He felt it, coursing through his veins like acid, hot, wet and sticky.
And burning.
It burned up inside him, boiling him from the inside out. Bile rose up in his throat, suffocating him, threatening to choke the very life out of him. But he knew that moment would never come. He'd grown accustomed to the heat, to the wave of emotion that overcame his entire being.
It was uncontrollable, the way he saw in glorious technicolour when everyone else was in greyscale. He couldn't stop how everything he felt was filled with an intensity that his body could barely handle, let alone contain.
He was a time bomb, threatening to explode at any second with no way to diffuse.
And it burned.
Adrenaline spread through him, pricking at his fingertips. His instincts became sharper; his senses heightened. His vision absorbed every single colour, the vivid brightness almost blinding. His shaded glasses only gave some relief, especially in the neon light of Ikebukuro.
It felt like fire in his veins, as if he was an inferno personified. He was a force of nature, wreaking havoc and destruction on the streets of Tokyo. He was a volcano that refused to stay dormant, every crack in his defences causing an eruption.
And sometimes people got hurt. A lot of the time it was people who deserved it, the people who deliberately sought violence and received it tenfold. But accidents happened. He tried not to dwell on that, ignoring the collateral damage for his own sake. It's not that he didn't care, in fact, it was the complete opposite. He was scared that if he thought about it for too long, the loathing and self-hatred might consume him. Tom rarely told him the real figures, of the hospital bills forwarded to the company and the compensation lawsuits conducted in secrecy.
But Izaya was the worst. Every smirk on that smug bastard's face triggered such hatred, his muscles moved almost involuntarily. The only way to quell his rage would be to wipe out his very existence, but he was resilient, his firm determination to stay alive making him seem more akin to a cockroach than human.
He despised him, the anger in his heart beating against his ribs.
The heat of his blood was burning.
It felt almost natural, breathing in the smoke from his cigarette. If his lungs were made of fire, then the ashes belonged in the flames. He'd exhale; the warmth in his body relenting for a second, the sensation almost as addictive as the nicotine.
Often, he felt as if his emotions would swallow him whole, but even if they were a curse, they were also his greatest weapon. His love for his brother was powerful, even deadly. The few friends he had, he'd protect with his life. From the bruises on his knuckles and the holes in the ground where signposts used to stand, his emotions were his strength, to the point that it became literal. He was guarded, not just because of the danger in Ikebukuro but because he couldn't risk feeling.
He'd learned to suppress his terror well, his fear that one day someone he cared for would get caught in the crossfire. But even so, it bubbled in the pit of his stomach, especially when Kasuka was involved. Izaya knew, and he deliberately used him to manipulate him, taking advantage of his biggest vulnerability.
The thought of life without his little brother tasted acrid on his tongue.
And it burned.
The taste of smoke and tobacco was the only alternative that overpowered it. He held another cigarette, ash imbedded under his fingernails from years of chain smoking. It was a miracle he was still alive, but his body refused to give up, defying the limitations of what was physically possible.
His rage was his determination, and his determination was his fire, coursing through his veins like acid.