Chapter Text
Back in primary school, in the first couple days after he had met Shinra, the other boy had looked him up and down and astutely discerned that Shizuo was an individual driven more by instinct than conscious thought or reason.
Shizuo hadn’t been angered by the observation; perhaps mildly irritated by the clinical, detached tone to Shinra’s voice as he had given him his assessment, but he wasn’t mad. It was true, after all.
Shizuo had an uncanny ability, in that way, to sniff out when something was amiss. It was good for his line of work. Most times, even before he and Tom made it to a job he could tell, by the shift in his belly and the thrum of electricity in the air, whether the job would be easy or a problem. His gut never lied, so if he felt as though something was amiss, then undoubtedly there was.
Which is where the problem starts.
Shizuo had woken up that morning with the cloying feeling of wrong in the back of his throat and an anchor of dread pooling deep in his stomach and sitting like a stone. It hadn’t gone away in the time that it had taken him to eat a meager breakfast, brush his teeth, shower, and walk his commute to the office.
It hadn’t gone away as he and Tom managed through each of their collections, none of them difficult and, surprisingly, almost all of them paying up what was owed. Nothing was wrong, but something had to be, somewhere.
Shizuo knows there has to be something, because the stone in his stomach keeps sinking further the later in the day it gets and he’s practically vibrating with nervous energy. The day’s been easy, and yet he’s been quick to snap, growling unnecessary threats under his breath without conscious thought.
He’s smoked more in the span of six hours than he usually does in three days.
Tom has been shooting him worried glances throughout the morning and most of the afternoon as Shizuo’s distress wrapped around them both, smothering, like smoke. He’d suggested that Shizuo slow down a little, and Shizuo had grunted in acknowledgment before flicking his lighter open and lighting another cigarette.
That had been hours ago.
The anxiety continues to swell; Shizuo feels it creeping up his back and finding a home in his lungs, suffocating. He growls as he digs into his pocket, fishing out his crushed pack of American Spirits. His brow furrows as he discovers that the pack, which had been unopened when he swiped it from the coffee table on his way out the door this morning, is empty.
“Why don’t we call it an early weekend,” Tom says from beside him, and Shizuo’s head whips up as he shakes himself from his daze.
“That’s not necessary,” Shizuo says, apologetic.
Tom’s gait slows, and he comes to a stop, pulling Shizuo by the elbow to a shopfront so they don’t impede passersby. They’re in Shinjuku, their latest debt further out than was typical. “It’s really okay; we got a lot more done today than I was expecting, so we’re actually ahead of schedule. Think of it as a reward for a job well done.”
It’s an olive branch — one that Shizuo is sure he doesn’t deserve. He’s always making life harder for his Senpai; always too angry, always teetering precariously between calm and the precipice of rage.
He wants to argue, but the sour tang of wrongness at the back of his throat chokes his protest before he can voice it.
He doesn’t deserve a friend like Tom.
“I’ll make it up next week,” Shizuo says instead, and Tom claps him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. Just go home and relax, okay?”
Shizuo nods, apologizing once more before turning away, in the direction of the station.
He wants to relax, he does. But it feels as though a live wire is thrumming under his skin, foreboding, a warning of some unseen danger lurking just out of reach.
Someone’s in danger.
The thought hits him like lightning, and he freezes. That’s what his gut is trying to tell him; it has to be.
It’s not Tom, he decides as he goes down a mental checklist. He was with him just minutes ago, so it couldn’t be. Maybe then...?
He pulls out his phone, flipping it open and dialing a number he knows by heart. It rings once before the receiver clicks through. “Nii-san?”
“Sorry to bother you, Kasuka. I just needed to check if everything was all right?” It sounds lame, out of the blue, but Shizuo doesn’t care. If his brother is in danger and he can do something about it, let him be the most embarrassing man in Ikebukuro.
Kasuka takes it in stride, unperturbed. He understands Shizuo better than most people do, anyway, so he’s attuned to Shizuo’s moods and sudden whims. “Fine. I’m hosting a gameshow in a few minutes, so I can’t speak for long. Kaasan and Tousan are here, too, if you needed to talk to someone?”
That eliminates two more possibilities. “Ah, no, that’s fine. Just wanted to check. Good luck with hosting. Tell Kaasan and the old man I said hi.”
“I will and thank you. Be safe, Nii-san.”
“You too, Kasuka. Bye.”
The line goes dead, but Shizuo’s already navigating to his messaging app, pulling up his text thread with Celty.
[[Are you and Shinra okay?]]
It only takes a few seconds for the typing bubbles to pop up, and after a minute, Celty’s reply.
[Should we not be?]
Another message pops up a second later.
[We’re fine. Kadota’s over to fix our sink. Is everything okay?]
Shizuo sighs heavily through his nose. Tom’s fine, Kasuka’s fine, his parents are fine. Celty, Shinra, and Kadota are all safe. So why does it feel like something awful is happening? Why can’t he shake the weight of anxiety from his shoulders?
[[Fine. Just have had a weird feeling all day. Stay safe.]]
Celty replies instantly. [Come by later, if you want. It might help to take your mind off of it.]
[[I’ll think about it. Thanks, Celty.]]
[Of course. :)]
Shizuo sighs, flipping his cell closed and slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t have a cigarette to occupy them, anyway, and continues his trek to the station. It’s late afternoon but, since it’s December, the sun is beginning to set and the sky threatens snow, fat, heavy clouds hanging low over the city like an omen.
It adds to the sense of impending doom that’s been hanging over Shizuo since he’d opened his eyes that morning. He shakes his head in a vain attempt to rid himself of the all-consuming paranoia that’s been trailing him the whole day, willing his mind quiet as he takes in the sounds of the city around him.
A group of schoolgirls in their uniforms pass, giggling amongst themselves. Men and women in business attire pass in the opposite direction, en masse, the closer he gets to the station, returning home for the day.
He thinks about stopping at one of the corner stores before he gets to the station, to load up on cigarettes before the weekend, when he hears it. A group of delinquents passes, talking loudly, uncaring of the disturbance that they may cause to the people around them.
“You’re sure they’ll be there?”
“Positive! Shou-san told me!”
The other delinquent scoffs. “And who told him?”
“Orihara Izaya, the info broker.”
They carry on with their conversation, but their words fade as they walk further, past Shizuo, until he can’t hear anything at all. Just the ringing in his own ears.
The penny drops.
Izaya.
How long had it been since he’d seen him? A month? The first week he had thought the absence suspicious, but when he’d brought it up to Shinra, who had been bandaging him up after a rough job, he hadn’t seemed all that concerned.
“Orihara-kun goes underground sometimes. Nothing to worry about.”
Izaya is up to something.
He has to be.
The spike of electricity in Shizuo’s gut confirms as much, that the awful omen that had been trailing him the entire day was linked intrinsically with that fucking louse.
He growls, teeth grinding as he spins around, legs carrying him hurriedly in the direction of Izaya’s apartment. It’s not so far away; the bastard loves to be central to humanity, so of course he’d chosen an overpriced apartment at the city’s center.
He weaves around the throngs of people, ignoring curses and complaints. He has one goal in mind, and he isn’t going to let anything get in the way of that. The flea is up to something, something that’s going to end with someone Shizuo cares about getting hurt, and Shizuo’s going to stop him.
He won’t get away with it, Shizuo thinks repeatedly, like a mantra, as Izaya’s building comes into view. He has no idea what Izaya’s planning, what he’s done, but he won’t let him go any further. He’ll stop him.
In the time it has taken him to get there, the sun has fully set. Shizuo pays it no mind, though, as he pushes into the posh lobby, ignoring the shouted protests of the doorman as he makes a beeline for the stairs. He takes them, two at a time, with a goal in mind.
He doesn’t entertain the thought of knocking, won’t give the bastard the chance of a head start, even if it’s only a handful of seconds. He reaches Izaya’s floor in a matter of minutes, rounding the corner of the landing and stomping his way over to his door.
He kicks it in, fully expecting to come face to face with the bastard himself, or maybe his secretary, but he doesn’t. As he steps into the apartment, pushing the splintered door against the wall, the living room is completely devoid of life, absent anyone, including its infuriating occupant. It’s dark inside the apartment, with no artificial lighting and the television turned off. The windows let in some light, from the city below, but it’s not enough and Shizuo doesn’t know the layout of the apartment well enough to navigate without light.
All signs point to Izaya being out, but something shifts low in his belly and Shizuo knows he isn’t. Normally, he’d rely on the smell alone, but everything smells like Izaya; it’s the bastard’s den. He’ll have to find him by other means.
“Izaya,” Shizuo growls as he rounds the coffee table, searching the living room in the darkness, a caricature of hide-and-seek. He holds the back of the couch as he makes his way to the kitchen. “I know you’re fucking here, flea.”
Unsurprisingly, there’s no response and Shizuo curses as he stubs his elbow against the kitchen island in the darkness. “I’m going to beat your sorry ass for this,” Shizuo spits.
Silence follows as he searches. It’s darker in the kitchen without the meager illumination from the windows, but the stove clock gives him enough light that he isn’t totally blind. He squints his eyes, poised to catch any movement, and is relieved to find a light switch in front of him.
He flips it on, florescent light flooding the kitchen and pouring into the living room. It’s as empty in the light as it was in the darkness, but an overwhelming feeling of wrong floods Shizuo’s stomach as he looks to the windows, over by Izaya’s desk, and sees a blooming puddle of red expanding across the polished wood floor.
He swears, hurrying forward.
He’s not prepared, not expecting, the sight before him.
Izaya, collapsed next to his desk. He’s on his side, eyes closed, dark bags under his lashes, absent the ridiculous coat and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His switchblade is a few inches away, covered in red.
His arm’s a fucking mess. It’s cut vertically, a single wound, down to the bone, and Shizuo gags at the visible sinew bleeding sluggishly into the puddle below him.
Shizuo doesn’t think as he kneels down next to Izaya, ripping the bottom of his coat and pressing it down, tightly, into the wound. He places his other hand to Izaya’s neck, looking for a pulse, and is shocked at how relieved he is to find it. It’s too quick, much too quick, and it’s weak, but it’s there.
“Flea, what the fuck did you do to yourself?” Shizuo says, breathless. The paranoia of the day has faded, and he’s left with a numb, overwhelming calm.
“Izaya, can you hear me?” He’s not expecting an answer, but his stomach still drops at the lack of response. He should call Shinra, he should call an ambulance, that would be the responsible thing to do. But to do that, he’d have to remove his hands from Izaya, take pressure away from the thin tether keeping Izaya latched to the mortal plane.
He can’t.
So instead, as carefully as he can, he scoops Izaya up into his arms, keeping strong pressure on his wound as he balances him in his grasp. Izaya’s head lulls to the side, against his chest, as Shizuo heads for the door.
He has to get to Shinra.
Time is ticking.
Shizuo runs.