October 7, 2011

New story-a fill for the DRRR! Kink Meme.

Prompt: Shizuo is marrying some woman he's been dating for a while now (Can be an original character/some character from a different anime, even).
He invites everyone he knows to the wedding. Including Izaya.
I wanna see Izaya losing it. I wanna see ANGST. I wanna see Izaya sadder than he's ever been.

-Izaya going to Shiki for comfort (And tries to hide the fact that he's freaking sad and wants to cry 24/7)
-Izaya asking Shiki to come with him to the wedding cause he can't go alone and there's no way in hell that he's missing it.
-Angst. Like, maximum level of ANGST. ANGST ANGST ANGST.

Disclaimer: I do not own Durarara!

*This story will end as Shizaya, even if it'll take me a while to develop it.* (Personal headcanon: angst is that much more delicious if you go through the one-sided feelings and actually develop the relationship.)

One and Only, Right?


Izaya blinked, snapping out of his reverie. Lifting his eyes, his gaze met a certain brunette's, though the latter's was not as nonchalant.

Keeping his fingers delicately interlocked, elbows propped on the armrests of his sleek swivel chair, legs gracefully placed on the side of the modern desk, Izaya upheld his beautiful mask of being better than anyone else.

"Namie-san, what's the matter?"

"What's the matter!" Namie growled through her gritted teeth. "Quit slacking off and do your part of the job! I am not staying overtime and covering for you." Her eyes squinted into slits as she enunciated the last few words for emphasis. She jerked her arms off her hips and spun around, heading back to her seat on the couch, sleek and modern, matching all the other expensive furniture in the informant's high-class abode.

Izaya watched Namie's long hair twirl as she turned her back to him, sighing after she took a few steps away.

He reached for the files that were slammed onto his desk and flipped through them absentmindedly. His mind was elsewhere, treading on disputed territory once again, as it did the past two days.

Izaya found himself thinking of the same thing again. Upon realization, he jerked his legs off the table and straightened himself. Staring blankly at the computer screen, he picked up his pile of files, thumped them against the desk so that they were neatly aligned, and set them in front of his keyboard.

Unknowingly, he stared down at the papers as all thought flew out of his brain.

What was I going to do?

He glanced up at the dark desktop—it had gone to sleep—and back down to the files.

Oh, right.

With a sweep of the mouse, the informant awoke his computer and began typing, looking at the files from time to time.

For about seven minutes, the only sound resonated from the furious click-clack of Izaya's keyboard. The steadiness of that and the otherwise complete silence drowned everything out of the raven-haired man's mind.

This is from…

He glanced down at the file.


His elegant fingers came to a halt, and his crimson eyes grew wide at the word. A flood of mixed emotions flickered through his reddish-brown orbs while his whole body froze, paralyzed.

He couldn't think.

What was he doing?

I don't know.

His mind ran through a jumble of thoughts, all of them incoherent, yet related.

I don't know anymore…

He didn't realize as his fingers clenched tightly.

I—I can't. Not when Namie's—

Izaya jolted out of his sudden immovability.

Where was I?

Oh, the information. I need to finish this.

Trying to shove the thoughts out of his mind, Izaya glued his eyes to the screen, but he was unable to prevent himself from peering down at the word "Ikebukuro" for a few intermittent split seconds.

The evening passed in that manner—Namie staying quiet, doing her work, and ignoring Izaya while the latter typed away on the keys—and when Namie looked up at the clock to see the hands showing that it was six, she sighed in relief. Packing her bag, she organized her work, walked over to her boss, said a quick, "I'm leaving," and was out the door just as quickly.

The click of the lock echoed in the silent room.

After blanking out for a few seconds, Izaya exhaled deeply and leaned back in his comfy chair. His arms hung limp at his side as he threw his head back. Inattentively, his legs slowly spun him around.

Now that Namie was gone, no one was there to see him in such a humiliating state.

Unable to concentrate, unable to think of anything else…unable to forget and accept.

Izaya closed his eyes, and he can remember everything so vividly, stabbing at his heart and being each passing second.


Why…didn't I know that this would happen someday?

At least when…I saw them grow closer…each passing day.

A painful tug of his heart made him grab at his chest.

With an unreadable expression, Izaya pressed the power button on his desktop and stood up. Mechanically, his legs carried him away from his desk and into that dark place of his apartment, where his bed was located. He barely realized that he had reached his room until he crawled under the covers, wrapping himself, in an effort to warm up.

From what?

What was he warming up from?

Certainly, it was cold. Outside, the temperature was definitely chilly. Inside, Izaya's apartment was never warm. No, not with the coldness of the only two who were ever there.

That was not the case, though.

Izaya shivered from the temperature. Yet, he also trembled from the inside out. That frozen heart of his throbbed in pain as it began to crack…

It was already shattered before it froze over.

Now, in its state, crushed and frozen, a crack was splintering.

How much more can he take before he can feel warmth again?

How long will it take for him to find the light once more?

How can he—

It's always like this.

The raven-haired man pulled his knees up and hugged himself close.

I don't need anyone.

He interlaced his fingers and held tight.

I've survived this long.

His fingers started to hurt.

What bullshit they say...I don't need anyone to live. I'm fine alone.

He released his hard grasp and relaxed his legs and arms. Stretching out his legs, Izaya moved one hand and clutched the side of his pillow.


I thought…

He sighed and turned to lie on his back, throwing one hand on his forehead.


This is pathetic.

I'm pathetic.


I only wished that he'd…

A lone tear slid down the side of his face, tickling his ear.

The complete silenced droned in his ear as he lay ambivalent in his half-consciousness.

Finally, slowly, the sweet clutches of sleep took over—yet, was his sleep truly "sweet"?


Izaya's eyelids flew open, blind in the darkness of the night. His room was completely black, except for the small blinking light from where his cell phone was charging on his bedside drawer. He wondered briefly why he awoke; the confusion gradually slipped away.

The raven-haired man was lying on his side, facing his cell phone. As unconsciousness left him each passing second, the uncomfortable stiffness of his cheeks called for his attention. Lifting his free hand—the one he wasn't laying on—to wipe at the dried tears, Izaya remembered that he had inevitably let out those displays of weakness.

For the past two days, ever since he received that invitation…he had been…well, to say the least, 'out of it.' But seriously? Orihara Izaya—the great Orihara Izaya, unable to do his job correctly?


Every time he tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, they would come rushing back at the slightest trigger. It nearly drove him insane. He would find himself sitting at his chair, leaned back, either with his eyes closed or staring at the ceiling. Once, even when he was meeting with a client, he drifted off into another parallel universe while the man across from him kept talking, then repeated a few "Um, Orihara?" until he was jolted back by Namie's annoyed "Ahem" and purposefully loud clunk of the cup as she set it down in front of him.

Immediately, he regained his poise and replied with, "Oh, I'm sorry Tanaka-san; you said you wanted information on your rival companies?"

Thus, the conversation reverted back to business.

Every day was bland and boring—too methodical—for Izaya's liking. Even as an informant, dealing with all these different people, meddling with all these controversial topics, Izaya never felt satisfied, which is one reason why he perpetually screwed things up: organized gang wars, framed criminals, anything.

A reason why he worked for Awakusu-kai.

Why he incessantly…pranced around Ikebukuro.


"Black coffee, sir?" The young girl behind the counter questioned hesitantly.

"Yes, that's what I said, wasn't it?" The raven-haired man's voice was friendly enough, along with his flawless smile; yet, his words had a certain sting to it.

"Of-of course." Mid-length, brown bangs dropped in front of the flustered girl's face as she looked down at the register to take the order. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a light brown bandana was secured around the top of her head. An apron the color of dark chocolate wrapped around her body, tied once neatly around her neck and another time around her waist and back. The café newly opened a few months ago near Izaya's apartment, but he never really took the time to try it out. Well, he didn't like sweets in the first place, so much less incentive for him to come.

"That will be a total of 284 yen, sir, or would you like anything else?" Their eyes met, and after staring into those inquiring hazel eyes for a few seconds, Izaya glanced up at the menu, scanned the list of sweets, desserts, and other foods they offered, and took a quick glimpse at the adjacent bakery cabinet then at the display racks at the far wall. The bakery was well-furnished and gave off a comfortable, cozy feeling. The walls were painted a creamy, vanilla color, while the logos, uniforms, and furniture matched with a dark, coffee tint. Lights shone from the ceiling, small and a bright whitish-yellow. Turning his gaze back to the girl in front of him, Izaya said, "I would…"—a slight hesitation—"actually like to try a cinnamon bun."

"Sure, no problem." She punched some buttons, looked up, and asked again, "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, it is."

"Okay, then, your total now is 373 yen. Oh, thank you," she added as Izaya handed her a 500 yen coin. "Would you like me to heat the cinnamon bun for you?" She patiently waited for Izaya to decide.

Does it taste better that way? "Well, yes, please." Why not?

"Okay, great. Please wait a moment and your coffee and cinnamon bun will be ready. Thank you. Here's your receipt." She had kept a smiling face the as she took Izaya's order, vaguely noting how the pale, lean face seemed tired, how the skin below the eyes was darkened. He tended to pause a few seconds each time before replying, his eyes unfocused, as if he forgot where he was and what he was doing.

"Thank you…" He reached for the thin piece of paper and instinctively walked over to the side counter to wait for his coffee to be finished. Staring at nothing in particular, Izaya looked through the large glass at the front of the café and watched the ordinary flow of people outside. At seven in the morning, the sky was still dark. Dense, gray clouds loomed over Shinjuku, releasing drops of rain here and there, but never steadily nor heavily. The people walking to work or wherever their destination was carried umbrellas above their heads as a precaution, since the dark clouds did not look promising.

"-rihara-san. Orihara-san," Izaya snapped his head in the direction of voice, "your drink and bun is ready."

"Ah, thank you."



To be continued...