A/N: Thank you so much for all of your support, guys! To have 30+ followers just on the first chapter is an extreme honor on my part.
Currently, I am halfway through my midterms, and everything is going well. I'll update as soon as possible, whenever I'm free!
The Second File:
"Until the Heavens Fell, Crashed, on Me"
"Shizuo?"
"Shinra." Grunt. "What is it?"
"Have you seen Izaya, these past few days?"
Shizuo wasn't sure if he heard that right. Kishitani Shinra, a man that practically knew well enough to publish a whole scientific document on 101 reasons why Shizuo abhorred Izaya, was questioning about the man's whereabouts? Out of all people, him?
Before the said bodyguard could provide the underground doctor with a reviling growl, Shinra spoke up once more.
"Of course, I am aware of the fact that you are definitely not on the Top 20 list of 'Civilians that will know Orihara Izaya's whereabouts' –"
"IF YOU ARE FUCKING AWARE OF THAT –"
"But that doesn't mean I can't ask you about the topic. In fact, I have already inquired many others before reaching out to you, and I am dead serious. I value my new wed life, Shizuo, trust me."
Shizuo pinched the bridge of his nose and took off his sunglasses, before he recomposed his flaring mind. "Alright." He exhaled a forced breath. "I don't know where that fucking flea is." He said matter-of-factly, mentally coaxing his inner infuriation.
"I see." The Kishitani answered thankfully on the other line. "I was just wondering, since Izaya hasn't been heard or seen around Ikebukuro for the past 4 days or so. The last time I met him, he was a little shaky – so I was deducing that he could be ill. If you do not know, however, I suppose I'll stop asking around as well."
"Ill?" Shizuo snorted, shoving his free hand in his pocket. "Right, ill. I hope he fucking dies or something." Pulling out a damp cigarette, he shifted the position of his phone and placed it between his shoulder and neck, yanking his lighter out and moved it so that the flickering flame burned on the gray tobacco.
Shinra laughed a little on the other end, and hung up. The beast crinkled his nose and released a puff of smoke through the thin gap between his lips. "Bleh." The taste of charbroiled paper engulfed the surface of his tongue. In truth, Heiwajima Shizuo was not a smoker. No, he was – he just didn't enjoy it. Smoking was for the sake of replacing a bitter taste with another bitter taste. Kind of like how depressed people say they cut to replace their emotional pain with another type of pain.
Said bitter taste was Orihara Izaya.
Shitty louse. He grumbled in his thoughts, as he roamed through the vacant alleys of Ikebukuro. It was true that Izaya hadn't been in the city nowadays. He used to come between every three days or so, for various reasons. Not like any of them was Shizuo's business.
A sound that resembled one of a horse echoed throughout the alleyway, and the blonde turned around to see his friend, Celty Sturluson – also known as the underground doctor's wife.
"Oh, Celty." He greeted, this time with much more amiable mannerisms than how he treated his colleague from high school. "How's it going?"
[Good. You? You seem pretty annoyed, is something wrong?]
"Nah, just… yeah, nothing." He shrugged, and the cat-shaped helmet tilted to the side.
[Well, okay. And by the way, have you seen the groups of black that have been dotting the streets nowadays?]
Shizuo frowned in confusion. "Black? Is it a new color gang? As if we don't have enough of those."
Celty, on the other hand, had smoke floating out of the slim spaces of her helmet. [I don't know. But no, I don't think they are a color gang. They looked more… that's right, yakuza-like. Like the Awakusu-kai we have here.]
"Yakuza… huh. Well, I don't care as long as they don't interfere with my work life." He scanned the dullahan for a while, and then spoke up once more. "Are you on another courier job or something?"
She typed away at her answer. [Yeah. It's an easy job, though. Shouldn't take very long, if the traffic police doesn't chase me again.]
With that, she gave him a curt nod and drove off silently. A group of black… He rolled his eyes. Blue, yellow, colorless, and now black? What was next? The fucking rainbow? He stepped out towards the wider streets, and looked up. Very well, there were a few men in black suits every other corner, with an omniscient vibe that reminded him of… Shiki Haruya? Was that the executive's name? He couldn't remember.
"Hey." He felt a light tap on his shoulder. When Shizuo turned around, he saw a man with a cut sliding down his left eye, as an old, vertical scar. His hair was a shade of dirty brown, and his dark orbs held malice – and a somewhat sinful background.
The fortissimo of Ikebukuro raised a brow. "Huh?"
His smile curling up in a thin line, the man put both hands in his pocket. "I was wondering if you could deliver a package for me."
"You can go to the crappy post office for that." Growling, the blonde spat his cigarette on the pile of sand that was placed on top of the rubbish bin.
"That was my initial plan, but unfortunately I don't know the address of my... fellow friend." It seemed quite obvious that this addressed person was not a fellow friend. "I asked people around, but they all either: avoided me, or claimed that they did not know as well. I thought I could test my luck by asking you." He now had a small, square cardboard box in his hand.
Heiwajima Shizuo considered this. He had nothing to do. He was free. Therefore, it wasn't like he had any particular reason of why to refuse this offer only if knew where the person's house was. It was just that he didn't like the overall appearance of this man in general. "… What's their name?"
The latter's mouth moved to form the first syllable. "Orihara Izaya."
Fuck no.
"No thanks." Shizuo grunted, taking a sharp turn to his right, trying to cross the road.
"Wait, wait." The man grabbed his arm, and something about his snaky grasp crept Shizuo out. It was rather comical, because strength-wise, the blonde had to be stronger. "Of course, I wouldn't ask you to do this without an adequate payment. I'll give you ten thousand. How does that sound?"
Ten thousand yen for a shitty package? The blonde stood there, in a heated debate within himself. Fuck, that's a pretty good deal. He would've gone there 100 times if only it weren't Orihara Izaya.
But then again, he thought to himself, there isn't much to lose. I can just drop it off in the mailbox, or place it in front of his door. Yes, Heiwajima Shizuo, prove that there are many other ways to deliver something rather than killing that person. Get the money, do your job. "Fine." He made up his mind, and outstretched his hand for the cash that was soon placed finely into his palm.
"Oh, by the way," The man called out before Shizuo departed with the package, "tell Orihara my name. It's Goshiki. Goshiki Masamune."
"I'm not good with names, so I can't guarantee that." Answered the blonde, as he casually walked off with the box in his hand.
If only, he knew then.
Orihara Izaya had locked away the whole world from his lone apartment for approximately four days.
Maybe five.
Nah, three?
Bleh, who cares.
He got a new mail every single day, from the exact same person that he couldn't track down. It was funny, because he knew who the sender was. He knew all too well.
I thought I finally escaped their radar… Clutching his soft futon, Izaya curled into the bed. I guess nine years was the limit. Then he buried his head in his pillow. He didn't remember the last time he drank, or ate. His lips felt dry and sore but he wasn't thirsty. His whole body felt weak and sick but he wasn't hungry. In fact, he wanted to do anything but eating and drinking.
He told Namie to take a break from her secretary work. She had been dubious about his intentions, but he couldn't give any more shits. He needed to be alone – that was the only way he would ever feel secure.
Cold… his teeth clattered dangerously together, begging for warmth. Pulling his blankets closer to him, Izaya checked if the air conditioner was on. It wasn't. Damn it… Dragging his heavy body across the room, the pale man wrapped at least two blankets around his shivering figure and tiptoed down his staircase. Every step pained him. Every living second agonized him. He hated it.
The kitchen felt dusty. Probably because he hadn't used it for the past week, ever since Namie was dismissed. Grabbing a mug from the top left cupboard, Izaya brewed a hot cup of bitter coffee, and waited as he sat on the couch with his legs folded up towards his chest.
Ping!
The screen of his phone blinked, and Izaya stared at it, while not picking it up.
[You have 1 new mail.]
His fingers instinctively coiled, and his legs involuntarily flinched. His skin felt prickly, as cold sweat started to form on his forehead. He didn't want to check the new mail. He really didn't.
But he did anyway.
[We sent someone after you.]
Gritting his teeth, Izaya hurled his phone across the room as it hit the chandelier on the ceiling. Fake diamonds clanked on the floor, as the device dropped with a light thunk, the screen evidently shattered as a few glass shards scattered over the expensive marble.
Why am I cowering over something so trivial like this? Izaya muttered under his breath, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. He loathed this situation. The fact that he was bending over in fear, over something that should've already been over with, done with, eternally terminated for, and just… gone.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Faintly, he could hear footsteps.
Tap…
Tap…
Tap…
The closer it got, the more his back arched. His breathing hitched a little, as Izaya tried to console himself, mumbling that this was just a fucking dream, it was a shitty postman that came to deliver something, or maybe a newspaper boy? Seriously, he didn't care. Only if… only if it wasn't-
"Whatever." Izaya tossed his layers of blankets to the side, and trudged towards his doorway. He could care less. He wasn't going to behave like a fucking wench and hide away when he was going to be discovered sooner or later anyway.
He was going to get this over with.
Placing his right hand on the brazen doorknob, the sound of liquid against his kettle was heard from the kitchen. Twisting his lips to the corner, he rotated the knob and inhaled a deep breath and sunlight entered the secluded flat.
The person he saw there was someone he wasn't expecting at all.
"Shizu…chan?" He mumbled in disbelief – although Shizuo looked miserable. "What is a protozoan like you doing here? All the way in Shinjuku, too…" Orihara Izaya was not in the mood to play around or jeer at this former bartender guy. In fact, he wasn't in the mood to do anything.
Wordlessly (although his expression said much more than a thousand cusses), the bespectacled male handed him a box. It was small, and square. Izaya just stared at it, and then formed a puzzled look. "Isn't it too early for Christmas?"
"Oh my god, fuck you." Shizuo exclaimed, throwing his arms up exasperatedly into the air. "I was asked to deliver this to you." Izaya, at first, stole a terse glimpse at the blonde, and then gradually reached out for the cardboard box outstretched in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around the corners, as Shizuo continued. "It was from a guy named… Ugh, this is why I told him that I was terrible with names. Gozamune Shikimasa. Gomasa Shikimune." A threatening chill rushed down Izaya's spine. "Right, Goshiki Masamune."
He could feel blood wiped out from his face. He felt cold. Colder than ever. In fact, he believed that it couldn't get any colder than this. It was so cold that he felt numb. Everything felt numb. Gazing down at the box in terror, Izaya bit the inside of his cheek as his nails dug into the hard paper.
"Anyway, my business is done here, so I'll –"
Izaya cut him off, "Shizu-chan, you didn't peek at the contents or anything, did you?"
"Hah?" Shizuo's volume amplified, in order to prove his point. "As if! The deal was just appealing, and so I took it. That guy literally just told me to deliver this and nothing else, so therefore my job is done. Good- no, bad bye."
Just when he was about to step away from the door, something gurgling and hissing like a wild animal was heard from inside.
"Shit." Izaya cursed, as he trashed the package to the side and dashed to the kitchen. He had spent too much time, and completely forgot about the kettle.
Hot coffee was spilled in smoking bubbles around the counter, and the male groaned. He was in luck that he didn't have a carpet in the kitchen or something. Trying to reach for the paper towels that were on the other side, his foot came in contact with the boiling hot liquid that was sizzling quietly on the marble floor.
Hissing in pain, the male stumbled over the floor, the world spiraled as he saw his swinging chandelier, and-
"What the fuck do you think you are doing, louse?"
When he cracked open his tightly shut eyelids, his view was blurred, and all he could interpret of the situation was a blotch of blonde, black, and white. But then his eyesight cleared, and he could see Heiwajima Shizuo's more than unsatisfied scowl looming over his face, as his strong, powerful arms that used to punch him and break his bones now supported Izaya's fragile frame.
The raven-haired informant almost gagged as he processed this ghastly position he had been placed in. "Just let me fall. Let me forget that I was saved bridal-style in your arms and let me hit the floor like I was supposed to."
He smirked deviously – god, damn it he was enjoying this. "No."
"Fuck you."
Staggering up to stand properly again, Izaya grabbed the handle of his drawers, and examined the complete mess that had been made around the vicinity. Maybe he should've just asked Namie to come, starting today.
For some odd reason, Shizuo helped clean up the cooled coffee on the floor, wetting the paper towels as he wiped the marble shiny again. Maybe it was just out of some sense of OCD, or as basic hospitality of a normal human being. But the second point couldn't be true, as Shizuo was not a normal human being in Izaya's personal encyclopedia.
In silence, the blonde remained still on the table after they were done. Izaya didn't complain or made any lunatic comment on his idiocy, either. An unknown element was keeping both of them inclined neither to speak, nor move.
Izaya then caught sight of the package that was lying near the doorway, when he last trashed it while running to the kitchen. He stood and picked it up, facing his back towards Shizuo, not wanting the blonde to see it. No, he couldn't afford to have the blonde see it, out of people.
Inside, there was a note.
There was also a photo.
[Save me]
The letters were written in blood – the originally crimson substance was now a maroon-brown, dried up and crisp on the paper. Izaya seethed, overwhelmed with sensation of resentment.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
He didn't even look at the photo – for he already knew what it was. Instead, he tore it up, and threw the whole thing into the rubbish bin without a nanosecond of hesitation. Shizuo just stared at this raging feat, not saying anything.
"… Just leave already, Shizu-chan."
He didn't. Fuck.
"You're not yourself today."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." God, that was a cliché line, he thought. "I'm just taking a short break from work, Shizu-chan. Stress has been getting to my body nowadays."
Witnessing his unconvinced face didn't boost my self-confidence. He was so much better at lying – so why was he falling apart with his act, right now, out of all times? It was annoying. It was so, fucking, annoying.
But then again, he contemplated about this matter in a very circumspect manner. Putting all personal emotions aside, Heiwajima Shizuo was a strong man. It wasn't that Izaya was weak – Izaya was also strong. He didn't get the honorable mention as Heiwajima Shizuo's rival for nothing. But their strengths were different, and unfortunately for Izaya, his strength did not lie in the physical category too much.
He needed Shizuo.
There was nobody else.
Only…
"Shizu-chan." He began, his breath shallow and his tone deep. "I need your help."
The blonde looked back at him in utter skepticism. "You need my what?"
I am not saying this.
I am definitely not going to say this.
I shouldn't be saying this in the first place.
I shouldn't…
I wouldn't…
Fuck you, pride.
"Protect me. Please."