Man of Many Masks
Just something I thought of while I was bored. Strange as this may sound, I'm writing this in June and I really miss winter.
She is enthralled by him.
It hasn't always been like that. Looking back, Namie's not sure when it started.
At first, she is indifferent towards him. Orihara Izaya, the Demon of Ikebukuro, they call him. She knows of him by reputation, and that is all.
But then life throws her a curveball, problems that she could not deal with alone. So she goes to the information broker.
The first thing she notices is the expression. Calm, controlled, calculated. Drawn in smooth lines and sharp edges, fine-tuned to cause exactly the reaction he wants from the people he talks to. In this case, her. She realizes something. He is an artist, a master at painting masks.
She respects him. He does his work well, and she always respects those with skill. Yet sometimes, his gaze makes her skin crawl. His controlled expression, betraying nothing, yet somehow mocking her. Mocking the entire world.
She fears him a little. Time passes, she knows something is wrong. Things aren't going according to plan, her company is on the edge of disaster, and some basic instinct within her tells her Izaya is the one to blame. She fears what he is capable of.
She hates him.
She hates Izaya with all her heart and mind and soul. He ruined her life, destroyed her career, prevented her from being with Seiji, wrecked all her plans by assisting that creep Mika, and now he expects her to work for him? As a secretary, no less? But she is a scientist above all else, a logical soul. She has no other options, and she knows it. Some combination of self-preservation instinct and a twisted desire to see Seiji again compels her to say yes. Izaya only grins smugly, as if he knew all along what her answer would be.
"You're so predictable, Namie," he often says. He's right.
She hates him even more.
The work isn't too bad. The pay is good. Izaya is demanding, but not a slave driver. Cruel, teasing, mocking, but she can deal with that.
The one thing she finds interesting, purely from a scientific perspective, is seeing the information broker's methods first-hand. She learns more about humanity from listening to him make phone calls than from all her years of life experience.
She loathes him. After months working for him, she knows him too well - sometimes better than he knows himself. She finds him more and more disgusting as time passes. He's a sadist. He takes pride in his ugly work, he laughs at the suffering he causes, he thrives on chaos. Sure, she has experimented on humans many times, so her hands are hardly clean. But what she did had a purpose, a direction: the advancement of science. What Izaya does is purely for his own enjoyment, and she finds that disgusting. She wants to poison his food, or kill him in his sleep, but then she wouldn't get her paycheck.
One thing hasn't changed. The more time she spends with him, the more she respects his abilities.
He's an artist.
She's been trying to keep track, but even her memory can't hold them all - Izaya's endless collection of masks.
Expressions tailored to the nanometer, perfected to the point where they are sharp as surgical scalpels. He switches faces so effortlessly to fit the situation, she wonders if he even has to think about it anymore, or whether it comes naturally.
She doesn't really hate him anymore. Mostly because she realizes that the Izaya she hates is only one of his masks.
She doesn't hate him. He still acts like an obnoxious child. He teases her incessantly. He's still sadistic and petty and cruel, but not so much to her. He talks to her as he would talk to himself, without reservations. He tells her things he probably shouldn't, things that could wreck his plans if she were to betray him. She does wreck his plans a few times.
"Thanks, Namie," he says sarcastically when he gets home. He still tells her things.
The work is okay. The pay is good. She begins to realize that she's become something like a housewife, cooking and cleaning and keeping Izaya's office running. She tells herself she does it because he pays her well, not because she enjoys it. She knows she could stop, simply refuse to do housework. She doesn't stop.
She cares for him. When he walks in at the ungodly hours of the morning, barely able to stand, covered in deep cuts and bruises, it's her that patches him up.
"Thanks, Namie," he says tiredly. She tells him not to be such an idiot next time.
She understands him. She thinks she may be the only one who does, as not even he understands himself. But she understands him. It's simple, really. A soul like a mirror. A person so blank and empty that the only thing he knows is how to reflect the lives of others onto himself. Unable to feel anything, so he makes others feel exactly how he wants them to feel, just so he can pretend he understands them. He's alone, she realizes. Lonely.
She refuses to go out to eat hotpot with him once, just to spite him. She knows he only asked her because Shinra hadn't invited him to dinner that night. She doesn't like being used to satisfy Izaya's wounded pride. But a while later, she cooks hotpot for dinner. He blinks for a moment. His expression slowly changes into one that she can only call mock-gratitude.
"Thanks, Namie," he says bitterly. She rolls her eyes at him. They eat it together.
She wonders what his face is really like under all the masks.
On New Year's Eve, she's working at her desk when he comes up, out of the blue, and says, "Wanna walk with me?"
She blinks. "Depends. What's your ulterior motive?"
"Namie," he says, stretching out her name like he always does. "Not everything I do has an ulterior motive."
She crosses her arms and glares at him.
"Fine," he sighs. "What if I just want to spend some time with you?"
She blinks again. "Liar." But she goes with him, because she knows he never lies to her. He may twist the truth, but he never lies.
They go window shopping. She's never had much interest in clothing, except for the purpose of impressing Seiji, so she doesn't buy anything. Izaya seems more interested in watching the people that walk by than the clothing in the stores. By chance her gaze falls on a red scarf. He pauses, notices her staring. Buys it for her right then and there. Neither of them say a word about it, but she likes the scarf. It's simple, beautiful, warm.
They eat dinner at Russian Sushi. No Shizuo today, no Dullahan, nothing crazy. He convinces her to order fatty tuna and she finally gives in. After a taste, she quickly becomes addicted. Simon smiles as they leave, wishing them happy holidays. Izaya smiles back.
Namie tries to take a mental snapshot of that moment. It's not like any other mask she's seen yet.
11:57 on New Year's Eve. They're standing on the roof of the office building, looking out on Ikebukuro.
"What are we doing here?" she asks.
He smiles dryly. "Absolutely nothing."
She gazes at the city, all bright lights and tall buildings. Ikebukuro is strangely beautiful, even in the middle of the night. So much life. She turns to him. There's something different about him at that moment. She tries to figure out what it is.
"To be honest, I needed a break from being me. It gets tiring, you know?" He looks at her and smiles, as if he knew her question even without her asking it.
She blinks. That's it - he has no expression. None at all, just a little smile. He looks good. Kind, handsome. Innocent.
"How did you . . . become like this?" she asks. "Why do you wear so many masks?"
A silence.
He looks away from her. "Well . . . once there was a kid who wanted nothing more than to be loved. So he acted just as everyone wanted him to act, did just what everyone wanted him to do. But he was so naturally talented at acting that he couldn't control his skills. Before he knew it, he wasn't in control of the act. The act was in control of him. He became the masks that he wore, and though it terrified him, he was intoxicated by the power it gave him. The power to affect, to influence, to control other people. He didn't know what to do. So he rolled with it."
His gaze is on the horizon, and his voice is bitter. She inches closer to him.
"And now," he continues, still not looking at her. "Now he's alone. Everyone hates him. He loves everyone, he really does, but he doesn't know how to show it. The man in him is buried under so many layers of demon that he doesn't even know who he is."
She knows him. She knows exactly who he is, with and without his masks.
Namie takes his shoulders, turns him to face her. She leans up and kisses him. It's simple, not passionate. A declaration.
"You're not alone, idiot. Not while I'm here."
He's frozen in shock, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. She scoffs and punches his arm.
Izaya smiles and suddenly wraps his arms around her, bringing her to his chest. She blushes, but hugs him back. This is strange and terrifying and new to her. Nothing has ever made Namie feel this way, not even her love for her brother. She kind of likes this new feeling.
"Thanks, Namie," he whispers into her hair. "For staying with me."
He's a man of many masks, but for once, she sees his true face.
She loves him. It probably won't be good for her in the long run, but she loves Izaya.
And she's pretty sure he loves her too.