This one-shot was just beckoning me to be written, and it wouldn't leave me alone. So here it is. I'm sorry about the lack of updates for Neurotic but I'll be posting up new chapters soon. After June draws to a close...expect a shit load of updates from me, hopefully.
So uh, moving on with this one-shot... I hope it doesn't suck too bad.
Feel free to point out any errors.
Hope you guys enjoy reading.
Disclaimer: Durarara! and its characters all belong to me and my imaginary harem. Late April Fool's.
©2012
These poems written of my love for you. I've been sending them for fifteen years straight.
And there's still no reply,
and there's still no reply.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt for him to glide his hand on the page, filling it with words and pouring his heart out onto the empty whiteness. He watched with half-lidded eyes as his pen made its way, swerving this way and that as it created curves that formed into kanji. He was nervous, that much was evident as sweat beaded down his forehead and his jaw clenched tightly. This was going to be his first time, his first time being so honest about something so delicate and fragile, such as his feelings.
Not dark feelings like hate or anger.
Not light feelings like happiness, or cheerfulness.
But that feeling that everyone gets when they're around their missing piece, their other half.
It was extremely rare for Shizuo Heiwajima to think about these nervous feelings he got when he was around a certain someone, and even rarer for him to actually think about what they meant and if he should tell that certain someone. But whenever he mused on the thought, heart palpitating more than usual, his brain usually shot down the idea, unable to live with the thought of being rejected. He wondered if he could even form coherent words to say, and quickly thought that he would only be making a fool out of himself if he built up enough courage to try.
Which was why instead of verbally saying these words, he was dripping them on the white paper with his black ink pen.
If he was already this nervous on just writing his words, he wouldn't dare imagine how flustered he'd be if he poured his heart out on his sleeve instead.
Sometimes, he wondered if it was even love at all.
I hate the way you look at me and I feel like I can just melt on the ground. I hate the way my heart threatens to jump out of my chest if you so much as graze my skin. I hate the way you always smile at me, like everything's right in the world, even if we're having a fight.
Somehow, the thoughts he had wandering on his mind leaked onto the pages. But he didn't care, he didn't mind. He never seemed to whenever it came to that stupid raven.
His expression softened as he read every single kanji that decorated the letter, memories replaying in his mind with every word etched onto sheet. I thought that love was supposed to be the best feeling in the world. If that's the case…then…, his smile faltered a bit, why does it hurt so much?
"Because," a gasp hitched in his breath as he looked up with wide eyes at the smiling raven, "you're a monster, Shi~zu~chan~."
His parted lips pulled into a frown as the image of the teasing raven disappeared into thin air. "Just another illusion…" he whispered, eyes settling on the letter.
Pushing back his unwanted feelings, he proceeded to lick the stamp, carefully placing it at the corner of the letter and writing the addresses on the envelope.
It hurt.
A year had passed after he sent the first letter.
And a year had passed without him receiving a reply to any of the letters he continuously sent throughout that same year.
The second year, he was still so reckless, just as he was in the first year.
It hurt.
It hurt even as he blissfully watched the clouds overhead, forming into miscellaneous shapes. The smoke emanating from his parted lips floated into the air, seeming like it was fusing with the clouds. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled and watched the smoke and clouds dance, leaning on the bench in front of his house. Over the course of the year, he had taken up on smoking, relieving the constant stress and heartbreak the raven continued to bring.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the car that pulled up in front of his house, nor did he notice the approaching man walking towards him. A small frown tugged at the beanie-wearing man as he noticed that Shizuo wasn't paying the slightest attention to his surroundings, or even to himself. His skin tone was paler than before, losing its healthy tan. And he noticed that the blond had lost a bit of weight from the last time he saw him, which was just a few months ago.
"Shizuo," the man called out to him as he tapped the blond's shoulder.
The light contact pulled him back from his lucid daydreaming. He blinked as if he didn't believe the sight in front of him, breathing in his cigarette before exhaling the smoke out.
"Kadota." He nodded politely, acknowledging the male.
Kyohei Kadota offered a warm smile for his high school friend. "How've you been doing?"
It was a small, casual question. But it felt like daggers piercing through Shizuo's heart, and was slightly grateful that Kadota wasn't able to see it. The mask he built over two years was able to not betray his emotions, letting him keep an apathetic façade about everything. It was useful, especially in times where people asked questions such as that.
"I've been doing fine," he smoothly answered.
At this, Kadota's smile seemed to lose whatever small amount of mirth it held, but it did not falter. "Ah, is that so? Glad to hear you're doing fine."
The blond nodded, not particularly wanting to talk. It wasn't as if he disliked Kadota. If anything, it was the exact opposite; he was actually one of the few people Shizuo was fine with, mostly. But he was tired—no, more like exhausted. It took him most of his energy to even stand out here and talk to one of his few friends. The dark, visible rings under his empty mocha brown eyes seemed to tell everyone that he hadn't been getting much sleep lately. And the brunet seemed to understand. He always had.
Nodding a goodbye to Shizuo, he decided not to bother the blond any more than he had to, and waved behind him. "Later."
The blond found it pointless to nod or wave since he wouldn't be able to see the two actions, so he only meekly called out, "Later."
Once the man disappeared into the van, the driver had driven off, leaving Shizuo all alone. Again. But it wasn't as if that mattered to him much. He could handle being left alone. In fact, that was what he preferred, to be alone so no one will be able to treat him like he was a fragile, priceless antique just waiting to break. It seemed to him that everyone was treating him like that, as of late. And it was starting to grate his nerves.
He inhaled his stress relief once more before throwing it behind him, not caring where it landed. Every single muscle in his body was screaming for sleep, feeling horribly enervated. Slowly, he dragged himself back to his house. If he could have, he would have slept outside of his house. The bench felt quite comfortable enough, it wasn't as if he cared at this point. But no, he wouldn't, he couldn't.
He had to get inside and write that daily letter for him. He had to.
As he carefully took off his shoes and placed them on the floor, a strange smell entered his nose. The acrid odor was sickening to his senses, but he merely shook it off. He always did seem to have a strong sense of smell, after all. It was probably nothing of importance. Making his way to his bedroom, he quickly picked up his ballpoint pen, staring at a pile of blank sheets he always had stacked on his desk for his daily activity of writing the poems. It grew to be a tradition, a habit, an obsession. So he always had a few extra sheets lying around just in case he ran out. He didn't even need to think hard about what he was going to write. He always seemed to know, the ink easily flowed from the tip of his pen the moment he grasped it in his hand.
But this time around, his grip was a bit shaky, as was his short breath. It seemed as if an invisible force was strangling him, thick fingers around his throat, preventing him from breathing. The thick scent of melted paint with bitterness and scorching wood was entering his lungs, already filled with the smoke from his cigarette not too long ago.
The cigarette, of course.
But he didn't care, all he cared about was writing the letter. It was the only thing that preoccupied his mind as he tried to keep the prickling tears out of his eyes, tightly gripping the pen to force his hand to move along the page.
Write, you stupid brute. Write!
Sweat dripped from his forehead, the body's defense when things became too hot. Red and orange was entering his vision. But he tried to force everything back as a quaking hand tried to draw coherent kanji. He could mildly feel something nicking at the ends of his shirt, biting his skin once the fabric was gone. A cough was caught in the hand he made into a fist, momentarily shutting his stinging eyes for a bit.
No, you can't stop writing.
Even the grey clouds were working against him, blocking his vision left and right, disabling him from viewing the letter.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
But despite his strength, the black had won, taking over his sight. All balance and control was lost, and he fell back on the wooden floor with a noisy thump. When he groggily tried to lift up his head, the only thing he could see was the collar of his shirt, with more than half of his pants singed off, more orange at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his jaw tightly, cursing at himself for being unable to finish transferring his words onto the paper.
He tried lifting his right hand, twitching as he was just a few millimeters away from the sheet half-filled with black ink, feeling his muscles being ripped apart at their seams.
It hurt.
Three years have passed now, and the blond was still perpetually sending his heart-felt letters to the man, every day, just to let him know how he felt, how he still felt.
By now, he had calmed down. He was not as reckless as the first two years. But, it still hurt. It always hurt. He had already reached the limits of literature. The writer felt as if just letting him know would not be enough to measure his feelings. Instead, he published in blogs, online journals (specifically Mixi Journal) just to let the whole world know how much the man meant, and still mean, to him. It seemed that the world supported him, and his favorites broke the counter.
He even received private messages from people from all around, not limited to his country. They were all encouragements, supporting him, telling him of what they felt when they read his poems, his stories. He gained quite a number of fans, and all of them made sure to show him just how much his writing meant to them. Some people even shared with him their heartbroken stories of unrequited love, forbidden or impossible love, the like.
It was all nice, he thought, to have people confiding in him, trusting him, even liking him, a foreign feeling he never experienced. Until now.
In fact, he was happier than he had been for a long period of time. But even with all of these people, it was still lonely. Funny, how he never felt less alone in a world full of people than he was in a secluded room all by himself.
It hurt.
Four years. That was the amount of time that passed.
It hurt.
But he still continued on with life, continued on with writing the letters for every day that he was alive. He even wrote for a magazine, and started writing into social issues. People were starting to know who Shizuo Heiwajima was from far and wide. And they were starting to love what they saw, and they were starting to love him.
Upon the magazine publisher's request, he decided to release a poem compilation. Instead of reusing his old ones, he started from scratch and wrote a whole new set, just for this occasion. It was based on his feelings, as it always had been. It was always about a certain someone, or in the very least, for a certain someone. But sometimes, he wondered if people even noticed. Sure, they constantly read his poems, and couldn't get enough of it, but did that meant that they truly felt the pain he felt?
His poems were about those secret—or not so secret anymore—feelings, and it kind of felt…good, to let it all out.
He was always a man who kept to himself, especially in the feelings department. Despite his title of the Strongest Man in Ikebukuro, he was a weak person at heart under all of that tough exterior, and his feelings were even weaker, able to break at just the slightest of touch. And he was always afraid of letting someone into his heart, for fear of the person doing just that: shattering it, but not before ripping it out and stomping on the poorly bandaged pieces.
But now, it was different. Everything was different. His fear came true, and someone did invade his most sacred and fragile piece.
And that same someone did more than just rip it out and stomp on it.
It hurt.
These poems written of my love for you. I've been sending them for fifteen years straight.
And there's still no reply,
and there's still no reply.
By the fifth year, Shizuo was a pro poet. And it still hurt as he sent the letters to him continuously.
He was renowned and known throughout the world for his beautiful, heart wrenching poems.
So much that he captivated women around twenty-four to thirty-four. Not that he cared.
No matter how many girls chased him around, he never cared for them. He never gave them a chance. He always left a trail of broken hearts behind him everywhere he went.
Sure, it made his heart pang with guilt every single time he looked at those forlorn eyes holding back tears—and in some cases, eyes with tears already streaming down like a waterfall—and expressions so broken that it sometimes reminded him of his own.
Many inquired and questioned as to why he never did get a girl and become stabilized. Surely it wasn't because of the fact that he was incapable of capturing the heart of a woman. In fact, he had women, and even men, throwing themselves at his feet. His unkempt blond locks and deep mocha eyes with beautiful complexion were enough to make anyone melt to jello on the spot.
So why?
Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he gave someone a chance. Said person would no doubt agree within a split nanosecond.
So why didn't he?
It felt weird, he frowned, but not unpleasant, that people were starting to love him so much now. To the point where they would accept a marriage proposal without it even registering in their brain first. Before, no one would even so much as stand within a twenty foot radius of him, in fear of the "dreaded monster" somehow injuring them.
It always pained him, tugging at his heart strings as to how everyone feared him, or rather, his strength, too much to get to even know him before they started judging. He was automatically labeled for an anomaly because of his strength, some thing that didn't belong in society, and was cast aside. All because he had abnormal strength. All because they feared him and did everything they could to avoid him.
All except one.
The raven's smile entered his mind for what seemed like the fifteenth time today. He was the only one that didn't fear him for his strength. If anything, he seemed fascinated by it, and that's what drew him closer to the blond. It was always this thought that comforted him, coaxing him that maybe his strength wasn't so bad at all, if he received the opportunity to get close to him all because of this curse he always hated.
That's why, that's why he'll never accept any suitor. Except him. No one else could match up to his intelligence, his wit, his beauty, his grace. And no one ever will. Shizuo will never accept any suitor because…
His heart belonged to him and him only.
It hurt.
Another year had passed, totaling to six years.
It hurt.
Red, red, red.
That was all he saw.
With a glint of silver staring at him in mockery.
His bleached blond locks were askew in every direction, and the hard floor beneath his burning skin cooled down the heat boiling inside of him. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like being clawed from the inside. Droplets of crimson stained the floor in front of him, along with his vision and pale arms. His fingertips were drenched in red, drips slipping off and creating small patterns along with the others. He didn't even bother getting up and cleaning the mess. He was already dirtied, soiled. There was no need to clean something as vile as him. He was better off like this.
He would be doing the world a favor.
He would be doing him a favor.
That was his last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness, a slight smile gracing his lips.
When he blinked open those chocolate orbs of his, he couldn't say that he was surprised when he was greeted with a white ceiling. It was becoming more and more familiar with each passing year, with each passing day. He shifted slightly, testing to see if he could move any limbs. Unlike last time when he was completely strapped to a table, restraining him from "doing anything risky," so the doctor said.
And speak of the devil. "Shizuo-kun, don't move so much. You'll end up hurting yourself more." Shinra's voice was coated with a light preppy feel to it, as it always did, even when the words were devastating enough to kill the hearts of many.
As if his body was spiting him, sparks of fire ignited in specific areas of the blond's thighs, arms, and the back of his head. Shutting his eyes closed, a small and light groan escaped his hoarse throat. He couldn't help but lean back on the bed he currently rested on, trying not to strain himself too much. He still needed to write the letter, if that meant that he was going to live today. And he didn't want to miss a single day. He never had, and he didn't intend on starting now. With that thought in mind, it was the only thing holding him back from ripping the multitude of wires and chords that dangled into and onto his skin.
"You're always so rough on yourself," the underground doctor commented, lips curled in a smile as he leaned his chin on his arm that was propped up on the table. "Ne, ne, I wonder if you're rough with yourself too—"
Before he could finish that thought, a hand reached out and grabbed his head, fingers tightening and threatening to crush his skull as a certain blond looked peeved off at the subliminal message. Shinra merely shrugged as he gave a nervous laugh. He continued to talk, though this time, on Shizuo's "condition". But the ex-bartender wasn't giving any small fraction of his attention to the bespectacled brunet by now.
His other hand was resting on his thigh, the same thigh that burned with pain. The covers he was sleeping with were now slightly disheveled, revealing the creamy smooth skin of his legs. Shizuo narrowed his eyes slightly once he caught sight of paler lines decorating them.
His body was ruined, and he'd already passed two-thousand poems.
There was not a bone in his body he hadn't broken; there was not an organ in his body he hadn't damaged.
Especially his heart.
His shattered, fractured heart.
It hurt.
By now, seven years have flown by.
It hurt.
Shizuo was in perfect form. As perfect as he could be, anyway.
The red scars he accumulated throughout the years have faded to light pink, some a creamy and pale shade lighter than his complexion. He has calmed down in comparison to his first and second year. At least he was starting to heal, slightly.
He was sitting at his table, in the "new" house he bought from the time his house had burned down. It was just a small apartment that he could easily pay the rent, what with the millions of money he made off of the poems. Even though he earned a lot of money, more than most people, he forever kept his humble nature. A pen was in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. His gaze was fixated on the empty sheet on paper in front of him. What should he write about today?
Perhaps I should compare you to something?
But what, exactly?
Perhaps you're like extreme ironing.
Perhaps you're like a two dimensional plane.
But still, even though seven years have passed…thinking about you… His fingers instinctively traced the only red scar on the lower region of his arm.
It hurt.
Still, time went on. And the pain kept on piling up.
It hurt.
Eight years have passed, and nothing had changed much.
Celty and Shinra were together, finally married, and were always together. Though the two had been kind enough to always take care of the blond. Simon was always there, listening even as he pretended not to by advertising in front of his beloved Russian Sushi restaurant. Kadota constantly worried over him, but not as much as Kasuka. The brunet little sibling tried to make more time to hang out with his older brother, but seemed to fail, as usual. His schedule never seemed to like the famous poet much. Shizuo still sent the letters to the man. And the man never gave a reply.
Things were the same, even if there were a few minor changes.
It was as if nothing changed. At least, that's the way it seemed to Shizuo.
He continued to stare at the vast empty whiteness that seemed to tease and taunt him with its emptiness.
I didn't change, so today I'll compare you to something.
Perhaps you're like winning every match in 16 Sumo tournaments.
Perhaps you're like an AMPA glutamine receptor.
The scars have faded, but new ones replaced the ones that were gone.
It hurt.
These poems written of my love for you. I've been sending them for fifteen years straight.
And there's still no reply,
and there's still no reply.
Nine years have passed by, and Shizuo still didn't forget him.
It hurt.
He was still constantly sending him letters, just to show that he still cared, that his feelings for him were still there and unchanged.
And it proved to be true, even when the blond woke up to the forever familiar white ceiling that was the hospital room to Shinra's apartment.
However, this time, it was not so familiar to him, at all.
As he lazily blinked open his eyes, he was taken by shock as to what this place was. It was…so white. And so…unfamiliar. He stared with wide eyes drinking in every single little detail the place had to offer, trying to remember why he was here and what this place was for. And how to get out of here, preferably. But a new voice chirped into his ear before he could even get up from the bed, big brown eyes gazing right in front of him.
"Shizuo-kun! You're awake!" the bespectacled…doctor, said blond assumed, yelled in his ear, voice ever so high.
He didn't know why, maybe it was instinct, but Shizuo grabbed the doctor by his skull and was threatening to crush it under his fingertips, the corners of his lips twitching in a frown. Something about this brunet nudged him the wrong way, even though he felt no real immediate danger from the guy. And something else told him that it would be best to stay away from him as much as he can.
"Ahaha, déjà vu much, Shizuo?" he chuckled, obviously not understanding the danger of having the blond nearly able to crack his skull open within a flash.
"W-what? Who's this 'Shizuo' guy you keep on calling out for…?" the blond gritted out of his clenched teeth, twitching in agitation of not knowing.
The other male under his grip blinked twice in confusion, unable to process the information he had been given. "E-eh? Could it be that you lost your memory?"
Shizuo's jaw tightened and he could feel that it near the point of snapping off. "I don't know. All I know is that…I need to send a letter to someone…" He then loosened his grip, letting the innocent Shinra down, eyes casted in another direction. "Say…you wouldn't happen to have paper on you, would you?" he asked, orbs still searching for any said material.
The bespectacled brunet blinked once more before he completely burst out laughing with mirth. But even with memory loss, Shizuo could detect a layer of horrible sadness coating it and that he was the cause of it.
"What's so funny…?" he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, not enjoying the fact that he was being laughed at. And for some unknown reason, too. Everything was so confusing.
He quieted down, though his hands still hung over his stomach, which was probably still hurting and in pain from laughing too hard. His hand was waved in the air, dismissing the reason to his laughter.
"Ahh, it's nothing~" he chirped. But his eyes gleamed with something that resembled admiration, though the blond didn't know why.
"O…kay…" He raised his eyebrow, unable to make sense of what was happening. "So…why am I here…?" He shifted slightly, blankets ruffling with his gaze downcast. "…Who…am I?" The question was barely audible as it left his lips.
No matter how hard he tried to remember what happened, nothing came to mind. Whenever he tried to remember the past, when he was a child, a teenager, anything, only white emptiness came up. The only thing that he could vividly see was a raven, smiling at him and making his heart flutter. Other memories of the same exact raven played through his mind. When he was chasing him and ripping the town apart for him, when a clean cut was made on his chest with that flick blade of his on their very first meeting, and…when he wrote that very first letter for him.
He couldn't explain it, but the blond just knew, just had this immense feeling, as if something were drawing him to send letters to him. And that same feeling told him the letters containing his poems for the raven had to be sent daily. And he had an eerily feeling that he would never be able to forgive himself if he missed just one day.
He turned around in a slight angle, his eye catching something. He was met with a vase of beautiful flowers, and a small photo, encased in a wooden frame. He saw a blond, looking surprised at being caught on camera, in the background. But what made his breath cease to flow into his constricted lungs was a male. With silky, smooth dark locks. Smiling. At him.
"Why, you're Shizuo Heiwajima, or Shizuo-kun," the brunet answered, cutting through his awe of in the picture and dragging him back to reality. "I'm Shinra." He practically beamed as he placed a hand on his chest, indicating who he was. "And…" his hand fell limply to his side, his smile disappearing and replaced with a frown, head down, "you…got into a car accident. You suffered quite a blow to your head." Shinra looked up, his lips pulled up in a sympathetic smile as if he was forced to. "But…you're okay now."
Shizuo gave the brunet a suspicious stare, head tilted slightly as he tried to scrutinize him for any clues that he was lying about his identity. When he found none, his eyes dropped, suddenly finding the white blankets covering his body very interesting. "Am I…really okay? Now that I've lost all sense of who I am…?"
His soft voice made Shinra visibly wince, but the blond was unable to see that. "A-ah…yeah… It's probably for the better, anyhow." When Shizuo looked up, the same sympathetic smile graced the smaller man's lips.
He didn't know what the other meant by that, and he had a feeling that he won't know. Until a long time filled with painful waiting. Even though he didn't know himself very well, given the current situation of his 'dilemma', he still instinctively knew that patience was never one of his strong suits. And neither was being kept away from something, especially when it concerned him.
But he didn't get to voice his wary suspicions aloud, for the doctor intervened just when he had opened his mouth to speak.
"Shizuo! You just woke up from getting hit by a car, then realizing that your memory's gone. I think this is a lot to take in, don't you? Why don't you sleep for a bit, hm?"
"Shinra, I—"
"Nighty night, Shizuo~" The doctor waved with an innocent smile plastered on his face, right hand behind his back, hiding something.
Before he could rip his throat out, Shizuo felt something pang against his head, and looked towards the culprit for an explanation. Something was glinting behind that white labcoat of his. A needle, embedded into an empty syringe.
"Shinraaa…!" he growled, reaching out his hand to mangle said male, but his body disobeyed him and fell back onto the bed instead.
Before he completely lost all control and blacked out, he saw Shinra smile sadly, eyes brimming with…sympathy, and…tears?
"You forgot your own name, yet the only thing you remember is that you love him…" His voice was near cracking as he struggled to maintain it steady, that much the blond could tell. "How crazy is that…?"
Shizuo thought he heard an all too familiar laugh, the voice too suave to belong to Shinra.
It hurt.
Ten years have passed, Shizuo counted.
It hurt.
And it was confusing, as to how he knew the exact date of the first letter he sent to him, but couldn't even remember vague or obvious things a common person would remember. He didn't remember anything about himself, not his name, not his birthday, nothing. Shinra had to fill him in on that. He didn't even remember his friends, no matter how close they were, or even his brother.
"Shizuo…" a smaller, brunet man had called his name, greeting him after the ex-bartender opened the door at the ringing doorbell signaling a guest.
His amber eyes blinked in confusion, staring at the man who was in the door. He seemed…as if he was someone important. There was something about this person…something that struck him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was or who he was. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't remember. He then tilted his head, blond locks following his action. "Who…are you?"
The slender stranger kept a composed demeanor, but there was no masking the pain hidden behind his eyes that he seemed to share with Shizuo. He bit his lip, feeling slightly guilty for hurting this stranger, whoever he was.
"…You…don't remember…?" His voice was void of emotion, but there was still a slight edge to it. The man stiffened in the hallway as he stood there awkwardly. To Shizuo, it was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the way he carried himself now, different from how he was calm a few seconds formerly.
"A-ah…I don't…think so…" He bit his lower lip, a habit he acquired when trying to remember something, especially from his life before. Then, realization struck. "Ah!" His eyes slightly widened in surprise, gaping at the person in front of him. "You're…you're…!" His index finger was held up, pointing at the other.
The brunet's blank expression was slightly more happier than it was from a few seconds ago, his eyes shining with an emotion Shizuo couldn't pinpoint. "Do you remember, Nii-sa—"
"Yuhei Hanejima! From the movies. Aren't you that uh…famous actor?" Shizuo finished, gazing at Kasuka with admiration as well as confusion. His brother only restrained a sigh, the gleam in his orbs losing whatever shine it held before.
"…Yes," he meekly answered, now staring blankly at the blond, wondering just what happened to his precious Nii-san to make him forget him, Kasuka, of all people, the closest person to his heart. He felt as if his heart had dropped onto the ground.
"Ahh. It's an honor to meet you, but uh…what're you doing in front of my apartment?"
"…It's nothing important. Forgive me, I must take my leave." With a bow, Kasuka quickly left the ever bemused Shizuo alone, unable to bear with the fact that his own brother had forgotten him.
"H-ha?" The man with bleached blond hair could only stare after the famous actor, confusion clearly written all over his face. What just happened…? He couldn't straighten the facts running wildly in his head, that a famous person actually came up to him, greeted him as if he knew him all his life, only to disappear within a moment. Maybe he had mistaken the address…? But he didn't seem to.
Agh…too much thinking over this… Screw it. I'll just ask Shinra later. Maybe…after…
He turned his head back, looking into his room from his position at the door. Slowly but surely, he closed the door with a sigh, heading back into his room. Contrary to what people might think, Shizuo's room was actually neat and organized. He hated how he left destruction everywhere he went, and wouldn't tolerate any mess in where he lived, hating to be reminded of the demonic strength he possessed. Shinra explained to him how the limiters that were normally placed in a person's brain kept them from using their fullest strength, but he didn't have any limiters.
Sometimes, he wondered if he was missing the limiters on his heart too, with all this pain he constantly felt.
He didn't even know why it constantly felt like it was made out of the heaviest of lead, and whenever he questioned Shinra about it, the doctor would only nervously laugh and joke about how Shizuo needed to work out more, or go on some medical rant on his health was slowly failing him with those cancer sticks he constantly kept on smoking. The blond always knew that his friend was lying and trying to hide something. It was blatantly obvious. But he couldn't find it in himself to question his weird behavior.
I wonder if I even want to know the answer to that question myself…
But he did say that I've calmed down quite a lot from when I was younger. Maybe it was from something in my life from before? Whatever it was, the damn idiot won't tell me what it is…
Shaking his head to rid himself of these thoughts, he began to sit down at his desk, tapping his pen in hand as he tried to figure out what to write on that blank sheet of paper looking up at him. He figured that he'll write the letter first, then deliver it, and head to Shinra's for an interrogation. Besides, he needed to talk to Celty anyway. Talking to her always calmed him down, especially when his chest constricted with so much pain for whatever reason even he couldn't understand.
It hurt.
Eleven years sure pass by quickly, but it also seemed as if it didn't pass by fast enough, especially when half of that amount of time was forgotten and you could barely remember a thing, Shizuo thought.
It hurt.
When he had reached Shinra's that day, and told him about meeting the well-known Yuhei Hanejima, the doctor's mouth was wide open with surprise, but not for the reason he originally thought. Turns out that the Yuhei Hanejima was Shizuo's younger brother. It was then Shizuo's turn to hang his mouth wide open, unable to believe that one of his relatives was someone as popular as him. And that it was his closest relative, too. His whole body was then swallowed up by the ocean of guilt, drowning him to atone for his unforgiveable actions.
"How could I forget my own brother?" he sighed, hands hidden from the slight chill of autumn in his black jacket, silently reprimanding himself on the bench. A female Dullahan was seated next to him on the park bench, earning many stares from the passing civilians.
[It's not your fault] she typed on her PDA. [It's been a year. You need to move on, Shizuo. Your brother has forgiven you already. You even heard it yourself when you called him right after you found out.]
The blond was sure that if she had a head, she would have been frowning at him as she told him to get over himself.
"But Celty…"
[No buts.] She thrust the device in his face. [Everyone has forgiven you. When are you going to forgive yourself?]
The frown deepened when he read her reply. Why was it that Celty could always make him feel so transparent? And vulnerable.
"I don't think that's possible," he gave a shaky laugh, head down with heavy eyelashes shielding his pained eyes.
Her shoulders drooped down, her head leaned forward, heaving a silent sigh. It seemed that he wasn't going to get over this inner turmoil within himself soon, and both of them secretly wondered if he was ever going to get over it.
[How are you doing?] she asked, trying to steer the topic away from a depressing subject.
"Ah…I'm still writing the letters," he answered, leaning back on the bench with his arm slung behind it, head tilted to look up at the clouds soaring overhead. His right hand moved to brush the messy bangs over his forehead and out of his half-lidded eyes. Maybe he should get around cutting his hair.
"You know…" he started to speak when his company made no move to initiate her response, "all I could want is his reply…"
A clatter was heard and Shizuo looked for the origin of the sound. Celty bent down and leaned forward to retrieve her fallen PDA, using the sleeve of her suit to wipe away any dirt off of the screen.
"Ha ha, getting a little clumsy there, aren't we?" he smiled halfheartedly, trying to make light of the situation, to momentarily forget about the emotional torment ripping him apart.
It hurt.
How many years have passed… Twelve years, he answered the voice in his head instantly.
It hurt.
He stood outside, tugging the red scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, protecting him from the deadly chill of the winter.
"Ehh? Shizuo-san?"
The voice cut through the tense air, the blond drew in a shaky breath, watching as the air was visible for three seconds before disappearing. He took his eyes off of the mailbox, looking at the owner of said voice. Twin girls with brunette hair peeking out from their thick hoodies stood at the doorway, staring at him with intense gazes. The barrier of the black gates between them was no longer there as Mairu advanced towards him, opening the gates. Kururi was slowly trailing behind.
The more extroverted twin waved energetically at the blond, grinning at his presence. "Shizuo-san, it is you!"
"Greetings," Kururi mumbled softly.
"Ah, Mairu, Kururi," he acknowledged the two, with a slight nod as his greeting. "What're you two doing outside? It's cold."
"We saw you outside," Mairu responded simply as if that would answer everything, still smiling.
"Expecting you," was the shorter response from the less talkative girl.
"Am I getting that predictable?" he asked the rhetorical question as he stepped forward, placing the letter he clutched in his hand inside the empty mailbox.
"Just when it comes to him." Mairu answered truthfully, smile suddenly becoming bittersweet. Her sister didn't even bother to respond, not knowing how to.
The blond scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment, also not knowing what to say. He averted eye contact with the two, obviously nervous about the subject. "Is that so…?"
It hurt.
When he mentally totaled up the years, it added to thirteen; thirteen years he had been sending the letters continuously. And still not a single reply.
It hurt.
He never failed to miss a day or a letter. No matter how hectic his schedule became, he always managed to slip the poem in the empty mailbox every single time. He had picked up writing again, as in posting online and for magazines and journals. He still didn't retain his memories. But when he was shopping at his local grocery store, a random lady walked up to him.
"Sh-Shizuo Heiwajima! Is that really you? You're back!" she gasped, hands concealing her mouth wide with astonishment.
"U-uh, yeah…" he stuttered as he tried to remain calm, eyebrow twitching in the process. He stared at this lady, wondering what she thought she was doing as her hands getting a bit too friendly with his upper body, still trying to convince herself that he was actually here. "Who the fuck are you, lady?" Getting his torso groped by older women was not on his agenda today.
"We thought you disappeared!" She stared up at him with wide hazel eyes coated with a thin layer of eyeshadow, hidden behind mascara-wearing eyelashes. "Where've you been all this time? You had us so worried."
"Um…listen lady, I'm sorry but I have no idea what you're talking about…" He took her by her wrists gently and handed them back to her. "I'm sorry if I don't remember you, but I uh…kinda lost my memories… So…" He started to walk away, already turning to. But the woman wouldn't let him go.
"Is that what happened? How tragic! All of your fanbases were wondering where you went." She grabbed him by his arm, but as Shizuo turned to look at her, the brown bangs covered her eyes as she tilted her head down in disappointment. "We thought you were…dead."
He scratched the back of his head with his free hand, not knowing what to say. He continued to stare at her through indigo shades, grateful that she wouldn't be able to see the pain in his transparent orbs at the moment.
"Yeah…" was all he could say.
I guess I was. I guess I am, was all he could think.
Pain was all he could feel.
It hurt.
Fourteen years of torture, fourteen years of forgotten memories, fourteen years of loving him.
It hurt.
The memories still hadn't come back. Every day was frightening and uneasy. It was unnerving and aggravating how numerous people came up to him, day by day, talking to him and asking him about how he's been doing and if he remembers them. Hell, he barely remembered himself, how was he able to remember some random stranger?
But you remember him more than you do yourself…
It was painful to live every day of your life not knowing who anyone was, what your history with them was, or if they were telling the truth about the things they said. It was easy to manipulate someone with amnesia, Shizuo found that out when an impressive number of girls and guys tried to pass off being his girlfriend before he lost his memories. He didn't know who to trust besides Celty. He didn't even trust himself. He didn't know how to.
He found himself questioning everything and was extremely cautious of everyone. There was always a deep burning feeling he felt in the bottom of his stomach whenever there was a look of hurt across someone's face. All because of him.
Sometimes, he desperately wanted his memories to come back so bad, to get rid of this irritating feeling of never knowing who you are, who you can trust, or even how to do the simplest of things. He had to relearn everything again, and it was a pain. But not as much of a pain as writing those poems.
He was still sending the letters, and even met the family members of him. They always had idle chatter with him every single time they greeted the blond when he made his daily route of delivering the poems. They sometimes invited him in, and it seemed as if the raven would be alongside him again. He didn't know why he felt his heart being stomped on every single time an image of him walked passed him, or beside him, or waving at him, that stupid smile on his face.
But he didn't want those stupid images.
He wanted the real thing.
Every single time Shizuo stepped foot in the house, that was all that preoccupied his mind: the raven and the letters. He never received a reply. And he often wondered why. Was he not good enough? Of course, that was it. Maybe the raven was scared of him. After he witnessed himself picking up a truck and hurling it at someone as if it was mere child's play, even he was scared of himself. He was a monster.
Why would anyone like him back?
Especially perfection like that.
But still…
I just want a glimpse of you.
I just want a word from you.
It hurt.
Fifteen years rolled by. And his memories returned.
It hurt.
No, the pain burned at his flesh, his heart, his other organs, everything. Why? Why did it have to end like this? Why did he have to remember? He suddenly regretted with every fiber in his being of wanting to remember his past life.
"Ignorance is bliss," is what they all say. And Shizuo couldn't agree more at this moment.
He had fallen to the ground, his hands supporting his entire body, feeling like he could fall into a deep abyss of darkness at any given moment. But that would have been fine.
He would have been fine with it. He didn't want to be anywhere in this world. It reminded him too much of him. His lips were parted in shock, chocolate brown eyes wide. He wasn't even shaking, just frozen in place. It felt as if he was too scared to even shake, to respond to anything. He only felt numbness tingling from his body. He didn't even feel the hot tears sliding down his face until after a good fifteen minutes. But even then, he couldn't move from his spot on the floor.
A pamphlet was sitting under his hand, feeling the drops of tears as it fell from his chin. The saltiness of them was like dousing salt in his wounds.
It was then that he remembered that he died, fifteen years ago.
The pain was burning him from the insides, and this time, the flames were much more hotter than the flames of when he set his own house on fire.
It hurt.
"Shi-zu-channn," the raven dragged out his hated nickname.
"What, louse?" the blond growled in response, not wanting to deal with his usual bullshit. He was a man of little to no patience at all, and keeping his temper in check proved to be a hard thing to do over the years, especially the years he spent with this annoying flea that always seemed to come back no matter how many times he tried to get rid of him.
But alas, it seemed as if there was no hope to getting rid of him today. Or any time soon.
"I'm bored. Entertain me."
"Go fuck yourself." Shizuo rolled his eyes, leaning on the palm of his hand as he chewed on the straw sticking out from an empty juice box.
"If that's what you want~ I'm very flexible, you know." The annoying smirk was ever present on his face.
The sixteen-year-old Shizuo grimaced at his lewd reply, shaking the mental images that came along with it. "You're disgusting. Get the damn Hell away from me."
His company only laughed, then tilted his head back and looked at the ever changing sky. It was especially nice, looking up at it from the rooftop. And it seemed to be something they both enjoyed as a past time. Most of the time, it was the only thing that could keep them from tearing each other's throats apart.
After a moment of comfortable silence, the black-clad high-schooler finally broke it. "Ne, ne, what would Shizu-chan do if I died?"
The blond looked at him with a raised eyebrow, hinting that he was bewildered at the sudden question. "What? Don't tell me you're that weak to die, are you?"
His reply was only a weak laugh, void of feeling.
That was the last "normal" memory Shizuo had of the raven. The last few times he saw him was when he was bedridden, sick and deathly pale. Apparently, the human lover always had poor health, and his weak immune system didn't help when a deadly illness took over when he was but a small child. It didn't hit Shizuo just exactly how hard he fell for the raven until it was in these moments where he knew that he was actually going to lose him. He was always so strong, always so courageous and invincible. He was untouchable and the strongest person Shizuo knew.
He couldn't die.
He wasn't this weak.
Sure, Shizuo came to accept these feelings that he always seemed to have when the raven was close by; the way his heart skipped a beat, the way he tried not to stutter or look flustered when he was within close proximity. But it was all an innocent crush, right?
Wrong.
So when the three, small words left the raven's throat, Shizuo couldn't help but burst into tears as he held his fragile hands.
"I never got to tell you enough when you were here with me, so to make it up, I'll tell you every single day. As long as I'm alive."
That day, Orihara Izaya died with a soft smile caressing his gentle features.
These poems written of my love for you; if they keep piling up, would they someday reach you?
Into what was your room, every day they were thrown.
I couldn't see you anymore and I kept loving you. But I thought we'd meet again, and you'd disappear again.
These poems written of my love for you. I've been sending them for sixteen years straight.
And there's still no reply,
and there's still no reply.
Wow…this one-shot was way longer than I expected. I don't even know how it came to be over 8.5K words, aha. I always thought that it would just be 2K at the max, but apparently I was horribly wrong. I'm sorry if it's too long! But I really enjoyed writing this. And I guess I went just a bit, a tiny smidge, overboard. –scratches neck awkwardly–. But yeah.
This was inspired by a video on YouTube called "MAD Durarara! – 15 Years Pursuing a Cute Boy English Subbed". The link is: ( http:/ www. youtube. com/watch?v=lZO3aG3CxUo ) Please remove the spaces.
My heart was just breaking and shattering into pieces as I watched this. I was near crying a river and drowning myself in it. It hurt to watch, yet it was so addicting.
Was painful yet beautiful to keep replaying it to have to write this one-shot.
…Excuse me while I go bawl my eyes out in a corner somewhere.
¤ Mystic Shadow Demon