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transmogrified-in-the-void · 2 years

Note

Writing prompt: a day that is impossible to forget

"It was Thursday, March 22nd. It was raining outside, nothing hard, just enough to be heard. The wind was louder, if I'm honest. I had been sitting at my desk. There was a half drunken mug of coffee next to me, and a laundry list of assignments to finish, and that's when I got it. The email."

They twist their hands around the ceramic mug. Their rings scrape against the glaze, making a rough sound.

"Looking back on it, this should be a completely normal day, but I think because of what it eventually caused, over and over again, I remember it so clearly.

"Anyways, that's not important. Or maybe it is. But it was titled 'Band Manager Needed', from some college group. It was all about how they were an up and coming band, and to expect that they probably wouldn't be famous or anything. Just a side gig for semi-decent pay."

They smile into their mug, and tap their finger on it.

"I responded that I was interested, because I was. Journalism and Econ major decaying in the hallway. I dunno, that day was just. It was so mundane, but I remember it so clearly."

The person across from them chuckles slightly. "Well, it did lead us here, to today, so I understand why. Can't say I remember my first interaction with them that well, though." His hand runs through his neon green hair, and they sigh.

"That's understandable."

The silence that settles between them is stretched and thin, wrapping around their throats in thin ribbons. They both remember their memories with melancholy and grief weathered and faded by time.

He clears his throat, snapping the ribbons. "Well, after tomorrow, maybe there'll be a more memorable day."

"Yeah." They whisper. "After tomorrow."

Virtue watches the hero's face as they realize Electrode is distracted, and go into a dead sprint. Within moments, they're matching the hero's pace in a mad dash to the most colorful piece to this bloodbath.

"Cato!" They yell as they shove their entire weight into Electrode's gut, successfully putting them on the ground as the hero's arm snags their waist and drags them away.

They stop in an alley behind some cars some ways away, and Virtue can taste the hero's rage.

"You bitch." She snarls, and her hand starts to reach towards Virtue's face, but they're faster.

They drop to the ground, pulling out a knife and stabbing it right into their forearm and moving. Their other hand has pulled up their hood and is pulling up their mask. Blood falls into black fabric, staining it dark and sticky.

There's a flicker of recognition in the hero's eyes before a knife digs straight through them, and the area behind. The other eye goes from sickly green to dead.

There's a scream.

There's a howling, desperate, familiar scream and Virtue's heart stops and starts and they're moving moving moving.

They can't be dead.

What about tomorrow?

Their boots hit asphalt and rivers of blood and trails of fire, but they don't care. Villains call out to them, heroes try and attack them, but they're better than that. They can't think about them, they need to get to Electrode. They need to get there.

Virtue skids to a stop when they see a familiar light blue suit and fluttering cape.

Zephyr is here, wind billowing around her. She's crying, and her hands are out.

On the ground in front of her, on their knees, is. It's.

Virtue stumbles and tries to run towards Electrode Cato, and they shove Zephyr aside. Their hands are bloody. Red against blue against black against green.

"Cato!" Virtue screams as they get closer. They can see wind moving away from Electrode Cato. Rain starts to come down, not hard, just down.

Electrode's quickly dulling eyes meet Virtue's, and their smile is more radiant than the sun that refused to shine on them in this moment.

They slump over in the rain, it takes ten seconds to finally get to them. As Virtue starts to desperately breathe air into their lungs, a pristine memory of a Thursday with rain and wind and a cup of coffee is replaced with the memory of a Friday with rain and wind and the unmoving chest of the only person they had left.

#i will not apologize for making a tpu oneshot #hehehehe #tpu #the powered universe #tw violence #virtue #electrode #also #tpu spoilers #lkskdfjklsjf sorry if u wanted to read the series mckay #p bangs the keys

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tessiete · 3 years

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"I wish you would write a —" continuation or AU of that scene from away the vapour flew (because I've seen you mention that even your AU's have AU's lol and I'm selfishly hoping you'd consider revisiting that fic and coz I can't let this opportunity pass when this fic literally lives in my mind rent free lol)

Alright! At long last I have figured out what happens next. This is for you, dear thing ❤️❤️❤️ ( @lightasthesun on - or very near thereabouts - your birthday)

LED BY THE WANDERING LIGHT

It starts with a very little thing: a seed.

It is slipped from the glove of a Republic aid trooper who smiles as he passes it over.

“From the General of the 212th,” he says. “Don’t know what it is, but I damn near lost the thing on the way over.”

“For me?” he asks, and the man nods, his grin growing wider.

Then he leans in as though commiserating with a friend. “Jetiise sha’bise, lek?”

“Elek,” agrees Korkie, dubiously, turning the little living pebble between his fingers.

The trooper grins, and gives him a friendly shove before trotting off back to his ship. Korkie has come down on his aunt’s behalf to oversee the relief efforts, but he is distracted by the seed in his hand. It is flat, and furry, and pleasingly plump. If he squeezes it, he can feel the skin relent and rebound, and if he digs in his nail ever so gently, he can feel the taste of water upon his thumb, and see the pale blush of springtime in the depths of the cut. It is a seed of something, he knows, but of what?

He places it in the breast pocket of his Academy jacket, and turns his attention back to the work. It is an impressive, and important sight, but his thoughts linger on the seed, and he feels it sit bright and eager against his heart.

Later, when the supplies have been unloaded, and the aid troopers seen off, when the ceremony of thanks and assurances of neutrality have all been displayed, when he is back in his room at Sundari only hours away from the magtrain ride back to school, he plants the seed in a little pot of black earth, and dampens the soil. It will not grow tonight, but he cannot help but stare at it anyway, waiting in the dark, beneath the stars, so patient.

A week passes, and he is back at the Academy when the mail officer - an upperclassman he’s never met - stops at his place during first meal.

“Su-su, Kryze!” he calls. “A package for you from the Core.”

A small bundle wrapped in layer upon layer of bonding tape, and stamped with the ink of a hundred spaceports too numerous and cramped to decipher lands upon his lap. He uses the thin knife from his plate to slice through the plastifibe envelope.

When his fingers graze the object within he gasps, and pulls back the wrap to reveal a real, proper book. It’s not even printed on flimsi, he notes, cracking the aged spine and letting the pages fall open, but on actual paper. They don’t make these in the Core, and hardly ever in the Mid Rim, it’s just not economical, and most planets don’t have the resources to spare. But this one is old, it’s pages creased, and worn smooth at the corners with the turning of many fingers. It is about horticulture, though the illustrations of green and growing things have faded to browns and burnished golds. It is beautiful.

A piece of dried grass has been tucked between two pages, and when Korkie folds them back to look he sees an image of the seed he’d sown in the pot by his bed. Beside it, a riotous bouquet of blossoms burst in an array of different colours. It is a daesyn flower.

He tucks the book in his kebisebag, and carries it around for the rest of the day. At nightfall, he takes it out with careful reverence, turning the pages back to the daesyn slowly lest they tear or turn to dust. Then, by the light of a little glowrod, he props the book against his window and reads along as he tends to the small green sprout only just peeking through the soil.

He buys a sun lamp, and a watermeter, and adjusts the temperature of his quarters much to Amis’ chagrin, determined to provide the most optimal growing conditions he can for the little plant.

After a month, the seedling has become a sturdy sprout, with prickly leaves of a green so deep it might be blue. He is attempting to commit those variegated lines to flimsi when Amis returns to their quarters, a small pouch swinging from his hand.

“I’m supposed to give this to you,” he says, tossing the pouch. Korkie reacts without thinking, snatching the bag out of the air before it can hit the ground.

“Who’s it from?”

“Front desk. Said some high up Republic alor sent it.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t ask, did I? Too busy polishing the silver.”

Korkie grimaces in sympathy, having spent many an afternoon of his first year cleaning the trophy case in the main hall. He thinks that Amis’ plight could be easily avoided if only he behaved himself, but refrains from saying so to his friend.

Instead, he pulls the drawstring at the top of the purse, and turns it over his hand. A dozen discs of coloured glass tumble into his palm. They are thick, and smooth, though not polished by anything but time. Each is a different colour, though some are struck through with shimmers of gold and silver.

“What’s that?” asks Amis over his shoulder.

“Don’t know,” he echoes. The glass feels comfortable in his grip. Made to be held, and carried, and passed from hand to hand.

“Should ask Lagos,” says Amis. “That seems like her kind of thing.”

He makes no reply to Amis, but of course, he does as he suggests. Lagos is, after all, a walking encyclopaedia, and of all their friends the most likely to at least have an idea of where to start looking.

The excitement on her face when Korkie shows her his hoard tells him she has more than an idea - she knows.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she gasps. “Where’d you find Abafar trading beads?”

“They were a gift,” he replies. “What are they for?”

She picks them up one at a time and holds them to the light. By some trick of their design, they cast no shadow, but seem to capture the rays inside like banked embers, or twisting prisms. The ones marked with ribbons of ore grow warm in her hand, and she presses them to his cheek so he can feel their heat.

“They’re the traditional currency of Abafar,” she explains. “It’s a desert planet in the Outer Rim, and craftsmen in the Void used to make these beads as a means of facilitating trade over great distances. Metal was scarce, and the beads could also be used to retain heat for longer - that one in your hand could keep the warmth of the sun all night, if you wanted it to.”

He considers the disc of deep indigo, and holds it up to the sun until it turns red. The glass seems to have become molten, but its warmth is not painful in the hand. He leaves the bead out for the rest of the afternoon to test Lagos’ theory, and brings it into bed with him at night. Tucked beneath his pillow, it radiates a soothing heat, and he feels his muscles relax and his worries melt as he drifts away into an easy slumber.

The next gift he receives is shattered into bits.

“Sorry, kid,” says the attendant at the delivery depot when he arrives to claim his parcel. “Happens sometimes with these packages from the front. The war is not a safe place for fragile things. Bic cuyir meg bic cuyir.”

He takes the present anyway, carrying it delicately back to the Academy, fearful of breaking it further. When he finally tears through the tape and plastifibe, clay and ceramplast pieces give up any pretense at form and clatter over the surface of his desk.

It was beautiful once, he can tell. Perhaps a bowl or a cup turned by hand - he can see the telltale print of a foreign finger pressed into a section of naked clay - but now it is only fragments and dust.

Still, he hovers over the pile, turning the pieces this way and that, trying to see how they fit together. He doesn’t notice when sixth bell rings, or when Soniee pings his comm, or when Amis sneaks in past curfew and turns out his light. He stays up late into the night, until the form takes shape, and through the cracks and crevasses of painted clay dawn creeps in.

It is an amphoriskos. A small vessel for storing precious oils, like the kind used in the rituals of so many traditional peoples. There is none in it now, and Korkie retrieves the sachet to see if perhaps it was spilled into the weave of the plastifibe wrap. But it is dry. And the clay, when he looks at it more closely, is dry and unstained by use. The gift was always empty.

The shards sit upon his desk in their loose arrangement until, one afternoon, Amis moves to sweep them off into the dustbin.

“No, no!” protests Korkie, before Amis can complete the task. “I want to keep it.”

“What for?” his friend asks. “It’s broken.”

“I don’t know yet.”

He collects the bits of amphoriskos into his hands, and arranges them about the base of his daesyn pot. The paint glints in the light, and so too do the Abafar beads nestled amidst the debris. The plant grows green and bushy, its leaves reaching out to skim the rim of its bed as though a swimmer poised on the edge of emersion.

He receives Theelin singing strings wound tight around a holodrive meant for the Duchess, paired basalt spindles from Hapes, seashells from the deep oceans of Mon Cala, and a set of Lateron hoops carried on the wrist of the visiting senator from Naboo.

“From Master Kenobi,” she says, and she smiles at him with a warmth that feels like family. He wonders if they’ve met before, if he should know her, but she moves along with the entourage of press and government officials before he can ask.

He is home for Holyrod month, and has brought his prizes with him carried along specially in his kebisebag, his daesyn in his hands. He sets them out along the windowsill in his rooms at Sundari. The watchet blues and greens of crystalline filtered light play over his collection, illuminating one after the other in joyous turn. He does not know what they mean, or why his father has sent these particular things to him, but they are all precious, and he longs for a way to display his gratitude for the thought he has been spared.

The daesyn itself revels in its new surroundings, and leans close to the glass to get as close a view of the sun as it can, budding with imminent delight.

The Senator from Naboo is called Padme, he discovers when he is introduced to her again at mealtime. And she has not come alone. She is part of a delegation of foreign ambassadors, all from the Republic, but not all, Korkie suspects, as enthusiastic about the Chancellor as they had once been. There are murmurings and whispers amongst them, hurried out between thin lips and caught only in the corner of his eye, or the turn of his head, but whether satisfied or not, they are accompanied by the ceremonial force of the Senate, and the might of Palpatine himself - Two Jedi travel with them.

Anakin Skywalker, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He sees him through the crush of bodies, and later down the line at suppertime. In the midst of deep blues, and mauves, and furs, and silks, his earthen tunics stand out, but he is always distant, always just out of reach. All he needs is a moment, he thinks, to make sure he’s seen, so he can acknowledge his father - even in the polite, and suitably respectful language of perfect strangers if he must, but it never comes.

The plates are cleared, the halls are emptied, and Korkie finds himself bidding his aunt (she is always his aunt here) goodnight, and wandering back to his rooms alone.

It is dark when he arrives, though by the window the Abafar beads glow like the distant lights of the city. He slips off his stiff shoes, and his raiments of clan, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. He waits, uncertain, until the knock comes again.

Perhaps his mother come to assure herself of his health and presence, as she has done so often in the past, but he opens the door to find Obi-Wan Kenobi waiting, with his hand out. In the euphoric rush of astonishment, he hastens to place his own hand upon his father’s as is customary on Stewjon, though he holds fast in a manner peculiar between children and their parents.

“Master Kenobi,” he stammers. “I did not expect you. I thought you’d left. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Obi-Wan replies. “I’d rather hoped to catch you alone, but I’m afraid our schedule was somewhat packed.”

“Of course.”

He is staring, he knows it, but he can’t seem to think of anything else to say, caught up in looking at his father and searching for all the commonalities between them. Does he tilt his head like that? Does he stroke his chin? Does he frown and smile by equal measure?

But the weight of his scrutiny is too much to bear, and Obi-Wan cracks.

“I thought to ask: did you get my gifts?”

“Yes,” says Korkie. “Thank you. They were very thoughtful.”

“Ah...And did you - did you like them?”

At this, Korkie cannot help but smile, and he shakes his father’s hand, tugging him forward with zeal.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Would you like to see?”

If he is confused by his son’s desire to reintroduce him to items he has already laboured over and seen, then he does not show it. Nor does he resist when the hand in his pulls him further into the room, and doesn’t let go even as a curtain is flung open, and a light flicked on low.

He is pulled over to the broad casements and left to bask in starlight as Korkie steps aside to reveal a colorful mobile hanging from the frame of his window.

“The amphoriskos broke,” he explains, and sees a shadow flicker in his father's eyes. “No, no,” he insists. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. But I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It was so beautiful.”

He gestures at a silver thread from which hang a variety of irregularly shaped clay shards. The shiny amber and black paint catches the light thrown by the glowing Abafar beads strung further up, and on another and another thread. When he blows on them the threads hum, and sway together, the seashells and pottery and glass clattering together like wind chimes.

“The singing strings,” notes Obi-Wan, and Korkie grins.

“And the Lateron hoops,” he says, pointing to the frame from which the strings are suspended. “And the spindles, for balance. It’s meant to hang with my window open, like it is at school. And then, at night, when the dreamwinds come, the whole thing sings, and shines, and glows like the stars.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Obi-Wan with awe. He reaches out with one hesitant finger, the beads flickering beneath his touch, and the strings murmuring the low notes of an opening phrase.

“You gave it to me,” says Korkie with a shrug, and Obi-Wan turns his awe upon his boy.

“No,” he says. “I gave you fragments, but you have made them into art. You gave them meaning. You gave them a soul.”

Korkie shifts on his feet, fretting at the cuff of his sleeve, and diving in.

“Would it be okay, do you think -” he starts, then stops. Then he starts again. “Do you think it’d be alright if I wrote you? Every once in a while.”

“Wrote me?”

“Or com’d,” he says, quickly. “Only I know you’re busy, and I can’t expect to lay claim to any of your time, not really, but I -”

“Com me,” says Obi-Wan. “Write me. Send me anything you like, but only say you will and I will have all the time for you I can spare.”

“I promise that I only want a very little.”

“If it’s mine to give it’s yours to have, Kiorkicek,” his father swears. His grip upon his hand is firm, willing him to believe him, and Korkie nods his head because he does.

They stand there, hand in hand, reading themselves in each other, and learning the other in turn, and in the glow of the stars, and the city, and the Abafar beads, the daesyn flower bursts from its roots into a riot of colour and life.

#Obi-Wan Kenobi #Korkie Kryze #SW #Star Wars #my fic #GFFA #prompt fill #Korkie is a Kenobi

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nickyneshwrites · 3 years

Text

Cold Chapter 3

Bold=???

He was pacing around in front of his desk flicking his blade around in one hand, mumbling to himself, and fidgeting with his phone in the other hand. Shizuo still was nowhere to be found and Izaya was desperate. He had heard whispers of his possible location but had come up short everywhere he looked.

If this kept up he was going to raze every single gang in the city to find his lover, pathetic humans, and their opinions are damned!

He stopped flicking his knife looking at the glinting blade and in a moment of complete frustration threw it, it stayed stuck in his office wall. Then he felt and heard his phone ring and quickly pushed the knife from his mind.

“Yes hello. . .What about him?. . .Where are you?! . . .Skip the pleasantries Shiki, Where.Are.You . . . I swear if I have to listen to you-! . . I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blonde monster needed to go, not that it wasn't fun having Orihara flustered but it wasn't nearly enough fun to keep the raging monster in his company.

Not only had he injured six of his men he’d torn up a whole room and had to be moved to a more… accommodating environment. This was just getting out of hand.

Shiki sighed, then let his mind wander. A lot of this seemed strange, for one Orihara was showing an unusually open amount of interest in Heiwajima, normally he at least tried to feign disinterest, earlier the pure worry in his voice was clear as day.

Listening to the grunting and squeaking happening in the room over was now setting him on edge even more, as he lingered on the fact that the only thing keeping the blonde man firmly tied to the bed was a ridiculous amount of tranquilizer and thick chains.

The doctor who he had asked to look after the blonde was certain in his methods of detaining the crazed man but it was in Shiki’s opinion that he was seriously underestimating the strength of one of Ikebukuro's most notorious men.

He goes over to the door and the grunting stops. Upon opening the door he sees the blonde laying still, eyes still open he keeps a good distance away from the man in case he decides to lunge but it soon becomes obvious that he is in some sort of unconscious daze.

He looks to see if he's still breathing and finds that he is and sighs, good he really couldn't deal with Orihara going rouge again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was swimming in it, all the self-doubt, the fear of hurting others, the complete overwhelming. . .

“Sh. . .n”

Despair! Admit it for you know it's the truth, all of the love you hold is fake and you only push your pathetic existence upon those around you!

He wanted to deny it but he couldn't, his strength was a tool of destruction that would eventually drag all of those he holds dear to their doom.

Blackened tendrils crept up his subconscious submerging him deeper in their viscous fear dragging up all the truths he tried to keep hidden in himself.

A figure stands before him with an obscured face and it speaks directly to him in a hushed voice.

“-Ch. . .an”

The love you share is false, admit it! You took advantage of the hate you shared and shaped it into a twisted form of love that you've disillusioned yourself into believing.

He tried to escape to deny all of what he was hearing but it was too late he could no longer breathe and the darkness had taken hold devouring all his light.

"S-h. . .uo!"

Yes accept it, then return to your lie no but know no matter how much you run or you brush me away. Know I will still be there.

The figure leaves in black wisps and silence reigns in his consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Izaya enters a building at the back end of Shinjuku, normally he would care to know just what it is that goes on in a place like this but right now he doesn’t.

All he wants is to find Shizuo to grab hold of his brute and bring him to his flat and keep him there so something like this doesn’t happen again. He’d always known the moment he lost control of his Shizu-chan bad things would happen. He just never assumed it would be to the stupid brute himself.

He walks down a flight of stairs and is met with a tall door, he knocks three times then waits.

“ O-orihara-same, welcome uh, Shiki-dono is w-waiting in the lower level.”

A small man stands behind the door in front of Izaya, and as the informant gives him the once over it's obvious the man is scared. Izaya's usual mask of aloofness has melted into one of neutrality and the man is right to question his safety with such a gaze aimed at him.

Once they get moving Izaya takes time to notice that the man is in a lab coat and that the area they’ve walked to looks quite similar to an underground clinic.

The creaking of bed frames, the sound of heart monitors, and the distinct smell of bleach are the next things to assault his senses and he starts to get anxious. It seems Shiki has more going on under the city than he was privy to…

This just means there's something for him to look into after this whole situation is solved.

Once they pass through that area he is led to a door to the side and it takes all of a second for Izaya to understand what he's looking at, he doesn't like it and before the meek man can open the door to the room, a blade is pressed to his back.

“Ne doctor-Kun, I've followed you here without complaint because you told me you were leading me to Shiki-dono so could you explain to me why I'm being brought to the interrogation room?”

His tone was pleasant but the danger was clear and the knife pressed in the smaller man's back was sending a very clear message. He was frozen in place trying to find his voice while not fainting from all the stress, he was not prepared for this at all.

“Sh-s-s-sh-iki-dono is in the t-this room, the patient is there too after he d-deemed them too danger-rous to leave out in the main building! Please don't hurt me I was ju-”

The black imposing door is opened and the doctor crashes to the floor, passes Shiki, and immediately scrambles away from the violent man he was forced to meet.

“S-Shiki-dono your g-guest is here and with that, I think I should take my l-leave!”

Izay has long since stopped listening to the blubbering idiot and passes only a glance at Shiki before he walks by him and cautions a look around the room behind the Awakusu-kai member, and he sees him laid up there, his Shizu-chan!

“Shiki-dono knows how to treat his guests so whatever this is should also have an explanation, right? A reasonable explanation that will explain why it was necessary to chain an injured Shizuo to a bed, right?!”

He wasn't pointing his knife at anyone despite the strong urges to attack though his breathing was giving away the obvious distress? Anger? Or maybe even fear he was feeling.

This situation was exactly what Shiki was trying to avoid, he has every intention to pass Heiwajima over to Orihara but he was sure to the tense man it didn't look that way. He takes a step back to sit in the chair in the corner and looks straight at the informant, he knows he has to play this right or things could blow out of proportion and he's not in the mood for the melodrama.

“He’s simply restrained for his safety and that of my men, this room was the best for such a situation, and seeing as we couldn't get him to calm down this was the best I could arrange, he’s under a strong tranquilizer and has been showing strong signs of mental distress”

At this point, Izaya has heard what he wants and is moving towards the bed, as he approaches he notices that Shizuo's eyes are wide open but is seemingly unresponsive. He touches the blonde's arm and can't help the intake of breath he makes when he feels how cold he is to the touch.

“Shizu-Chan comes on I know you’re stronger than whatever this is…”

Izaya pockets the knife he's still holding and moves to grab onto the blonde's shoulder, he pulls on the chains there loosening them as much as he can.

“That isn't a good idea Orihara-san, he isn’t very stable and I don't think disturbing him in this state will not end well”

But again Izaya wasn’t listening, he just kept pulling and calling for the blonde getting lost in a haze of frustration as he rasped out his desperate call.

“Shizu-chan please you're not allowed to fall to anyone but me, wake up. Come on Shizu-chan I can even buy you those ridiculously sweet milkshakes you like just … Wake up Shizuo!”

He sounded close to tears and Shiki sat in shock at the display in front of him, the whole situation was kind of surreal. He was sure he had a good guess as to what the nature of their relationship was behind closed doors but this type of emotional response was more than he expected coming from the normally supercilious informant.

Then from behind the trembling back of the smaller man he saw it, the moment heiwajima eyes came back into focus but still holding that crazed spark.

“I-izaya?”

There was a moment of silence as his eyes and Izayas met like they were trying to talk through them to push forward the pain they each had to endure.

And in one act of utter relief, Izaya kisses the blonde, hard and passionate and desperate with all the pent-up energy he'd built up being released in the only way he could think to communicate.

He doesn't even hear as the chains are broken and fall to the ground with a heavy thump. But he does feel the blonde's hands pull at his fur coat and he sees the tears trickle down the fractured man's cheek.

A tired moan ripples through the kiss and Izaya retreats leaving a thin line of saliva connecting their mouths, his breathing is haggard and it takes him awhile

to calm down. He looks over his tired lover, Shizuo's normal bartender uniform ruined, now a tattered and stained shirt and ripped pants with his sunglasses nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry Izaya! I’m sorry I’m like this -this monst-i c-cant its just - i-i-I’m sorry! Im wrong were wrong I’m sorry so sorry sorry so much I-I-I-i”

Shiki leave the room he’s heard enough and decides he doesn’t need to know what else is going to be said, he’s given the informant what he wanted and as far as he’s concerned he’s done his job.

It’s up to Oriharta to fix the obviously damaged Heiwajima and to that he wishes him all the luck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been 2 days since Izaya brought Shizuo back to his flat, it's been quiet. Once Shizuo was showered and fed all Izaya wanted to do was hold onto his blond and never let go but he never came in fact he seemed to want to keep as much space as possible. Shifting from any type of contact Izaya initiated and spending hours at a time in the guest room instead of their shared bedroom.

The body that once housed his loud and lively lover was cold and distant. And when he wasn’t hiding, Izaya caught glimpses of a crazed fear in the blondes eyes, and he so wanted to help, to put this whole issue to rest and go back to how things were before his disappearance but it seemed impossible when the blond was so distant.

Shizuo's sitting on the sofa silently looking out at Izaya's unfinished game of chess, he doesn't really understand what about it had him quite so entranced but it was

better than seeing the hurt in Izaya's eyes when he looked at him. He’s standing in the doorway even now just looking; probably weighing how much trouble it would be worth to keep someone as useless as himself just sitting around.

He hears him let out a sigh from the door frame and steels himself as he comes and sits next to him.

“Shizu-Chan look at me, we need to talk ”

Shizuo did as he was told.

“You need time I get that but you need to at some point tell me what it is that you need me to do to help you. I care ok, when you disappeared I went looking everywhere, I found the bastards who attacked you that day and tried my damndest to make them pay. And as much as it hurts me to sit here spouting sentimental trash it hurts more to see you so… so broken, I love you so please just tell me what's wrong Shizuo”

And how could Shizuo ignore how sincere he sounded, those uttered words his name falling from the lips he’d spent years chasing? He shuffled over to the smaller man who was obviously giving him space and rested his head on Izaya's lap. Izaya didn’t really do anything at first but then he started running his fingers through the blonde locks soothingly.

“Just don't leave me”

The words travelled the silent room and seemed to be made more real by the silence and while no reply was made, the gentle way in which fingers caressed the taller man's cheeks were enough to make him know they were acknowledged.

A promise made in tranquility only truly believed by one of them.

#durarara #izaya orihara #izaya x shizuo #izuo #nickynesh ideas #shizuo heiwajima

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