an·tip·a·thy
[an-tip-uh-thee]
–noun,plural-thies.
1. a natural, basic, or habitual repugnance; aversion.
2. an instinctive contrariety or opposition in feeling.
3. an object of natural aversion or habitual dislike.
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This is not a story with a moral at the end... there is no deeper meaning.
This is a story about hatred and mourning; two traits that should not co-exist.
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This is not a story of fairytale romance and love... there is no happy ending.
This is a story about the art of letting go.
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two tickets torn in half
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"Well, you're the last person I'd expect to come visit me, Shizuo."
That was it - all he deems worthy of saying. No cutesy pet names with a scathing sarcasm; no arrogant smirk or mocking laugh. There was only a calm silence that screamed horror; cream colored walls matching with blue and white bedsheets. The steady beeping of a heart monitor reigned as the only form of music; an IV next to it steadily drips fluids into a thin arm.
Shizuo is panting, still trying to catch his breath from where he stands in the doorway; demeanor mirroring something akin to shock towards the figure before him. He keeps his attention locked on the others face; roaming over the docile expression – barest forms of a smile that in no way showed happiness, eyes that are filled with a complete resignation and acceptance.
Still standing upright, dripping all over the tiled floor with a nearly manic look, Shizuo waits for some form of insult – something to show that the person before him, was still him – but it never comes. Instead he is merely greeted with a melancholic atmosphere so serene and unfitting it makes him want to choke.
This is a stranger wearing a familiar face – a face that has never once adorned such an expression. Shizuo wants to rip the skin off and reveal him for the fake he was; expose the true nature of the creature underneath.
Blond hair plastered against the sides of his face, and his bartender suit leaden down like a sopping second skin; he takes a hesitant step forward. A small collection of water is beginning to puddle beneath him. He's still waiting for a remark on his appearance, and Shizuo thinks he hates that small, sad smile more than he ever hated that arrogant fucking smirk.
He swallows thickly, not making another move to get closer – a good 5 feet between himself, and the only other occupant in the room.
"...Izaya?" His voice a rough thing; broken glass scraping against low cords, and he has to make sure to regulate his breathing to keep from puking. He can't seem to form any other words, and his arms are beginning to prickle with goosebumps from being wet in an air conditioned room.
The brunet in question merely gives a small tilt of his head in acknowledgment; expression tired and drawn, and he looks every bit of worn as a war veteran. Shizuo guesses, in way, he just might be. No other movement is made in the room, the beeping of the heart monitor continues uninterrupted; and Shizuo finds it to be a depressing and heart-wrenching sound.
Outside the rain is beginning to pick up again; starting to thrum against the single large window pane next to the bed that Izaya occupied. The curtains are drawn open and he can see flooding water spread against the glass, thumping against the side of the building in an almost soothing manner. He can make out the tree's that lull in the distance; he recognizes it as the tiny park outside of the building, meant for patients with a permanent stay.
He briefly wonders if Izaya has ever gone out there.
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a lot of nothing to do
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It's just a small off-hand comment – a slight joke that isn't all that funny; and it ended like this. Shizuo is in a much more crabby and irritable mood than usual today, and he mentions by way passing that he was thinking about going to Shinjuku so he could beat out some frustration. Chasing down and murdering that flea is always something of a good stress reliever.
"And what – do you expect him to swing his IV at you?" Celty types out on her PDA, and Shizuo chews thoughtfully on the cigarette hanging between his lips.
He's leaning back against the kitchen counter that resides inside the apartment of his two best friends. He grunts out in response; thinks that she was making some joke that went over his head, and idly checks his cellphone. He digs his hands into his pockets to revive a more relaxed position.
Celty clicks her hand over the PDA in swift movements; stops, erases her previous message and types out a new one in afterthought. "...You mean you don't know?"
The question confuses Shizuo, but he immediately decides he doesn't really care all that much. "Know what?" He says back, huffing out a small cloud of tobacco. He thinks Shinra is taking too fucking long – they were all supposed to eat dinner together tonight, but the other male has yet to show up. He's really hungry and honestly feels like just ditching right here and now and heading down to Russia Sushi by himself.
The air grows a little bit tense; though, Shizuo doesn't fully realize it. He's not exactly sensitive to the emotions of others; always too much of a basket case himself to even be able to adapt to social analysis. He can tell, though, that Celty looks a bit awkward for a moment, before she shows him the screen again.
"Izaya has been in the hospital these past 2 months; it's why you haven't seen him. He's got a brainstem glioma – it's a tumor and it's cancerous."
Shizuo has to re-read the message a couple of times before he begins to process the information. Celty notices this and makes to clear the message; quickly typing out a new one to take it's place.
"He's dying."
He lifts a hand to touch at the cigarette between his lips by way of musing, and he glances down at that floor as he speaks; "How long does he have?" If you asked him now why exactly he even said that, he wouldn't be able to give you and answer; because he himself doesn't even know.
Celty's body looks a little bit less tense at his calm and instantaneous response; how she expected him to respond was the mystery. She clicks out a new message.
"A few weeks, at most."
There are papers littering the desk in the living room; and Shizuo wonders if they are all revolving around the subject of her birthright, and clues as to the location of her missing head. Smoke curls from his lips as he stares complacently at the small mess, and he gives a slight nod.
"Mm, that's too bad." He says, and removes the cigarette from his lips so he can grind it out in the ashtray that had been provided for him.
And here, fourty-five minutes later Shizuo finds himself back at his small, single apartment after having ditched Celty and Shinra on the idea of dinner. He's not hungry anymore, and he's not exactly sure why. Right now he may be rather calm and complacent, but after today he's not going to be able to sleep easy and he will continuously forget to eat. After today, he's not ever going to be the same - but he doesn't know that now; not yet.
He's sitting on the gritty dark brown carpet that decorates his living room floor, and there is a phone-book spread out before him. He flips through pages of hospitals and clinics, punching different numbers into his cell and his dialogue is on repeat.
"Yeah, hi..." he says; rehearsed. "I was wondering if you might have a patient by the name of Orihara, Izaya at your...ah... no... Yes, sir. Thank you."
He nods his head a little – already expecting the same response he's gotten several times before, and hits the 'end' button. He immediately skips down to the next hospital listed, and dials a new number. He reiterates the same words he'd spoken about fifteen times previous, only this time he gets a different response. He perks up a bit when the woman on the other line asks his relationship, to which Shizuo unthinkingly replies; "He's my brother."
Shizuo quickly jots the hospital's address onto the back of his hand in pen, adding in Izaya's room number at the bottom after the woman discloses the information to him. She wants to know why Shizuo had not visited him earlier because Orihara's been here for quite a while, and Shizuo snaps his phone shut without answering her. He tells himself he's only doing this as a way of conformation; and if he repeats that a few more times, he just might start to believe it a little more than he does now.
He glances at his watch, and tries to mentally calculate just how long it's going to take him to get there. It's going on eight o' clock, and if he leaves now he should make it to the hospital and have some time; visiting hours don't end until about ten, if he remembers correctly.
Shizuo tucks his phone back into his pocket and makes for the door; intent on starting his long walk towards Shinjuku. He considers getting a taxi, but he knows he doesn't have that kind of money to blow one something so overly expensive. He likes exercise, anyway.
It's a bit cold outside, and the cloud's hanging overhead emanate the impending rain that will likely come soon. Shizuo doesn't particularly care; but he does frown at the thought of ruining the uniform his brother had bought for him. Dry cleaning might be a forced option sometime in the future, he predicts. His pocket vibrates with a text, and he ignores it completely.
Passing by Russia Sushi, he can clearly see Celty and Shinra seated at the bar inside and he almost feels a bit guilty. Simon waves fliers at him, pressing for him to come inside and "eat delicious sushi", but Shizuo shakes his head and turns away from him.
He knows there was no offense taken, though he fully understands that there will likely be a small lecture of some kind later; something about being more sociable and polite. He digs out his cigarettes and lites himself a new one at that thought.
It will actually be several months before he ever steps foot inside Russia Sushi again. But he doesn't know that – not yet.
He's just a few minutes from the hospital when it starts pouring down rain and his mood instantly sours. It's already dark outside and all the street lights are like bright beacons through the hazy downpour. He has to step up on the side of the grass as he's walking towards the entrance of the hospital; and ambulance screeches past him in a hurry.
The automatic doors slide open at his approach, and once inside the cool air conditioned building, he shakes his head roughly like some kind of dog; sending water flipping every which way. The woman behind the desk gives him a scandalous look, but Shizuo doesn't blame her; doesn't take it to heart. He's going to have to buy new cigarettes after he leaves, he's certain the ones in his pocket are soggy and ruined. He wonders his is cellphone has taken any water damage; he doesn't have insurance on it.
"Hello..." He says, trying to be polite despite his sodden and scanty state of dress. "I need to check in. I'm here to visit Orihara, Izaya."
The woman behind the desk clears her throat but chooses not to say anything about his appearance. She hands him yellow slip of paper pinned to a clipboard, and he shows his I.D while she talks out something about behavioral process. Shizuo doesn't listen to a word of it and quickly signs his name before handing the clipboard back. The woman is still talking about something, and there is a rather haggard looking man pestering a nurse to his right.
Shizuo receives his visitors name tag, to which he halfheartedly slaps to his shirt without much thought. He has to glance down at his hand for moment; has to remind himself of Izaya's room number and he ignores the nurse as she points him in the correct direction. He'd rather figure it out for himself than have someone tell him.
The cool air is getting to him a bit, and he shivers lightly as he takes sloppy wet steps down the corridor. He has to take the elevator to the 3rd floor, but luckily he is alone the entire time. Patients and nurses give him odd looks as he passes by; and Shizuo thinks he must look something of a drowned dog to receive so much attention.
The numbers slowly start to count up and up until he's just a few rooms off from his correct destination. The door to room 338 is already ajar, and for some reason Shizuo expects his enemy of an Informant to jump out from the opening and laugh at him; pretend this was all some really bad joke and insult his sloppy looking appearance.
No such thing happens, however, but Shizuo still cautiously approaches in a slow manner. He places one hand on the door frame before turning to fully enter the room.
Izaya rest on the only hospital bed in the room; inclined so he can sit up comfortably. His head is turned away and he stares contemplatively out the large window pane near him; watching the rain flood the outside of the thick glass.
Feeling his breath catch, Shizuo can't tear his gaze away from the sight. A couple of small but heavy footsteps are all it takes gain the brunet's attention, and he calmly turns a bit to assess him without a hint of hostility or aggression.
Shizuo doesn't know who the occupant in the bed is – because he most certainly cannot fucking be the man he'd fought to kill for so long. The ashen pale skin and overly thin body could not house his enemy. Shizuo feels incredibly cheated and fooled.
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bad thoughts in my head
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"...Izaya?"
He doesn't know how long the two of them remain still; Shizuo himself staring wordless, whilst the brunet gives him a small, sad smile. There's nothing hostile or arrogant about Izaya's expression; he looks more raw than anything, but Shizuo still wants to punch him in the face – anything to bring back the cocky, biting smirk. It's that thought that leaves him the most confused.
He calms himself a little; still in a bit of a shocked state, but more numb now than anything else. Clears his throat for a moment as though he's feeling awkward all of a sudden, and there is a chair near Izaya's bed. Cautiously, Shizuo moves to take it, where he sits in silence, staring down at the pale blue and white bedding and trying his best to ignore the way the brunet is staring at him so intently.
"Celty... told me that you were here." Shizuo mutters; a small tool to break the tense silence that had fallen. The thumping of the rain against glass, and the beeping of Izaya's heart monitor weren't doing anything to make him feel more comfortable.
"I see." Izaya says softly; no hint of condescending sarcasm.
The brunet looks so thin and frail, and Shizuo can't help but run it through his head how painfully easy it would be to reach out and snap that pale neck. He doesn't think that Izaya will fight him on it – he doesn't look like he has much fight left in him, and Shizuo finds that to be a waste. He hates the bastard, sure, but he wouldn't deny the thrill he got from fighting him. It was always a great way to relinquish his anger and frustration; but not anymore, apparently.
Izaya lets out something of a small sigh, and tilts his face a little more so he can look at Shizuo properly. His cheek is pressed into the pillow behind his head, and he has one arm resting over his midsection while the other sets limply at his side. This is the most movement he has made since Shizuo arrived, and the blond keeps waiting for something to show this was all a prank. Still, it never comes.
Shizuo doesn't know how to react with this new – different version of Izaya. He's so used to hearing the brunet jabber on and on and on about nothing; shooting insults and barking out everything he knew would piss him off. Instead, Izaya is complacent and quiet and he acts like he is incredibly tired. Shizuo wonders if the doctors have him on painkillers or something; it certainly would explain a lot – but then again, that could just be him searching for an excuse to fool himself into believing a lie. Neither would surprise him.
Izaya blinks slowly, still staring at him with this sad little look before he speaks again; "...Why are you here?"
The question makes him feel odd and out-of-place, or some reason; but never-the-less, Shizuo raises his head to meet the brunet's look head on. He's about to fire an insult of some kind, but one look at that melancholic face makes the words die in his throat. Suddenly, he doesn't know the answer to such a simple question.
"I don't know." Shizuo says; and in all honesty, it really is the truth.
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TBC
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