summary: john price tells the story of how he met his wife.
contains: price gets cheated on. she/her pronouns. someone gets punched in the face.
bug speaks: ngl thought of this on my way home when listening to scotty doesn’t know.
masterlist
request/inbox open :)
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imagine price telling the story of how he and the missus started dating.
he used to be in a band he starts.
kyle spits out his drink at that.
“you could play at me ma’s birthday. she’d luv it!” soap cuts in.
was real good at the drums back in the day, john resumes. was playing a gig. was closing out for the night when the lead singer decided to change up the lyrics. ‘johnny doesn’t know…’ he thought it was just for a laugh. ‘that leona and me…’ his girlfriend at the time can’t seem to look him in the eye. her cheeks already wet with, what? regret? embarrassment?
“ah christ,” simon can’t help but exclaim.
‘do it in my van every sunday…’ price tells of how he nearly broke a drumstick he was playing so hard. the audience unaware of the turmoil within the band.
he plays the rest of the song. at the last beat he’s up and off the stage. ears ringing with rage. he doesn’t bother to stop as leona begs. his skin cools immediately as he opens the back door and exits into the alleyway.
that’s when he spots her. the bass players little sister. keys in her hand, leaning against her car. her face showing she’d heard it all. ‘get in’ she says. ‘what?’ his voice is above a whisper. he doesn’t know what to do. all he knows is the ring he’d bought for leona sits heavy in his pocket. ‘get in’ she says again.
“a ring??” gaz throws his hands up as he groans. “i’m so glad you didn’t marry that girl.”
he gets into the passenger seat. the bass players little sister behind the wheel. the engine on but she hasn’t moved. her fingers tapping on the steering wheel. john looks at her. he doesn’t know what to do. she looks across at him. he’s not sure what she sees but whatever it is helps her make up her mind. she unbuckles her seat belt and tells him she’ll be back in a minute. she gets out, rounds the car and enters the door he’d just come out off.
the boys now are on the edge of their seat. zero interruptions.
the next thing he knows is the door slams the brick wall as it’s opened. she’s running out. smile on her face as she jumps and slides across the hood of the car. she’s in the seat and buckled up before the lead singer comes out after her. he’s swearing and covered in blood. the bass player behind him holding him back. a smile on his face that matches his sisters. the car takes off. her hands on the wheel, one knuckle already bruising. she’d punched him in the face and broken his nose. ‘hell of a first date johnny.’ is all she says as they drive off.
Being on the receiving end of a punch from Simon is never something one tends to plan for. Then again, Izaya doesn't seem to plan for much at all, especially the consequences of his actions.
(* Drabble inspired by a convo with friends from the other day where Izaya loses sight in one eye after Simon's punch. )
CW: nondescriptive eye trauma, heavy focus on eye trauma
♤ ♧ ♡ ♢
The headache is agonizing.
Which is truly nothing in the face of what it could have been. After all, not very many people can walk away from one of Simon’s punches at all let alone with just a black eye and a persistent headache. Then again, most people are not Izaya Orihara. It’s not like he’s never been hit before, Shizuo has managed a few times over the last decade; and Simon, pacifist that he is, has always managed to catch Izaya by surprise on the rare occasion he throws one instead of blocking them.
He spends the worst part of the week icing his swollen eye and poking at the edges of the bruise, focusing on the hard edge of the discoloration as if he could find any inconsistency in the way it fades into his skin. Ugly purples and reds splotched together darkest around the edge of his swollen eye socket despite the bruise spanning up and around his eyebrow and temple.
“You should have gone to the hospital.” Namie quips, tapping away at her laptop; pretending not to notice the way Izaya twists the mirror around himself. “Make sure he didn’t fracture anything.”
Izaya laughs, the mirror in his hand clattering to the desk as his hand reaches for the ice pack instead. “Don’t be silly, I’ve had worse.”
“Suit yourself.” unphased by the reaction, she doesn’t even pause in her typing. “If you go blind don’t come crying to me about it.”
Izaya laughs, the mirror in his hand clattering to the desk as his hand reaches for the ice pack instead. “Don’t be silly, I’ve had worse.”
“Suit yourself.” unphased by the reaction, she doesn’t even pause in her typing. “If you go blind don’t come crying to me about it.”
It’s easy to dismiss such a dramatic claim, after all, it was just a slap on the wrist. Izaya’s temple throbs and it hurts too much to look at the light from his monitor. He leans back in his chair to feel the warmth of the sun through his windows, both eyes closing with the icepack over the left. The pain radiates like a halo around his head, a throb in his temple spanning the entire hemisphere where his eye sits uncomfortably in the socket. Even though time has passed enough the pain should be starting to fade by now.
He doesn’t think about the discomfort of trying to see through his left eye for the past week, assuming it had been just a matter of easing the swelling. And sure, the swelling has gone down quite a bit compared to the first few hours after the blow.
The thud of something hitting his desk snaps his eyes open—well, the right eye at least—the left stays closed under the warming ice pack, and Izaya uses the chair to turn to see Namie standing with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her palm is flat on a stack of documents, the light of the day feels different than before. Warmer, darker, like the sun is lower in the sky than just a few moments ago when he first closed his eyes.
“Or maybe you should be more worried about a concussion.” She chides, smirk twisting her mouth into an ugly mimic of Izaya’s own mask. “I expect to be paid whether you die or not, by the way.”
With a huff, Izaya waves her off, bidding goodnight before turning to his own monitor to get back to work.
He doesn’t remember it being so close to quitting time for her, not that time as a structure has ever meant much to Izaya, but something just feels off about the whole thing. Had he fallen asleep? He could swear he was only resting his eyes for a moment, but that headache won’t ease up and he starts to consider maybe a trip to the doctor isn’t such a bad idea after all. It takes more effort to stand than he would like to admit, and even more to get around the office to put his ice pack in the freezer. Scrolling through his phone to find Shinra’s number feels like a task reminiscent of pushing that damnable boulder up a mountain as he unintentionally scrolls by the contact two or three times before finally catching the contact name.
He stumbles a bit, missing the distance between a step and the floor when he goes for his coat and shoes, irritation bubbling and growing at his such mundane missteps at every turn. It’s easy to blame Namie for putting the idea in his head, to blame her for noticing each and every little slip up, but it’s the easiest time he’s had maneuvering the office since getting hit and when he presses the little green call button for the third time the phone finally starts to ring.
Shinra, the bastard that he is, takes approximately forever to answer the phone and Izaya is not in the mood to beat around pretending to get rejected just because he wants to spend the evening with Celty.
The line cuts, and through the phone Shinra’s voice is a beacon and a terror on Izaya’s headache. “Nnnyellow?”
He does not admit to relief or surprise when Shinra actually picks up the phone. “You have time for a check up?”
There’s a pause, and Izaya doesn’t really care what the answer is because he’s already locked the door behind himself. Managing a straight line towards the elevator of the building and pretending the lights buzzing overhead aren’t needles at the base of his skull. Shinra’s initial uncertainty and then recognition evident alone in the way he hums and haws on the other end before he realizes, by way of Izaya’s tone or simply getting to the point that fucking around may not be the way he’d like to find out.
“Sure, I’ll be home soon if you want to meet me there.” though he still sounds chipper as usual.
Izaya can practically see the way his smile is beaming.
