Originally posted at the Drrr Kinkmeme on Livejournal.

The following story contains M/M - please don't read if that's not your thing. If it is, enjoy! ;)

Wherever You Will Go

Chapter Seven

It starts the same way it always does. Like a movie he's seen so often he can recite the actors' lines.

Ikebukuro. Day. A street scene. For some reason everything's in black and white. No, everything's in shades of grey, and all the more sharply defined for it. Grey tombstone slabs of buildings. Grey rivers of streets. Grey people.

Except for him, and that's always struck him as odd because for the most part he is in black and white. Bartender-san.

But he's not. He can feel it in his blood. A beast. Not even human.

And there's prey. A red-eyed, bloodsucking demon that always stays just out of reach.

Red eyes and then red mist.

He can feel the wind, feel the grey ribbon road unfurling under his feet, but it doesn't feel like real movement. Like he's on one of those conveyer belt people-movers at airports. He can stop this time, look around at his leisure while the other side of him is still engaged in the chase.

Just people, doing what they always do. The same thing they did last time, the same thing they'll do next time.

Then it feels like the conveyer belt's stopped. The flea's there, right in front of him, and rage is squeezing the air from his lungs because occasionally the image slips, breaks, like a badly tuned TV and he's not looking at the flea anymore but at himself.

End it. It has to end.

He reaches for the closest thing. Same thing it always is. The stop sign breaks off in his hands like the stem of a flower.

Stop sign. But he doesn't stop, never stops. Just chases after the flea, always out of reach.

And then there's just noise. Metal creaks and shrieks beyond its natural bounds. Glass shatters. Breaks squeal. Someone screams, and as raw as his throat feels maybe it's him.

He turns around in time to see the car that's overshot the intersection mount the pavement as it tries to avoid the truck coming in the opposite direction.

Then silence.

When he looks down, there are thick streaks of red creeping along the grey streets, suffocating the concrete, cancelling it out. Everything's turning red. Red eyes, red mist.

He looks up. The flea's stopped ahead of him, demon eyes like rubies on fire, and he's laughing, a clear, crystal flick-blade cut of a sound in the silence. He's watching, and laughing, and then the image slips again and it's him looking back on the scene and he's still laughing and—

"—No!"

No. He wasn't there anymore. Lungs burning, Shizuo ran trembling hands through sweat damp hair and tried to remember how to breathe. He was sitting bolt upright in his own bed, albeit in a strange room. His body felt as though he'd really been pushing it to its atrocious limit, but as far as he could tell, it all still worked. Just.

Fuck.

Izaya wasn't there, and Shizuo cursed himself for even expecting he would be, should be. Of course Izaya wasn't there. The last fucking thing he wanted to deal with after another of those godawful nightmares was the damned flea. The little shit knew better than to show his sly goddamned face…

Red eyes. Red mist.

It was all because of the flea. Everything. The accident, the fact he'd had to leave everything he cared about on the other side of the planet. The goddamn fact that the louse was the first thing on his mind when he woke.

That jigsaw puzzle image flitted across his vision again, as though he had no idea where he ended and Izaya began. As though they were two components of some ugly, twisted whole.

But he could still end it.

Struggling to free himself of the damp sheets knotted around him, he fought the wave of dizziness that his when he staggered to his feet and made his way out of the room.

He had to end it.

Over the past few days, Izaya had learnt there was oneother thing he couldn't do very well: cook.

The concept seemed so easy – mixing ingredients of varying quantities, and adding heat, but the execution…

Shizu-chan, for some reason, didn't complain. Either he had no taste whatsoever, or he was somehow humouring him. All things considered, Izaya would stake pretty much everything he owned on the former. Or maybe it was the trick Izaya learnt early on; douse everything in copious amounts of sugar. Honestly, he had no idea how Shizuo still looked so good, considering the crap he ate. Maybe hating him burned up an amazing number of calories.

Hmm, I should release an exercise program. With the amount of people who despise me, I'd make a fortune.

Besides, he had to do something with his time while Shizuo moped. There could have been so many better ways to pass the day, but ever since the last time Shizuo hadn't so much as laid a finger on him, so any suggestions fell flat. Most of the time, Shizuo sat out in the front garden, nursing his cigarettes. Izaya joined him for as long as Shizuo's tolerance for his presence allowed – not very – and tried to educate him about the plants in the yard, the birds, the history of Ireland. Shizuo rarely responded with more than monosyllabic grunts befitting the caveman he really was, but Izaya told himself that Shizuo was listening anyway.

A wiser man might have given up. Even a stubborn man would have to admit that he was making no progress.

Izaya preferred to think of himself as determined. After all, it had already gotten him a million miles further than he'd imagined. Behaving as though failure was a fate suffered by others had served him well enough before. In this situation, where failure meant an existence without Shizuo, even the small victories counted.

That morning, the experiment on the stove was porridge. Or maybe pancakes. It depended on how the gloop in the pan turned out. He was adding more sugar when he heard the cry from the bedroom.

It wasn't the first time; Shizuo never slept well, and consequently neither did Izaya. It didn't affect him much; he was used to odd hours and catnaps. Shizuo had always struck him as an eight-hours-a-night sort of man. Surely expending that much energy on a daily basis took it out of you. Over the past few days, Shizuo seemed lucky to sleep eight minutes uninterrupted.

He didn't interfere. Even when the cries faded to whimpers, even when Shizuo thrashed around in a tangle of sheets. Even when he'd have given everything he had to be the kind of man who knew how to soothe away those hurts. He knew the events plaguing Shizuo's dreams; the last thing he wanted to see on waking would be Izaya's face.

And that's different from the rest of the time, how, exactly?

Today, however, the whimpering and thrashing were conspicuously absent. Izaya counted twenty seconds of silence, before glancing towards the bedroom. Maybe the nightmares had eased, maybe Shizuo had been able to fall back to sleep.

Or maybe he was leaning against the vandalized doorway dressed only in half-fastened jeans, looking pale and unsteady.

"Shizu-chan?"

There was no answer. Shizuo just stalked over to the sink, filled a clean glass with cold water and downed it in a couple of swallows. He leant back against the sink, head bowed, hair in his eyes, breathing much too fast.

"Are you-?"

"I'm fine."

Of course he was. Fine usually included shivering in a cold sweat and holding glasses till they cracked. He reached out, intending to take the glass out of Shizuo's hands before it broke any further. Shizuo flinched from his touch, the glass fumbling from his hands and shattering on the tiled floor.

"Fuck!"

"Don't worry, I'll clean it up." Izaya began to turn, looking for something that would let him do that. "Just don't move, or you'll—"

At first, he couldn't tell why hecouldn't move, as though his words had cast some sort of backfired spell. He tried again. Frowned. Looked down.

Shizuo gripped his upper arms, hard enough to hurt, but Izaya wasn't focusing on the pain. The clammy hands that held him were shaking; he could feel the tremors chasing their way from his shoulders to his fingers.

"Shizu-chan…"

"I just…" Eyes still obscured by his hair, Shizuo swallowed hard, drawing in a broken breath. "I need…"

Izaya doubted Shizuo even knew what he needed, let alone knew how to articulate it.

"It's okay." He nodded, pressing his hands against Shizuo's skin because Shizuo let him. "Anything you need, it's okay."

He didn't know what else to do. Shizuo wasn't about to sit down for a calm, rational conversation, and, frankly, the offer of that coming from him was surely laughable.

But then he'd never known how to handle Shizuo; it would have made his life far easier if he did. Nothing he'd ever tried worked out too well. And something in the back of Izaya's mind whispered that this wasn't the best way to accomplish it, that he was only making it worse, but it was the only way he knew.

"It's okay," he repeated - almost a warning, in case Shizuo wanted to push him away - as he leaned in, lips against the centre of Shizuo's chest like kisses could somehow slow the thundering beat of the other man's heart. He couldn't drop to his knees, the vise-tight grip Shizuo had on him wouldn't allow it. But Shizuo didn't stop him as Izaya let his mouth roam over the warm, broad expanse of his chest. He nipped his way along Shizuo's collarbones, lapped at the hollow at the base of his throat, feeling the convulsive swallow. Shizuo didn't even stop him when he lowered his head, dragging his tongue against a flat, brown nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. Shizuo wasn't stopping him at all, and Izaya's own body thrilled at that tacit permission.

Until Shizuo's voice, low and thready and so completely unfamiliar, froze him in place.

"I don't want this."

When he looked up, Shizuo's eyes were glassy and glittering in the shadow of his bangs. He'd seen so much in those expressive eyes over the years. How many times had he started fights for no reason other than to see that gaze aimed his way, bright and beautiful in their absolute fury? How many times had he looked at those photographs, seethed in desperate envy at the tenderness with which those eyes looked at other people?

He'd never seen them look this close to hopeless. This close to empty.

But Shizu-chan never ran away, right? That was the one thing he could still count on. The one thing he could believe in, given the life he led, with more certainty than the sun rising in the morning.

"I never wanted this." Shizuo's voice was thick and hoarse with things Izaya had never wanted to hear coming from him. "It was never supposed to be like this, I was… I tried so fucking hard, and it still…"

He couldn't help it. Couldn't help leaning up, leaning closer. Right then, it didn't matter whether Shizuo killed him because the last thing he'd know in this life would be the desperate crush of the blond's lips against his own.

And maybe Shizuo had. He had to be dead or dreaming if he thought Shizuo was kissing him back, hard and angry and demanding, as though Izaya's tongue really did hold the answers to everything.

I don't care what happens. If I could just have this, just for a second, then that'd be enough. That'd be everything.

Never breaking the kiss, Shizuo released his arms, crowding him back against the corner of the counter. Izaya clung to him, blunt fingernails digging into broad shoulders, tangling tight in golden hair. When Shizuo's hands cupped his ass, lifting him onto the countertop, Izaya had already undone his pants, already made it easy for Shizuo to tug them down to his knees, effectively shackling him. Hands on the back of his thighs, Shizuo bent his legs up, and Izaya spread himself as wide open as the awkward position allowed. His cock brushed against his stomach, smearing sticky trails of moisture against his skin.

He heard the clatter of things on the countertop falling over, rolling onto the floor. Something else broke, the sound of something wet and thick emptying into the sink, and then Shizuo's fingers were rubbing against him, silky with the cooking oil Izaya had left out for his attempt at breakfast. Any other time, and he'd have delighted in the rough, fast thrust of Shizuo's fingers, but now it just wasn't enough.

"Don't need it," he breathed between kisses, lips wet and aching and too eager to be enveloped by Shizuo's again to bother forming extraneous words. "Just need you."

He'd barely finished speaking before Shizuo was there, working his way inside as though he'd finally realised, finally understood that it was where he belonged.

The counter dug awkwardly into his back. The tangle of his jeans would let him press close enough, wouldn't let him wrap his legs around Shizuo's waist the way he wanted to. Shizuo's forceful, battering technique lacked finesse as always.

And none of it mattered. He had Shizuo inside him, the blond's breath a harsh panted rasp in his ear. Oh, granted, it was a Shizuo who was still locked in his nightmare, but it was close enough. A fully aware Shizuo would never be holding him like this, holding him this tight, arms like strong bands of iron around his back. It didn't even matter that Shizuo would hate him again once he regained his senses; in that moment, Shizuo needed this. Needed him.

He turned Shizuo's face back towards his, kissed him again. He'd never get enough, already as painfully addicted to the taste of Shizuo's mouth as he always knew he would be. Sometimes, it was absolutely devastating to be right all the time.

Shizuo moved faster, breathing too hard now to keep up with the kisses. The teeth latching into the tender skin of Izaya's shoulder was almost as good, though. Animalistic. Like Shizuo didn't care anymore to put up some fake front of humanity, like he was okay letting Izaya see exactly what he was. Possessive. Like Shizuo actually wanted to keep him.

He came against Shizuo's chest, staining that gorgeous skin with ribbons of white. Shizuo bit down harder, driving Izaya hard against the counter, gloriously careless and unguarded in his pursuit of his own climax. Izaya just held on, pretending his bonelessly sated body helped wring out the heat he could feel pulsing deep inside.

As Shizuo's movements slowed, Izaya was content just catching his breath, basking in the strength of Shizuo's arms around him.

That was when Shizuo turned his head, lips against Izaya's ear and whispered, "It's all your fault…"

All your fault.

Still entangled, still buried, he slid down to the floor. Izaya's arms remained wound around his shoulders, doing nothing to shove him away even though the whole thing was uncomfortable.

"Shizu-chan..?"

"All your…" And then his fingers were twisting into Izaya's shirt, hanging on, because Izaya was there, and real, and alive, and maybe he still was the demon in his dream but Shizuo didn't care.

All your fault I'm here, all your fault I'm acting like this. All your fault I hardly know who I am, what I want. All your fault nothing makes sense.

The fingers in his hair were too gentle, too reverent to be Izaya's, even if it was the flea's voice that matched the soothing stroke. "You were dreaming again. About the accident."

"Don't call it that. It's not an accident when someone's to blame."

"Me, you mean."

Everything would have been so much easier if he could have believed that. If he could have shoved all the responsibility onto Izaya, absolved himself of it all because if it wasn't for the flea he'd have never—

It's all your fault, except for the one thing I wish was.

And he knew the dream was a fucking joke, anyway. Because Izaya had never laughed. In reality, he had no idea what the flea did afterwards; he remembered seeing the fur trimmed edge of a coat somewhere in the crowd, but…

"You weren't the one who pulled up that stop sign."

"Well, no, but you only did it because you were trying to kill me."

The blunt statement might have hurt, once, if it wasn't just echoing the things Shizuo told himself. Somehow, it felt far less vicious on Izaya's lips.

"I mean, it's both our faults, isn't it?"

Both. Like that overlapping image, no beginning and no end.

But I don't want that. I don't.

Except that something deep down, something more intrinsic even than the rage, had already latched onto Izaya's words. That part of him that just yearned for someone to get it, for someone to truly understand what being him was really like. Someone who knew all that and still wouldn't run.

Stupid. The flea always ran, that's what he did best.

But he also kept coming back. He knew what he'd get, and he still kept coming back.

Which, honestly, just went to prove how fucked up Izaya's games really were. Shizuo had no intention of being a part of them anymore.

He drew back, shivering at the sensation of leaving Izaya's body. It didn't help that Izaya made a sound at the moment that made Shizuo immediately wish he could slam right back in.

Izaya watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, and, evidently aware there wouldn't be an answer, changed track. "Heh, I made Shizu-chan all dirty."

Shizuo began to shake his head, but Izaya had already tugged off his shirt, using it to wipe the streaks of moisture from his chest. Looking away from that overly intimate gesture only fixed Shizuo's attention on the new, startling set of marks marring Izaya's pale skin.

"Sorry." He gestured vaguely to the bruises circling Izaya's upper arms, the livid bite mark on his shoulder. "I… I didn't mean…"

"Hm?" Izaya glanced down, as though the bruises had just appeared in that instant, and shrugged like it wasn't important. "Ah, I didn't even notice."

How the hell could anyone not notice? Was Izaya that far gone that he'd forgotten how fucking dangerous it was to be around him? That he'd forgotten the damage Shizuo could do, whether he wanted to or not?

And just like that, the fantasy that maybe, somehow, Izaya might understand disintegrated.

He didn't. He couldn't. He never would.

So it had to end.

Shizuo pulled the pendant from his pocket. The silver disk felt remarkably cold against his skin as he curled his fingers around it briefly. He thought he could deal with this. He'd been wrong. He'd thought Ikebukuro would be safer without Izaya, without stopping to think whether Izaya would be safe with him.

Who the fuck was he to pretend he could save anything when he couldn't even deal with himself? Someone like him didn't save things, anyway; he just wrecked them. Whatever Izaya was, whatever he'd done, he didn't deserve that. No one did.

"I can't do this anymore." He dropped the pendant into Izaya's palm. "So just… Take that and go."

Izaya looked up at him, and something in Shizuo broke as surely as the shattered glass still glinting on the tiles.

"But I don't want—"

"I don't care what you want." He stood, not wanting to be that close to Izaya's eyes anymore. To whatever shimmered in then that looked a hell of a lot like hurt. If Izaya couldn't see he was trying to do the right thing, that wasn't his problem. "Please. Please, if… if you give as much of as shit as you say you do, then you'll go."

Izaya looked down at the pendant, and nodded. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

And fuck, he couldn't even tell whether that was the truth anymore. Instead of trying, he turned and walked away, leaving Izaya still sitting amid the broken pieces of the morning.