I don't know if Izaya's office is also part of his apartment, but in this fic it is~ Prepare for a somewhat human Izaya (Impossible, I know)


Two months. It's been two months, almost three now, but who was counting? Two months, eight weeks, sixty days, one thousand, four hundred sixty one point seven hours, and five billion two thousand fifty nine four hundred eighty three seconds, but who's counting? Certainly not Izaya. Each moment drags on painfully slow, and Izaya finds himself worrying about certain protozoan more often than his pride will let him admit.

The informant knows that two-three months isn't all that long and it could go on for who knows how long. He tells himself that he'd better get used to it, because it was going to be a long wait. He'll adapt, and he'll survive, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

Tomorrow will be the three month mark, now that he thinks about it (like he wasn't thinking about it already) October will plunge into November, and the temperature will drop with it. He hopes that the change will come smoothly, one month slowly merging into the next, lapsing closer into the end of the year in a quiet conclusion. But if anything, his life has been far from quiet, that fact was certain. It shifted unexpectedly, tipping the scale and throwing everyone off.

Although Izaya like to say he was in charge of everything that happened in Ikebukuro, (because he was, for the most part) Even Izaya himself was no match for life's curveballs.

He just as shaken as the next when something traumatic happens, but the difference between him and those humans, was very simple. He could regain his balance faster than he should and so, making it seem like it was all part of his plot. But those times were rare.

The chances were like one in a million… like the chances of him winning the lottery… or of freezing to death in an foot of snow… or getting struck by lightning mere seconds before letting a stop sign projectile become airborne…

No. He wouldn't-couldn't-shouldn't think of that. He would stop thinking about that brute, it was unhealthy.

But his point was, the chances were slim if you were prepared for it. He would freeze in a foot of snow if he wasn't prepared; but that would never happen because Izaya is always prepared. It was a fact. It was as reliable as the fact that the sun would rise and the rain would fall and the stars would shine.

It was as proven as the fact that a certain protozoan was laying comatose as he blabbed on about meaningless topics.

There. He said it. Shizuo (his chest felt strange when he said his name, so he's been avoiding it) is dead to the world, lying in a hospital bed, and no one was quite sure when (if) he would wake up.

He was one lucky monster, that was for sure, a man of less would have died, but Shizuo had always been full of surprises. (Why past tense?) He got off with a coma, but the extent of the damage was unknown, or so Shinra says. (He lies)

He hasn't visited Shizuo. (Why did it hurt so much?) That's not what enemies do. He was kept informed by Shinra, and occasionally Celty, but there wasn't much to say. He doesn't know if they're telling him the whole truth, but that is to be expected when you work in Izaya's line of business.

He didn't know why they kept telling him about the brute, it wasn't like he cared and it wasn't like anything would change. He had found his days to become quite boring, the results of "the accident", as people were now calling it.

There was a yawning gap in his day where Shizuo had claimed. The informant would suddenly find himself with absolutely nothing to do. It is then; he tells himself, that he would have spent leading a certain monster around his city.

He spends it drinking his tea, but how much tea will he drink before he decides that he's had enough?

And all of a sudden, Izaya's view on Ikebukuro changed. Although he hated to admit it, life was becoming a tad boring, dare he say it. Things were settling down, it reminded him of ripples in a pond, calming after a minor disturbance. Life's hiccups were small, barely worthy of his attention.

He had jobs to do of course, and he did them, but his skill in information gathering was lacking a smidge, but he pretended not to notice. He knew that he could call Shiki any time that he wanted a new assignment, but his boss had made it perfectly clear that Izaya needed to sort himself out first and call him back when he was focused and ready to do his job.

But really, Izaya was getting a little more than sick of all of it. Jobs were still coming in of course, but how many times can you research a husband cheating on his wife before it loses interest?

How many times can you talk to the same four people online before the conversations begin to merge?

How many times can you walk around the city before the views become natural?

How much Russian sushi can you eat until it all tastes the same?

How long will Shizuo stay in his coma before it seems like he never existed?

How long will it take him to forget?

How long was he going to sit around before he finally works up the nerve to visit the brute?

How long will it take him to stop thinking about him?

Izaya rubbed his temples, where a headache was forming. He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. It tasted sour in his mouth and left a bitter aftertaste that made his stomach churn with discontent.

He absentmindedly took another sip, spinning his chair so he could look out his window with ease. He was in his office area, filling himself up with tart tea and too much honey.

He had no desire to go outside, not anymore. There was nothing to do, And Izaya needed to give himself a job, before he started thinking too much. Because when he started thinking, his thoughts always ended up with Shizuo, and that was something he could not afford to do.

The informant glanced at his papers; everything was orderly and neat, just like how he left it. He tried to think of something he could do, but there was only so much cleaning his apartment required. He had nothing to do and it was only one o'clock. Seems business was slow today.

It wasn't that there was no one's business for him to stick his nose into, it's just that there's only so much you can discover about a person before their habits and patterns become boring. There's only so much you can get to know about a person before the faces blend together and they all are the same.

He chuckled dryly at nothing in particular, smirking as he lethargically heaved himself up out of his chair. He set his tea on his desk and stretched, the popping of his joints echoing through his vacant apartment.

He shuffled into his compact kitchen, pouring the remainder of his tea down the sink, watching it swirl away in a mix a bland russet liquid, speckled with tiny clumps of herbs. His smirk quickly faded as he watched it disappear, he set the cup down and ran his hand through his hair.

He closed his eyes, and listened to the loud silence, a tad emptier now that he had repaired the leaky faucet a week ago. And though he would never admit it… he was feeling a bit lonely. But no, Izaya doesn't know emotions; he cannot feel empty or sad. It can't happen. So what was this?

Namie hadn't come around today; he was fine with that, because there wasn't much for her to do anyway. She had taken a "vacation" (Basically her telling him to call her when business picked up, she'd rather be elsewhere) Of course she hadn't worded it so nicely, but that was a given when you were as grumpy as Namie always seemed to be.

Izaya didn't like the lack of noise in his apartment. There was a growing list of things he didn't like, things that hadn't bothered him before, like thunderstorms, for instance. The thunder was fine, and the rain he could handle, but lightning was something that reminded him of something else.

Someone he had promised himself that he would stop thinking about. Someone who was sleeping his way into his third month since the accident.

Sometimes when he felt that he needed the noise, he would turn the TV on as loud as it would go. It would thin the smothering silence a little bit, but it didn't make Izaya feel any better.

Of course, no one really knows just how much he thinks of Shizuo, because if they did, his reputation that he had worked so hard to build might come crumbling down, and he can't have that.

It's a little pitiful, how easily his humans believe in the mask he puts up and accepts his cocky façade. But that's what he wants, so why was he complaining? Why was he thinking like this? Damn Shizuo and his coma for making him all soft like this. It's disgusting.

He sits back down in his chair, and gazed out into the early pastel sky. He remembered how the days after the accident had been so serene, like today. He remembered how he spent every minute he could spare cursing it (Why couldn't the weather be nice like this yesterday?)

He remembered all the attention he had been getting, it was still buzzing around the streets. He was sick of it. Some variations of the truth were so wild that it was all he could do not to strangle the people. Gosh, humans and their gossip. Why can't they just leave him alone?

Eventually society got the point, right after he shattered that man's jaw ("Is it true that you saved Shizuo!" He squirmed just remembering it. Ugh.) He never was one for physical violence (That was Shizuo's thing) so he surprised everyone, including himself with that move.

So the only improvement was that no one asked him about it verbally, taking the hint that he didn't want to talk about it. But they asked him with their actions, he could see the question lingering in their eyes and the way they kept shifting from foot to foot told him all he needed to know.

He can hear the questions on the back of their tongues, so dangerously close from spilling out into the air and pushing him over the edge. Yes, Izaya was dancing on the edge of a razor blade, and Shizuo was a touchy subject.

At first, he was indifferent. That stage didn't last as long as he might have wanted, but what can he do? It was mostly shock, but once it was over, then came anger.

The informant is known for keeping an iron grip on his emotions, but behind closed doors he is as human as the rest of them. He doesn't dwell on that fact though. It was usually a few minutes of rageragerage and then calm once more.

He was angry at nature for taking Shizuo and placing him in a spiritual dead zone where even Izaya could not reach him.

He was angry at Shizuo for taking so damn long to wake up. (Why won't he wake up already?)

He was angry at society for not minding their own business (Which is quite ironic, considering his line of business)

He was angry at his humans for going on with their lives when Shizuo was in a fucking coma.

But above all he was angry at himself, so bitter and frustrated and all jumbled up that he didn't know what to do. Sometimes it made him want to scream. But no one would understand. No one. Ever. They can all try to be sympathetic, but in the end, it's never sincere.

Why did they have to be out that day? Why did Izaya have to tease the brute, lead him on, knowing that it would set him off?

Why couldn't he ignore him and just go home that one day? Just one! But no, he had to provoke Shizuo and lead him straight into the heart of the storm. (For all the genius he was worth, he couldn't see that coming?) Why does he care so much? Why can't he just forget about it and go on with his life? What was wrong with him? All these questions and no answers.

And every time he looked down on the bustling streets of his city he is reminded that something's missing, one piece of the puzzle that would send the whole project to pieces without it. Up on his perch, untouchable, keen to the city as it breathes. He feels like he can see everything, but now he knows he can't. It was no good.

You can't have one shard missing from a mosaic, one speck of paint, the fine line between an ordinary piece of art and a masterpiece.


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