Hi hi! Look at that! Another update! It came out of nowhere! :P Thanks, peeps, for the reviews. I deeply appreciate them. Hope you like chapter 2.

"Forgive me!"

"Shizuo, wake up!"

Shizuo shot up with a yell, breathing heavily. He clutched his sweat drenched hair, before letting his hands fall over his face, still panting. His head felt like he'd run it into a brick wall, and with a groan, he slowly eased back down. It took him a minute to realize the cool hands that were gripping his shoulders, and Izaya's voice babbling almost incoherently.

"You're burning up! Why didn't you tell me you were sick? I'm going to get Shinra!" Izaya's eyes were shining with concern, and Shizuo could see them glinting, frantically in the darkness. He had no idea what had just happened, but he was never happier to see Izaya's bright and rusty colored eyes, and he reached up and quickly caught his arm when he turned to leave.

"Stay," Shizuo whispered, hoarsely. Izaya slowly sat back down, not taking his eyes off of Shizuo's face, and he let his hand rest lightly on the side of the blonde man's arm.

"You were having a really bad nightmare," he told him. "I've been trying to wake you up for a while, but you were really out of it..." his voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. "You've been acting really strange, lately... Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Shizuo sighed, liking the way Izaya's fingers felt cool against his skin. "I'm fine...but I think your violin needs help..."

"My what?" Izaya asked, not even trying to hide the utter confusion in his voice. Feverish, Shizuo was already drifting off to sleep again, as a violent shiver traveled through his body. Izaya frowned, and tucked the blanket more securely around him. "Shizuo, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Zola... We have to..." Izaya practically had his ear smooshed against Shizuo's lips for those last words, and he still didn't understand. Shaking his head with a sigh, he got up to find a cloth from the kitchen and wet it with water. Placing it over Shizuo's head, he could feel the blonde man's heat warming it almost immediately. With a frown, he repeated the process again and again, until he eventually fell asleep himself, his head resting against Shizuo's shoulder.

Shizuo woke the next day, feeling a good deal better. Izaya, though tired from sleeping against the couch, still dogged him the entire morning, as they said their goodbyes, and personally saw to it that Shizuo made it home and into bed, even taking it upon himself to call Tom and let him know his employee would be absent. In the daylight, Shizuo had trouble recalling the strange dream he'd had, and decided to keep it to himself. After all, it could have just been brought on by the fever. Still, those notes haunted him, even as he napped throughout the day. Later that evening, after Izaya had run his business errands and met with all of his appointments, he dropped by Shizuo's apartment with a paper bag full of soup and a bottle of milk. Shizuo settled on the couch and gratefully drank the milk, before setting to work on the welcome food. Izaya proceeded to lecture him about his health and busy himself with tidying his apartment, as he talked. He smiled, contentedly. Izaya could be quite the little mother hen when he got going, and it made him feel a little warm and fuzzy inside.

"You're not even listening to me! Sure, you're super strong, but one day you'll just drop dead if you don't take care of yourself more! You need to be more careful!"

"Yes, mother!" Shizuo grinned, rather enjoying the fact that he seemed to be the only person capable of putting the informant in a frenzied state. Izaya glared at him a moment, before giving him an exasperated sigh and opening the window to let fresh air in. Shizuo's curtain caught the breeze, and fluttered around him, and something painful jolted the blonde man's memory. "How's the violin playing going?" he asked.

"Better," Izaya's face brightened. "I took it to a few specialists on my way here, and they couldn't tell me anything about it, except that it was German. But I tried my hand at a few things, and I think I've found a song that agrees with it!"

"Agrees?"

"Indeed! Strangely enough, I can't play anything but this one song. You should have seen the look on the luthier's face!"

Shizuo began to feel something in his stomach sink, but he had to ask. "Could you play it for me?"

Izaya smiled, and quickly fetched the instrument from the side of the front door, where he'd dropped it upon entering. He walked back to the window, and gently nestled the instrument in between his chin and shoulder. Shizuo sat forward on the couch, placing his soup on the coffee table and watching him, intently. Izaya drew a deep breath, and began to play. The color drained from Shizuo's face. It wasn't quite as professional, and maybe Izaya hit the wrong note here and there, but It was the same song. It was Zola's song. As Izaya played next to the window, Shizuo's dream came back to him in vivid detail, and he began to feel dizzy. Those same blue eyes bore into his mind, and he began to swoon. He was vaguely aware of Izaya stopping his playing and asking him if he felt alright, but his voice sounded so far away, and he quickly lost consciousness.

"Sayedi, please, you cannot sleep, here," the timid owner of the small bar gently shook the slumbering man's shoulders at one of the tables. The groggy man stirred with a grunt, yawning loudly, and glared at the smaller, Egyptian man, languidly scratching his whiskers until the man took a step back in fear. "I am sorry to disturb you, Sayedi. But you cannot sleep, here." His voice shook, apologetically. It was kind of hard to maintain a gruff, American act in front of someone so obviously petrified. He threw back his blonde, unruly head and laughed.

"Okay, friend! Jeez, not like I'm going to hit ya!" he chuckled, slapping the man on the shoulder as he rose. "Just had a long day, is all."

"You guided the new support unit into town, Sayedi? We are grateful for your service."

"You don't have to lie, my friend," the blonde man drawled, straightening the loose kerchief around his neck, and placing his broad tipped, leather hat on his head. "I'm well aware about how you people feel about the Brits. And besides, they pay well enough."

"We do not all feel that way, Sayedi. I see not how it will benefit me more to be ruled by the Nazi regime than the British."

"Well, you are wise, my friend. Name's Vincent Scott, by the way. I'll probably be sticking around here until the threat blows over."

"It is an honor to know your name, Sayedi! I am Hamid Sheikhzadeh Nadjar, but please just call me Hamid." Vincent whistled at the long name, before slapping his leg with amusement.

"You'll get no argument from me there, Hamid!" He gave him a little mock salute before waving and walking out the door. Night had already fallen over the city of Cairo, but a gentle and warm wind blew across the dusty alleys of the city, as merchants finished storing away their wares. Not feeling like sleeping again so soon, Vincent wandered through the increasingly barren streets, until he came to the edge of the budding metropolis. In the distance, he could see the Nile catching the abundant starlight and reflecting it back towards the sky. The sound of a hyena yipping echoed throughout the otherwise silent night, and Vincent found himself settling down in the cool sand, and lying on his back to look at the heavens. It was times like these that he remembered why he'd left the states in the first place. There could be no better feeling than to gaze at billions of stars in a wild frontier. He had no master to answer to, and as his own man, he was free to come and go as he pleased, even as the modern world erupted in war around him. It didn't faze Vincent too greatly. He'd been part of the French Foreign Legion for a few years, and it had taught him many valuable skills beyond just speaking French. He was now a master guide, an expert at traveling the ever shifting sands of the barren desert, and his current jobs mostly consisted of guiding more British soldiers into the city. He didn't particularly like the implication of reinforcements. He rather enjoyed his life here, and troops piling up could only mean one thing; Nazi forces were invading from the North East. He supposed if they ever reached the city, he'd have to fight alongside the British, not out of any grand sense of nationalism. No, Vincent couldn't say he was a loyal to any particular country. Hell, he'd left his own in a heart beat! Those Nazis were just bad news, and he knew it. He'd already been thoroughly inundated with stories from the soldiers he traveled with. They spoke atrocities so terrible, sometimes it would give him nightmares. This Hitler guy sounded like a real piece of human trash, and he'd be damned if he took over Cairo, too.

As he thought, he unconsciously fingered the pistols at his sides and smiled. It'd been a while since he had to kill anybody, but he'd kill a Nazi without even blinking. And he had been a good soldier, being a good deal taller and stronger than most he'd met in his travels. He took a rolled cigarette out of his pack, and lit it, lazily sending streams of smoke into the sky. After an hour of navel gazing and enjoying the peaceful serenity of a quiet, Egyptian night, Vincent regretfully got to his feet and dusted off his brown, riding pants. No telling what would crawl into his boots if he stayed out there all night, and it was no doubt late.

Just as he was about to turn back towards the sleeping city, movement caught his eye. There in the distance, he could barely make out a heavily clothed figure bouncing along on the back of a camel, coming from the North. Vincent grit his teeth and squinted his eyes to see better. This was definitely strange. Cairo didn't get many visitors traveling alone these days, especially from the North. Suspicion immediately filled him, and he stood rooted to the spot until the figure slowed to a halt. The person in question pulled the black scarf from around his face, and gazed at him, curiously. Even in the dark, Vincent could see that this man's eyes were a strange, deep blue, and his unblinking scrutiny sent a chill down his spine. However, he was not one to be so easily intimidated, and just as he was about to demand this stranger's identity, the mysterious person smirked, broadly, and dismounted.

"Lovely night, isn't it?" his voice dripped like honey from his lips, and it was all Vincent could do to find his voice.

"...Huh?"

The man narrowed his eyes, mockingly. "Eloquent. I must tell you that if this is the way Cairo greets all of it's visitors, some may fail to be duly impressed."

Vincent immediately frowned, and grit his teeth. "Are you calling me stupid, friend?" he growled.

"Are you calling me 'friend', stupid?"

Now he was really about to give this scrawny little waif a serious piece of his mind, but something about the glittering mischief in the man's eyes stilled his hand. So instead, he tried to place the stranger's origins through what he could observe. He could see fine, black hair peeking beneath the cloth around his head, and his face was pale and delicately pointed. His voice, though extremely pleasant to listen to, held no hint of an accent, as he spoke perfect English. He quirked and eyebrow at Vincent's obvious confusion, and sighed. "Well, much as I'd love it if we stood here and stared at one another all night long, I could use a little refreshment."

Embarrassed, Vincent shook off his musings. "Eh? Sorry. Just not used to seeing people out here in the middle of the night."

"It is a rather odd time to travel, but the Bedouins I was riding with decided, quite suddenly, to go in a different direction," the man said, simply. "I take it you are a guide? If I'd had the money, I would have simply hired your services," the man spoke gingerly, as he took the reigns of his camel and began to lead the animal forward.

"Where're you coming from?"

"I caught a boat from Italy to Libya, before the war intensified. I've been wandering ever since. I was a music student in Florence, but things were becoming far too heated to focus on studies."

"You're not Italian," Vincent asserted, and he walked to the side of him. "Where'd you come from, originally?"

"Is this an interrogation, Mr...?"

"Vincent. Vincent Scott."

The odd man smiled. "So you are American, hm? How intriguing. My name is Zola Folke."

"That's German, isn't it?"

"Indeed! My father was German."

"You don't say!" Vincent did little to hide the snarl in his voice. "Well, hate to break it to you, but you're not going to be all that popular in this city! Got a pretty strong British presence here, and just in case you didn't get the memo, they hate Germans!"

"Perhaps they could find it in their noble hearts to only half hate me, as I am only half German."

"What was your mother?"

"My mother was quite human, and these are all rather personal questions, Mr. Scott. Since I've answered so many of yours, normally I'd ask some of my own, but there seems to be little to tell about your life."

Vincent wasn't sure whether or not he was supposed to be offended. "You're kind of a smart ass, aren't you?" he finally snorted, spitting to the side. Zola wrinkled his nose at the display, and his frown only deepened when Vincent took out another cigarette.

"Smoking will kill you," he said, matter of factly. Vincent laughed.

"Says who? Smoking's good for you! Even the doctors say so! It relaxes you!"

"They won't for long."

"Tch! Sorry if it offends you!" But he really wasn't. In fact, he intentionally tried to blow the second hand smoke in Zola's face. Zola coughed.

"So nice to know that you reinforce the general world view of Americans," he sighed.

"And what's that?"

Zola smiled, evilly. "That you are all rude as fuck."

Vincent had to throw back his head and laugh at that. "I like you, Zola! You're alright!" he slapped the man's back rather harshly, and the smaller man almost fell forward. "How 'bout I buy you a drink!"

"How kind of you to offer, Mr. Scott!" Zola purred. "I accept."

Vincent blushed a little at being called 'Mr. Scott' again, especially in that tone of voice, and he cleared his throat. "You can just call me Vincent, you know?"

"Of course I know, Vincent."

The blonde man laughed again, and threw his arm around his new acquaintance's shoulder. "Glad you're here, Zola! This city can get a little boring, but you and I; we'll have a lot of fun!"

Zola smiled an almost sinister smirk. "I'm sure we will."

They reached the bar that Vincent had drank at earlier that day, and after Zola tied the tired camel next to a watering trough, they both sat at a small table. It was a little more crowded now that the sun had gone down, as many business and merchant men no doubt stopped off on their way home from work. Vincent threw himself into a chair, slamming his fist down on the table and throwing his hat to the side. Zola blinked at his familiar demeanor, and slowly unwound the scarf from around his head and neck. "Come here often, do you?"

"I do now! Hamid! A whiskey for me and my good friend, here!"

"Oh, we're good friends now? My, my! Perhaps you should learn to guard yourself better," Zola smiled, menacingly, as he slowly sat down in the seat opposite him. Vincent was, indeed, caught off guard once again. It was something to speak to the man in the dark, while he was shrouded in black cloaks, but now that his over garments had been discarded and he was in the light, Vincent could appreciate just how good looking this person really was. Everything about Zola reminded him of delicate porcelain, and he moved with a pointed grace that made all the local dancers look like bumbling fools. When his seemingly endlessly deep, blue eyes settled on him, he found it very hard to stop his heart from fluttering.

'God damn...I've been spending too much time around camels and soldiers...' he scolded himself. "Later tonight, you and I are going out and getting girls!" he declared quite suddenly, pounding his fist on the table top with conviction. He had to get these silly kinds of thoughts out of his head.

Zola's eyebrows shot high into the air, and he chuckled, airily, lacing his long and graceful fingers together. "If you insist," he smiled. "Or, perhaps, if you have some time, I could entertain you."

"W-what?" Vincent stuttered. He was pretty sure his face was blushing, furiously.

"I am a musician, after all," he shrugged.

"Mus-? Oh! Yeah! What do you play, anyway?"

"The violin."

Vincent raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, but for some reason, it wasn't that. Maybe it was because he hadn't heard someone play the violin since he was a small child. Zola read his momentary shock, and sighed. "I know what you're thinking, I look more like a flautist, and I did dabble in it for a while in school, but now I only reserve that for...special occasions." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Vincent suddenly found it very hard to swallow, as all of his blood began to rush south. God damn it! Why was practically every thing this man said or did turning him on? It was damn annoying! "You're blushing a bit," Zola commented lightly, that same infuriatingly, oddly becoming smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Vincent growled. "God, damn it, Hamid! What's a guy have to do to get a drink around here?"

"I am sorry, Sayedi!" Hamid quickly hurried over with their drinks. He eyed Zola, questioningly, and his eyes flickered back and forth between the two oddly matched men, but he said nothing, and only gave a slight bow in retreat. Vincent blinked at him, and nodded his head in the owner's direction.

"Hamid's a good guy," he affirmed, as he practically drained his drink in one gulp.

"I'm sure..." Zola smiled, taking a small sip of the liquor, before twisting his glass slowly back and forth on the table top. "So, Vincent, how was the Foreign Legion?"

"How'd you know about that?" Vincent demanded, eyeing him, suspiciously.

"It's really the only reason I could think of for an American around your age to have wound up as a guide in Cairo, of all places. I can tell from your voice and mannerisms that you were raised in the United States...South Eastern part, perhaps?"

"Tennessee."

"Ah. Well?"

Vincent thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know. It was alright, I guess. Anything to get away from home."

"Do soldiers from the Foreign Legion have a large presence in this city?"

"Nah, not so much. Tch! They're too busy fighting each other!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, half the guys are joining the Free French movement, and the other half are hopping on board with the Vichy government after the occupation. My time was already over at that point, so I don't follow much of it anymore. Everyone is fighting everyone and no one knows what we are really fighting for." Vincent smiled, sadly, suddenly becoming a bit melancholy. "It sure seems that way a good bit of the time, huh?"

Zola regarded him, curiously for a moment, a deep frown entrenched on his face. "Men fight for power and dominance, or out of desperation, Vincent. It's as simple as that." As Vincent lifted his gaze to meet his eyes, he saw that their color had become hard, like black ice, and he could see within them an almost animal like ferocity being held at bay. He tilted his glass up, and Vincent was momentarily hypnotized by the way his Adam's apple moved as he drank. "But enough of that unpleasantness!" he was suddenly all smiles again, as the terrifying look had vanished by the time he brought his glass down. "How about another drink? What was his name...Hamid? Mr. Hamid!" he raised an elegant hand in a flagging gesture. Hamid quickly brought two more drinks to their table. They proceeded to talk and laugh a good portion of the night, both becoming quite intoxicated in their merriment. After about the sixth round, Vincent slapped his hands on the table.

"Play something for me!"

"NEIN!" Zola tossed his head, dramatically. "I cannot! I have terrible stage fright! It's the real reason I left music school!"

"You're such a fucking LIAR!" Vincent laughed, and to his delight, Zola erupted into a mad giggling fit as well. "Come on, everyone here would like to hear it! Wouldn't you guys?" He yelled to his left and right, eliciting many stares and silly grins from the equally as drunk men around them. The British soldiers began laughing and nodding, enthusiastically, but his words were quite lost on most of the crowd. The Arab occupants tilted their heads in slight confusion, until Vincent pointed to Zola's violin case at his feet and yelled, "KAMAAN!"

"KAMAAN!" all the men raised their glasses and echoed, stomping their feet. "Kamaan! Kamaan!" they repeated it like a mantra, until, with a roll of his eyes, Zola stood up, albeit a little unsteadily, from the table. Vincent laughed loudly, and clapped his hands and the room began to cheer. The dark haired man narrowed his eyes at him.

"You are going to pay for this, friend!" he smirked. There was something so predatory about it, that Vincent quickly stopped laughing, once again feeling his body temperature climb the scale.

"Come play over here, Sayedi!" Hamid called jovially from the front of the bar, and he brought a small stepping stool for Zola to stand upon. The violinist smiled, appreciatively, at the room, as he stood to face them.

"Well, it's been quite a while since I played for a full house, eh?"

The British soldiers and Vincent laughed, and then everyone quieted, as the raven haired man brought the violin to rest under his chin. The notes slowly began to drift across the room, nostalgic and sad, and it was all Vincent could do to breathe. The music reminded him of his home, the place he'd left so long ago, of his family and his loved ones, people he'd more than likely never see again, and the emotions floating from Zola's strings as he gracefully glided the bow up and down made him want to cry. The violin sang of an endless longing, something treasured lost forever. It was so very beautiful, but so very, very sad. When Zola stopped playing, there was barely a dry eye in the entire room. Everyone was speechless for a moment, before bursting into applause. Zola smiled, graciously, and bowed a couple of times, before nimbly jumping down and making his way back to his seat. Vincent didn't know what to say. Zola took another sip of his drink and leaned over the table.

"That song was for you," he winked, as he finished his drink and rose. Vincent unconsciously stood with him, as he tucked his violin away and gathered his cloak. "Thank you for the wonderful evening. You've made me feel quite welcome and at home in Cairo, after all," he smiled. Then, without waiting for the still tongue tied guide to speak, he pivoted on his heels and walked outside. Vincent began to run after him, before Hamid hollered about the check, bringing him to a screeching halt. With an impatient groan, the blonde man quickly dumped a few bills and change on the table and raced out the door.

"Zola, wait!" he cried, running to catch up with the dark haired man, who was already leading his camel down the dusty road. Zola paused near an alley way, and turned to face him, the same concealing smile lighting his face. Vincent reached him, and took a moment to catch his breath, not letting his eyes leave the man's face. "Stay with me," he said. Zola raised an eyebrow.

"Was that even a question?" he laughed.

"Stay with me, please? Just don't go! I don't want you to go!"

"So emotional!" Zola tsked, shaking his head in amusement. "What kind of man are you to be won so easily? By another man, no less?"

"Shut up!" Vincent growled, as he quickly closed the distance between them. Suddenly, Zola looked very uncomfortable, and his eyes darted nervously from side to side, before staring back into Vincent's honey colored ones.

"We can't do this," he whispered, even as his eyes smoldered with an emotion that Vincent was sure he was reflecting in his own eyes; lust.

"Who says?" he breathed, as his lips barely ghosted across the violinist's. He could feel the sharp intake of breath, and an excited shiver ran down his spine. Zola's eyelids shut tightly, as he leaned his forehead into Vincent's broad shoulder. He could feel the smaller man trembling, as if waging some inward battle to gain dominance over his own desires, but it was to no avail. Vincent had seen battles before, and he knew when they were lost. He ran his fingers through his soft, black hair, and gently pulled his head back to drink in the deep pools of blue he was sure he'd never grow tired of, gazing at him from beneath thick eyelashes. Reaching up with his other hand, he ran his fingers lightly along the side of Zola's slender neck, eliciting a small, and breathy moan from him. Feeling a bit bolder, Vincent once again barely touched his lips against Zola's soft ones, feeling his quickly increasing pulse beneath his finger tips, before crashing them together. The raven haired man's eyebrows furrowed, as he fought to return the kiss and not be completely consumed. The wise camel, sensing their shenanigans, quickly moved away, so that Zola was forced to take a couple of steps until his back was against the wall, with Vincent's strong body supporting him. His hands searched down the blonde man's body until he found his belt and he clutched it tightly, pushing them together more firmly. Vincent broke away from the kiss with a groan, as he rolled his hips forward, causing both men's groins to rub against each other and send ripples of pleasure through them. Zola's eyes rolled listlessly to the back of his head, as he slumped forward, gripping the taller man's waist more tightly. Vincent brought his head down low, until his cheek was aligned with his. "Stay with me," he whispered, before biting down gently on his ear. The smaller man groaned from the sensation, and Vincent quickly caught his lips in another, deep kiss that left them both gasping for air.

"Ah," Zola chuckled, as he struggled to stand from being so overwhelmed. "I think I like Americans... Please tell me that you stay no more than ten steps away from here..."

"About one block," Vincent murmured, trailing kisses down his neck, before biting down at the base of his shoulder. Zola's eyes fluttered for a moment, as he bit back another moan.

"Good," he sighed, leaning his face into the mop of blonde hair. A thought occurred to him, and he glanced around at the empty streets. "We can go there just as soon as I find my delinquent camel..." Vincent poked his head up at that, and looked about. He laughed, rubbing the back of his head, sheepishly.

"Sorry..." he mumbled, smiling a smile which Zola returned.

"Apparently, we weren't a good enough show. Come on; he couldn't have gotten far."

Shizuo awoke to the shine of Shinra's glasses, as he peered at something on his head.

"Oh, hey, Shizuo," he said, quite naturally, as he fidgeted with what had to be a bandage of some sort. "Just let me finish redressing this. Your coffee table must have really sharp corners!"

Shizuo blinked in utter confusion for a few seconds, before sitting up as Shinra backed away. "What-"

"Happened?" Shinra cut in, as he handed him a pill and a glass of water from the side table. "Well, according to Izaya, You were okay one moment, and you just passed out the next!" The doctor smiled, gleefully. Shizuo wrinkled his eyebrows.

"Why are you so happy about that?"

"Because, it's fascinating! There's absolutely nothing wrong with you! I mean, your fever spiked a little during the night, but that shouldn't have been a reason to knock you out cold." Shizuo rolled his eyes. Great. He probably had cancer or some stupid shit like that. Just his luck! "And before you ask, you don't have cancer or anything like that. If you were advanced enough in a disease to be passing out, something would have shown up in your blood samples. Blood sugar levels were normal, and it wasn't as if you were in a coma again. Your brain was quite active, in fact! It's fascinating! You must have been having quite the dream!"

Shizuo sighed, but said nothing. Shinra didn't know just how right he was. Now that his head was beginning to clear, he was beginning to understand what all this nonsense was about. But shit! Why couldn't a ghostly apparition just appear and tell him straight up what the situation was? ...Nah... Shizuo was not THAT lucky. Honestly, the body guard didn't even want to know the end to the story currently playing out in his dreams. If they resulted in a haunted violin, he was pretty sure the events weren't going to be pretty. No, there was only one thing to do. Izaya had to get rid of that damn violin!

"Well, now that you have arisen once more, I'll go get Izaya. I'm going to go ahead and issue a warning statement; he's probably in a worse condition than you are right now, and I think it would be wise to put him out of his misery as soon as possible."

Shizuo snorted, but he smiled all the same. No sooner had Shinra left then Izaya came striding in, running his hands over his hair, and straightening out his clothes. Shizuo didn't have to wonder; he was pretty sure the informant had spent the entire night there. In fact, he'd probably been bugging the hell out of Shinra the entire time, peppering him with questions, and had obviously not slept or been home to change. He looked terribly disgruntled, like a cat that had been thrown into a vat of cold water. The obviously exhausted man stalked straight up to Shizuo's bedside and folded his arms, staring down at him with a most horrible frown. Shizuo's smile grew smaller and smaller, until it turned upside down.

"...What?"

"What? WHAT?" Izaya echoed, flailing his arms out to his sides. "What do you mean, 'what'? What the hell is wrong with you? And don't pretend that you don't know, because I know you do!" Izaya accused.

"Oh really?" Shizuo drawled, a little surprised at just how flustered Izaya was. "How do you know that?"

"I can see it on your face! There's an utter lack of confusion that should be completely dominating all of your facial features, right now!"

Shizuo sighed. He was going to have to learn to conceal his inner thoughts a little better, someday. Best to just come right out and say it, he supposed. "Okay, you're right. That violin's haunted."

Izaya blinked, and then smirked. "Well, of COURSE it's haunted, Shizu-chan! Even I was able to figure that out! I mean, a violin that can only play one song, no matter the skill level of the player? That's just not possible in this world, therefore it must be the doing of the next!"

Shizuo ground his teeth. "Well, if you know it's haunted then why the hell haven't you gotten rid of it?" he growled.

"Ah hah! That is because I lied to you, before!" Shizuo rolled his eyes. Izaya? Lie? Naaah... "In fact, a couple of people over the years have mysteriously died when they either sold or tried to destroy the violin. You have to take good care of it!"

"Greeeat... So that's why it's been glued to you since you got it."

"Indeed!"

"You're such a fucking flea!" Shizuo roared, stumbling out of bed in an effort to swing at him. It didn't take much skill for Izaya to simply side step him, exhausted as he was. "How can someone so smart be so god damn stupid?"

"Eh?" Izaya grinned, raising his eyebrows. "I'm just curious!"

"About fucking all the wrong things!" Shizuo seethed, clenching his fists at his sides.

"Mmm, that's your opinion, I guess. I find it rather interesting, myself. Instead of standing there foaming at the mouth like a complete brute, why don't you tell me why you've been acting so strange lately? Oh, and how YOU knew the violin was haunted!"

Shizuo startled, and stared at Izaya strangely for a moment. Looking at the informant smirking up at him, his arms crossed in a relaxed fashion but his eyes practically glowing with a fierce intensity, the blonde man couldn't help but see Zola, and he had to do a double take. They were so similar and not just in looks. From what Shizuo had seen from his dream, which he was beginning to suspect was in fact a vision of the past, Zola held all of Izaya's fluent grace, and definitely made the same snarky faces. The only differences he could think of was their eye color...and that Zola seemed to fall for people quite hard and quite easily, which, now that he thought about it, kind of seemed out of character a bit...

For his part, Izaya begun to look a little unnerved at the overabundance of direct eye contact he was receiving, and began to frown. "Earth to Shizu-chan!" he yelled, making Shizuo jump back to his senses. "You are starting to make me dither, and Izaya Orihara is no ditherer!"

"Di-? I don't even know what that means, flea!" Shizuo sighed, sitting back down on the bed and tiredly rubbing his hands against his face. Izaya sat down next to him, but Shizuo did not look up to see the expression on his face.

"It means..." Izaya began to explain, his voice dropping down low, "That I'm worried about you. You were acting strangely before I even got the violin. What's wrong?"

Shizuo cleared his throat, still looking away. "It's...something I have to figure out on my own," he said, softly. "You can't help me; I'm sorry."

Izaya rose abruptly in what Shizuo almost interpreted as annoyance, but the informant was smiling again as if the conversation for the last minute had never happened. It made him feel a little guilty. It was rare for Izaya to attempt to reach out emotionally, but how could he tell him what was really bothering him? "Well, that's that, then!" the raven haired man said a bit too brightly. "What about my haunted, little violin? What do you know?"

Shizuo searched for the right words. "It's not yours."

"Eh?"

"It belongs to a man named Zola... Zola Folke. He's not alive anymore, but he's definitely still affecting that violin and everyone who comes in possession of it."

"How do you know all of that?"

"I saw it, in a dream."

Izaya's eyes were ablaze with immense curiosity, and the startled look gave way to one of extreme delight. "Hmmm...Zola Folke? That's German, neh?"

"He's half German, and... And you look almost exactly like him." Shizuo gazed directly into the informant's wide, burnt red eyes as he said it. "Izaya...is there any way in hell you two could be related?"

"Well, you said he was half German. What's the other half?" Izaya queried.

"I don't know."

"Why don't you tell me about this dream, then, from start to finish?"