блоха

The road I walk is paved in gold, to glorify my platinum soul. I am the closest thing to God, so worship me and never stop.

[the-flea-blog]

Izaya had been interested in this man since he first spotted him wandering in and out of the Sunflower Apartments some days ago. He wasn't hard to miss, not exactly blending in with his eccentric appearance, which was a feat in and of itself, considering some of the rather quirky looking residents that frequented the city's streets.

While it was the stranger's attire that had initially caught the broker's attention, it wasn't what had gotten him interested, really interested, in this individual. No, it had more to do with the air around him, the way he carried himself. As someone who enjoyed people watching perhaps a little too much, Izaya had come to learn a few things over the years, discerningly perceptive at reading people and body language. His mannerisms, and the small, subtle changes when it seemed that nobody was watching him. This time, Izaya just couldn't shake the feeling than there was more than what meets the eye in this man's case. 

Naturally, that led to an almost insatiable curiosity. What was his story? What was he hiding, and why? This city, he was aware, was full of different faces, many of which seeking fresh starts, and he himself was no exception. It wasn't such a strange thing, but if he could just catch this person's name, perhaps Izaya could do some digging. It was what he excelled at, after all. It wasn't a tricky task. A well-timed trip to collect his post one morning saw him able to steal a quick glance at the name printed on the front of an envelope, addressed to one 'Märchen von Friedhof', as the mail man was depositing it to the recipient's respective mailbox. It was a bit of a mouthful, foreign on his tongue, but at least now he had something to work with.

It didn't take long for him to catch wind of the whispers that shrouded this man's name after doing a little searching, each of them just adding to the veil of mysteries that cloaked him. How could he resist trying to steal a peek behind the veil?

A couple of days passed before the informant had made any sort of move, prioritising his work before pursuing his personal curiosities. He'd returned to the mailboxes on the bottom floor of the Sunflower Apartments, collecting his post and flipping through the letters and flyers as he did most mornings. This time, however, when he was sure that nobody was watching, Izaya slipped one of his addressed letters into the box for Room 6. It'd look like a simple mistake and all he had to do now was wait. Perhaps he would head out for coffee as he did so.

[the-flea-blog]

[his-twisted-sister]

{ reunion }

[his-twisted-sister]

An icy silence accompanied the blatant roll of the brunette’s eyes as she was greeted by a familiar face at the door of his new apartment. It was the very same apartment, in fact, as the one that had been listed in the message she had received a few days prior to her arrival in Toshi City. That little tidbit of information, however, had been of no surprise to Namie as she knew the work of this man, if that’s what you wished to call him, like she knew the back of her hand (not that this was anything to be proud of).

Making her way into the foyer once Izaya’s beguiled greeting had completed, the wonted removal of her heels occurred to her subconsciously and left Namie mentally slapping herself for being lead so easily back into their routine. This occurred until she noticed a familiar, yet slightly more beat up, pair of slippers situated in its expected place at the end of the hall. Raising an eyebrow, the brunette slipped them on without comment and maneuvered herself to the sofa opposite to the one which Izaya had himself seated.

It didn’t take long for the informant to launch immediately into conversation; first starting with the usual casual small talk and barrage of crowing questions that one typically engaged in upon requesting the presence of another after a long expanse of time had since passed from the last time you had been in their company. However, these topics were subject matter that neither were truly interested in and both of them knew it.

So rather than play this game with him, Namie allowed Izaya to talk himself silly, all the while taking small sips of the tea that had been practically forced upon her— not even caring if it was drugged at this point, anything to shut him up would be considered worth it. That was until he got to the meat of this conversation, which had Namie placing her cup down on the coffee table as a silent signal of her interest. 

                          ❆ “Surely you do not mistake me for some sort of a fool that travels a substantial distance to this God-forsaken city simply to relish in your company, Orihara-san,” she replied, answering the question in a roundabout manner. “..They’re saying you’re dead, you know. ‘Orihara Izaya’s mysterious disappearance leaves Ikebukuro sanctified’ the papers said, but I knew better than to celebrate. Although, I can’t say this place was on my list of expectations. Why here?" 

[the-flea-blog]

"And here I was, thinking you simply missed me," he returned, eyes narrowed a fraction as pale lips curled into a crooked grin, confident that his tone of voice would grate on her like it almost always did. Of course she didn't miss him; every second he was gone must have been a moment revelled in. The fact that she was once again subjected to his company, that the brief taste of a normal, quiet life that she had experienced in his absence was as good as gone, was something he could entertain himself with for the time being, while life was still mostly quiet.

The tidbit that Namie had decided to add, regarding his rumoured death, had been something he had already been aware of and had given much thought to during his time away. He had 'died' without actually dying, and in his wake he had left a storm of problems, unthinkable rumours, a plethora of tales and stories (how much truth there was to any of them was dubious at best), fears that he hadn't actually died and would one day return, to name but a few. In a way, it served to settle some of the issues that weighed on him regarding death, in the sense that even after an untimely death, the infamous informant was still being talked about, 'gone but not forgotten', that in his existence he had managed to leave an imprint of some sort, however large or small it was. That didn't, however, account for the actual afterlife that everyone faced, the one of eternal non-existence, which prompted his goal of bringing around Ragnarök in the first place.

"The views, for one," he responded, skimming over her previous comment as he exuberantly gestured a hand towards the window and the scenery beyond it."And the sushi bar in the city, you wouldn't believe." It was all a show, which she would recognise before the words finished coming from his mouth, and no doubt would earn him some sort of snide or dismissive comment in return. But that's how things were with them; Izaya talking for the sake of talking, and the pair exchanging biting comments, purposely trying to get under one another's skin to spite the other.

The grin he wore dimmed somewhat in favour donning a more serious expression as he slouched back in his seat and abandoned playing the fool. "I didn't plan on setting up shop here, but there's more here than what meets the eye," he began, deciding how much information to disclose to her right away. "I heard whispers of a shady mayor, a mysterious death." He rounded off with a small shrug of his shoulders, clasping his hands together in front of his chest, while his elbows were propped on the arms of his seat, waiting to gauge her response.

[giira-moved]

Favorite Fictional Characters: ∟ Namie Yagiri (Durarara!!)

[his-twisted-sister]

Reunion || Namizaya

She remembered blood; the red liquid covering her head to toe unprejudiced to the fact that none of it had belonged to her. She remembered the color red; how it’d stained her hands roughly the color of rust for nearly an entire week after the incident had occurred. She remembered the distinct scent of iron and how it had clung to the air even long after its source had completely picked up and vanished without her. And she remembered being afraid, because for the first time Namie had truly been alone; exactly like all those regretful times she’d wished for it so badly before.

But most of all, Namie remembered peace; two years of it to be exact, where the drama in Ikebukuro had all but dried up completely. This was due mostly to the strange, and yet widely celebrated, disappearance of everyone’s favorite information broker (or at least this was what had been said). It was a rumor that Namie knew to be true— Orihara Izaya was gone; although, the brunette knew better than to think this change for the better would have any sort of set permanence for herself.

It was this thought that Namie would find herself quickly lamenting, seeing as her phone ironically produced a soft buzzing sound during that precise moment. In a solid, yet incredibly swift, motion, the once chief of the sixth lab now turned secretary picked up the device, flipping it open to discover the following message displayed on the screen:

ONE UNREAD MESSAGE FROM: 未 知 数

R O O M 0 0 1, M A P L E A P T, T O S H I C I T Y.

It didn’t require a genius to figure who was responsible, not that Namie didn’t already consider herself one already, but after reading the message over to herself nearly twenty times at least, the brunette finally set her phone back down and focused her attention on a certain jar containing that thing’s head.

                          ❆ “It appears as though I’m to be rid of you after all,” Namie told it, her mouth then forming the thin line of a scowl that many would have mistakenly taken for her complete displeasure. However, for the brunette, this expression was typical and one that signified some sick sense of utter delight at the mere thought..

                                            — Toshi City didn’t have a single clue what it was in for.

[the-flea-blog]

"Long time no see, Namie-san." The airy greeting was delivered as he opened the door to an awaited familiar face, lips snaking into a crooked grin as his arms unfolded in a casual gesture to accompany his invitation to her inside. "Come in, come in." 

There was a lot that could happen in the span of two years for someone like Orihara Izaya. With wounds having healed, only marring scars stretching across their pale canvas left as physical reminders, he had seen to it that fresh plans were set in motion as soon as the informant found himself back on his feet. While his initial goal to bring around Ragnarök had failed rather grandly, that very objective, however, had not been abandoned, just put on the back-burner; leaving Celty's head in the capable hands of his second in command (much to her disfavour, he was sure).

For the time being, Izaya had taken to fleeing from Shinjuku and Ikebukuro, setting himself up in an interesting city that he had caught wind of not long ago. Of course, with a new city came a lot of things to learn about all the bustling, unfamiliar faces that wandered it's streets. What could possibly be more exciting than a brand new playground to watch over and orchestrate? This time around, Izaya didn't have the luxury of a plethora of contacts at his disposal, though task of rebuilding a network for gathering and dispersing information didn't do much to daunt him; it was a part of his job, after all. 

"Tea?"

He had a cup poured regardless of whether or not she desired it, sitting it in front of her on a modern glass coffee table in front of the sofa that he had walked to her, telling her to make herself at home. "How was your trip? What do you think of my new office? Not as roomy as the last one, I know, but great views." Having deemed that enough time had since passed the incidents that drove him here, Namie's return to his side would act as the beginning of this new chapter, the first motion that would set the ball rolling. Another cup was prepared for himself before sinking into the cushions of a chair at the opposite side of the table, facing her. "Did you bring it?" No further elaboration necessary. With the time spent out of direct communication with each other leaving him in the dark of whether or not anything had happened to his most prized possession, Izaya was eager to bring the topic up, cutting the chit-chat that neither of them were all that interested in.

[his-twisted-sister]

May The Fourth ♖

Today was the day.

Twenty-something years prior marked the dreaded day history would one day regard with misfortune. May the fourth, the day God himself allowed the devil offspring that was Izaya Orihara to be bore from the womb. Even more of a reason the female did not believe in a higher power. And if one did exist, certainly, he had no care for human species; Orihara’s existence was proof enough for that.

It was of no surprise to Namie that the informant had spoke of nothing else to her for about a week now. Thoughts of the various mentions of it cluttered her concentration; slender fingers gripping the additional decretive gift bag that joined her on the familiar walk to work that morning. The air was crisp, though the day would soon warm up. It was not the kind of day you would expect much evil from, or maybe that was the calm before the storm.

The uneventful walk lead Namie straight to the office and upon approaching the building the secretary let out a small sigh before going about her routine as usual. The clanging of her keys in the door resembling the last sense of normalcy that Namie was to encounter that day. She pushed open the door entering into the small foyer, tawny irises setting on the tacky display of happy birthday banners strewn about the walls. This was hell; Namie had died and she was in hell.

She took a second, letting the decorations sink in as she discarded her coat and dawned on her usual slippers padding silently over to the room she was sure Orihara would be located. The secretary moistened her lips, preparing to speak. The next words were not not a happy birthday nor was there any expression of warm or happiness; just standing there gripping the satchel she had been carrying.

“It’s looking rather gaudy and atrocious in here this morning.”

[the-flea-blog]

If there was ever a reason for one to believe in a higher power, perhaps it was the gifting of Izaya Orihara to the world. Better yet, perhaps he was the higher power. It was no real secret that he had thought himself to be above the rest of the species he adored so much, often of the opinion that they should indeed look up to him as a figurehead of sorts.

In the weeks leading up to this rather monumental occasion, the brunet made a habit of leaving hints here and there, some more subtle than others though most were blatant reminders that his birthday was soon approaching. He had taken the liberty to pencil in little notes here and there in the secretaries notepads and organisers, even settling an alarm on her phone's calander to sound at an ungodly hour the morning of it's arrival with an attached memo.                      "Don't forget to bring my present to work!"

                                                   As if she would forget, anyway.

The eve before had seen the informant occupy his time with a spot of decoration. A deliberate choice of the most gaudy of embellishments had been arranged throughout the apartment and offices. A bunch of balloons were hung either side of the door frame at the front of the building's entrance, the theme following through the corridors which led to Izaya's flat. Inside, an array of banners hung from the ceilings while party streamers were draped over almost every piece of furniture visible. 

Upon hearing the door crack open, he turned to the entrace where upon his lips curled into a shrewd grin once her expression was noticed; thoroughly unentertained by the broker's childish antics. Of course, the entire effort was not exerted solely for the sake of celebrating his birthday, rather using it as yet another means of aggravating his partner in crime in a fashion that could only be employed once a year. A nice bonus would be that at the end of the day, the task of cleaning up the mess made would be left to her as well.

          --  "Not nearly as atrocious as you." Words were hard, juxtaposed in the way they were cooed cheerfully through a grin.                      "You're just not gaudy enough, but I know just how to fix that."

Reaching out his arms which were folding behind his back, deft hands had quickly placed a conical party hat atop the female's head, pulling the elastic chord under her chin and letting go; allowing it to snap against her skin - hoping that it would sting.

"You blend right in," he crooned while delving a hand into his pockets and withdrawing a party popper, pointing it in her face and tugging the string - a mess of colour strips of thin paper landing in her hair.

[karkatsfunbox]

[his-twisted-sister]

@the-flea

❄ The frigid early morning air sends feverish chills down Namie’s spine as she makes her way home after a long shift at the strip joint. She’d made good money tonight, though the fact that she had only makes her more of a target to criminals. Multiple times she’d been warned of the dangers of wandering the streets at night, but so far the concerns had fallen on somewhat deaf ears. Foolishly, she simply relied on a name alone to protect her. His name. Arms tighten around her frail body in an attempt to shield herself from the wind as she walks.

⤫ December had been a particularly harsh month this year and the soft peppering of snow dusting her surroundings reminds Namie of a particular evening about a week or so ago. The eve of the first snowfall, if she was being exact. Everything had suddenly changed then, and as she walks home she finds herself mulling over the haunting events of that day; the sounds of her heels filling the gaps in the silence.

—­­–‑Flashback~

⤫ The daytime had been typical, work done in the office as Masaomi’s pleasant presence further continued to melt away at the icebound barbed wire that permanently surrounded Namie’s heart. The time alone she’d had with the boy had softened her almost dramatically and as more time passed Namie found herself seeking ways to numb herself out again. She hated these profaned feelings bubbling inside her for the boy; her heart was meant for Seiji and Seiji alone. Wasn’t it? The fact that she even admitted feeling anything towards anybody absolutely disgusted her.

⤫ She needed Izaya back, he was her safety blanket in these situations; constantly re-solidifying her emotionless state over and over with his usual moronic antics. Her human icebox, her confidant, and overall a complete pain in the ass but compared to Masaomi putting up with him was nothing. She almost found herself almost needing him back now before she broke down entirely. Ha-Ha~ She was depending on Izaya now? That was a good one.

⤫ She’d done her work quietly that day; her mind was elsewhere, particularly on the informant’s where abouts. To say she was worried would be an understatement, but she’d never admit it. Nor was she required to, this was one of the was one of the reasons Namie had stuck by his side all this time. Hours pass and the setting of the sun finally cues Namie to depart back home. 

⤫ The walk is familiar as is the light snow that now blankets the ground; the first snow of the year. A happy sigh escapes past her lips as the glimpse of a familiar jacket happens to catch her eye. Relief swells within her to see him alive, but quickly it is replaced with terror at the sight of growing redness that is staining the white snow where she had seen him. Blood.

⤫ She peers into the alleyway she’s trailed the spots to; russet chroma spot his jacket immediately. In reflection, this next move would be utterly stupid but at this point Namie is just reacting. She tails him, a few moments passing before she catches up behind him. It’s like slow motion from this point, gloved phalanges reach out to grasp at the material of his coat. He turns, eyes meet for a second as recognition slowly spreads over almost animalistic looking features. That would be a look Namie would never forget. 

⤫ It takes a second for her to feel the cool blade of his knife pressing up against the front of her throat. A second longer to realize she’d been two seconds short of him severing her jugular. He laughs, blood bubbles from the corners of his mouth as eyes fall shut. A hand is grasping at the front of his throat, around an obvious wound there. Blood is soaking him. Shock spreads across her features and he falls forward; obviously having exhausted his last ditch efforts to kill who ever’d been following him.

⤫ Her arms react in time to catch him, his head coming to rest against her shoulder. Blood is quickly pooling red on the front of her coat. Every second wasted he’s dying, adrenaline starts pumping. Think Namie! She reaches up under her jacket, tearing a good chuck of cloth off from her skirt. Immediately she’s shoving it under the hand grasping the wound and with lightening speed she is hosting him onto her back.

❝ If you want to stay alive, Izaya, you better fucking apply pressure and not go into any lights! Do you understand me?! Do not die. ❞

⤫ She starts moving quickly, he practically feels like air to her. Her heart is pumping in her chest and as the end of the alley seems to finally be reached, Namie sees they are across the street from her apartment. She speeds past a confused doorman, rushing into the elevator that luckily opens as soon as she hits the button. A bloody hand releases its grip on him and finds its way to her cell phone, mashing the buttons for Shinra. It feels like forever but he answers after a few rings. Suddenly, she’s screaming into the phone for him to come quickly and to bring the specific tools. Elevator doors close; it’s now down to a race against time itself.

[the-flea-blog]

Talking when he should have been listening. 

What's new there? It was the same old story, nothing changes. It was always going to be a matter of time before he said one word too many and to the wrong person, anyway. Words were thrown about with no fear of what consequences they might come with. Each word specifically picked and sentences meticulously constructed to ensure that they caused some form of insult or annoyance. 

Lips curled into a tight, lopsided grin as he was hoisted up by the front of his trademark jacket. A jolt of excitement ran through him and it took almost all that he had to told in a manic laugh that was on the verge of tumbling passed his lips. Eyes were puffy from bruises and the coppery taste of blood flavoured his mouth.

What did he do to land him in this situation? 

     {{ B a c k t r a c k  two months -- ; ;

A job arrived for him at the office. It was nothing too tasking, rather it was fairly mundane and nothing out of the ordinary for the broker. Collecting information about a certain gang's doings and dealings and distributing his findings to their rival gang. The usual. Things, however, took a turn that would make things a little more interesting for him. The head of the gang he had been gathering dirt on had come to him with the same request as their rivals, blissfully unaware that the sly brunette was already working for his enemies. It wasn't the first time that the informant played both sides of the fence, but it had been a while since the last time he took that risk. 

Cordially accepting the second job offer, he returned to work almost immediately, making himself friendly with a few gang members from each side, finding out tidbits here and there that he could pass on to the opposing mob. Extra work of course meant extra hours, spending many late nights in the office flicking through files and manipulating relationships through chatrooms and forums under various pseudonyms and aliases. Risky, yes, though it was sure to be more interesting than playing by the unspoken underground rules.

Business continued smoothly for little over a month and a half until disaster struck. The leader of the first gang that came to him caught wind of the broker's foul play, making sure to pay him a visit with intent of revenge. Caught and approached not far from his home and office, a bevy of burly mobsters impelled the duplicitous brunette into the nearest alleyway with no warning, the element of surprise working in their favour as they completely caught the usually-on-guard informant very much off guard. 

T r a p p e d

But was he worried? Not one bit. Almost as swiftly as he was scurried into the ominous alley he had his trusty flickblade drawn and concealed behind his back. The maneuver went undetected by the thugs which called for a smug, cat-like grin to appear on a set of thin lips. 

Now that he was armed with the only weapon that he had in his arsenal, the taunting began. Mocking how this had been going on right under their noses for weeks without them noticing, pointing out the scale of which he was so easily able to infiltrate and pick apart their organisation, his ulterior motives going completely undetected. Was it any wonder though? That was what he was known for. He closed in on them as they listened in silence to his ridicules, light steps taking him to circle one of the members.

S n a p

His mocking eventually pushed the wrong button with one of the thugs which caused the stocky male that he had just paced around to lash a fist out, letting it find contact with his jaw. 

C r a c k

Another jab landing on the opposite cheek. Then the others joined in, adding more hits and the occasional kick to the equation. His blade was dropped by accident once a fist came into sharp contact with his ribcage that was left exposed as an arm was raised to defend himself. 

D e f e n s e l e s s 

Which brings us back to the present. Hoisted up by his collar, face bloodied and already showing signs of trauma in the form of dark purple bruises. Though he was still grinning. What would it take to wipe the smug look from his face?

There was a quiet clink as the cold metal of his dropped knife scrapped off the damp concrete as it was picked up by one of the males involved before it was passed to their leader who had Izaya in his grasp. Maroon hues snapped down to his weapon as it traded hands with the enemy.

     ❝ Oh~ I see you've found my knife. I was looking for--

Voice was laboured as he struggled to speak, cut short as the sharp tip was pressed against the base of his throat. Lips curled into a grin as the mobster warned him not to speak another word, not believing there was any weight behind the threat, he wouldn't have the guts to try anything.

               ❝ --  f o r   t h a t. 

And just like that the tip against his throat was jammed forward by the trembling hand that was holding it and pulled sidewards to create a gaping wound on the brokers neck. The weapon was dropped as soon as the act was carried out, the clink it made with the ground echoing throughout the alleyway as all else went silent. Falling to his knees, Izaya dabbed a hand at the wound before bringing his hand out in front of his face to inspect the amount of blood on it. They actually did it. Not a second was wasted as the assailants stole off back to their head quarters, no doubt to report the events that just took place.

Weak fingers clasped around the familiar handle of his trusty blade as he entered into a fit of coughing, dots of blood spluttering the pavement before shakily finding his feet. His frame stumbled to find the nearest wall, using it as a pillar of support to help keep his weight up before beginning the struggle of a journey back to his apartment. It wasn't far, but in this condition the task seemed like a full marathon. His body was already beginning to cave in. Blood seeped through the gaps in his fingers as he held it against the laceration and pooled into the once beige fur of his sleeve, staining it in brilliant hues of scarlet.

Breathing at this point was also greatly difficult, breaths coming in short and shaky gasps, each sending a searing burn through his airways, the occasional cough and choke only adding to the agonising stinging. Then a tug on his jacket --

Weight turned as quickly as possible, a weak arm raising to place the knife that was still covered in his own blood against the throat of whoever it was that had approached him, ready to cause serious damage had it have been the men from earlier. His eyes, still puffy and bloodshot from the beating, locked on to an unknown figure as it was covered by shadows. A manic but tired laugh tumbles passed his lips as blurry vision recognises the figure to be Namie before his body gave in, letting his weight fall forward into hers though his free hand continued to clutch at the open cut. 

He complied and held the material in place, hands feeling sticky from vital fluid that coated it. A pained groan was allowed as his weight was heaved over his secretary's shoulder, laughing as she ordered him not to die. Now at deaths doorstep, he wasn't sure if he feared it or not. Thoughts were delirious and he had a case of lightheadedness due to severe blood loss. Memory at this point turns hazy -- how he ended up in this state, who did it and why all becoming unclear. 

Lids opened and glanced around using peripherals, catching sight of a familiar surrounding, before shutting them back over, the light beginning to sting his now sensitive vision. He was back in his apartment... His sense of hearing was also distorted as he couldn't make out who was talking or what was being said, everything sounding like it was underwater, though it slowly started to clear up. It was Namie yelling at someone, something about being stabbed and "not long left". The broker had another short coughing fit before a blanket of unconsciousness draped over him, slipping into a quiet and motionless state, somehow managing to maintain light breathing, enough to keep him alive.

Lids opened once more, this time however he wasn't in his apartment, though he did recognise his surroundings. It was a room in Shinra's flat. He was alive. That in itself was nothing short of a miracle. Lips curled into a savage smirk, mind already working at how he could extract revenge on the rats that did this to him. Fingers gingerly came up to inspect the damage on his neck, finding no gauze or bandages, just a stitched cut. The blood was dry and skin had already started to heal over. How long was he out for? A couple of days at least. Hands padded around looking for his jacket to find his phone, needing to check the time and date. It was still bright outside, around evening time. Unable to find his coat anywhere, enough energy was gathered to prop himself up on two shaky elbows, breathing now a much easier task than the last time he could remember consciousness. Namie's lab coat was draped over a chair in the corner of the room, her bag sitting next to if on the floor, his silver rings sitting on the bedside table next to him. No sight of his phone or knife anywhere. 

After a wave of relief washed over him, he flopped back down into the plush pillow, hardly believing his luck as at one point he was almost certain that he was a goner. But here he was...

A l i v e 

No matter how hard anyone tried, they couldn't kill him -- like a cockroach. In a croaky and gruff voice, he attempted to catch someone's attention with a few coughs.

[orihara]

[the-flea-blog]