Durarara: I own Daichi Nakamura and Hana Nakamura. I do not own the Durarara characters.

Rating: T for swearing and violence.

Summary: Izaya wakes up in a coffin with nothing but a flashlight and a cell phone. He doesn't know where he is or how much air he has left. All he knows is that he's running out of time and there's only one person who can save him – Heiwajima Shizuo.

Notes: Yes, this idea is blatantly taken from Buried, which I just watched. The idea definitely isn't original, but I watched the movie and since I've been contemplating writing a Durarara fanfic, I settled on writing this one since I couldn't think of an original plot. However, this deviates slightly from the movie. I don't want to spoil anything for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, though, so I won't say any more.

I'm still not sure if this is slash or not. I think it leans more towards Shizaya friendship rather than romance, but I guess it would be up to your interpretation. Well, I hope you enjoy the story and please review!

Under the Surface

He could hear the faint sound of something ringing. It didn't sound like his ring tone, or like his alarm, but it was a familiar tune. And it was annoying enough to pull him out of his sleep.

The first thing he noticed was that it was hot.

Really hot. Almost suffocating, in fact. He didn't remember it being this stuffy when he went to sleep, so why was it so warm in here?

Izaya groaned, squeezing his eyes together and feeling drowsy. His mind was blurred and vacant, his limbs heavy. He frowned, never having felt this sensation upon waking before. Was he sick? That conclusion jumped to his mind, but he didn't really feel bad, just unnaturally tired.

He lifted his arms in an attempt to stretch, but they were stopped barely inches above his head, slamming against something with a dull thud. He froze, eyes snapping open.

It didn't make any difference. Even with his eyes open his world was pitch black. He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when his eyes didn't adjust he began to feel the slightest twinge of panic. His hands, still pressed against the rough material on top of him, pushed lightly. The wall didn't budge.

His breath hitched slightly and his eyes darted around, though he still couldn't see anything. His hands moved faster now, feeling around him to get an idea of where he was currently lying down. His movement was restricted several inches above his head and on his sides. He could probably move to one edge of the space and extend his arms and just brush the other end of the wall. He kicked out with his legs, heart thundering as the soles of his shoes hit another wall.

Even with in his panicked state he managed to deduce that the walls were made of wood and if he had to guess he was in a coffin of some sort.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," he repeated, his breathing becoming frantic. He was in silence so the wheezing of his breath was the only thing that could be heard, along with the sound of his hands and knees slamming against the walls of the coffin. "Help! Somebody help me! HELP!" The usually composed informant flailed his hands around, slamming them against the walls. The dull thud sounds indicated that the coffin was probably surrounded by dirt, but it barely registered in the back of his mind.

He screamed and howled, yelling for someone to hear him, to help him.


His hand brushed against something near his head and the object clattered against the side of the coffin. He jumped, struggling to turn and grab the object, whatever it was. With shaky hands he gripped the object, feeling the shape and letting out a relieved sob when he realized what it was:

"Flashlight! F-flashlight-" he gasped, fumbling for the button or the switch or whatever it was that turned on this blessed device. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he found the button and pressed it, blinking feverishly when a bright light shone out of the flashlight. He forced himself to calm down, knowing that panicking wasn't going to do anything except waste precious oxygen.

He shone the light around, confirming what he'd already discovered – he was in a coffin. It was just big enough to hold his body, a few inches taller than himself, and not wide enough for him stretch his arms out. He struggled to control his breathing, feeling terror rising inside him.

At the corner of the box, next to his head on the other side of where the flashlight had been, was a cell phone.

He nearly shrieked, scrabbling for it and bringing it close to his face. The phone was a Nokia, a relatively new model with a color screen. He glanced at it, noting the bars indicating that there was a signal. That meant he wasn't too far underground, probably only a few feet.

He had one missed call.

Suddenly he remembered that strange ringing that had woken him up and realized that it had been coming from this phone. Someone had been calling him. Maybe someone who could explain why the hell he was in this damn coffin!

He took a few deep breaths, calming himself. Yes, he was trapped in a coffin a few feet underground, probably going to suffocate if he didn't get out of here, but he was still Izaya Orihara the informant who was unruffled by any situation. He would strive to remain his usual self, because his pride wouldn't let him be any other way.

He called back the unfamiliar number, cursing the fact that his breathing sounded so loud in the silence. He didn't want the other person to hear his terror over the phone.

The phone only rang once before someone picked up.

"Ah, Orihara-san, I see you've woken up." The voice was familiar, but not enough that he could put a face to it. "How are you feeling?"

He bristled at the light tone, but didn't allow the man to sense his fury.

"Ah, as well as can be expected for a person waking up inside a coffin," he joked lightly. "I can't say much for the comfort, but at least you get points for creativity."

"Of course, I expected you to react like this. Even in these circumstances you'll pretend that you still have control of the situation. That's what I always admired about you."

"I'm curious as to what I did to deserve to be in this "situation", as you call it."

The man paused, and Izaya gritted his teeth. Every second his time was running out and it was getting harder and harder to pretend he was okay. He pressed his palm against the wood in front of him, feeling his heartbeat speed up.

"Being an informant, you sell information for a price. But you never stop to think about the consequences. You probably never stop to care about how much you've ruined someone's life by selling them out. I want to change that. Because now, for once, you're feeling the consequences of what you've done. Tell me, was the money worth what you're experiencing right now?"

Izaya wracked his brain, trying desperately to place this voice. He had obviously had some important information on this man and he knew for sure that they had at least talked, considering the voice was familiar, but he couldn't figure out what exactly had transpired between them to make this man so bitter.

"I don't do it for the money. I do it for the entertainment," he corrected.

"Ah…so the fact that you're actions caused my business to go bankrupt leading to my wife's suicide is entertaining to you?"

Fuck. Now he remembered who this guy was. Daichi Nakamura, a corrupt man who had been deeply involved in a drug dealing business.

He had sold crucial information to rival drug dealers and several weeks later had received news that most of Nakamura's men had been slaughtered and his business had crumbled to the ground within hours. The man himself had gone into hiding, away from his enemies and the police. His wife had then hung herself from shame a few days later. No wonder the man hated him. Izaya had essentially ruined his life.

"Highly entertaining," he cooed, though his voice wavered. "You humans always have such predictable reactions. Though I must say you surprised me with this one, Nakamura-san. I expected a hired assassin of some sort to shoot me dead in the street, not some movie-style vengeance."

"I didn't want you dead. Not yet. I still want something from you."

"Eh? And what's that?"

"I know you have 200 million yen stashed in a suitcase in your apartment. I paid some people to search your apartment. I want that 200 million yen and I want you to get a certain someone to give it to me."

Izaya was confused. "If your people found it, why do you need me to get it for you? Why not just get them to take it?"

"Because this isn't about the money – that's just a bonus. No, this is about the game. The only way I will release you is if you get a certain someone to bring the money to me."


"The phone you have is a special phone. Try dialing a number on it," the man instructed. Izaya lifted the phone and tried pressing random numbers. It didn't work – the keys were stuck or something, as if they had been locked or glued down or something. He couldn't press them no matter how hard he tried.

"It doesn't work."

"Exactly. You can only use the buttons at the top – the call buttons and such. The numbers are unusable, which means you can't dial any new numbers. Now if you go to your contacts, you will find a single number labeled 'Unknown'. This is the person I want to deliver me the money. Nobody else. If it's anyone but him, or if you don't deliver the money in time, then I will leave you to rot in there."

The threat was real enough for Izaya to grit his teeth and inhale, forcing himself to stay silent.

"So this is…a game to you?" he nearly snarled.

"Isn't it strange, Orihara-san, to be the victim for once? I'm sure you appreciate experiencing what it's like to be someone else's toy, rather than the one pulling the strings. All these years you've manipulated people, and suddenly you find yourself in a situation where you're one of the players and your own life is on the line. How does it feel?"

"It's a new experience."

"You have a couple of hours before your oxygen runs out. Oh, and don't bother with telling the police. I have several contacts in the police who will make sure that by the time they find you, you'll be nothing but a rotting corpse."

"What a delightful image."

"For me it is. And good luck, Orihara-san. Hurry and call your contact. I'm sure you'll appreciate my sense of irony."

And then he hung up, leaving Izaya's harsh breathing the only noise in the box. He resisted the urge to yell and throw the phone, knowing it would only bounce back and hit him in the face, or end up out of reach next to his shoes.

He wasn't so much scared as he was pissed off now. He couldn't believe Nakamura had the audacity to fuck with him like this. He would show the man, once he got out of this damn box. He would find him and cut off all his limbs and have him screaming and begging for mercy. And it would be sweet, sweet revenge.

He went to his contacts and surely enough, the only one there was 'Unknown'. Vaguely he wondered if this person was also in on the entire scheme. He pressed the Call button and held the phone to his ear.

It rang once…twice…three times…

He drew in a sharp breath when someone finally answered:


- 0 –

- 0 -

Shizuo had had a crap day. He arrived back at his apartment covered in leaves and gunk from when he'd uprooted a tree and shaken it, forcing the hiding man to fall out ungracefully. Tom hadn't complained about his methods, merely sighed and continued with his job.

Their day had been quite busy, considering several people had not paid their debts and were trying to avoid having to do so. Two of them had even tried to attack him, only to have their faces broken when he'd lost his temper.

Finally, once he and Tom had parted, he been in a bad mood and wanted to just go home and relax. He closed his door none-too-gently and began peeling off his clothes, throwing them in the laundry basket. He hoped they didn't stain – the clothes had been from Kasuka.

He set his cell phone onto the counter, stepping into his bathroom to take a nice long shower.

Once he was done, he flopped onto his couch in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, sighing. The shower hadn't really helped him lower his stress levels. He was still feeling worked up.

Maybe he could go beat up the flea – that always made him feel better.

Izaya hadn't turned up in Ikebukuro for a while, and Shizuo was always expecting him to pop up at some corner, mocking him or tormenting some poor innocent soul. He was glad that the flea had decided to leave this place alone for a while, but since then he hadn't had much of an outlet for his frustration. It wasn't as satisfying beating up spineless losers.

He wondered what the flea was up to, what manipulative plan he was conjuring. Whatever it was, it would probably cause trouble for Shizuo and make his life difficult. When the flea lay low, it wasn't a good thing for Shizuo.

He picked up the remote, turning on the television and switching the channels, not feeling his interest peaked by any of them.

He felt a vibration and looked down, realizing that someone was calling him. He picked up the phone, looking at the flashing screen. The number wasn't showing – it was an unknown caller – and he frowned, wondering who it was. The only people who really called him were Tom and Kasuka, sometimes Shinra, while Celty only ever texted him.

Maybe it was a wrong number. He lifted the phone to his ear:


"Who…who is this?"

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He frowned, puzzled by this question. Why were they asking him who he was?

"Who is this? You called me."

There was a pause and he could almost hear the man wondering whether it was a good idea to reveal their identity.

"Just tell me who you are."

"Shizuo. Now who the hell are you?" he snapped, his patience thinning.

The call ended. He stared at his phone, confused. Why had they just hung up on him? He shrugged, tossing the phone onto the couch. Whatever. It probably wasn't even important.

- 0 –

- 0 -

Izaya hung up, heart slamming against his rib cage.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

He was dead. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt despair creeping up inside of him and whined in frustration, slamming his fists against the walls of the coffin.

Maybe if he just punched the walls enough they would break and he could dig himself out. He would probably then have more chance of doing that than of convincing…him. He rubbed his face with his palms, wishing he could just wake up out of this nightmare.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still in the coffin. There were still wooden walls trapping him underground.

And Shizuo was still the only person who could save him.