Denial
Shizuo believed with utmost certainty that it was absolutely, one-hundred percent impossible to dream of something that was never experienced or seen before. It was why death was never portrayed in a first-person point of view in one's dreams. Your body would jolt into consciousness right before the impact, rescuing and saving your unconscious from brutality. Shizuo believed all of these things with ever fiber of his being, but that did nothing to diminish his exotic and risqué dreams. No, no effort would stop him from waking into a sweaty stupor of confusion between the act reality and fantasy.
Maybe they were dreams of dreams, mere fabrications of other fabrications. Regardless, nothing of the sort made sense, and nor did Shizuo's dreams.
He had them frequently, and the nights that he didn't were dreamless nights all together. More often than not, Shizuo would wake, rinse himself off in the coldest of showers, and return to bed, only to continue the dream from where it had left off, almost as if his mind had ever-so-kindly set it on pause. Other nights, he would be plagued with the pleasure of experiencing two, possibly even three dreams in a row, leaving the man in a united bliss of irritation and satisfaction.
If these divine nightmares had consisted of a beautiful woman rather than who they did involve, Shizuo wouldn't think of questioning anything. He wouldn't question is mentality, his cigarette addiction, and most certainly, he would not be questioning his sexuality.
He would laugh wryly to himself, saying that even in his most private of states, Izaya was still tormenting him. But this was no joke. Not to Shizuo. And these dreams, they were more than just that. They were real. As real as the sticky and soiled boxer briefs they left behind.
In these dreams, Izaya wasn't Izaya. He was a god; one of seduction, passion, and beauty. His ivory skin would glimmer with sweat and beg Shizuo to question the man's ethnicity. Curious fingers would stroke along the expanse of an arched spine, enticing the whines of symphonies and orchestras. Yes, it was shameless to say that this Izaya was far different from the real.
Shizuo loved this Izaya.
He would ravish and adore this Izaya until the fictional hours of dawn, coating the man with bittersweet kisses and tender bite marks. Izaya would do the same, for he was not only a puppet in these dreams, but also a puppeteer.
In the late hours of the days to follow, if Tom had asked him in idle chat through passing, wondering how he had slept the night prior, Shizuo would deny all recollection of any dream and reply with a simple, "Fine," ending the subject there.
These dreams where his own secret, a dirty one at that, and no one could ever bribe him with any amount of silver or gold to coax their lovely simplicities from his lips.
Not even the god himself.
Hello there! Chappy here! :D
Ooh, I went all poetic-y with this one. I hope you don't mind. x.x
Day 13 of the 30-day challenge! We're almost halfway! :D
The theme for this one was "denial."
I hope you enjoyed, and as always, thank you for reading! :D
- Chappy