Random Loop

by yuki013

A collection of stories from rating K to M about Izaya and Shizuo's relationship. "So, Shizu-chan. Who is the beast between us?" "It's obviously you, damned flea. I don't go around playing with peolpe's lives." "But I do love people! Except you, sorry"

2. 2 shattered

#2 – shattered
25 years old

Outside, rain was quietly falling on city's sidewalks. The wet Tokyo looked like another world, a more obscure universe where no one can stay alone by himself.
Shizuo gazed at Izaya's naked back, asleep in his bed, that was unmade and impregnated of Konbini sake scent, of his cigarettes, of their sweat. He followed with his eyes the column, from the nape to the hips, where the bones went up a bit and rejoined his lower back's furrow.
He preferred him when he was quiet, that's all.
A lightning brightened the room among the thin cracks of the shutters, giving to that skin an ethereal aura. Shizuo could count in a moment all the scars that Izaya had on his body – who has made them and why, he never asked him, neither the other one seemed intentioned to let him know it.
He just knew they were there, solitary monuments of lost battles.
He touched gently one of them on the right hip, following the vague outlines. He felt Izaya vibrate, and raised the pressure on that point.
Izaya suddenly lifted the face from the pillow, looking at him with wide open eyes. And Shizuo had quite a turn finding out that he was about to cry.
«Ah. It's you. Don't you sleep?», he asked trying to wear his usually mask again.
«I can't, with all this noise.», tried to justify the other one.
«Mh», was the only sound that he received back, before Izaya turned on the other side curling up in fetal position, like a child.
Shizuo could still see his shoulders trembling.
He closed his eyes and went back under the blankets, pulling him to himself.
«What's wrong?»
«Sleep, flea.»

While the rain was slipping on the roofs, washing away the grime and the mold from the gutters, Izaya was asking himself if it could ever wash his body from the sickly feeling of violent hands on him, inside of him, of pretended and never-asked kisses.
Of kind, secure hands whom hurt him, too much.
But those ones, then, were replace with hard and suffocating hands, but which are like one of those summer storms of mid-August: beautiful, short, fresh and reassuring in summer's hotness.
Those hands are exactly like storms: fleeting, but still necessary.