After sitting in silence for almost fifteen minutes, Namie reenters the room with two cups of tea. She sets them both on the table in front of the 'guests' before taking her own seat on the love seat adjacent from them. Shizuo lifts the cup to his lips and takes a tiny sip, marveling at the bitter taste the sweeps over his tongue and down his throat. It wasn't the cheap tea he was used to buying. This had to be brand name stuff; he could tell from the taste. Celty doesn't touch her cup. Instead she folds her hands in her lap and turns to Namie, waiting for the woman to start explaining to them. Quite eager, wasn't she?

"You goin' to explain or what?" Shizuo asks, setting his cup down on the coffee table in front of him. Namie rubs the palms of her hands together in her lap, and her eyes flicker around the room before they land on Shizuo's own. She lets out a breathy sigh.

"Izaya's going through a lot right now." She says.

"Karma," Shizuo immediately whispers under his breath; which deserves a slap to his head from Celty. He scowls and sinks back into the cushions of the couch. After a moment of silence (which both the females stare at Shizuo angrily for interrupting), Celty nods for Namie to continue.

"Two weeks ago Izaya got news that his family had got into a car accident."

Both Shizuo and Celty physically tense.

"..What happen?" Shizuo asks, his usual raspy and loud voice was softened—sounding almost timid.

"His sisters, Mairu and Kururi, and his mother suffered severe injuries and burns to their bodies." Namie stands and moves around the table, continue to speak as she heads towards Izaya's desk. "Two days after the crash Izaya's dad came over and he brought these." After scuffling through one of Izaya's desk drawers for a moment, Namie heads back to the duo and drops a stack of pictures on the table.

Shizuo's eyes widened when he sees the first picture, and he almost starts heaving right then and there. The first picture is a smaller body; he can tell it's one of the twins but he's not sure which one because body parts are literally missing from the figure and their skin is burnt everywhere. There's no hair, no cloths, no nothing. All that he can see is the scorched red color of brunt skin and the muscles peeking through the bits of skin that are left.

Celty holds a hand up to her helmet (where her mouth would be if she had one) in shock. She reaches forward and slides the first picture out of the way to reveal the second picture. And at the sight of another dead corpse Shizuo stands and steps away from the table. His hands clutch at the front of his shirt as he tries to even out his breathing—trying to resist the urge to throw up.

"S-Shit.." He stammers.

Namie watches Shizuo for a minute, before she continues speaking.

"Izaya's father wanted Izaya to plan the whole funeral; but Izaya refused. His father got angry and left after saying some insulting things to him, like telling him that he was out of his mind or something like that."

"…Ha.. haha... Out of his mind." Shizuo couldn't help the dark chuckles that emerged.

"If a father shows his son dead pictures of his family, then.. who's the one out of his mind?"

It was fucked up. It was wrong. No father should ever do that to their son; no matter how fucked up their child may be; no matter what their child did—no one deserved that.

Nicotine. That was the only thing that could calm Shizuo's nerves right now.

Lifting his hand, in a waving gestured, Shizuo mumbled "Smoke," before he quickly made his way out of the complex. He couldn't hear any more of that shit. He wouldn't—couldn't see anymore. It was sick, and it made him nauseous.

Plucking a cigarette from the pack in the front pocket of his vest, Shizuo dug through the pockets of his trousers for his lighter. After fumbling with it for a few seconds, Shizuo growls and finally lights the stick. He breathes in that sweet nicotine, letting it settle in his lungs for a moment before letting in out through his nose. He leans against the side of Izaya's apartment, letting his lids fall shut and enjoy the nicotine running through his veins.

He didn't know what to think. This was too much to take in at once.

He hated the flea. And he would always hate him. But that didn't mean that he could not feel bad for the man. Izaya did lose most of his family after all. Shizuo does not know what Izaya's feeling, and he cannot even begin to imagine. …But what if that had been Kasuka who died? Would it be the same for him losing his brother as Izaya losing his sisters and mom? How would he take it? How would he feel?

Shizuo lips tighten on his cigarette, smashing the stick between his teeth and grinding them together.


It may be a surprise to some, but this was the first funeral Izaya Orihara has ever attended. Though he had thought going to a funeral to watch how a person reacted to a loved one passing would be interesting—exciting to see his humans mourn over someone who is no longer in this world—that just wasn't the case today. Sure. He found it strange how the people who barely knew his sisters and his mother were crying the hardest; and how his dad greeted everyone with a gleeful smile and a bow, when Izaya knew he was the one hurting the most out of everyone; or how people were already starting to ingest alcohol, like this was some type of social get-together. This was a funeral, not a party.

Izaya excused himself from the circle of people he was currently standing with and snuck over to the front of the room where the photos of the deceased sat on top of a large table, unlit candles surrounding the three frames. He stopped in front and let his vermillion eyes scan the three pictures—taking in the features of the twins and his mother; engraving them into his mind so he would never forget them.

"It's around now that someone would drop to their knees and whisper a pray to god or something like that, isn't it?" Izaya chuckled. "Even I, as an atheist, had the sudden urge to pray to you guys but I know you would never hear me." He continued. Slowly, he reached a hand forth to run his index along the top his mothers picture frame. "I mean—if you could hear me—I'd probably say something like I really miss you guys," Izaya paused, dropping his hand back to his side and lowering his eyes to the floor. He stared down at the stained red carpet, willing those awful tears to stay down—just stay down until he was alone. "..and that I wish I could take back all the things I did to you guys... and I really wish that you would forgive me."

A hand settled on his shoulder and Izaya jumped at the contact, and he peered over his shoulder at the new comer. His aunt smiled sadly back at him.

"Don't be too hard o' yourself," She said, her fingers massaging his shoulder lightly—comforting. "I'm sure none o' 'em hated ya. Ya are their family after all, an' ya were there for 'em when they needed ya."

All Izaya could do to reply is nod and mutter a quiet "Thank you." For once Izaya felt like he was at a loss of words, like he was not in control.

"I always liked ya the most." She continued with a small laugh, and released Izaya's shoulder to step next to him and let her hazel eyes switch from picture to picture, just like Izaya was doing not too long ago.

Izaya mocks a gasp of astonishment. "What a surprise! usually the adults think I was a horrible child. A child who didn't care about his parents and always played pranks."

"Isn't that th' best kind o' child?"

Izaya glances at her from the corners of his eyes, watching as her expression softens and she gazes over at the picture frames. Her eyes are glossy, but there are no tears. He can tell she's trying to hold it in; she's trying to be strong like him.

"If you're in to that kind of thing, I guess."

"Wholehearted an' free; never worryin' about what's goin' on around 'em… That's the type o' child I wish I had." She says, continuing to small sadly.

Izaya doesn't quite understand; but he still runs his palm in soothing circles along her back, and lets her cry on his shoulder when she can't stand looking at the picture of her dead sister any longer.

The funeral went on, Izaya mostly keeping to himself or comforting the few family members he knew there. He stuck around his aunt and her husband most of the night; seeing as those two were the only people who didn't seem to be completely out of their minds or bailing the whole funeral. Instead, they chatted about the good times, told him a lot of things he didn't even know about his mother; and a lot of things she did as a child. It made him smile.

But soon enough it was time for people to pack up and leave, many people were going to his aunt's house, for an aftermath sort of thing—but he guessed it was more of a party, where people would get drunk and cry even more than they had at the funeral, because alcohol tended to make people emotional. Izaya refused with a polite smile, telling them that he was going to stay after and help clean up the place with his father.

Neither Izaya nor his father spoke as they cleaned; neither even looked at each other. It was as if they were nonexistent to one another.

It was a battle. They were both refusing to give in and show that he was weaker—that he was wrong and it was his duty to apologize.

But they were family—

And family was not supposed to be like this. Family was not supposed to blame one another and push each other way.

"Dad," Izaya stops gathering garbage to look at his father. He almost winced at how high-pitched his voice sounded to his own ears. After a moment of silence, where Izaya's dad continues picking up abandoned cups, Izaya guesses that his father is refusing to take notice of him. He clears his throat before he continues.

"I'm sorry for what happen the other day."

His dad stops gathering cups and turns his upper body to look at his son, before he gives a nonchalant shrug and turns back to what he was doing.

Izaya frowns. That's it?

He didn't even know if his apology was accepted or not, old bastard.

"..So?" Izaya inquires.

"So what?" His father grunts.

"You don't have anything to say?"

His father stops what he's doing once again. Without turning to face Izaya, he groans and rubs his temples. "What do you want me to say?"

"I'm not going to tell you what to say." The brunet sighs, tying the top of his garbage bag and lifting it over his shoulder. "When you have yourself pulled together: call me. I'm done cleaning up."

He walks (more like jogs) right out of the funeral home, with the garbage bag over his shoulder hitting him in the back with every leap he takes. For a moment—just a moment—he thinks his father calls out to him, and that maybe he should stop and see what he has to say. But his mind doubts this is true; doubts that his douche bag of a father is actually worried about him and wants to apologize. Hah. If his dad had something to say, Izaya knew it was going to be something insulting.

The brunet stopped momentarily to throw the garbage bag in a bin; then turns and draws in a great breath of air before he blots down the street, running as fast as his lanky legs could take him.

If it was one thing Izaya loved more than his job—it was running.

It was the one thing that could clear his mind; keep him at ease. Because he knew, when he was running, nothing could get him, no one could keep up with him, and no one could catch him.

He loved the feeling of the air swishing around his body. He loved the burn in his lungs and ribs when he had been running for too long. He loved running until he legs felt tingly and numb, until they couldn't take him any further.


When Namie got done explaining details to Celty, the headless rider bowed to the assistant, thanked her for filling them in on the situation, and made her way outside to find Shizuo. A single drop of water hit the top of her helmet as she stepped outside. Celty tilted her helmet to the sky, and her shoulders drooped when several others made contact with her black helmet. She drew out her phone to tell Shizuo that they'd better head home right now if they wanted to avoid the rain—and then stopped, standing in silence as she took in the Shizuo-less surroundings. Truthfully, she was not surprised that debt-collector was not outside waiting for her. She waved it off, guessing Shizuo's anger got to him again and probably stomped himself home.

About fifty percent of that hypothesis was actually correct, since Shizuo did stomped away out of anger but he didn't stomp home. He didn't know where he was going exactly; but somewhere in the back of his mind Shizuo was hoping he would run into Izaya. For once.

It was idiotic—he knew it was. And it was so unlike him. But he felt like he was cursed; like something was willing his body to find Izaya—willing him to apologize to him, and maybe ask how he was doing and if he was alright.

How he was expecting to find Izaya when he didn't know where the funeral was being held or when it was ending?

Shizuo asked himself the same question a million times.

Shizuo lit another cigarette as he strode down the sidewalks of Shinjuku, taking in the unfamiliar details of every complex, building, and small shop. The sky had started to darken a while ago, and it had started drizzling just after Shizuo's departure from Izaya's apartment. Small rain drops stained Shizuo vest and shirt with small, wet dots. Through blue lenses he watched as citizens scattered, quickly trying to run or bike home before the rain could become more labored. Many people were crowded around the crosswalk in front of him, anxiously waiting for the light to change so they can cross.

Shizuo resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's only water.

He stops behind the crowd of people, pulling the cigarette from between his lips to let of a puff of smoke. When the light finally turns people begin rushing across the street, pushing past one another rudely. With narrowed eyes, Shizuo settles the cancer stick between his lips once more, before he slowly following after the crowd, taking his time.

And that's when he notices him.

On the sidewalk diagonal from his, he spots the fur-trimmed coat and the brown spiky and now slightly damp tresses. And he was… running. Why on earth was he running?

Shizuo quickly presses people aside to make his way towards Izaya. People glared at him and scowled but Shizuo ignored them, his attention on catching up to the smaller figure quickly descending down the street. He jogs after the informant, keeping a safe distance behind him but keeping an eye on him at the same time; mostly because Shizuo was curious on why Izaya was running and where the fuck he was going.

When Izaya finally stopped (after at least four more blocks since Shizuo started following him) the brunet doubled over, clenching his aching side and taking in large amounts of air to settle the rapid beating of his heart. Shizuo, on the other hand, quickly ducked into an alley, sneaking glances at Izaya from around the corner.

"Fuck!" Izaya gasps.

Shizuo raises a skeptical eyebrow. He had never heard Izaya swear before.

Izaya runs a hand through his damp locks as a small fit of laughter consumes his body. He tilts his head towards the sky, smiling up at the crying clouds.

"Shizu-chan..?" He whispers, his voice sounding raw, yet soft at the same time. Shizuo's breathe catches in his throat when Izaya slowly turns his head towards the alley he is in. "Why are you following me?"


I'm sorry if this chapter seems so OOC. I had some difficulties while writing Izaya's and Shizuo's characters.

But I would still love to hear from you!