❝where is the dream for which i paid dearly❞
perpetuating heartbreak | durarara!! | 1000 words | izaya orihara ; namie yagiri | pg-13 |
they have a good thing going, too casual to be called a relationship, too intimate to be called a transaction.
Perpetuating Heatbreak.
I.
Namie wishes, with all that is her very small heart, that this wasn’t the first time that this had happened to her. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time that she’d blinked open her eyes to the sunlight of a new day with a satisfied smile on her lips, licking them to capture the essence of a kiss. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time she’d rolled over amidst tangled sheets, arms searching for the warmth of a body that was no longer there. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time her vision had cleared to reveal that he was gone, without a trace, without a notice. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time that she had buried her face into the pillows, ripe with his scent, and sobbed.
But it isn’t the first time, or even the second. In fact, it is becoming dangerously close to a pattern. Arriving at his office long after sundown. Drinking wine and talking politics and gossip. Kissing him soundly on the lips, not resisting as he pulls them closer and drives them further. Being an all too eager accomplice as they shift from the office to the bedroom. And then, being the heartbroken victim when she wakes to find him gone.
She knows why he does it. It is his apartment, but he always wakes before her-does he ever even fall asleep?-and vacates the rooms fully before she even blinks open her eyes. He stays away for hours, she supposes, waiting for her to gather her things and leave. Until the next time.
He probably wants things to remain as they are. They have a good thing going, too casual to be called a relationship, too intimate to be called a transaction. And the conversations they have, she values them as much as the wine and the sex. Maybe he does, too. Maybe that’s why he never waits to see her the next morning, when the new sun reveals them for what they really are. Maybe he thinks that it will break the spell, and they will no longer be able to meet one another’s gaze the same way. Maybe he’s saving them from heartbreak.
“Or maybe,” Namie seethes, finally voicing her thoughts aloud, “he’s just perpetuating it.”
II.
In all honesty, he has better things to do than wait around all morning for a lazy Sleeping Beauty to wake up. Despite her being an industrious woman, Izaya thinks scathingly, she sleeps like a log. Though he’ll admit he does find it endearing, the way her body opens up when she sleeps, her arms spread wide and her expression finally at ease. She’s much too stiff on a normal basis, and he takes pride in the fact that he’s mastered the perfect way to unwind her, until she’s as soft and malleable as putty in his hands.
Not that he’s discovered everything there is to know about her, yet. And he’s glad he hasn’t. Because once he has it all figured out, the game will be undone. If his mind doesn’t have a challenge, his body will quickly lose its pleasure.
So yes, he’s using her. And mercilessly, too. He’s keeping her around until he can decide where exactly to place her in his ever-evolving plans. It’s a challenge, a mental exercise. It keeps him nimble, his skills fresh.
With his hands in his pockets and a smug smirk on his face, he prowls Ikebukuro while he waits for her to awaken and leave. Because she’s easier to deal with when she’s wearing a lab coat and crossing her arms over her chest. Because he doesn’t quite know how he’ll react if she manages to speak to him in that half-dream state. Because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to resist if she reaches for him again in the early morning hours.
No, it’s best to confine their arrangement to the shadows. Because then it is transient, like a dream, something that doesn’t have to be acknowledged in the sunlight. Something that doesn’t have to be reconciled with reality. Something that can remain pure and hidden.
“Something she can’t ruin by talking about it,” he says with a sharp grin.
III.
“I really don’t know who you think you are.”
“Yagiri Namie, pissed off head of a pharmaceutical company.”
“Pissed off? Why’s that?”
“Because I know this asshole who’s good at kissing but not good at goodbye’s.”
“One would think you’d value you the kisses more than the words.”
“Undoubtedly, I do. But sometimes both are nice.”
“Now you’re just being greedy.”
“Just say goodbye next time, asshole.”
IV.
He hadn’t expected her to be standing there when he walked in. He’d been gone for nearly six hours; he’d thought she’d have taken the hint. But no, she was just standing there, arms crossed over her chest and lips curled into a pout. And then, before he’d even taken off his jacket, she’d given him a verbal beating, thrown a pillow at his head, and then thrown herself into his arms.
“We’re really going to have to work on that temper,” he murmurs as he strokes her hair.
V.
It filled her with a nervous, giddy excitement when she decided to simply wait him out. She made the bed, perused his books, helped herself to some coffee. It was easy, in fact, to get lost in his apartment for hours. It was fun. And then he’d walked in, and her excitement had vanished, replaced by a dull fear. Which, upon seeing his face, was in turn replaced by indignation. He hadn’t even ducked when she’d thrown the pillow. He hadn’t even dodged when she rushed towards him. No, he just laced his arms through hers and held her upright, combing through her hair with his deft fingers.
“I don’t have a temper,” she pouts, “and if I do, it’s only because you aggravate it.”
“Then I count myself lucky,” he responds, “that I am one of the few men who can wrangle any sort of reaction out of you.”
“Is it reciprocated? Do I garner a reaction from you?”
“We’ll see next time. Maybe I’ll bother to say ‘good bye’, even.”
And she must content herself with that, as he must reconcile seeing her in the light as well as the shadows.
they have a good thing going, too casual to be called a relationship, too intimate to be called a transaction.
Perpetuating Heatbreak.
I.
Namie wishes, with all that is her very small heart, that this wasn’t the first time that this had happened to her. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time that she’d blinked open her eyes to the sunlight of a new day with a satisfied smile on her lips, licking them to capture the essence of a kiss. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time she’d rolled over amidst tangled sheets, arms searching for the warmth of a body that was no longer there. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time her vision had cleared to reveal that he was gone, without a trace, without a notice. She wishes that this wasn’t the first time that she had buried her face into the pillows, ripe with his scent, and sobbed.
But it isn’t the first time, or even the second. In fact, it is becoming dangerously close to a pattern. Arriving at his office long after sundown. Drinking wine and talking politics and gossip. Kissing him soundly on the lips, not resisting as he pulls them closer and drives them further. Being an all too eager accomplice as they shift from the office to the bedroom. And then, being the heartbroken victim when she wakes to find him gone.
She knows why he does it. It is his apartment, but he always wakes before her-does he ever even fall asleep?-and vacates the rooms fully before she even blinks open her eyes. He stays away for hours, she supposes, waiting for her to gather her things and leave. Until the next time.
He probably wants things to remain as they are. They have a good thing going, too casual to be called a relationship, too intimate to be called a transaction. And the conversations they have, she values them as much as the wine and the sex. Maybe he does, too. Maybe that’s why he never waits to see her the next morning, when the new sun reveals them for what they really are. Maybe he thinks that it will break the spell, and they will no longer be able to meet one another’s gaze the same way. Maybe he’s saving them from heartbreak.
“Or maybe,” Namie seethes, finally voicing her thoughts aloud, “he’s just perpetuating it.”
II.
In all honesty, he has better things to do than wait around all morning for a lazy Sleeping Beauty to wake up. Despite her being an industrious woman, Izaya thinks scathingly, she sleeps like a log. Though he’ll admit he does find it endearing, the way her body opens up when she sleeps, her arms spread wide and her expression finally at ease. She’s much too stiff on a normal basis, and he takes pride in the fact that he’s mastered the perfect way to unwind her, until she’s as soft and malleable as putty in his hands.
Not that he’s discovered everything there is to know about her, yet. And he’s glad he hasn’t. Because once he has it all figured out, the game will be undone. If his mind doesn’t have a challenge, his body will quickly lose its pleasure.
So yes, he’s using her. And mercilessly, too. He’s keeping her around until he can decide where exactly to place her in his ever-evolving plans. It’s a challenge, a mental exercise. It keeps him nimble, his skills fresh.
With his hands in his pockets and a smug smirk on his face, he prowls Ikebukuro while he waits for her to awaken and leave. Because she’s easier to deal with when she’s wearing a lab coat and crossing her arms over her chest. Because he doesn’t quite know how he’ll react if she manages to speak to him in that half-dream state. Because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to resist if she reaches for him again in the early morning hours.
No, it’s best to confine their arrangement to the shadows. Because then it is transient, like a dream, something that doesn’t have to be acknowledged in the sunlight. Something that doesn’t have to be reconciled with reality. Something that can remain pure and hidden.
“Something she can’t ruin by talking about it,” he says with a sharp grin.
III.
“I really don’t know who you think you are.”
“Yagiri Namie, pissed off head of a pharmaceutical company.”
“Pissed off? Why’s that?”
“Because I know this asshole who’s good at kissing but not good at goodbye’s.”
“One would think you’d value you the kisses more than the words.”
“Undoubtedly, I do. But sometimes both are nice.”
“Now you’re just being greedy.”
“Just say goodbye next time, asshole.”
IV.
He hadn’t expected her to be standing there when he walked in. He’d been gone for nearly six hours; he’d thought she’d have taken the hint. But no, she was just standing there, arms crossed over her chest and lips curled into a pout. And then, before he’d even taken off his jacket, she’d given him a verbal beating, thrown a pillow at his head, and then thrown herself into his arms.
“We’re really going to have to work on that temper,” he murmurs as he strokes her hair.
V.
It filled her with a nervous, giddy excitement when she decided to simply wait him out. She made the bed, perused his books, helped herself to some coffee. It was easy, in fact, to get lost in his apartment for hours. It was fun. And then he’d walked in, and her excitement had vanished, replaced by a dull fear. Which, upon seeing his face, was in turn replaced by indignation. He hadn’t even ducked when she’d thrown the pillow. He hadn’t even dodged when she rushed towards him. No, he just laced his arms through hers and held her upright, combing through her hair with his deft fingers.
“I don’t have a temper,” she pouts, “and if I do, it’s only because you aggravate it.”
“Then I count myself lucky,” he responds, “that I am one of the few men who can wrangle any sort of reaction out of you.”
“Is it reciprocated? Do I garner a reaction from you?”
“We’ll see next time. Maybe I’ll bother to say ‘good bye’, even.”
And she must content herself with that, as he must reconcile seeing her in the light as well as the shadows.