A/N: Written for the 500themes writing challenge community on Livejournal for the prompt #366 – Silent angels.

Disclaimer: Narita Ryougo, Yasuda Suzuhito and all associated companies are the owners of Du-ra-ra-ra!. No copyright infringement intended and no money is being made from this. Please support the mangaka by buying the original work!

Warnings: none I can think of.

Angels walking among us

There are angels among us; angels walking the same streets we take every day to school, work, the central park, the coffee shop on the corner which offers the best cupcakes in the city, the local marketplace which has the freshest meat and vegetables… They are watching us, looking at us, and we look back at them. They pass us by, not touching us and our lives, though sometimes brushing past us in haste. We pass them by, ignorant of their existence, while secretly hoping that somewhere out there… But the angels are silent. No one has ever heard an angel scream and, quite possibly, no one ever will, for it must be a horrible sound; something heart-rending and despair-invoking. Angels aren't supposed to be screaming, after all.

Angels pass us by. They live right next to us. With us, perhaps. They know us, but we don't recognise them in plain sight, we do not acknowledge their subtle touch. We look at them, but we do not see them, our eyes distracted by the outer qualities, the outer appearance. We don't look on the inside – can't – to see the true essence of things; to see that which is the soul.

Here on the streets Shizuo feels at home. He walks, dressed as a bartender, because his brother wanted him to have a stable, permanent job, and Shizuo supposes that he has, in a way. Even if it doesn't really fit his attire.

There isn't a life which he hasn't touched here in Ikebukuro, in one way or another. There isn't a single person who hasn't seen him or, at the very least, wouldn't know of his existence, and even then they don't know him; the real him locked underneath the fame of the Ikebukuro's strongest. They haven't actually seen him. He is just one of the people we pass by on the streets, in the store, or at the bust stop. He is the one we want to have in our lives – for a moment of novelty and awe – while a part of us wishes desperately to never meet him because that would change something in the world which we aren't ready to give up. (Like that book we read ten years ago and thought to be the best in the whole world, but after picking up again now we realise that it isn't the masterpiece we remember it as, but the most contrite, boring and childish piece of writing we've laid our eyes on.)

He is the one who might never appear, the one who never answers us. The one we pass by on the street and do not recognise, even if we know him by his outer appearance. He is the one who touches our lives in ways more subtle than the eye can see and the mind believes. He is an angel in his own right.