I love Durarara, but obviously do not own it. Genius characters and stories belong to geniuses, which I certainly don't claim to be. Also, greatest thanks to , Quizilla, Live Journal, Inkpop, etc. for giving all these aspiring writers a space for creativity.

3. Worry

The rain is pouring outside in fat, soft sheets of grey wrapped in cocoons of darkness, and Yagiri Namie is pushing her way through the thick air, a small umbrella in hand. Her white lab coat flops unenthusiastically behind her, and her long hair just seems to keep getting in her way, much to her annoyance. Other travelers pass her on their way to their respective destinations, faint smears of faded color in the thick blur of the rain, their voices and feelings muted by the drum of the water. Lights shine blurrily, and distance is so much distorted that she cannot tell what is in front of her eyes, and what may be miles away. The very air is filled with liquefied mist, and she hates this wretched dampness that interferes so with daily life. Every puddle is an annoyance, every passing splashing car and slippery piece of pavement is keeping her from getting to the office where she, hopefully, can get to her brother.

She enters the seemingly abandoned building, wrenching the rusted door open abruptly, the sharp clicking rattle of her shoes greeted by the dry hum of old fluorescent lights. It is very still, and very empty, around ten thirty or so on a humid autumn evening.

Namie makes her way to the elevator. The soft bell dings in the dusky air. The heels of her sensible black rain-boots fire wet warning shots in to the worn floor, as she makes her typical business-like way to the office, of sorts, of Orihara Izaya.

For once, he's not already facing her when she swings the door open, impatience furrowing her brow, in that eerie preemptive way of his. He's talking on the phone with someone else, not smiling. He doesn't seem to notice her, for that necessary split second, and of course Namie picks this up quickly: that Izaya of all people is distracted, for once. There are barely-healed scrapes covering his face, blanketing his thin hands like unwanted pigeons landing on the shoulder of a statue. He looks painful.

He notices her and says something to the person on the other end, hanging up quickly. "Namie-san. What can I do you for today—or should I say, tonight? The hour is rather late, isn't it?"

"As if you don't know what I'm here for. Have you found my brother yet? It's absolutely imperative that I have him back to me, safe, as soon as possible, before him and"—she shudders here, in disgust—"that thing get in to God knows what kind of trouble. That thing has caused a century's worth of trouble for me already, and for my Seiji as well, more than enough. I should just get rid of it, but Seiji just seems to love it so… Well, anyways, you certainly seem to be taking your time about it, Izaya, you know that? What is taking you so long anyways? I thought you were"—

"Izaya!" she demands, leaning forward and pressing her nails in to his desk. He seems to wince a little at the shattering of the sound of the rain.

"Yes, yes, I'm listening…" He fixes that annoying grin back on his face.

"No," she decides firmly, crossing her arms over her flimsy coat. "You're not listening to me at all." That is the problem.

She stands up. Namie has never been able to sit while agitated. She has to move, to yell at someone, to throw something somewhere and do some damage, to hurt something, projecting her own violent emotions by the tearing of the world. She wants to do damage now, so she viciously assails Izaya, whose guard is already far from up, it appears.

Namie strolls over to the board, the first point of attack, from which this general will command her troops of words. There are another few gunshots of heel-clicks in Izaya's office, but this time they're the last warning before the real fun begins. "You haven't made much progress," she starts, staring pointedly at the random pieces from games that shouldn't be put together, shouldn't be mixed—but what did that Orihara ever care for rules? They were made to break, in his opinion. It doesn't look like the board's been touched since the last time she came here, five or so days ago. The pieces gather small blankets of dust to themselves, like children. The water-softened and glowing eyes of the city observe this strange scene through stormy grey eyelashes, curious as to how the man will answer Namie's observation.

There's silence. Izaya considers his next move, eyes tilted towards the floor, readying those weapons of choice he's so talented with.

He's buying time, and Namie wants the truth. She's sick of lies and deceit from this man, from everyone—from her own little brother—but she cannot quite accept that yet, and so Namie strikes again, the snake doubling her score while Izaya's health dips low. He cannot afford not to take the next opportunity, or else he'll be slain and the game over, and we all know that Izaya does not lose the games he plays, especially when the game is one he knows so well. "We'll get whatever's bothering you out of the way first. You'll never be able to focus otherwise." It is not a suggestion. It is a statement, as is most everything else Namie ever says to anyone, except perhaps her precious Seiji. "So? What is it?" What is it that bothers this dark God so much? And again, it is a command rather than a question.

Under a thousand other conditions, Namie thinks Izaya would have probably made something up, given his sneaky personality, the bastard, and thus terminated this strange little dance, with a typical flourish and a bow and light, happy steps. He's not obligated to tell her the truth about himself, only about Seiji and that thing. After all, Izaya most likely doesn't believe in taking orders, and prefers side-stepping to arguing, always with a smile on the lips and a knife in the hands. Maybe the soft pattering of the rain works with her to lure him in to calm, and bait the answer that lies, softly glowing, hidden beneath the darkness of his chest. Maybe it's the relatively late hour and the strange, shining calm that lies over Ikebukuro and the familiar aura of this dusty old office, in which this God feels comfortable and at home. Anyhow, the truth comes out, surprisingly rare around someone who buys and sells truth for a living, and for entertainment. But because it's Izaya Namie is dealing with, it takes a little while to get to the heart of things.

"You are very fond of your brother, Namie-san."

"Please do not bore me with obvious observations," she says stiffly, back curling with indignity. She doesn't like the way this man mocks her devotion to her Seiji with that little smirk pasted on his pale face.

He smiles a little more in acknowledgement of her impatience, teasingly. "I'm not making fun of you, Namie-san." He turns to the window, and she faces his thin back and the worn blackness of his thin shirt, the muted light of the city and the tattered drumbeat the sky pours down on this huge human dancefloor. At this point, Izaya does not want to (cannot) face Namie.

"I know it as well. That… "

That what? Namie falters, her premature retort swaying on her tongue at this sudden turn of events. He continues, purposefully treating her surprise as misunderstanding.

He starts again the aborted conversation. "I have, myself, a pair of little girls who call themselves my sisters. Mairu and Kururi, twins."

The silence is heavy, so expectant of something important. The stillness is unbearable, and the spying eyes of the city widen a little and lean confidentially closer as the seconds pass.

"Suffice it to say we had an argument over something silly, or so I thought, anyways. They pushed me. In front of a truck."

His thumb carefully strokes his injured chin, and he flinches a little.

"Anyways. They said they were leaving, or running away, or something. Well, Mairu did. Kururi isn't quite that aggressive, most of the time, but she does go along with Mairu so often…" He rambles, delaying the inevitable. It's hard to switch off a track once you're on it, and Namie is running her train straight back at him, ready to collide at full speed.

"So did they or didn't they? What are you getting at?" Namie tosses her long mane of hair behind her back, increasing the speed yet again. He's wasting time again, not getting to the point, and the point is what Namie cares about, so they can get this over with and talk about Seiji, her love, her life.

Yet. Somehow, Namie catches herself not minding too much. She is wrapped up in the strangeness of this moment with Izaya, caught in the web of a life mostly unknown to her. These two elder siblings are fenced together by the rain, their hands woven together by strands of sticky information, caught in a lonely office at night in Ikebukuro. But there's something more, something more—the birth is yet to come, but it's coming, fast, fast. Namie reaches out in the dim light to catch the words trickling from Izaya's wounded mouth, knowing the importance of them.

"They've been gone a week now. I don't know"— and this hesitance is fatal, the thickness of his voice deadly to himself.

And in that moment, Izaya suddenly transforms in to a being of glass, and in a second's worth of forever Namie can see straight through his soul and his mind and she can see the dark purple of the worry threading through his lungs and scratching at his ribcage and damaging his flesh, and she can also see that bruised thread connecting the two of them to each other, the one thing, perhaps, that they have in common. That unique hurt weaves them together. She doesn't dare speak, because then the miraculous silence will be shattered and Izaya will be a God again, all-knowing and needless of the warmth of emotion while basking in sun-like power, instead of a glassy human, reflecting the mysterious lights of the city, instead of a young man clutching a hole to his beating heart and sending signals with every faint breath in to the night—Where are you, where are you, where are you? Come home. To me. Be safe, my loves, be safe. Keep me no longer in this suspense. It's killing me. They are connected in a moment of absolute strangeness and beauty, two desires merging in to one, three children lost in a city and two lost seekers, a city that suddenly seems deeper than all the oceans together and more unfathomable than universes light-years away, unsearchable as the sky and blinding as night. They both become aware how many dark corners of this city they've never visited, how many of its residents could be good, and how many evil, and how fragile seem the skins of children that they themselves have bruised too many times.

"Well," and the moment is shattered in a horrendous explosion of sharp shards, the glossy smile back again. His tan eyes are as unreadable and smooth as ever, though if one looks carefully they seem to be a little cracked. "I'm sure they're off to no good, wherever they are. It's not much of my concern. So what is it that you had to ask?"

"Finally. Now can we get to business?" she says arrogantly, matching his voice, and they're both pretending, and they both know it. Feigned indifference all around ends the affair, and the city applauds the close of the drama, clapping and weeping quietly, wringing its hands in despair around these two idiotic souls. Whatever shall she do with these two, asks the city? But there's no one to answer her but the unfeeling rain.

Later, after they've concluded their business and Namie's clicking back out of that office, not-quite-so-ruthlessly setting more bullet holes in Izaya's floor, she realizes. Perhaps, the game was a draw this time. After all, now she knows why Izaya always seems to be able to read her so easily.

As she watches the rain pour down and down and down, wishing for Seiji to come back to her, and knowing that floors above her a light is on and someone else is waiting and hoping too, she supposes that love makes one a rather transparent being.

Worry: End

Story notes: I didn't have a good idea of how this chapter was going to go, unlike the previous two. However, it seemed to come naturally while I listened to the excellent techno music of F-777 on loop. Somehow I think the music, especially the song "One Last Hope", influenced the feel of this chapter a lot, especially near the end. Thank God for Youtube playlists, or else none of this story would ever get itself done!

Also, since I do not read the manga Durarara, I do not have a good idea of what Izaya's relationship with Mairu and Kururi is, other than what basics I've garnered from a little basic online research. This is what I'd like to imagine is Izaya's real feelings for his sisters, when it comes down to it, and when they're not around. I apologize for any inaccuracies!

This being my first story for , or for that matter any story at all in general, reviews and especially helpful criticism would be greatly appreciated!

Especial thanks for extra encouragements to this newbie writer: ChocolateLizz, Chi, Ash Engel, iRishou, ArdiChok3, Catastrophic Monsoon, Giraffe Attack, terracannon876, xXDeath-N'-HellXx, mysisterthinksimavampireII, maa6chaaaaaan, The Nameless Girl, Gekkou Kitsu, ChocoBits Daioh, .But Friends Make Secrets, and Nekotsubasa!All of your kind words are a great support to me!

Last but not least, thank you to all readers, and "see" you next time!