"Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it."
–Jon Donne
Af·flic·tion
noun
a state of misery, pain or grief
Namie has always relied on routine and predictability. She likes it when she is able to predict what time she will wake up, eat and how many times she will think about Seiji throughout the entirety of the day. She likes the mundane patterns since they comfort her in a way that no mother or father ever could. It fills the empty void in her chest with a sense of pattern, a lovable rut if you would.
Namie realizes early on that there's only one true constant in her hectic, slipshod failure of an existence.
It's a truth that she'll take to her grave and one she can feel the weight of its shame. That constant, unfortunately, is not her beloved Seiji but the monstrosity that she has come to call boss.
The simple fact revealed itself to her in the shape of a rainstorm. Even the weather was sketchy and unpredictable in Ikebukuro. The abnormal thunderstorm in the middle of inane week was upsetting. She's busy over the hot stove even though she's sure that this particular task was not outlined in the job description and she intends to be paid for this cruel, inhumane task of setting her to work in the kitchen. Izaya wasn't necessarily chauvinist since he didn't exactly favor one sex over the other (there were even times that Namie wondered if Izaya was asexual and reproduced by budding much like a sponge would) and only thought himself to be superior over the rest of humanity both male and female alike.
It's not so much that Namie hates cooking. It's just one of the many domestic things that she's surprising competent at despite the fact that she always had an arsenal of maids at her disposal. The steam and the smell of the broth were both tantalizing but Namie scrutinized the dish and wondered if it was possible for her to poison the batch without Izaya noticing. She decides against it simply because it would take too much effort to scrounge up a suitable poison and because she hates to see food go to waste. Her frugality and prudence spares Izaya's life for another day.
"Namie!~" That was the only warning she heard before the lights were snatched from her eyes. Looking back, she probably should have poisoned Izaya's food. Never mind that food would be wasted, life was already wasted in the form of a despicable human being such as himself.
Consciousness returns only when she realizes that she's sitting in an expensive restaurant wearing someone else's clothes and her hair is done up in an absurd fashion that she never bothers with. Empty champagne flutes scatter the table before her, and the dress that she's wearing is uncomfortably tight and itchy against her skin. She longs for her green sweater. Izaya is nowhere in sight and she wonders if he has finally sold her to the drug cartel that he always talks about whenever their debates get especially contemptuous. Perhaps he sold her into the escort service and intends to make money off her much like a common pimp would.
None of these theories are practical of course. Namie knows damn well that Izaya doesn't give any special thought to money. Though he easily acquires it, he doesn't hoard it like many people and oftentimes spends the paper on frivolous things (like that godforsaken singing toaster that he bought simply to annoy her). Though she knows that Izaya is a vengeful fellow, she contends that Izaya favors dishing out his own personal revenge rather than going the simple and easy route. He was much more likely to have her die at the hands of the Dollars or use her as a means to awake the Dullahan rather than simply betray her like that. As soon as he achieved what he wanted, there was no doubt that Izaya would cast her aside like an unwanted plaything.
"Namie." The sound of the bastard's voice is enough to make her want to smash champagne flutes against his skull and hope that shards bury themselves into his head. She looks up and is surprised to see his face void of the feigned playfulness that he generally glues onto his mask of a face. The terse way he says her name nearly gives her the chills. Nearly nothing is worse than a serious Izaya.
She chooses not to start yelling until they're back at his apartment and she wields her stilettos with confidence. Her exasperated shouts are met with indifferent answers. His replies bother her so much that she's tempted to shake some insanity back into the crazed man but she's afraid to touch him at this point. A feeling that she rarely encounters when interacting Izaya (the emotions usually range from disdain to unadulterated hatred).
She's afraid of how he's acting. She was afraid of how un-Izaya he was and how there was nothing that could change him back.
She swallows the trepid fear.
He answers her questions, something that is usually only achieved after bribing and threats of blackmail. The man before her is dull and lifeless. Nothing betrays the true nature of the man before her. Hell, she would prefer the annoying, hyperactive Izaya to the abomination that was before her. Their usual banter is nonexistent and she finds herself lost for words and actions. She doesn't know what to do in this situation; she doesn't know how to talk to him when he isn't teasing, insulting or condescending. He leaves her grasping for straws as it becomes increasingly hard for her to breathe. The room is closing in on her and the dress is constricting her lungs to the extent that she can't tell the difference between an exhale and an inhale. She feels trapped but it's not the usual the sense that is associated with Izaya. This person is foreign even to her.
When she returns home, she is visibly trembling. Her world feels shattered and slight. The one supposed constant in her life is suddenly gone and Namie has no way of enduring.
She has relied on Izaya's general patterns. She's relied on her reluctant companionship with the crookedly eccentric man and she has come to accept her life as such.
But now all she feels is a state of affliction.
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