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It creeps up on you slowly, like rot usually does.
Maybe the cigarettes are finally catching up to you?, Celty types after your third fit in the span of half an hour during one of your weekly chats.
“Maybe” You answer, nonchalant. It’s not the cigarettes, of course, but Celty doesn’t know that and doesn’t need to.
Cigarettes would’ve given you more time.
You should really quit, you know! They’re terrible for you – there’s concerned exasperation clear in the lines of her body, in the way she thrusts her phone into your face. It must be frustrating for her, undying and eternal, to see humans fall so easily to such avoidable fates everyday; to know her friends and loved ones will fall some day regardless.
“Might be too late now, though.” A huff of amusement sneaks its way out your throat, followed by a cough that you manage to suppress. You don’t reach for a cigarette, despite how much you ache for one, out of consideration for Celty at least. “It’s probably just a cold. Nothin’ to worry about. There’s not a lot in this world that can take me down, you know.” There’s only poorly disguised bitterness in your voice, but Celty seems reassured.
You stop smoking around her anyway.
Slow breaths, you think to yourself.
Hold it, count to ten, release, start again.
You start coughing a lot one afternoon.
It’s– worrisome.
Anyone else would consider it normal. People get colds all the time in any given time of the year, and it is flu season. Most of your co-workers have gotten sick in the past couple of months, most of your acquaintances. Anyone else would’ve assumed it finally got to them, and move on. Anyone else would just go get a shot and wait for it to pass.
Unfortunately for you, you are not anyone else.
And the fact is, you haven’t been sick since the last time you broke a bone.
A part of you hopes that maybe this is just your body finally giving into normalcy, to not being so unbearable in its borderline indestructibility, that maybe you expended all your fucked up paranatural strength and endurance.
That’s quickly ruled out.
You don’t feel any weaker, your anger doesn’t dim much less fade out, and when it burns it still wreaks violent havoc upon everything around you.
Then, a couple days later you’re coughing, coughing, eyes watering with the sheer strength of it, the tiredness it causes, with your inability to breathe and it–
–it spills out of your lips, wet with spit but otherwise perfectly intact, soft and vibrant yellow spelling out your doom.
“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get ill! It’s very interesting.” Shinra says as he sews you back up, sounding as cheerfully annoying and annoyingly cheerful as ever. “You should really reconsider letting me vivisect you.”
“No vivisections.” You grumble at him, thinking about how likely it is that he’ll dig up your body to dissect you after you die. You consider explicitly asking to be cremated just to deny him the pleasure, but you decide it’s probably more trouble than it’s worth. You’ll be dead anyway.
“I’ve never seen you get the flu before, though! Have you? You don’t have a fever, and you’re not sneezing and the coughing sounds heavy, but not wet. Do you have other symptoms? For how long have you had it?” He asks, and it takes considerable effort not to punch him in the face.
In hindsight, maybe coming to Shinra’s wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
You had no plans on letting him know about the coughing fits, after all; Shinra is too smart, far more observant than he lets on and has very little consideration for the secrets of others. All of that combined with a disturbingly strong friendship with the last person in the world you’d want knowing about this, you figured it would be best to keep this information away from him.
In fact, you wouldn’t even be here had he not cut you too deep somewhere you can’t reach. It’s just your fucking luck that you could do an hour of chasing him around town without even needing to catch a breath, but the minute you set foot in Shinra’s apartment, you have a fit so strong you need to sit down.
“Started yesterday.” It’s been more than a week now. “I met up with Kasuka a couple days ago, he was sick too.” You hadn’t seen your brother in a month; you’re pretty sure he’s out of the country. “I have been sick before, you know.” Technically not a lie. “It just doesn’t happen very often.”
“Ah.” You feel his eyes on you, unusually sharp, with a striking resemblance to someone you’d rather not think of, and you try not to give anything away. It seems to work. “That’s not interesting at all, then.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Droplets of red splattered across tender yellow, vomited onto porcelain white.
It’s the third time this night.
You don’t go back to sleep.
It’s some next level dramatic irony at play.
A really fucked up twist of fate, and you think that if there are gods, then they have a messed up sense of humour.
Because it can’t be, but of course it is. It’s written in your narrative, it’s a truth you spent far too long denying, burying deep deep down where it could never see the light of day, and that has finally come out to bite you in the ass and destroy you. It’s something you were prepared to spend a lifetime ignoring, drowning, but that always fought to resurface.
Something that has always threatened to tear you up all over just to break free, that at last has started to tear you apart from the inside until it breaks the surface, until it feels the sun on its skin, without regard for your sanity or your life.
And it boils down to that:
You’re going to die.
This is going to kill you.
It’s a strange realisation, almost soothing in a way. Something can actually kill you, you can die, you’re going to.
You don’t particularly want to, but you never realised you were afraid you couldn’t until now.
“I hear you’re dying, monster. Is it true?” The honey of his voice is poison in your wounds, and you grit your teeth, hands clenched so tight you can feel the skin of your palm break with the pressure. Your knuckles turn white as your blood starts to drip. “Seems like even beasts aren’t immune to life.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You want to reach for something, to aim and throw and hurt him, but he’s a slippery fucking serpent, too fast, too clever.
You do it anyway, and predictably, he dodges, but doesn’t seem to realise you’ve just used the momentum to step closer to him.
“I’ll send flowers to your grave. What type would you prefer?” It shouldn’t, but his words throw you off a little, trigger a thin haze of panic that clouds your thoughts, freezes you up.
He doesn’t know. He can’t possibly know, and you know he doesn’t know because, well. Nobody does. Not your brother, not Tom, not Celty, not Shinra. They see the coughing, but never have they seen what follows.
But that’s the thing about him, isn’t it? Were he anyone else, you’d trust the reassurances your mind supplies, but he’s not. He’s him and he always knows; knowing is his job, something he prides himself of, constantly brags about.
And that’s also the thing about him, you suppose.
He’s proud of his job, vocal about his love. He brags.
He wouldn’t keep quiet about it if he knew, at least not to your face. He’d be spewing vitriol left and right, sardonic comments dripping from his lips and luring you in like honey in a fly trap.
He doesn’t know.
You take a deep breath.
“I’m thinking marigolds. What do you think?” He asks, false winsome tinting his voice and you feel a growl materialise deep in your throat.
“I think you should shut up before I rip your throat off.” You take another step forward; he doesn’t move, a smile sharp on his face.
“You’re still not very eloquent, are you?” A forlorn sigh, fake and irksome. “Well, can’t expect much from beasts, after all.”
Anger bubbles in your veins, and you trudge towards him.
“You know, it’s almost a pity that I’m not going to be the one to kill you.” The knife he throws hits your shoulder and he runs.
The ground shakes with consequence of your strength and the air ripples with the sound of his laugh.
It gets worse, as things are wont to.
You take time off work – you figure there’s no point in being around if you can’t do much, and nobody really wants to be around someone who keeps coughing up handfuls of blood from time to time.
Uninterrupted sleep is a privilege you’re rarely granted these days as well. You’ve been surviving off scattered catnaps you manage to take whenever you aren’t vomiting out bouquets and your lungs aren’t threatening to turn themselves inside out.
Smoking is almost fucking impossible, but you manage anyway, preferring to deal with whatever comes with it than with the added nausea, shakiness and headaches that would come with nicotine withdrawal.
Going outside seems to help a little, so you do just that. You spend hours wandering aimlessly through the streets, avoiding places where you’re likely to run into people you know.
It works, for most part.
You don’t see anyone– except for him.
It’s not surprising. The outskirts have always been his playground, and not even his reluctant and constantly disrespected exile to Shinjuku could change that.
And you see him, so he sees you; the chase is inevitable.
Which means him finding out becomes inevitable as well.
It’s your fault, really.
You were foolish to assume that because chasing him seemed to be as easy as ever, the only thing you could still manage properly without having a fit every five fucking minutes, it would be safe, it would stay safe.
So it catches up to you, because of course it does, and it happens mid-chase, because of course it would.
You’re chasing him down an alleyway, ready to follow him as he parkours his way up the building, an image of grace and agility, moving like it’s a second nature to him. It makes anger thrum in your veins, and you speed up to make the jump.
It doesn’t let you.
Suddenly, the air stops flowing into and out of your lungs, blocked by the literal physical embodiment of your own fucking mess of a life, and you halt to a stop as a cough hacks through you.
It’s ugly and it’s brutal. It feels like your lungs are being forced out of your chest through your mouth. Bloodied petals flutter to the floor, scattering across the concrete, stark yellow littered with specks of red against grey and you can’t fucking breathe.
You don’t notice when you fall to your knees. You don’t notice footsteps as they echo closer and closer to you.
“What have we here?” He says after you finally manage to start breathing again. His voice is frightening calm, devoid of any of its usual dyes and you look up through sweaty bangs and wet eyes, torn between anger and dread.
Dark red eyes stare down at you with more intensity than you ever remember seeing, and you’re too tired to suppress the soft gasp it comes out of your lips at the sight.
“Who knew that monsters could love?” You try to look away, but long fingers grab you by the jaw, forcing you to look up at him, into his heavy eyes and too empty expression. His words fail to conjure up anger, or any other kind of emotion – you’re exhausted. Realistically you know even in this state you could take him, you could shake him off and walk away, but this exhaustion isn’t necessarily physical, and you're too tired to even try.
“Who is it?”
That’s– not a question you were expecting.
At least not delivered like that, so harshly, without a single note of mockery or scorn. You expected him to taunt and laugh; anything but this loaded air around the both of you.
“It’s none of your fucking business.” You answer, the words almost spat out, your voice rough and deeper than usual.
His grip on your jaw tightens enough to bruise, short nails digging into your skin, the cold press of the metal from his ring almost soothing against your face. “Tell me.” It’s a demand, an order and a twinge of anger flares up enough to form a growl on the back of your ruined throat, but he doesn’t seem to back down.
“No.” His eyes harden, dark red and furious like you’ve never seen them before. It burns different from the cold hatred you’re used to and something in your stomach stirs, uncertain, curious.
You don’t remember ever managing to pluck out emotions like this from him before.
“I’ll kill you.”
“I’m already dying.” You free your jaw from his grasp, turning sideways to spit out a mouthful of blood and getting up to your feet. “Do your worst.”
His face is a picture of cold fury carved in marble, beautiful and terrifying and utterly impossible to look away from.
The face of your demise.
He breaks the impasse and walks away, and you’ve never hated someone as much in your life.
You see the flower as you pass down a shop once.
You ask about it.
You find out its meaning.
You laugh.
“Do you know who it is?” Kasuka asks, his calm demeanour unchanged even before the news you just delivered. You don’t mind; you’ve never minded.
He’s been back in town for little over a day now, was off filming some big blockbuster overseas. He’ll be gone again tomorrow, to be back only god knows when and you wanted to see him before– well.
You don’t like to sound so resigned over your fate, but the fact remains that you are. There’s nothing you can do to change this, and you don’t want to waste your energy trying.
“Yes.” You say, taking a long sip of your tea and avoiding his eyes while you do so. There’s no point in trying to hide it, you’re sure he’ll work it out – Kasuka has always been a lot more clever than he lets on, but still.
You don’t want to say it out loud. You haven’t so far, and if it’s up to you, you’ll die without doing so.
He doesn't speak again for a long time.
Then, he lets out a soft ah.
“Him.” There’s not an ounce of surprise in his voice.
You sigh, dejected.
“Him.”
If you slept, you’d dream of him.
As it is, you don’t sleep much anymore.
You still dream of him.
It’s been three days since you ate something.
It’s been a lot longer since you left the apartment, and even longer since you slept for more than twenty minutes.
Anyone else would’ve been dead by now, you’re sure. Someone with no preternatural abilities would’ve long succumbed to this, passed out on a pool of blood and petals never to awaken again.
Not you. You get to live the extended, dragged out version.
Just your fucking luck.
You’ve been lying on the couch since you came out of the shower, either hours or days ago. Your hair’s no longer wet, but your muscles don’t have that feeling of fatigue from lack of use yet, so there’s no way to tell.
You’ve passed out a couple of times, but you always wake up to cough your lungs out what feels like seconds later, so it doesn’t do much in terms of rest.
Never before have you felt this tired.
If you’re gonna be honest, you kind of just want this to end already– you don't really want to die, but you’ve never been one for prolonging the inevitable, especially not in hope of a way out.
But nothing in life is easy, it seems. Not even death.
You’ve never hated the fact that you’re so hard to fucking kill as much as now.
You need a glass of water.
The floor soft under your feet when you get up, a bed vomited out petals marking the area around what you’re sure is going to be your grave.
The way the yellow contrasts with your dark floors is almost beautiful.
It’d be poetic if it wasn’t so damn bleak.
Whatever.
You cough your way to the kitchen. Your throat is dry, rough and sensitive at this point; you doubt you’re still able to talk without considerable effort and pain, so it’s a good thing you have no one to talk to.
Even breathing is a fucking hassle now, and you have the distinct feeling it’s still going to get a lot worse before you’re finally put out of your damn misery.
You pour yourself a glass of water and wait until the coughing dies down before taking a sip.
It washes down your throat like amber from the gods, smooth and cold, and it makes you want to cry with how good it is. You’re convinced you’ve never had anything better in your life, though you think your judgement may be a little clouded at this point.
You hope dearly you manage to keep at least this down.
A trail of petals leads you back to your couch.
You sleep.
Soft footsteps echo through the room, pulling you from your blessedly peaceful slumber.
You’re too tired to react in the way you normally would, so you don’t try. Instead, you let your eyes flutter open as you slowly reach full consciousness, letting out heavy and raspy breaths as you do so.
A blur of black, stark against pale walls.
The petals you vomit out when it dawns on you are stained red again.
“What d’you want?” Your voice is wrecked, totally and completely, and the words are barely comprehensible, but you don’t care.
He doesn’t answer, eyes dark under the shadow of his hair and the hood of his coat, mouth soft and inexpressive. You don’t know what time of day it is, but the light that filters through the curtains forms a halo around him, and for half a second you wonder if you’re just hallucinating or if you’ve gone and died already without even realising.
You dismiss that. You’d rather think that you wouldn’t still be in this much pain if you were dead.
“I know who it is.” Neither his voice nor his expression betray any sort of emotion, but you still freeze in place for a second too long before swallowing down the panic that threatens to rise in your stomach.
You want to think he’s bluffing, that he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, but something about the way he’s standing feels different, the way he’s looking at you, unfamiliar and scrutinising, something about the fact that he’s here in your apartment tells you that he’s not. That he actually knows.
He takes a step closer to you, and you try hiding the amount of effort it takes to sit up.
“Do you?” You say, for lack of anything better.
Another couple of steps, and he’s standing directly in front of you.
“Yes.” His eyes are bright with a spark of some undecipherable emotion you’ve never seen before, at least not on him. In any other occasion you’d be angry at how far removed from his usual persona he is, you’d read the gleam in his gaze as threatening, you’d be attacking and he’d be running.
This is not any other occasion. This is now, where you’re slumped against your sofa, dying, and he’s staring at you with something unreadable in his expression, something you don’t recognise. This is now, where he’s in your house, telling you things you’d rather not hear, for reasons you can’t figure out.
This is now, where he’s moving towards you, slow and with intent, and his fucking eyes are boring into you with an intensity you’ve ever had directed your way.
You feel like you’ve been hypnotised. You can’t look away. You can’t move. You can do nothing but watch him and wait.
You don’t have to wait long.
His long fingers grab at your jaw again, gentle this time, a soft touch that has every part of you burning in response. “What should I do with you, my monster?” He says, and the possessive has you inhaling a sharp breath, of shock, of excitement, of expectation, of fear.
You hate him, you hate him so fucking much, you want to send him to hell, to punch him, hurt him. Except you don’t, not really, and what you truly want is killing you little by little, destroying you a petal at a time.
It’s like your feelings for him – it has a name, you just don’t want to say it – are poison, a disease that’s rotting you from the inside out but that you can’t get rid of. He’s his own brand of cancer, of plague and devastation and you hate him.
Except you don’t.
Your hands find their own way to his hips, sharp and solid, their grip strong enough to bruise, to hurt, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He’s still looking down at you, he’s still towering above you, a hand on the couch by your head and another caressing your jaw, his thumb pressing into your bottom lip in a way that makes your whole body ache.
“I want you to say it.” His voice is low, almost inaudible, but the words still manage to cut through you, sudden and sharp.
“No.” You answer, because you can’t.
You’ve never said it out loud, you’ve never voiced it. It’s the only thing that’s kept you sane, you think, it’s the only thing that stands between you and the complete and utter breakdown that has been constantly trying to drown, overwhelm, suffocate you ever since the realisation dawned on you.
You can’t because as much as you’ve accepted everything else, pain, suffering, death, you’re still in denial about this.
He’s close now, too close – your breath mingles with his, suddenly coming heavy but easy, like just his proximity is enough to smother what’s growing inside you.
“Say it.” His lashes are thick and long, fluttering as he looks at you, from your lips to your eyes. “Shizuo.” Your name sounds like a prayer on his tongue and just like that, your resolve shatters.
“It’s you.” You sigh, words coming out like a desperate beast as it escapes from its cage, like water from a broken dam, flooding everything around it. “It’s always been you.”
There’s a gasp, though you can’t tell whom it came from.
Izaya leans down further, body sagging against you, a mélange of emotions passing through his face as he does so, and when he kisses you, when he finally finally kisses you–
For the first time in months, you breathe.