The moon was a cold white sliver against an empty sky. A crippling sense of déjà-vu turned Shizuo into a witness of this play, grounding him to the spot so that he could only watch as events unfolded with the irrevocable toll of the past. Izaya was the star, uncontested in every way, his soliloquy weaving clues that were both obscure and all too clear. Shizuo repeated lines that were hollow and insignificant because they had to power to recant destruction. Or to counter gravity. Izaya fell and fell. Into the darkness smeared with neon blurs. An endless plunge. As he plummeted through the air Izaya smiled. And it was this smile, unreadable as a cipher, that haunted Shizuo and presently yanked him from uneasy dreams. He jolted awake to his gloomy apartment. A thin sheen of icy sweat adhered to his skin despite the oppressive off seasonal heat. Shizuo wiped his brow and took a few deep breaths, willing himself to transition from the nightmare world to reality. Yet even as his heartbeat receded into silence and the here and now reasserted itself the fact remained that Orihara Izaya was no more. It was with shaky fingers that Shizuo lit a cigarette. The brief flame cast an orange glow that relapsed into shadow almost immediately. Shizuo preferred it that way. Outside it was still thick night punctuated with a million city lights. He turned his back to the window and considered investing on curtains. Shizuo kicked off his covers and paced up and down to clear off his head. Ash fell to the floor and went unnoticed. It had been a week since Izaya died. Seven days since Izaya had decided to take a dive from a skyscraper right before Shizuo’s eyes. Since then there had been no peace of mind for Shizuo. His sleep was troubled by the exact same scene that reeled out the exact same lines and images. Every morning he met a more haggard reflection in the morning. Shizuo poured a glass of whiskey and drank it as one would a shot. Smoke filled the dim room. He was living on nicotine and alcohol. Brimming ashtrays littered the floor, Shizuo had not bothered to clean them. He dragged himself to the shower, standing under the hot water while his body refused to warm. The deadly cold wind high places had crawled into his bones. He was too restless to stay indoors. The streets were still abuzz with rumors. Shizuo caught snippets of conversations in these aimless wandering strolls that were part of his routine yet did little to appease him. If anything, they added to the dark feeling of pressure that weighted upon him. In corners wannabe punks snickered that Izaya was dead, under garish signs small crowds whispered that Izaya was dead, someone had sprayed in jittery orange letters that Izaya was dead. In life Izaya had indeed been the bane of Shizuo’s existence. They were entangled in a friction ridden power struggle. Shizuo was almost superstitious about this aversion. In death Izaya had become Ikebukuro and by proxy Tokyo. Shizuo kept catching flitting bits of fur fringe from the corner of his eyes. Izaya might be dead but his spirit was very much alive. Shizuo felt that he was being played from the grave, that he was more one of Izaya’s many pawns than ever. He reached the black oily shores of the river Edo as dawn was beginning to split the sky. For all the latent and disquieting presence that Izaya cast there remained a gulf of emptiness. Shizuo removed the very familiar switchblade from a pocket and held it to the budding light. He wondered if part of this sinking of his spirits resulted from the fact that he would never get a chance of killing Izaya. There was surely more to it but Shizuo was not the contemplative kind. Any attempt a deep self analysis left him tired and frustrated. Shizuo pulled back his arm, he was going to sever the pending ties between himself and the dead man. If he could throw the blade straight into the lulling waters of the river then he would free once and for all. A weak sunray hit the metal and Izaya’s smiling eyes flashed at him. Shizuo put the knife away. It was at this point that he began to wonder whether he was losing his mind. By the time morning was fully blown Shizuo was still staring blankly at nothing. He wished it was not so dreadfully cold.
And it was this smile, unreadable as a cipher, that haunted Shizuo and presently yanked him from uneasy dreams. He jolted awake to his gloomy apartment. A thin sheen of icy sweat adhered to his skin despite the oppressive off seasonal heat. Shizuo wiped his brow and took a few deep breaths, willing himself to transition from the nightmare world to reality. Yet even as his heartbeat receded into silence and the here and now reasserted itself the fact remained that Orihara Izaya was no more.
It was with shaky fingers that Shizuo lit a cigarette. The brief flame cast an orange glow that relapsed into shadow almost immediately. Shizuo preferred it that way. Outside it was still thick night punctuated with a million city lights. He turned his back to the window and considered investing on curtains. Shizuo kicked off his covers and paced up and down to clear off his head. Ash fell to the floor and went unnoticed.
It had been a week since Izaya died. Seven days since Izaya had decided to take a dive from a skyscraper right before Shizuo’s eyes. Since then there had been no peace of mind for Shizuo. His sleep was troubled by the exact same scene that reeled out the exact same lines and images. Every morning he met a more haggard reflection in the morning.
Shizuo poured a glass of whiskey and drank it as one would a shot. Smoke filled the dim room. He was living on nicotine and alcohol. Brimming ashtrays littered the floor, Shizuo had not bothered to clean them. He dragged himself to the shower, standing under the hot water while his body refused to warm. The deadly cold wind high places had crawled into his bones. He was too restless to stay indoors.
The streets were still abuzz with rumors. Shizuo caught snippets of conversations in these aimless wandering strolls that were part of his routine yet did little to appease him. If anything, they added to the dark feeling of pressure that weighted upon him. In corners wannabe punks snickered that Izaya was dead, under garish signs small crowds whispered that Izaya was dead, someone had sprayed in jittery orange letters that Izaya was dead.
In life Izaya had indeed been the bane of Shizuo’s existence. They were entangled in a friction ridden power struggle. Shizuo was almost superstitious about this aversion. In death Izaya had become Ikebukuro and by proxy Tokyo. Shizuo kept catching flitting bits of fur fringe from the corner of his eyes. Izaya might be dead but his spirit was very much alive. Shizuo felt that he was being played from the grave, that he was more one of Izaya’s many pawns than ever.
He reached the black oily shores of the river Edo as dawn was beginning to split the sky. For all the latent and disquieting presence that Izaya cast there remained a gulf of emptiness. Shizuo removed the very familiar switchblade from a pocket and held it to the budding light. He wondered if part of this sinking of his spirits resulted from the fact that he would never get a chance of killing Izaya. There was surely more to it but Shizuo was not the contemplative kind. Any attempt a deep self analysis left him tired and frustrated.
Shizuo pulled back his arm, he was going to sever the pending ties between himself and the dead man. If he could throw the blade straight into the lulling waters of the river then he would free once and for all. A weak sunray hit the metal and Izaya’s smiling eyes flashed at him. Shizuo put the knife away. It was at this point that he began to wonder whether he was losing his mind. By the time morning was fully blown Shizuo was still staring blankly at nothing. He wished it was not so dreadfully cold.
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Please write more, Anon, you're wonderful♥♥
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