was crouched over a manhole, knowing that it was dangerous, but unwilling to leave.

"Hey," called another boy's voice. Izaya squinted into the sewer water, which was glinting into his eyes. He didn't want to look away now; if he did, they might pass him by, and he wouldn't notice.

"Hey." The boy's voice was louder now, almost directly behind him. The water stopped glinting, and Izaya's hair seemed much darker. He finally turned to face the boy- a stocky kid with a strong build, messy brown hair, and kind eyes. He looked angry, but confused, too. Izaya turned back to the sewer water.

"Why are you looking down there?"The boy asked.

"I lost something," Izaya answered quietly.

"A toy?" The boy asked. He glanced at the ball in his hands, ready to give an invitation.

"My parents' wedding rings," Izaya corrected. The boy blinked, stuffing the ball back into his jacket pocket.

"Oh," he said. "Why do you have those?"

Izaya squinted again. "My father gave them to me for my birthday. They were promise rings, technically, but they're still important."

"Oh," said the boy again. He crouched next to Izaya. They had to squint again.

"How'd you lose them in the sewer?" asked the boy. He wrinkled his nose a bit. Izaya didn't blame him.

"They were on a necklace, but it broke, and I carried them in my hand. I dropped them by accident."

"There they are," said the boy, pointing. Izaya's eyes were squinted so tightly that he could hardly see anything. The boy reached in and scooped something out, using his shirt to dry it before handing it to Izaya.

Izaya stared at the rings in his hands. They were dirty, but his. He smiled, just a little bit. "Thank you."

The boy nodded. "No problem," he said. "See you around." Then he ran away.

"And what was that supposed to tell me?" Namie asked boredly. Served her right for asking directly, she guessed.

Izaya returned to his papers. "The boy was Shizu-chan, Namie-san. The fact that I had a dream about him means that I obsess over him far too much, which is why I hate him. He's….unpredictable, and without control. He's a monster, not a human. I can't figure him out, and that disgusts me."

"So you make his life a living hell in conclusion," Namie deadpanned. It was as simple as that.

"Retribution is a lovely thing," he agreed. "It's comforting to see that I can still inflict pain on him. He isn't as unstoppable as I sometimes make him out to be."

"Fun," Namie muttered, not listening anymore.

Somewhere further north, in Ikebukuro, Shizuo Heiwajima 's eyes opened. It was cool in his bedroom, and his mattress felt strangely soft. He was physically comfortable. This didn't ease the churning, scratchy unrest within him. He'd had that dream again, about the little kid that reminded him of the flea. He really, really hated that dream.

A/N: And so, my first published Drrr! fanfiction. Hope you guys enjoyed. Review? :)

(P.S.: Yes, the dream was supposed to be an actual memory. I like irony, guys.)