Chapter Text
Izaya’s tongue is forked, twin serpents conjoined at the base. One hisses truths in the ears of its enemies, preying on their vices like mice as it whispers what they most fear hearing. The other murmurs lies, more cat than snake for its penchant to purr desired words in the hearts of its worshippers. However, they are not hydras, and when Shizuo Heiwajima cuts off one’s head, it doesn’t grow back.
The decapitation doesn’t happen upon their first meeting, despite sardonic laughter and drawn blood, miles of running and a hit-and-run. “I don’t like him,” he says. “Maybe we could have some fun,” the other replies. It is a rare instance of mutual vocalization from both heads of his tongue, and it is perhaps the agreement of the serpents for the time being that saves him. Though, more likely, it is the discord inside his head he goes so utterly unaware of for someone so observant of others.
There are other words, too, words that Izaya believes so intrinsically they must be true, if truth is to still be considered truth if someone is unaware it is in fact false. He means the taunts of ‘monster’ and hatred he imposes on the other, though communication doesn’t come, not for months. During month one Izaya orchestrates from behind the scenes, coaxing naive gang members and students to do his bidding of battling Shizuo-- it’s to gauge his strength, test the waters. What exactly provokes Shizuo Heiwajima? How hard must Izaya push before he breaks mentally? Physically? How thin is the hair of his hair-trigger rage? Izaya doesn’t pause to question the reasoning behind his insistent trials, his persistent inquiries, not when he so enjoys the other’s reactions, not when he so craves the other’s destruction.
During months two and three, and four and five and six, their encounters increase in violence and frequency. Destruction of property and skin (in terms of blood and bruises) alike-- they’re both certain if the blond catches sight of the brunet a centimeter off of school grounds. Disappointed and impressed alike at the school’s refusal of expulsion and Shizuo’s restraint on its property, Izaya subsequently raises his efforts of torment, and lowers them. When the summer sun transforms the streets of Ikebukuro to molten tar, Shizuo and Izaya’s footprints are absent from them altogether, not a trace to be found of stumps where street signs used to grow or drops of red from a slice of a switchblade, and the air is free of both the shouts of ‘Izaya-kun’ and the ensuing spew of laughter coercing Shizuo towards the body with the smirk of a mouth it erupted from. The fists that would have wrenched the signs from their roots are occupied building sand castles, the mouth mockery would have spilled from busy forming words with another equally as chatty.
“I wonder what Shizu-chan is doing with his summer vacation.” Izaya drums his fingers on the table in Shinra’s kitchen, ripples appearing in the glass of near-sugarless lemonade while miles away, on a much more vast scale, others lap against Shizuo’s feet, though Izaya is unaware. He has been informing his friend of the his classmates’ doings over the break, though he is cognizant of the fact the other is disinterested in who has broken up with who for cheating on his girlfriend or who has been held back or who has gotten involved with what gang. Shinra was never one to appreciate the small happenings in Ikebukuro, nor the large ones-- from gossip to yakuza activity, both of which Izaya has ceaseless information regarding. Perhaps another friend would be troubled by how he had acquired this knowledge, and from what sources, would find concern in Izaya’s choice of hobby, of time spent. Though Shinra was acclimated to Izaya’s behaviors, from the start there was no semblance of unease nor of judgement regarding them. It’s appreciated by Izaya, the eccentricity of their relationship-- the lack of emotional investment, the mutual, unspoken understanding that while they are acutely conscious of the inner workings of the other’s mind, they aren’t to be spoken of to each other. This wordless agreement is Shinra’s consideration to Izaya, who doesn’t know Shinra knows him better than he himself does. It is, besides the occasional patch-up, or taking a knife to the stomach, one of the few ways he shows his care, and it will go unappreciated for lack of insight from the boy who is sure he possesses so much.
“He’s on vacation with his family, I think. Though I can’t be sure, I haven’t heard a word from him all summer. Shizuo isn’t one to communicate during breaks, though. I didn’t hear from him all throughout middle school!” There’s no bitterness in his voice, Shinra retains his usual upbeat-ness where many others would fall into the snares of resentment.
“Ah, is he? I’m surprised they took him along, knowing they’d have a more enjoyable-- and safer-- time without him.” Izaya ignores Shinra’s contemplative gaze he puts no effort into camouflaging, simply sips his lemonade, lets the icy drink subdue the threat of heat rising to his face. Shinra seems to never remember to turn on the air conditioning, after all.
Second year passes by uneventfully, fights between Shizuo and Izaya sparse but destructive, both in terms of property and physical damage and insults. Izaya’s one-liners of threats become monologues regarding Shizuo’s monstrous characteristics separating him from humanity, Shizuo’s growls evolve similarly (though his derogations are much shorter), comparing Izaya to insects just as Izaya does with Shizuo and animals. The desecration of Shizuo’s hangnail onto his claim to humanity continues by Izaya; the realization of the likenesses of their insults never quite breaches the front of his brain. Neither does the awareness that, aside reports of school and city drama, Shizuo becomes the sole topic in his conversations with Shinra.
“The first time he demonstrated his incredible strength was apparently an attempt to throw the refrigerator at his younger brother Kasuka.”
Izaya’s laugh is devoid of the pity in his words, containing the malice of his tone instead. “What it must be like to live in the same house as a monster! The younger Heiwajima must be so ashamed of the blood running in his veins. I would be too, if I were him.”
“He didn’t used to be quite as strong as he is now. Actually, I’d say his strength has increased the most in such a short amount of time since he met you.”
“Are you saying I’ve made him more inhuman? That’s not possible, Shinra.”
“They’re actually quite close, his family. Him and his brother especially.”
“They’re probably just walking on eggshells as to not set him off. It’s like living with a bomb-- one that doesn’t have a timer.”
“Say, why do you hate Shizuo so much anyway?” Shinra folds his hands under his chin, glances at Izaya with the expression that has become par for the course in their conversations about the blond, the expression Izaya has subconsciously chosen to continually ignore, to not process as he does with those of every other he comes across.
“He hated me first. Though plenty of people hate me, so that’s not the reason. If I love humans so much, isn’t it natural I would hate their opposites?” The dimness of the room casts shadows on Shinra’s face that soften its lines rather than sharpen them; Izaya makes his way towards the window to cast open the curtains and gaze over the city from the vantage of Shinra’s apartment’s height. Pedestrians below can be seen in their summer attire of tank tops and shorts and flip flops, children grinning around popsicle-stained mouths and adults fanning themselves with unpaid bills. A ruffle of blond hair in the slightest of breezes catches Izaya’s eye, but it’s a woman, shoulders lacking the broadness and jaw lacking the squareness and features lacking the handsomeness he associates with Shizuo-- Shizuo who isn’t in Ikebukuro, Shizuo who once more is off eliciting more terror in beachgoers than even the fin of a shark. Sharks’ reputations were tainted anyhow, tainted from human provocation resulting in loss of limbs and blood rather than the unsolicited attacks the fish unwillingly took credit for. They were simple creatures, really, seeking out sources of food and companionship, undeserving of the ignorant fear humans possessed towards them. Though, phobias interest Izaya to a considerably greater extent than the safety of sea creatures, those irrational and peculiar especially; there’s curiosity to understand the reasoning behind something he doesn’t experience, and an objective standpoint few else might offer.
The balcony offers the hum of Ikebukuro that can’t be heard on the other side of glass doors, offers the breath of wind bringing with it chatterings and shouts and cries, laughter and whispers and sobs. As a child attempting to fall asleep in a house empty of yet-born siblings and parents alike, the distant buzz of the television and snores of a babysitter the only noise, Izaya would lift his window every so slightly before crawling into bed. The clatter of whatever traffic passed by on his often silent street, the whine of sirens in the distance, the chirp of crickets-- none of these prevented Izaya from drifting off, but rather assisted him as he closed his eyes and imagined climbing out of his room, the wind lifting his slight body and carrying it along its route over the city. Something prevents nostalgia from running its course through his veins; the disgust of his young naivety, the embarrassment of his childhood fantasies spoil the atmosphere, so Izaya releases them into the breeze, where they will be carried away, not to discontent him again.
Shizuo, unfortunately, cannot be cast away so effortlessly; neither can the thoughts of him plaguing Izaya randomly, inopportunely. A lecture in English grammar finds an image of Shizuo tutoring a first-year in the library drifting across his mind rather than letters and punctuation. He had been holding the pencil in his hand loosely, gently, calmly , without the imminent threat of it snapping between his thumb and forefingers. His voice had been level as he explained something too far-off for even Izaya to overhear, and when the freshmen shook his head in lack of understanding Shizuo had simply lifted his pencil and dropped it against the top of the page, beginning again. From behind a bookshelf, Izaya had observed the two, anticipatory for Shizuo to become inevitably frustrated, making shards of the pencil and raising his voice at the other boy. An hour passed, and the after-school bell rang signalling dismissal of those staying late. Shizuo had maintained his composure the entire time, seeming without visible strain. The impression of the student shaking Shizuo’s hand in thanks, smiling gratefully, no fear of the possibility of his own being crushed in Shizuo’s grip in his eyes makes Izaya’s own pencil snap in the middle of the lecture. For the first time in his life, Izaya Orihara has lost his composure, and publicly, and as all heads in the classroom swivel so all pairs of eyes may stare at him, he offers an apologetic smile rather than an embarrassed one, pulls another pencil out of his desk and states he must have been concentrating too hard. It’s an easy enough lie for the class and the teacher alike to swallow about the boy with high yet not top test scores, who hasn’t attended a single event for his class nor his school in all three years of his high school education, who doesn’t call himself a member of any club or team, who is rumored to have stabbed his only friend in middle school. It’s an easy enough lie to believe, because there is no other explanation that fits Izaya Orihara, who doesn’t get upset, or frustrated, is never confused or angry. They turn back to the lecture, all of them except Izaya, who wasn’t paying attention in the first place and pretends to note-take for the possibility of someone behind him still glancing in his direction, judging his inexplicable outburst. And it is, it is inexplicable. Izaya doesn’t get upset or frustrated, is never confused or angry. But, no, he realizes, that isn’t quite true-- he never becomes those things in regards to humans, and Shizuo Heiwajima is a monster . A monster that has managed to claw himself to the forefront of Izaya’s conscious thoughts, that has managed to enrage Izaya though he is several rooms down the hall, that has managed to make Izaya lose his composure. And such a monster must go.
Later that week, Izaya takes it upon himself to locate the freshman and warn him of Shizuo’s true, bestial nature. The boy flinches as his shoulder is tapped, apparently not having heard Izaya’s practiced near-silent footsteps approaching him near the staircase. A bead of sweat remains stagnant on his cheek despite the air-conditioned halls, Izaya notes, as well as his pallor at being in proximity to another.
He turns around, eyes widening at his the status of solicitor. “May I help you, senpai?” His voice doesn’t quiver-- it’s rather steady, words formal, altogether not quite suiting his demeanor.
“I was wondering if I could ask you something,” Izaya begins, continuing upon the cue of a nod. “I was in the library the other day, and I couldn’t help but notice you studying with Shizu-chan.” It’s not a question, not yet, but Izaya has put the context out there, and waits for the inevitable questioning of his non-question in prompt for the actual one to be vocalized.
“Shizu-chan?” The first-year furrows his thick eyebrows, raising them in epiphany after a moment. “Oh! Heiwajima-senpai? You know him?”
“Know him, yes.” He nods, grin polite but eyes bemused at the naivety of the other. “You see, I was wondering why you would be studying with Shizu-chan. It’s no secret he has rather poor marks all things considering, not to mention the extremely high probability of him throwing you out the window if you upset him. And that could have happened quite easily.” Izaya nods once more, this time in false-pity complete with a contemplative pout. His eyes don’t change.
“But Heiwajima-senpai has always been really patient with me!” The other is frowning, voice raising and arms crossing in defensiveness. “He isn’t stupid like everyone thinks, and since I’m two years younger he already learned what I’m learning.”
“But why Shizu-chan? Surely there are others who would be able to outmatch his supposed patience, who understand the material much more thoroughly? Perhaps someone who earns top marks and isn’t a car-throwing delinquent?” His sardonicism is becoming too aggressive, he knows, the hostility underlining his words beginning to waver his voice. He’s slipping , for the second time that day Izaya is becoming temperamental-- on the topic of Shizuo, nonetheless-- and though he knows himself inside and out, he isn’t sure why , and that is only decreasing his stability. Even in the presence of the monster, he has always been the level-headed one, and effortlessly! He has always been all smirks and taunts and flicks of his blade, laughs and threats and battle-driven adrenaline, never anger and shouts and growls. Those had been Shizuo , Shizuo and not him. Distantly, Izaya notices the droplets of sweat returning to drip down his kouhai’s face, the wide eyes screaming confusion and anxiety and worst of all, fear, and it’s all wrong, all wrong because it should be Shizuo eliciting those emotions, Shizuo and not him.
The first year is stuttering as he answers Izaya’s harsh, desperate demand of a question; he’s taken a step backwards towards the stairwell with his left foot as though preparing to flee-- the very hint of antagonism has set his instinctive ‘flight’ reaction into play. “Kasuka is an acquaintance of mine from middle school, and I…I’m quite a shy person, so he’s one of the only people that I could call anything close to a friend. Even though we went to separate high schools, I knew his older brother went here and so when I was having trouble with my studies I asked Kasuka if he would ask Heiwajima-senpai to… to tutor me. There was really no one else I could ask, but… but he’s… he’s never gotten angry with me!” By the end of his explanation so rushed Izaya would have had trouble making it out were he not a quick speaker himself, the younger boy is out of breath., and his defensiveness of Shizuo has Izaya questioning whether the other’s instinctual response was indeed to flee rather than fight. People have fled Izaya before, for fear, for panic, for intimidation, for logic-- for simply believing he was insane. And people have fought Izaya for any of the aforementioned reasons and more; there have been times he himself had prepared for the other to run away or draw weapon or fist, only to have his predictions be proven inaccurate much to his delight. But this child’s reaction draws a different sort of laughter past Izaya’s lips-- acidic and caustic as if exhaling sulfur.
“That explains it, then.” The bite of his sneer is meant to cut deep, create a gash rather than a scrape. Were Izaya to gaze into the mirror at that moment, there would be but one word to describe his expression, one word that would refuse to come to mind for its connotation. “Of course, Shizu-chan was only being patient with you as to not offend Kasuka. I can’t believe he had the self-control, though! He must really want Kasuka’s favor, to tolerate a brat like you like that. It’s a good thing I warned you, or else you might have gone around thinking Shizu-chan was really caring, instead of just trying to stay on his brother’s good side. You have me to thank, really.” Relief at the validation he didn’t know he was seeking floods through Izaya at the horrified, disbelieving expression on the first year’s face-- though it’s only as he speaks up once more Izaya’s stomach tightens and twists along with his heart.
“Why are you so determined to convince me Heiwajima-senpai is a bad person? I think you’re the bad person, senpai.” As he dashes down the stairs, stinging in his eyes, Izaya is left on the platform with the ghost of the younger’s last expression in front of him, his last words in the air. He hadn’t been repelled by Shizuo, but Izaya , and the eyes he had been staring at him with were all too familiar. They were the eyes students and adults alike gave Shizuo-- only they had been trained unmistakingly toward Izaya, like he was the monster.
It’s the end of the week before Izaya catches Shizuo’s attention, despite Izaya frequenting Shizuo’s favorite locations as closely as he can without outright confronting the other. He’s perched on a precariously dangling branch at the top of a tree across from Shizuo’s house-- a modest home in a nondescript neighborhood with an aura of family . The blond has his bag slouched over one shoulder, seems to be humming tunelessly as he stares at the cloud-splattered sky, squinting as the sun meets his dark eyes though appearingly not caring quite enough to glance away. However, the light isn’t quite blinding enough to conceal the shadowy figure not-quite hidden among browning leaves, their color and life sapped by the cool of fall. Had Izaya wished to, he could have easily chosen a more camouflaged observation area, but Izaya had grown restless, eager for an encounter; although Shizuo has been under his watch since their third year began, there has been no meeting between them commemorating the beginning of their last year in high school together.
Izaya’s heart begins to race at the prospect of graduation-- not for worry of his own future, no, he has ample resources to climb the hierarchy of whatever business he chooses-- be it corporation or yakuza, Izaya is well aware that most would be begging for his intelligence shown in the form of his grades as well as the information network he has built up in just three years at Raijin, for his skills with technology and people alike. There is no shortage of possibilities for the life ahead of Izaya Orihara, not at all. It’s Shizuo he’s worried about-- Shizuo with his average grades, Shizuo with his delicate temper, Shizuo with his inhuman strength. Try as he might, Izaya can’t imagine a suitable job for the brute. Perhaps he could find meager earnings in a circus. Izaya’s smirk widens at the prospect of Shizuo, fake mustache applied to his face, shirtless, lifting weights well below his standard in a colorful tent reeking of animal manure and sweat. It would be a fitting occupation, certainly. Concurrently, his heart begins to race at the prospect of Shizuo leaving Ikebukuro, moving somewhere far, far away or travelling in a caravan in some foreign country. It’s a familiar feeling, the one Izaya gets during summer vacation when Shizuo is off vacationing with his family-- it’s the prospect of anticipation, of not having a challenge. Though, certainly once he gets involved further with the yakuza, or begins his occupation as an informant for some top-ranking company, the boredom will dissipate as the high-risk of two-timing and spying settles in. Certainly.
The quickening of footsteps along with the drawn-out shout of “Izaya-kun!” can be felt through the trunk of the tree to vibrate along Izaya’s body along with the thrum of adrenaline as Shizuo crosses the street in a matter of seconds, tilting his head back and placing one hand on the trunk of the tree to call up to Izaya, voice low and rumbling.
“Izaya-kun, why the fuck are you in my neighborhood?! Get the hell out before I send you flying!” To prove his point, the blond begins vigorously shaking the trunk of the tree as though a semblance of a threat to uproot it. The branch Izaya is perched on, already unstable, quivers below him and Izaya is forced to cling to the thinning trunk of the tree from his vantage point.
“Why am I here? I missed you, of course, Shizu-chan! I wanted to see you.” His smirk slips ever-so-slightly. It isn’t what he had meant to say, exactly, though the taunt isn’t uncharacteristic of him. However as he replays the unintended phrase in his head, the realization comes to be that his tone had rang too loudly of sincerity-- though his words hadn’t been sincere-- for his comfort, and his mouth edges on a frown.
Thankfully, nothing seems amiss to Shizuo, who only upsets the tree further, the disturbance of the roots tearing away soil and gross becoming audible as Izaya leaps from his perch before it snaps under him or he’s dislodged from the tree by Shizuo’s strength. Izaya’s landing is slightly misgauged for the sway of the tree, bordering on too hard as a jolt of pain spikes up his leg stemming from his right ankle, though he stands up steadily despite the dull throbbing. His entire caliber is thrown off-- from his misspeak to his balance, even his heartbeat feels irregular, something aside adrenaline throwing off the rhythm.
He dodges swiftly, ignoring his ankle, as Shizuo finishes uprooting the tree and throws it in Izaya’s vague direction, though the projectile isn’t versatile nor sturdy, would have missed Izaya by approximately a meter even without him having leapt out of the way.
“You missed me? What other lies are going to come out of your mouth today, huh?” Shizuo is heaving, uniform dusted with the remnants of decaying leaves, face tinged red with not exertion but anger. Using the moment of stalemate, Izaya chooses to change the topic to catch the other more off-guard as well as compensate for his atypical slip-up.
“I heard Shizu-chan is an actor, now. Bravo! You might just have a future career, after all.” His vague words are met with a scowl, the clenching of fists until they’re white-knuckled, the furrowing of brows.
“The fuck do you mean I’m an actor?” Shizuo has started towards Izaya, glancing around for a makeshift weapon to launch; the only object in sight is the neighbor’s fence Shizuo appears wary of destructing.
“I heard you’ve been tutoring a first-year. You did an excellent job, con--” Convincing. Convincing is what’s meant to roll off of his tongue smoothly as water-- “convincing him you’re not a monster.” But Izaya’s choking on his words like they’re a too- large piece of too-dry food, and though he’s breathing fine it’s the tail-end of the sentence that’s stuck in his throat. He breathes, goes to repeat himself (perhaps he’s just winded, perhaps it’s just his non-existent allergies), but Shizuo’s already extracting the fence from where it’s set in concrete, roaring animosity, too far gone into the throes of rage to notice that Izaya had cut himself off in failure to complete his taunt.
“You messed with him? You fucking messed with him?! Is that why he was looking over his shoulder on Thursday every five seconds? What the hell did you say to him-- why do you always have to go ruining everything?!” The ever-so-slight, barely perceptible panic underlying his words is something Izaya hasn’t heard-- or more unlikely, noticed-- before, and it matches this quickening of his heartbeat as though his self-directed anger and anxiety are being expelled from Shizuo’s mouth in lieu of his own, unspeaking one.
“ Someone had to tell him--” The truth-- that you’re a monster. It’s then, when his words fail to form sound once more, that Izaya realizes there’s something terribly wrong, wrong beyond being winded or being choked up, and it’s as much of a relief that he hasn’t fallen to fault as it is a terror that any number of things might be causing his lack of speech, from ailment to developing muteness. Something is stealing the words from his tongue so deftly as to be unbeknownst to Izaya, as though his tongue has been clipped under his notice, preventing his beloved speaking. Shizuo, to his credit of ignorance, doesn’t pause as he propels the former fence post towards Izaya, who, fearing the other will begin to notice the faltering and clipped sentences he’s been producing, does the only thing he can-- run.
Breathless by the time he arrives at Shinra’s apartment, Izaya’s lack of words as he knocks a rapid, uneven rhythm on Shinra’s door is due to lack of oxygen as he pants in response to Shinra’s chirp of “who is it?” Foolishly, Izaya thinks, his friend answers the door near-immediately despite the lack of identification from his visitor-- the boy has never had any regard for his personal safety.
“Izaya!” He exclaims after flinging open the door in welcome. Noticing the other’s slouched posture and heaving, shaky inhales, Shinra pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before glancing over Izaya’s unharmed body top to bottom for nonexisting bruises and scrapes. Never one to be perplexed, Shinra simply cocks his head at Izaya, who pushes past him into the sunlit apartment, not giving the other a chance to speak. Making his way towards the kitchen, Izaya pours himself a glass of water and all but falls into a slump on one of the wooden chairs, downing the drink in one gulp. He can feel Shinra’s studious gaze on his profile-- a lesser intensity than he might give him during a conversation about the boy who just has stolen the words from Izaya’s mouth, though likely it will emphasize once his suspicions of the reason for Izaya’s impromptu visit are confirmed.
Shinra waits for Izaya to speak first, as expected, settling himself down across the table from him as to not remain the vantage of condescension via height, busying himself with gazing at Celty, whom has just entered the room in lieu of Izaya, who emphasizes calming his breathing as he makes a careful decision of his explanation. Celty is typing something on her PDA, Izaya can hear the light taps on the screen, can feel the barely-there breeze as Shinra shakes his head instead of auditorily responding. Though Shinra’s eyes are focused elsewhere, Izaya knows Celty’s neck is pivoted in his direction, studying him the way she should be studied, and he huffs out a wheezing laugh as he realizes that the situation indeed might call for Shinra to inspect him as one of his many specimens.
“There’s something odd happening,” he starts, after a minute. There’s something wrong with me had been his other option of starters, but this was less likely to be made into a cynical joke by Shinra, to emphasize the severity of what was happening.
Frowning, Shinra crosses his arms on the table, and Izaya tilts his chin up to meet the other’s eyes. “Odd in the sense of the usual strangeness of Ikebukuro? Or something else?”
Izaya forces the words out of his mouth, persevering through the discomfort of uttering them, relieved when his half-expectation of them catching in his throat is denied. “I don’t know.” He fights a wince as Shinra raises his eyebrows, though the other’s face remains blasé , blank relaxed features reading non-judgement as he remains silent, waiting for Izaya’s information rather than his own interrogation.
“I met Shizu-chan just now.” He stops to gauge Shinra’s still-neutral expression, unsure how the other will interpret his next, purposefully vague words. “And I couldn’t talk to him.”
“You two never do much talking though, do you?”
“I don’t mean I didn’t have the opportunity to, I mean I wasn’t able to. I physically wasn’t able to talk to him.” Though Izaya’s voice is level, his palms are beginning to sweat at the remembrance of being unable to produce speech, put sound to the words that had travelled from his brain to his mouth without hindrance, only to ghost air rather than pronounced syllables at the last second.
“You seem to be speaking just fine now.”
“Well, if I knew why my voice magically vanished and returned within twenty minutes, I wouldn’t be here, now would I, Dr. Kishitani?” He smirks, nodding at the teenage-sized doctor’s jacket slung over the coat rack adjacent to the front door he has arrived to find Shinra donning more than once. It’s playful, not meant to get a rise out of Shinra but rather to assure the other that Izaya is whole unperturbed by the mysterious event.
Shinra’s eyes flicker over towards Celty, who shrugs her shoulder and taps a message on-screen, strutting over a moment later to give the two boys clear visage to the black letters.
I haven’t heard of something like that. There’s nothing I can think of that would temporarily remove someone’s voice.
She pauses, then in adenum
Though, it does sound like some sort of magic.
And then, typing frantically
Do you think it could be aliens?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
The smile on Shinra’s face is one of a man madly in love, enough so to find the most ridiculous nonsense coming from his object of affection endearing. Celty retreats back to her corner, though the excess of smoke from her neck would make it seem that his grin of adoration hadn’t passed by unnoticed. An acrid edge forces itself under Izaya’s smirk, though briefly enough it has disappeared by the time Shinra refocuses his attention back to his friend.
“You couldn’t talk at all, right?”
Izaya inhales and exhales prolongedly, shaking his head. The specificity of when and which of his words he had been unable to say could perhaps give Shinra insight, though Izaya is unsure it won’t take the situation’s confusion to the tens.
“I was able to speak perfectly normally in the beginning. Then I found myself unable to finish my sentences no matter how hard I tried. Bizarre, eh?”
Folding his hands under his chin as though a shrink listening to Izaya’s woes, Shinra tilts his head once more in scrutiny. “You’re sure you were able to speak correctly from the beginning, though? There was nothing leading up to your loss of speech?”
I’m sure, Izaya opens his mouth to say, and it isn’t incapability that prevents him from doing so, but the memory of I missed you of course . “I had a slip of the tongue at first, though I was able to enunciate just fine.” His heart races at the prospect that perhaps there’s some reason-- logical or illogical-- for his error, the type of which he isn’t one to make, speeding up further as Shinra glances at him quizzically, then halting as a glimmer appears in his brown eyes.
“Can you walk me to what you were trying to say? It’s crucial you mention all of it.”
Thin brows slanting in confusion, Izaya recounts his intentional phrases and what he had managed, or not managed, to actually vocalize, watching intently for any sign of epiphany on his friend’s face. The only clue he is met with, however, is in Shinra’s eyes-- twinkling with something not quite condescension in regards to whatever piece of knowledge he is hoarding from Izaya. When he’s finished, Shinra slides a sly gaze towards Celty, who remains impervious to intentions even Izaya is unaware of as he begins to speak.
“Did you know I can’t lie to Celty?” The mentioned woman abruptly re-angles herself towards Shinra then, fingers angled over her PDA in hesitation and question, neck producing marginally more shadowy smoke than per usual.
Izaya simply raises an eyebrow at the boy across from him, who grins placatingly, eyes still locked on the headless faerie. “It’s true. I can’t lie to her.”
The abrupt subject shift doesn’t phase Izaya-- he’s sure that this is simply one of many of Shinra’s anecdotes involving Celty, that will convolutedly wrap around to match the subject matter at hand in as vague a way possible. “Is that so? Do dullahans have that effect on every person, or just foolheartedly love-stricken ones?”
Shinra’s grin widens, bordering on mischevious. “Just me.”
“You could lie to her if you wanted to, I’m sure. You certainly are able to hide things perfectly well.”
Frantic tapping fills the air, and soon a screen the space between the two.
What are you hiding from me, Shinra?!?!?!?!?!
The sly of his smile ensues as he places a reassuring hand on Celty’s black-clad arm. “Many things you don’t need to worry about right now, my dear.” Shadows flare from the dullahan’s head, their tendrils reaching out to strangulate Shinra, wrapping around his neck tightly enough his next words come out choked. “See? I can’t lie to her, even if I would have liked to! It’ll come out the truth, or not come out at all.”
Come out the truth or not come out at all… “Shinra, that’s a bit far-fetched even for you. No one can prevent you from lying to them. Unless, of course, Celty strangles you to death-- a dead man tells no lies.” Shinra’s laugh is as strangled as his neck, though the shadow strands are lessening their grip, most likely for prevention of Shinra’s face becoming any bluer. Izaya catches a brief glimpse of we’ll talk later across Celty’s screen before she releases him entirely, stalking back to her corner, an aura of indignation pouring from her billowing, smoky shadows.
“Celty can attest to it, too. The one time I tried to tell her her cooking was delicious, and the other time I tried to tell her I hadn’t been looking on at her in the shower, and the other time I tried to tell her I only wanted to see her unclothed for purely doctoral purposes but I revealed I wanted her to tie me up and ride-” the shadows form an impenetrable mask over Shinra’s mouth, preventing him from speaking the truth rather than lies. Shinra gives a halfhearted shrug, while Izaya smirks and rolls his eyes, by far more acclimated with Shinra’s perverse fantasies than he would ever wish to be.
When his mouth is finally free, Shinra takes a breath, excess color slowly fading from his cheeks as he regains oxygen. “Do you know why I can’t lie?”
Still dubious as to whether Shinra isn’t spinning a tale, Izaya tongues his next response with full sardonicism. “Because she’s a beautiful dullahan and has captured your dishonesty with her charm and wit and deathly powers?”
The other is staring straight into Izaya’s eyes in such a way a chill runs down his back; he fights a shudder, though he’s fairly certain it’s unsuccessful with Shinra answers.
“Because she’s my soulmate.”
There was a game his classmates used to play in elementary school-- ‘Liar’. Of course, Izaya hadn’t participated, found the game ridiculous to play but oh-so interesting to bystand. Based on an old superstition that people were unable to not tell the truth to their soulmate, young girls and boys could often be found daring each other to attempt lying to their crushes. The result, was, of course, that children were fully able to tell all sorts of lies to their youthful loves, were they to, ironically, be honest in the matter. Being elementary schoolers, many would claim they couldn’t-- blurt out confessions allegedly caused by them talking to their soulmate, or simply stutter in pretend. ‘Liar’ had often ended in either a fit of swooning giggles or teary-eyed pouts, only for the results to be forgotten until they moved on to another child the next day. The popularity of the game had apparently faded by the time his sisters entered school, and so Izaya had did the sensible thing in teaching them the game in order to revive it. He presumes they must have tried the trick on each other at some point-- though of course, being Oriharas, the twins were likely too sensible (despite their oddities) to believe in the superstition. Still, he was curious of the result, though he had never outwardly vocalized it. This, however, is an entirely different matter-- for one, Izaya hadn’t been lying to Shizuo, and two, Shizuo Heiwajima is not his soulmate, nor anything near it.
He professes so to Shinra, laughing haughtily in regard to his implications. “I knew you were out of your mind, but I think you’ve been spending far too much time watching fairy-tale romances, Shinra. In the first place, I wasn’t lying to Shizu-chan-- I simply called him a monster, the truth. Ask anyone in Ikebukuro who has seen him in action. Shizu-chan isn’t human, and I was only stating that fact to his face. Secondly--”
Only, Shinra’s voice is there instead of his own, lighthearted and whimsical, and though Izaya can speak, he doesn’t do so over Shinra as he steals Izaya’s words from his tongue.
“Secondly, you’re most definitely not Shizuo’s soulmate, thirdly the entire “you can’t lie to your soulmate” story is just that-- a story, and finally, the concept of soulmates is more than likely unreal to begin with?” Shinra grins across the table at Izaya’s deep, exasperated sigh, taking it as a cue to continue.
“Say soulmates aren’t real, and if they were, you could lie to yours. Say you’re not Shizuo’s soulmate.”
Izaya snorts derisively, disgustedly. “Humans are too fickle in nature to possibly have a counterpart perfectly compatible with them. They’re changing constantly, easily susceptible to outside influence, especially in regards to relationships. The chance there’s someone out there who’s soul is an exact match to theirs… For starts, it’s unlikely souls exist in the first place. Humans are, on an extremely basic level, controlled and given life by their brains. Souls are only tools of comfort for the devout,” he finishes.
“You’re thinking about it on too literal a level. Though, that isn’t the point-- whether you believe in soulmates or souls or not, that is.” Shinra shakes his head, adjusts his glasses, gives Izaya the same pointed stare as earlier, the one he has come to associate with conversations either regarding Shizuo, or himself. “Do you really believe what you tried to tell Shizuo is the truth-- that he’s a monster?”
Taken aback by the sudden interrogative question, Izaya’s laugh is genuine; it’s not something he makes a point of producing often, he doesn’t like the way it sounds, it’s too uncontrollable and often leaves him with tears in his eyes and his stomach aching. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a fit like this-- his humor is far too eccentric to respond this way to jokes; it’s often brought about simply by others’ stupidity or careless remarks, though there’s no set trigger.
“Of course he’s a monster, there’s no mistaking it. When he loses control there’s nothing human about him-- the personification of violence would have to be a monster, after all.”
Shinra is still staring at him point-blank, his eyes focused on Izaya so determinedly it’s nearing a staring contest between the two, as if they were children. His friend was the only one Izaya could never trump in such contests, though he figured staring at bright lights and bodies couldn’t do well for one’s eyesight, but help their ability to keep their eyes open immensely.
“Do you really believe that though? You’ve never called Celty a monster-- she’s inhuman, sure, but are all inhuman beings monsters? Celty exhibits more human traits in terms of her emotions than most actual humans I’ve ever known, including myself.” He pauses to gaze fondly at the dullahan, who has an aura of perplexion around her, shoulders stiff in an attempt to restrain herself from doing some Celty-like action, be it typing a message for Shinra in hesitant thanks or billowing excess smoke once more from her neck.
“Though she has human qualities and emotions, she’s still inhuman. Wouldn’t the opposite go for Shizuo-- that though he has inhuman strength, he’s still human?”
Izaya’s laughter has died down, but it (he’s sure it’s laughter) bubbles up in his stomach uncomfortably, straining at his sides as he represses it. The conversation had taken an unexpected twist, though Shinra still offered no explanation for the predicament he had originally arrived at his house with. Perhaps this was his way of admitting he didn’t have an answer-- diverting the topic? Shinra was most usually straightforward about such things, though one never knew with him.
“I never knew you were so invested in proving Shizu-chan’s humanity, Shinra, though I shouldn’t be surprised, you are friends after all. I understand it’s probably hard to see past the friend you once knew-- before he showed his true colors-- but really, you shouldn’t be so easily fooled. Someone as smart as you should see the truth.” It isn’t his most sensical or ingenious retort, but Izaya is frustrated with his friend’s sudden defense of the brutish blond. Really, he’s disappointed in the other-- he had always been under the impression Shinra agreed with him and the majority of Ikebukuro about Shizuo, though apparently he had been wrong, and rather than being filled with a sense of pride in having his assumptions challenged, he’s filled with a sense of hollowness. Shinra had always existed outside the box of his humans, as a base requirement for their friendship, he had to. Betrayal, he decides, is the word for what he’s feeling, and though he has betrayed others many, many times, he hasn’t had the sense of being the betrayed.
Standing up, Izaya pushes his chair in, startling Celty and Shinra alike. “Since you don’t seem to be able to help me with my problem, I believe I’ll seek other sources,” he says, heading towards the door, feeling one pair of eyes and one pair of not-eyes on his back as he leaves.
“Ah, but I never said that, did I? I gave you an explanation-- you just didn’t believe it. So, I’ll say this. If you can tell Shizuo that he’s a monster-- and that you hate him-- to his face within one week, come back and I’ll search for another answer. If you can’t... “
Izaya freezes shock-still in anticipation for Shinra’s next words, so immobile he subconsciously checks to ensure Celty’s shadows haven’t ensnared him. The room grows colder as the seconds tick by, Izaya can hear Shinra’s wry grin from across the room, can feel a smug gaze rubbing friction against the back of his uniform. He turns around, then, freeing himself from invisible confines to smirk at Shinra in confidence that his challenge will be as simple as tying a shoelace; now that he could speak once more, what did words that had dozens of times been thrown at Shizuo along with his switchblade have against him?
“If you can’t,” Shinra repeats, smile straightening in grave seriousness, shifting the look in his eyes to one of threat. “If you can’t, then the fact that Shizuo is a monster is a lie-- and since you can’t lie to him, it means he’s your soulmate.”
It isn’t a desire to prove himself that drives Izaya to wish to seek out Shizuo that very same day, nor is it fear of the outcome that prevents him from doing so; rather, it’s a desire to seek an answer for the earlier enigma, though there’s no fear-- simply rationale that he could perhaps come across as too eager to prove Shinra wrong were he to come racing back to the other’s apartment no more than an hour after he had left in perturbedness.
Instead, he exorcises the anticipatory adrenaline of confrontation in regards to both Shizuo and Shinra by strolling through downtown Ikebukuro, submerging himself in the drowning crowd, high on lack of oxygen as bodies surround him, though he is never pushed, never tripped-- Izaya knows how to move with the masses, one step ahead of the person behind him, one twist away from the brush of a shoulder. The unusually thick throng of people comes from those taking advantage of the uncharacteristically warm Friday in autumn; Izaya sights women, hands intertwined with men, sights students, mouths moving in laughter lost to the wind, sights mothers, arms firmly locked with children who struggle to keep pace at their sides. There’s no sign of oddities or abnormalities, of commotions or accidents, of even a yakuza member, phone pressed against his ear, lips drawn in a tight line. It’s a normal evening, sun beginning to lower in the sky and humidity beginning to rise, chirping from the last of the cicadas unfaltering, and it’s exactly what Izaya needs, to lose himself in snippets of mundane conversation as he lets the crowd carry him across the streets of his home.
Saturday passes uneventfully, as does Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday-- Thursday, he wakes up tangled in sweaty sheets, image of an oversized version of Shinra’s head staining the back of his eyelids, words from a week prior echoing in his ears along with the vibration of his phone.
You’re avoiding him, aren’t you?
Izaya snaps his phone shut, glances at the clock which reads 5:30, and out the window to the pale salmon of the sunrise. If Shinra was going to be so impatient, he might as well catch Shizuo on the other’s route to school-- nothing like an early-morning visit to wake up a slumbering monster, and simultaneously Izaya would be able to see to it he would be able to visit Shinra directly after school delivering news of how he had been able to say the words he had never doubted for a second, as Shinra seemed to believe.
As to make it clear to the other Izaya had not, in fact, memorized Shizuo’s route to and from school, he took his place in a tree adjacent to the hole signifying his former perch. The trunk had been seemingly discarded, though no one had made effort to fill the area where it had been uprooted days ago. He remained upwards of the ground for nearly an hour before a figure emerged from the Heiwajima’s doorway-- though it was Kasuka and not the elder, who emerged moments later. The two nodded to one another before taking off in opposite directions, and Izaya frowned-- he hadn’t planned on Shizuo’s brother playing audience to what would inevitably become a fight. Thinking Kasuka could perhaps interfere with the two or advocate for his aniki, Izaya chose to remain at his vantage until the surprisingly quick younger Heiwajima had made his way down the road and around the corner. Shizuo, by this point, was out of sight, though Izaya made short work of the distance to where he had gauged Shizuo to be, sprinting across yards until he turned the corner of the street perpendicular to where Shizuo was approaching it, steadying his breath in the seconds before the blond arrived, readying a smirk on his face, leaning casual against the cross-roads sign.
Shizuo scowls as he approaches Izaya, shoulders tense in wariness and fists not quite fully clenched at his sides, their lack of closed-ness reminding Izaya of bear claws.
“Morning Shizu-chan,” he calls, voice light and airy, as though he’s greeting a childhood friend on their walk to school.
“Izaya-kun, what the fuck are you doing here? Your house is in the other direction, bastard!” Shizuo is only several meters from Izaya now, close enough that he can see the color rising in the blond’s face from irritation and humidity alike, can see the twitching of the other’s dark eyebrow underneath his contrastingly colored bleached bangs.
“I needed to talk to you.” No. Shit. No. Fuck. No, no no no! “I took the scenic route” was what was meant to be said, was what should have left his lips, mocking and bored with the slightest edge of facetiousness. Not… not… not the truth , deadpanned as though an ultimatum. Something beyond fear, beyond anxiety, begins to creep down Izaya’s spine, chilling him despite the likely ninety-degree weather. Horror would perhaps merely begin to describe the way his heart begins to pound so fiercely against his ribcage Izaya feels pain, the way his joints lock up, the way his mouth goes dry and his eyes stare unblinkingly at Shizuo, as if seeing him for the first time as a monster rather than knowing. It has to be visible to the other, surely between their last two encounters Shizuo has noticed that something is off, that some unseen forces are hellbent on making a stuttering, stammering fool out of Izaya, controlling his tongue rather than him.
But “when have you ever needed to talk to me, huh? All you ever go off about is how great humans are and how I’m not one of ‘em,” is all he says, halting in the middle of the intersection to glower and glare at Izaya. It’s near the least hostile Izaya has ever seen Shizuo act around him-- hands not fists, words less profane than typical and insult-free, no movement to uproot the street sign Izaya is resting his shoulders against, no move to drag Izaya skyward by his collar and knock their foreheads together to degrade him up-close. Perhaps it’s the heat, perhaps it’s the time, perhaps it’s Izaya’s words and energy being sapped from him-- and yet, Izaya, for the first time, is terrorized by the other. Never in the past had he felt the sense of fear he was subjected to in the other’s presence currently, never had he imagined he would.
Shizuo squints at Izaya’s silence, taking a step towards the unmoving individual. “You’re going to make us late for school, so hurry up before I beat your ass with that sign!”
“I-” I hate you. “You-” You’re a monster. “I-- you-- you--” I hate you, you monster! “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO ME?” Izaya has finally found his voice, but at the cost of his composure, at the cost of his dignity, at the cost of everything he’s known for the past three years.
“What do you mean what the fuck am I doing to you?! I’m not doing anything, you absolute idiot!” His hands are clenched to fists now, he’s moving towards Izaya, there’s a violence to the increasing volume of his words that hadn’t been there moments prior. “And why the fuck are you stuttering? Is this some sort of game? ‘Cuz it’s sure as hell not a funny one!”
“I-” I hate you. “I need to go.” And for the second time, as Shizuo lunges towards him, sights set on the cross-roads post, Izaya does all he can-- run.
He doesn’t go to school that day, or the next, or the next, instead runs straight home to stare at his his cell phone, at the email from Shinra timestamped an hour and a half ago. There’s no new mail when he doesn’t show up to school for two days, and then four, and then eight, and by the time he’s missed two full weeks of school and deleted ten phone calls from the answering machine, he’s sure Shinra won’t contact him just as he’s sure that the other knows ; he’s silently taunting him with lack of contact or confirmation, though it’s confirmation in itself that he does so. Most of his leave-- aside grocery shopping and the occasional venture downtown in pursue of relief from his boredom via (lack of) current events-- is spent in the darkness of his room, bruise-like under-eye circles illuminated by the dimmer of his laptop screen, forums and search bars and answer pages flashes across the screen every so often as Izaya gave up on one site and moved to the next.
It had started with
I can’t talk to someone
I’m unable to talk to someone
Why can’t I talk to someone?
Unable to physically speak to someone
Why am I unable to physically speak around one person?
Most websites had been answer pages dedicated to explaining how nervousness around people led to a stage-fright-esque reaction where the body was unable to move in a type of anxiety-induced paralysis, particularly in front of crowds or crushes-- quite unrelated to Izaya’s issue in addition to him having known much of the information already. Determined to expel Shinra’s stale voice from its insomnia-inducing repetition in his head, Izaya searches on in renewed desperation to prove the other wrong on at least one account.
Why can’t I lie to someone?
I can’t lie to someone
Physically unable to tell a lie
I physically can’t tell a lie to someone
I have to tell the truth to someone
Once again, Izaya is met with nothing but irrelevant information, this time regarding mental disorders and illnesses and phobias of lying and compulsions to tell the truth, which Izaya is all too familiar with despite never having suffered the conditions himself. One needed to be, in order to understand people. This, however, is beyond understanding-- this has no correspondence with the human behaviors that Izaya himself is often exempt from, has nothing to do with mentality or physicality, both of which Izaya is extremely knowledgeable regarding. As the days pass, Izaya finds himself on the receiving end of increasingly less and less sleep as Shinra and his last conversation loop through his mind, waking and unwaking. The only way to rid himself of it is to find the explanation, simple as that, and not Shinra’s, though as he approaches the day he has made up his mind to return to the world with nothing resembling one, his searches become more obscure and frantic, scouring the internet for any semblance of a situation such as his. It is 3 o’clock in the morning on Saturday night, 26 hours remaining until he will need to ‘wake’ for school, and Izaya has slept perhaps five hours the entire week. He blames it on deliriousness, on sleep deprivation, on delusion that he chooses to search what he does- anything aside concession.
Do soulmates exist?
What is a soulmate?
Lying and soulmates
Can you lie to your soulmate?
And then, finally, Izaya is met with forums upon forums filled with tales similar to his own, concerning men and women finding themselves unable to talk to friends or lovers, only to realize it wasn’t that they couldn’t speak-- it was that they couldn’t lie. Though there are no documented cases regarding enemies, the situations are in such close proximity to his own Izaya feels nausea roiling in his stomach so fiercely he runs to the bathroom only to spit up nothing but bile, in citation of the last time he’s eaten. He stands there, heaving over the toilet bowl, spasms of disgust wracking through him and making him wretch drily and convulse.
Izaya has never regarded himself as a romantic individual, he can often be found claiming that due to his equal love for all humans he isn’t capable of that type of attraction or love at all. The concept of soulmates and true love is, to him, amongst the likes of God and gods and heaven and hell, an amusing creation by humans desperate for a fairy-tale ending. Humans, who without the hope that somewhere existed an individual specifically crafted for them, would fall into despair. Hopeless romantics are simply another type of person for Izaya to love, though he has seen far, far too many abominations of relationships weighted with miscommunications and insanity and cruelty and lifelessness that the concept of romantic love is bordering on fantasy to him. He is, however, delighted to give it up in regards to his enlightened perspective on humanity itself.
So, does Izaya Orihara truly have his bitter rival as a soulmate-- the man who had injured him countless times, who wished death upon him, who Izaya had gotten hit with a truck and thrown his knives at and taunted and threatened? The man he had fought with to the death? Does Izaya Orihara truly have a monster as a soulmate, something inhuman? He wretches again upon the remembrance that he had been unable to call Shizuo a monster, unable to say he hated the other. Wiping his mouth, he places his laptop underneath his bed and crawls under the covers, the acidity of bile in his throat and unwashed clothes still on his body, hoping in desperation that this entire ordeal is a cruel nightmare, and he will awaken to find a feasible explanation handed to him, rather than this sickening joke. Izaya dreams that night of bleached blond hair and neon signs and switchblades all catching sunlight, of crimson droplets and chocolate eyes and purpling skin spilling color. There’s no sound in his dream, none at all-- when he opens his lips to pour out laughter it’s noiseless, when Shizuo opens his own to yell Izaya’s name it’s silent. Even the murmurs of passersby as the two make the streets of Ikebukuro their own are muted, the voices gone-- Izaya’s own he takes so much pride in, Shizuo’s he becomes so exhilarated by, the civilians’ whose he gains so much information from-- and he’s unsure if it’s the world or if it’s him that’s changed, if he’s gone deaf or the world’s gone mute.
His return to school is unnoted, and the pattern of routine settles in once more, noticeably absent of the only two people Izaya is privy to interact with. He knows Shinra’s routes, knows he’ll go straight to the classroom precisely on time every morning, eat lunch there, and leave precisely with the bell every afternoon, making his way to the cupboards to get his shoes and, on a typical day, wait for Izaya. He knows Shizuo’s habits as well, when he’s likely to be in the library tutoring his kouhai and that he prefers to eat lunch on the rooftop of Raijin and that he rushes out of the classroom at dismissal to maintain a head on the crowds in order to be the first out the doors and be home in time to meet Kasuka. So Izaya arrives early, puts his shoes with the second years’ (unnoticed; he’s not sure how many of his classmates are aware of his presence anyway, nor does he appear out of place with his juniors) , takes the opposite stairwell to the door in between when he knows Shizuo will be leaving and when he knows Shinra will be.
In the following months he is successful at avoiding the pair, and neither make motion to approach him; likely, Shizuo is relishing the peace, and Shinra has never been one to initiate communication nor contact even in the most crucial of circumstances-- crucial to him, that is, and Izaya’s predicament hardly falls under the category of mattering to Shinra in the slightest. He doesn’t find himself missing what had become near-daily contact with either one of the two, despite it being the first time since middle school he’s gone a prolonged period of time without speaking to Shinra, and the first time since his first year at Raijin he hasn’t antagonized Shizuo into a life-or-death fight. Solitude allows him ample time to focus on business-- he has begun selling the information he’s gathered to corporations and a sect of the local Yakuza dubbed the Awakusu-kai via an executive named Shiki, who has promised him a position as the group’s informant upon graduation. The work is dangerous and thrilling; he knows he must build up trust with his clients before even beginning to consider double-crossing them for a larger profit, and the time-consuming task of being constantly ahead of the flow of Ikebukuro’s information network has left little room to recall why exactly he has been avoiding Shizuo and Shinra. He’s all but pushed it to the back of his mind when the furled buds on trees and green stalks protruding from odorous soil signifying spring and, more importantly, graduation begin to appear. It’s then, as the student council prepares for the ceremonies and papers begin to fill the recycling bins to the brim and the ruckus of third-years becomes near unbearable that Izaya receives an email from Shinra.
We need to talk. Meet me after graduation.
The ceremony is simply a formality for Izaya, he collects his diploma with a bow and a smile without as much of a glance to the two noticeably empty chairs reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Orihara. He’s made effort to wear a watch, a watch he’s constantly checking as name after name rolls by off the principal’s tongue, and by the time the last third-year has collected her diploma there’s beads of sweat collecting on Izaya’s forehead from the humidity of the crowded auditorium. Izaya hasn’t yet made a decision as to whether he’ll meet the friend he hasn’t seen since late September-- over six months prior-- after graduation has concluded; he hasn’t responded to the weeks-old email sitting undeleted in his inbox. As the audience is dismissed, he finds himself maneuvering through parents and siblings and now-graduates in a rush to exit the building near-first, heart constricting as he enters fresh air as though he’s an agoraphobe leaving his home for the first time in months. In some ways, the analogy is accurate-- isolation has become his shelter, after all, but the sun’s rays are beginning to make him feel nauseous via overheating, he’s choking on the pollen in the air, and he decides then-- he’s not going to allow Shinra to deteriorate his complacency in favor of reviving the past, a past that no longer holds a relevance to Izaya’s life of dealings and devisements. It’s not giving in to his phobia, he assures himself as he swiftly begins his walk home, it’s not, he reminds himself as he shuts his door to the outside once more.