Originally posted on the Drrr Kinkmeme in response to this prompt:
Trauma after rape, fear of touching, self-abomination due to being helpless, hurt comfort, vengeful!Izaya
Shizuo, even though he is the strongest guy in whole Japan, falls victim to rape. (after drugged by some people to whom he thinks he is helping) Yet, contrary to what one might expect from someone like Shizuo, he completely shuts down, thinks he is guilty of what happened to him, develops a fear of being touched and feels inadequate and thinks that this is his punishment for being a freak of nature. Izaya (who is in love with him in his own twisted way) finds him/learns about this and feels possessive over Shizuo and rages as he tries to nurse Shizuo to health both physically and mentally.
Yet, his twistedness and rage go so far to the extend that he finds each assailant and drives them to their own deaths by manipulating them into hopeless situations and he makes Shizuo witness each and every of them -Iza thinks that by getting revenge in Shizuo's stead, he can cure Shizuo-. But Shizuo can't take this, watching the man who claims to love him commit such acts for his sake. I want them to cure each other into being sane again. Make it a relatively happy ending Anon, or somewhere close to a compromise.
NOTE : Please note that this fic will deal with the aftermath of rape (referred to in flashbacks only, the event itself happens before the fic begins), and as such may be potentially triggery. And as with all my fics, it will feature an M/M relationship (both Shizaya and Izuo), so if none of that appeals, this might not be the fic for you.
(Also, this one's pretty long, so it'll take me a little while to get these chapters up to date with the ones on the meme and my LJ - one day I'll find a site with a text editor that isn't batshit crazy, but this is evidently not that day - so if you want to skip ahead the links are on my profile.)
What You Don't Surrender
It'd all be okay if he could just make it home.
If he went home, he could clean himself up, sleep it off.
If he went home, he'd be saf—
Stop. Just… stop.
Shizuo kept his head down, kept his gaze on his feet because that was the only way to remind himself to move, to take one step, then another. He had to keep moving. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.
He kept to side streets and alleyways; he couldn't run into anyone he knew. Even if he still had his phone, he wouldn't have called anyone. It was late; he'd just be bothering them for no reason, making a nuisance of himself.
So he'd just go home. Clean up. Sleep it off. It'd be better that way.
He couldn't remember leaving the place where they'd held him, couldn't even remember where it was. When he finally regained a claw hold on his senses, he was in an alleyway near the train track, bracing shaking hands against the wall while his stomach convulsed with dry, empty heaves. How long he stayed there, just listening to the rattle of the trains and the rumble of the expressway, he had no idea. Minutes. Days. Forever.
Now just breathing hurt. Maybe he'd broken a rib, or maybe he was just broken. He couldn't recall any other injury that ever hurt like this. He wrapped an arm around himself, like that might somehow hold him together, stop it all falling to pieces, and stumbled on.
Just get home. Then it'd all be okay.
The headlights and the garish neon from a street nearby wove and flickered in his blurred vision, pulsating in time with his unsteady heartbeat. It was like being in some fucked up circus; closing his eyes to block it out just made the dizziness worse.
He felt himself trip, felt the too-cold stone of the wall he had to lean against to regain his balance.
Whatever they'd given him still coursed in his blood. If he wasn't him, it might have killed him.
Maybe it should have.
With every step, his clothes rubbed a sandpaper caress against his skin, every nerve reacting as though they'd just been rewired wrong. Kasuka would kill him for wrecking another set of clothes. At least in the dark he could pretend no one could tell everything was torn, ripped, ruined.
Just get home. Just don't think.
Not about why every step hurt, not about why his teeth chattered, not about why his pants clung to the back of his thighs, wet and cold and—
Don't think. Just…
I want to go home. Please.
"My, my, Shizu-chan. If you look that bad, I'd hate to see the other guy."
The sound of that light, singsong voice sent enough ice running through his system to clear his head for a moment. Immediately, he longed for the numbing fog of the drugs instead.
In a streetlight spotlight at the end of the alley, loomed the very last silhouette he wanted to see. Backlit and blurry, Izaya was a black shadow edged in fur, with eyes that seemed to leave trails of light, like slow motion shots of traffic.
"Fuck off, flea." Just three words, but they made his throat ache, made his mouth flood with a bitter taste. He rubbed the back of his hand against his dry lips, but that just made it worse.
"Hmm, has Shizu-chan been paying attention to other people again?" He had no idea whether Izaya really was swaying as he walked closer, or whether it was his eyesight, but either way it made him nauseous. "And here I thought I was your favourite."
Go away, just get the fuck away from me…
He waited for the familiar surge of rage, waited for that white-hot anger to burn through the haze. But it never came. That part of him felt rewired wrong, too.
Wasn't like it did you any fucking good, anyway.
Squinting to try and clear his vision, he kept moving. He might be lucky; Izaya might decide he was no fun to provoke as he was now.
Hands in his pockets, Izaya leaned forward, peering up at him. "So, what did they do to deserve it?"
What did they do?
sliced through the back of his mind. Not memories. Just things. Cold concrete, colder hands. Laughter. Pain.
Izaya's image wavered again, but this time he knew it was his fault. Stars dazzled at the edge of his awareness, but if he shook it off he thought he might end up puking over Izaya's shoes, and then the damned louse would never let him forget.
"I don't have time for your shit." He tried to take another step. Couldn't. The pain made it feel as though his entire spine was fused together.
Just let me go home.
"Oh? I thought taking every opportunity to kill me was right at the top of your list of priorities. Now you can't even make time for me? Ah, Shizu-chan's so mean."
Izaya circled him, and Shizuo felt the sidewalk shift beneath his feet. The sudden sensation that tore up his spine when Izaya left his field of vision, moved behind him, made him stop breathing.
He spun, trying to keep Izaya in view, but the world kept right on going when he stopped. He had no balance anyway, so there was nothing to keep him upright when his knees buckled, and the concrete rushed up to meet him.
He thought maybe he saw dark red eyes widen in surprise. Thought maybe he heard someone say his name from far, far away.
For a moment, Izaya could only stare. Even for Shizuo in all his unpredictable glory, this was taking things a little bit too far. He took measured steps towards the blond's crumpled body as though it might rear up and attack at any given second.
Well, it was Shizu-chan, after all… right?
"Hmm, that's not nice, Shizu-chan. Didn't anyone tell you it's bad manners to pass out in the middle of a conversation?"
He crouched next to the fallen form, and rested his chin in his hand. The shoulder of that white shirt was torn; Izaya poked a finger through the hole. Once. Twice. No reaction. Leaning back on his heels a little, he reached into his pocket for his phone.
"Come on, don't make me take a photo for posterity." He pressed a few random buttons in a parody of doing just that. "I could send copies to all your friends, your brother…"
With its main recipient unconscious, and therefore unable to entertain him with that disproportionately angry reaction, Izaya let his smirk fade. This wasn't unpredictable; this was just wrong. Unsettling. Like seeing a magnificent building reduced to rubble and smoke.
Izaya narrowed his eyes, frowning at the unresponsive form, sudden irritation tightening his fingers around the phone, making the plastic creak.
No one else was allowed to reduce Shizuo to this state but him.
At least Shizuo was still breathing, even if it was too shallow, too fast. There were bruises on his jaw, dark smudges that looked as though they continued under the collar of his shirt. The shirt's cuffs were ragged, bloody; so was the one limp hand Izaya could see, the other trapped somewhere under Shizuo's body. In the unnatural glow of the streetlight, his skin had an ashen cast to it, and along with the scent of blood came something else, something sour and unpleasant.
Izaya reached out, carefully brushing a damp lock of bleached blond hair from Shizuo's closed eyes. The skin beneath his fingers felt clammy and feverish. Lips curving into a wry smile, he scrolled through the address book on his phone.
"It'd be bad for me if you died here, ne, Shizu-chan?"
While the phone rang out to the number he'd selected, he stood up, and looked around the empty street. No one seemed to be following. Nothing in the near vicinity looked like the aftermath of a tornado, so whatever had happened hadn't happened here.
There was no telling how far Shizuo had walked. Even in this condition, that scary body of his could have let him stagger halfway across the city. Izaya might have had contacts on every street, but they were useless if he didn't know where to start.
He glanced back down at Shizuo, and sighed softly.
You never make things easy for me, do you?
"Ah, it's me." He turned to stroll away when the call connected. "I have something I want you to pick up."