.
Benign
when given a knife
asked to dip the blade
break the skin
and trace the arteries
that once gave you oxygen,
it is then that i see
the rips / the holes / the stitches
mending your heart
keeping you in one piece
— alexis ma —
The most fascinating sound to ever resonate between the hammer and anvil of an ear: the beating of one's heart. Anatomically speaking, the heart is comprised of four chambers, two of which funnel oxygenated blood throughout the body via the aorta and arteries, breathing life into the body where air is nonexistent. It is the pacemaker, the ultimate timekeeper, for without it, a life is on the line. Flatlines, inanimate spikes on a screen that suddenly collapse, an earthquake. Fault lines, the space beneath the operating table that shivers, splits down the middle.
Nobody can forget the damage that occurs when the ground doesn't settle right, when the earth isn't sewn back together. Orihara Izaya certainly can't. Can't forget what it was like to watch Heiwajima Shizuo's chest being sliced apart, the incision directly over the long-since faded but still ugly scar that mars his breastbone. Can't forget the grotesque collection of abnormal cells clustered around his lungs, his pericardium, the cancer eating away at the cramped walls of the organs. Can't forget the disappointed, melancholic expression that crossed Shinra's face, the doctor shaking his head as he uttered the words the lung cancer has spread to his heart—
—there's nothing I can do now.
Now.
But the doctor could have fixed this, gotten rid of this, months ago. He could have dissected out the tumor, killed the carcinoma's chance of evolving into something more menacing. He could have had a chance. Shizuo could have had a chance. If only the damn protozoan had gone to see Shinra when he first started wheezing, when the scale decided to be kind and drop his weight by fifty kilograms, when roaring at the top of his lungs became a chore, the streets of Ikebukuro falling dead silent.
Now, walking through the forbidden alleys of the city, Izaya frowns at the thought of their daily battles coming to an end. Having something so habitual, so normal, be taken away—it leaves the information broker's stomach churning. He hadn't thought about it until yesterday, until after the anticlimactic surgery in which nothing was cut save for Shizuo's sternum. Until Shinra tugged off his latex gloves, swallowed thickly, and patted Izaya's shoulder.
One would think the doctor had been delivering bad news to a family member. Izaya scoffs at the notion now, thinking back on the ludicrousy of the whole situation. As if he would ever show an ounce of concern for that beast. But deep to his ribs, he knows that yesterday, with a heavily sedated Shizuo stitched up and escorted back to his room, Shinra's scrubs still pristine mint-green, he had been on the verge of falling to pieces and accepted the doctor's news without complaint.
Three months. He had given Shizuo three months left to live. Ninety-one days—give or take—remaining before his heart gave out. And even then, Shinra had murmured, that may be a prognosis far too generous.
Izaya knows this as well; he'd seen the massive tumor, he'd seen the extent of the disease. Ninety-one days seemed like a longshot.
"I'm going to call Kasuka," Shinra had said while slipping off his surgical mask, "three months isn't a long time to say goodbye."
Izaya, though his arms were heavy, had grabbed ahold of the doctor's wrist and fiercely whispered, "Don't. Shizuo wouldn't want that… wouldn't want Kasuka to see him so weak."
And that had been the last of the conversation. Honestly, the information broker had expected Shinra to voice his disagreement over the matter, or at least press him for practical rationale. But no, the doctor had simply nodded and walked out of the operating room. Because, the reality of the situation had been, and still remains to be: Shizuo is dying, and nobody wants to offer a death certificate in recompense.
The thought of the dreaded paperwork makes Izaya shiver. Ikebukuro is getting cold now, with winter just around the corner. Perhaps the weather will be gracious and grant a first snowfall in November. Perhaps Shizuo will kick this cancer in the ass and live long enough to see it. Ah, wishful thinking. Izaya shivers again at the morbid thought.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, his fingers unceremoniously tease the handle of his switchblade. Flicking over the bolster, he finds the button but doesn't press it. Wouldn't want to cut himself by something so sharp. It is a safety hazard after all, carrying something so lethal, so dangerous.
Yet, Shizuo had gone and bought those cigarettes. He'd bought them, lit them, and inhaled them until smoke perfumed the air. On numerous occasions, Izaya had warned him (in a mocking, condescending fashion, yes, but he'd still expressed his worry) of the risks. The bane that is lung cancer has been clinically proven to be caused primarily by taking a drag, so why?
How many crumpled bills could have been spared if Shizuo had been smart? How many withdrawal headaches could have been avoided if he'd paused before getting his next tobacco fix?
How many more days would he have?
Certainly more than ninety-one. Hell, if he'd really stopped and thought about what he was doing, he would have had ninety-one years.
The information broker rubs his temple in annoyance.
"Damn you, Shizu-chan."
As the words slip past his lips, the raven halts in front of the protozoan's apartment. Rugged. In shambles. Low-rent. This is definitely not the right address. Checking the rare string of text messages between the duo, Izaya comes to the grave discovery that yes, Shizuo does, in fact, live on Block 4. Gazing at the ominous, towering apartment once more, Izaya regrets meeting Shizuo at his place rather than his own but sighs in defeat. Not like they could have anyway; Shinra had given the idiot a hard time for wanting to go home the day after surgery, surrendering immediately upon the sight of Shizuo's fist flying past his cheek.
Grumbling, Izaya checks his watch, the Russia Sushi take-out plastic bag rustling in the process. 1:03 am. Surely Shiki or Namie wouldn't bother calling him at this hour. Besides, he has every intention to leave as soon as the sushi is gone.
x
"Shizu-chan, you must have a bone to pick with Death," Izaya croons upon entering the apartment, the space reeking of smoke. The room is dark save for the static flickering of the TV, but even then, he can make out the vague outline of a couch, the assorted bottles of beer wrung dry, the few boxes of cigarettes littering a coffee table.
From the cramped sofa: a groan followed by the distinctive click of a lighter and then, with ease, a dry inhale. It only takes a few seconds before Shizuo coughs, the bartender abruptly sitting up and pounding against his chest, desperate to alleviate his lungs from the toxic fumes. Izaya sighs and crosses the threshold, setting the sushi down next to not one but two empty cigarette packs.
"Seriously, Shizu-chan… even you should know when to quit," he mutters, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "monsters have limits too."
"In case you've forgotten, flea, I'm dying. And soon," the bartender manages with a shallow intake of air, "I don't intend on depriving myself now, and certainly not in the future. You can bet on that."
"Eh, just what one should expect of the notorious beast that once rampaged through Ikebukuro," Izaya chuckles as he collapses into the arm of the sofa, propping his legs on the table.
Beside him, a growl ensues, dangerous heat radiating from the sick man. Izaya's mind flares with warning; while provoking Shizuo is fun, even Izaya knows when a line is crossed.
"Sorry, too soon?"
Shizuo grunts in agreement; thus, creating a lull in the conversation. It is neither strained nor tense but uncomfortable. Definitely unsettling. Because up until this moment, with Simon's sushi in plain view and boxes of cancer-ridden sticks within reach and inaudible Japanese drama rolling in the background, their impulsive natures have fought ferociously, blinding them from an armistice so desperately needed. And now, they had one. Were forced into one. All because of a damn surgery that split Shizuo's chest down the middle, eradicating any hope without tugging at his heartstrings.
If only a surgery capable of penetrating Shizuo's thick skull existed—would he then finally understand the implications of lifting that death sick so near and dear to his lips?
Maybe if such a surgery existed, Izaya could have a chance at mustering the words he needs to say right now. The words that are burning his tongue simply by sitting there, unable to leave his mouth. The words that can reach Shizuo, reach the parts of his heart that have yet to erode, the parts that haven't yet died. The parts that haven't given up.
Only, the corrosive cancer is nothing to Shizuo but a lighter. Impending doom, a reckless thing to ignite; anyone and everyone knows that. The difference is this: some people know when to snuff out the fire, others are in denial. And really, given how Izaya counts two empty packs of tobacco, it's fair to say that Shizuo has not seen the stitches embedded in his chest, and cannot hear the sickening dry-heaves wracking him from the inside out.
He is in denial, Izaya realizes with a huff. The protozoan is turning a blind eye, focusing his attention on the very thing that is killing him. At this rate, he'll die far sooner than Shinra predicted.
Izaya can't help but shudder at the thought.
Despite all this—the close proximity to the dying man, the butts of cigarettes, the TV screen flickering between drama and static noise—the words needed to be spoken refuse to leave him.
So instead, he settles on shoving the empty boxes aside and whips out the sushi. By this point, with many minutes having passed since sitting down, he is certain the food is soggy. Nonetheless, he splits his chopsticks down the middle and takes a bite.
"It's impolite to refuse the food I bought for you, Shizu-chan."
Shizuo shifts while Izaya chews, eventually finding a comfortable position sitting poised at the edge of the sofa, chopsticks in hand, a roll of sushi close to his parted lips.
"Just for the record," the bartender murmurs quietly, Izaya pausing mid-chew, "I intend to rip every bone from Death's body when I come knocking at his door."
x
Feigning boredom, Izaya glances at his watch. 3:26 am.
In the past two hours, both the information broker and bartender have gradually maneuvered their way to the floor. With emptied sushi containers and beer bottles finished with a pop, the hardwood has become riddled with trash, throw pillows, and, of course, more cigarettes. A makeshift bed, Izaya concludes while nursing his third Asahi, the condensation still dripping down his fingers. Shizuo had been the one to offer another, greatly surprising Izaya to the point of stupefaction. And who was he to refuse the offer?
Who was he to refuse anything Shizuo had left to offer?
Two hours had been offered to Izaya. Two hours ago he'd knocked on the door, sushi in hand. Two hours ago he'd said hello as if they'd been friends. Two hours ago he'd seen the cigarettes, the beer, the static TV (the cable has apparently been going awry, eventually shot), and damn it all, Shizuo is still sick and dying and smoking a fucking stick.
Two hours had been enough for Izaya. Enough time to search Shizuo for a hint of regret, a touch of disappointment, and he hadn't found anything of the sort.
Two hours: that was time wasted sulking, prolonging Izaya's outburst of calamity. Time spent drinking, drowning, and bottling the truth deep down where nobody could unplug the cork.
"Ne, Shizu-chan," the raven starts, then pauses mid-sentence to chug the remaining swallow of his beer, "tell me something."
Shizuo groans and rakes a sweaty hand through his bleached locks, his eyes all faraway and glassy, but nods nonetheless, too drunk to fathom what is about to be asked of him.
"Are you afraid?"
The question settles heavily in the room, hanging in the air like a curse. Izaya feels his stomach churn again. Must be the alcohol, he thinks, but the presumption dies the moment his eyes swivel to Shizuo's, gold boring into honey.
The monster hesitates. "Afraid?" The word drawls on his clumsy tongue and Izaya can't help but shudder; Shizuo is so far gone already. Far more departed than he'd been the day before, and it's not just the alcohol and smoke talking. "What do you mean afraid?"
Izaya opens his mouth to reply but the words don't come, and instead, the hinges of his jaw give way, slamming shut. Silence. Not a single bit of clarification can be made because really, what is Izaya asking? Afraid of death? Afraid of dying? Afraid of being afraid?
Afraid of losing out on life a whole lot earlier than anyone could ever predict?
Afraid of, for once, being vulnerable when in all his life, Shizuo has always been indestructible?
How does he feel to be so weak, so powerless?
How is he not afraid of losing control? Over his decisions? Over his body? Over his life?
Because if Izaya had been the unlucky one, the sick one who couldn't afford air with his degraded lungs, who held a candle to morphine, who laid on that operating table naked and immobile and exposed with no control whatsoever—well, let's just say he'd rather short circuit before being dissected.
"I'm not afraid."
Izaya whips his head toward Shizuo, eyes wide, mouth gaping.
"Heh? Not afraid?"
"I'm not afraid," he repeats.
Does this damn monster not understand the simple concept of death and what it entails? Izaya desperately wants to ask but refrains because, as those golden eyes burn him, he doesn't have to. There is no trace of fear or terror or worry or dread in Shizuo's calm and collected face. Neither a glint of pain nor a tremor of melancholy. Nothing. Nothing can be found in his round, golden eyes.
He is already beginning to disappear, Izaya's inner voice screams, unable to tear his trembling gaze from the bartender. He watches in deafening stillness as Shizuo cracks open his third pack of smokes, positions his forty-first cigarette between his teeth, and flicks the lighter open, bringing the flame to his lips without hesitation. It is melting him, easing him, burning him. Searing him to a point in which nothing hurts anymore, hot enough that the pain is no more and everything becomes numb.
Shizuo, he realizes, is not in denial. No, he's accepted it. Accepted death.
The unthinkable crosses Izaya: first a whimper, then a muffled cry, followed by a wail of agony. Ikebukuro has suddenly become too heavy, its weight unbearable, and without warning, the whole city comes crashing down on Izaya's shoulders. A shaking mess—that is what becomes of the man. A mess of crumpled limbs, seizing shoulders, and broken screams, all of which cease when something warm encircles him: Shizuo's arms.
"It's okay, flea. It's okay."
The drunken, hazy, slurred Shizuo has disappeared and in his place, strong, durable, and safe Shizuo. The Shizuo that Izaya clings to, whimpers against, and wills to stay by his side. What would normally strike Izaya as ridiculous—the information broker practically hugging the protozoan—is quickly shoved into the far corners of his mind. He simply welcomes his touch, his heat, his comfort, taking all of what Shizuo is offering him because this is all they will ever have. Ninety-one days now becoming ninety days.
"It's not okay, you damn monster," Izaya sputters, "you're dying."
"I know."
"You're going to die," Izaya sobs, his unsteady hands grasping the bartender's sleeves in dire need of a lifeline.
"I know."
"You only have ninety days before you die," he weeps; Shizuo nuzzles Izaya's head, breathing deeply, evenly.
"Ninety days to live."
Izaya chokes. Shizuo hugs him tightly, giving support to the boneless man wherever he is weak.
To live. Ninety days to live. The words echo in his cranium, a bone fractured so many times from Shizuo's fits of anger, his unpredictable blows across the face, and (his personal favorite) the swing of a nearby lamppost. Ninety days to live; the words repeat over and over. A mantra.
"I have ninety days left. I can't spend that time living in fear. I'm not afraid."
He's being brave, Izaya thinks, and not just for himself but for the both of them. Courage, though never dwelled upon, describes the man well. Impulsive. Volatile. Reckless. Yes, Shizuo is many things, but really, the more Izaya ponders it, the more he remembers of their encounters. Izaya had done battle with his frail body, fighting tooth and nail to push back, to defend himself, but in the end, he never had to. Because Shizuo had been brave enough to know when the fight was worth fighting and when enough was enough.
Because from the very beginning, it hadn't been Shizuo to start the damn fight. It had been Izaya, and it would always be Izaya from there on out.
Izaya suddenly has the desire to hex himself; his bloodlust and twisted, scheming brain had blinded him. Blinded him from seeing Shizuo standing in the middle of the street, blonde hair askew, golden eyes daring him to put the knife down and simply see, simply look. Simply give in.
"It was you," Shizuo whispers against Izaya's hair, his body bracing the exhausted man cradled in his arms. "It has always been you."
It occurs to Izaya then: "why did you invite me here?"
Against the shell of his ear, warm breath fans across his skin.
"I'm not afraid, Izaya, not anymore."
As the hushed murmur travels from his neck to his shoulder, Shizuo's lungs betray him and, with discomfort, a wheeze interrupts his next movement. The hollow, dry sound leaves Izaya stone cold, sober, awake. Reality hits him hard.
This is Shizuo: the husk of a man once able, once impenetrable. But somehow, this ugly, morose thing called cancer seeped through all twenty-four of his steel ribs (of an unimaginable caliber) and ate. Ate away at his lungs, his trachea, and now, his heart. Yet, rich blood is moving and swelling through the arteries with a pressure so profound that Izaya can hear it beneath the skin. He can hear the rhythmic thumping, the thundering gallop of the sick thing in Shizuo's chest, and it's beating for now, for Izaya.
And with it, Izaya is encouraged to arch his head backward, black locks tumbling over his shoulders, and tilt his head, revealing his white collarbone. A faint gulp is heard, as is the enticing sound of Shizuo licking his chapped lips. Izaya hums in appreciation at the gentle brush of the monster's mouth against his scapula, slowly, ever so slowly, moving mountains to reach its final destination: home, where Izaya is patiently waiting for him.
"Prove it," he says, waiting, patiently.
Ninety days may not be enough, but for Shizuo, Izaya will take whatever the man can offer.