Blackglass Hut

Down from my ceiling, drips great noise...

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[Drrr][Izaya/Shizzy]Six Days

Six Days


You’re like a nail in my hand.





There he vanished, beneath the sky, beyond ocean water between some two islands.


Sad news is being broadcasted throughout the whole nation, a list of both dead and missing people posted on the net. Switching off his laptop, the information broker turns his chair facing the window. The sky looks like black tea that is too weak, and it won’t be long before the neighboring city, Ikebukuro, wakes up to a day of mourning.


Shizuo Heiwajima, if not died, has been announced missing. And the chance for him to be alive, honestly, is rather slim.


Definitely a priceless top secret two days ago, this has been binding round the broker’s neck, making him uneasy to breathe. Now he managed to drag it down, and still it lingers around his fingers. Nevertheless it’s time for him to let go, for the entire world has already been informed.


It feels like being robbed of his possession.

A ridiculous idea. He reluctantly admits.





A headless fairy. What kind of tear would she shed?

Today there is no business between the two. Not even a single “Hello” when they run into each other on the street. Sorrow, which seems to be made of black shadow, is only what Izaya takes in.

Obviously the fairy is stepping closer to become a human. But what about the human himself?

“…Sorry, Shizzy-chan. ” He whispers, adding a mocking chuckle as he usually does, “ I did think I would cry.”

He then caught sight of Celty, who has swept past with her motorcycle, looking back to him.





03:56 AM

[-Kanra has entered the chatroom-]

[Kanra: Hello☆Anybody here~~~~?]

[Kanra: Er…already this hour?!]

[Kanra: …]

[-Kanra has left the chatroom-]


05:45 AM

He walks to Ikebukuro, for coffee.


Everything has been abnormally quiet. Even his chattering God of Sleep, the one who was always punctual to throw him onto the bed, seems to have gone on vacation and accordingly left Izaya staying up through all the hours last night.


He steps on the city, as loud as he can. Wake up. Wake up! It is waking, soundlessly, as crowds and vehicles begin to form streams. Roads and streets, all are stiff and dark.

Like blood in veins.


Izaya strolls until he comes across a vending machine, where he brought a can of black coffee and, after unclear consideration took place seconds later, a box of milk. The drinks bang against the plastic inner wall of the machine, rolling out to him.

“Yo, Shizzy-chan.”


A weird premonition seizes him, that the machine is going to promptly jump up and snap at him with rage.


It’s a premonition after all.

An extravagant one.





He pays an early morning visit to his parents’ house. Where he used to sleep is now occupied by two twin girls, who slumber cuddling up to each other under the quilt, probably dreaming the same dream.


Lying under his bed, long forgotten, the Raira yearbook. He picks it up, dusts it with his fingers. Then sitting on the edge of the bed, he starts thumbing it. A stale smell of past stirs the air.

“…Iza-nii?” A slurred murmur utters.

“Dreaming about me, huh?” He responds in a sweet low voice, “What a nice dream.”

The eyelids of his sisters are tightened.

He closed the book and with it, he left the room.



Staring at him from the photo, the 18-year-old Shizuo Heiwajima appears to be with both stupidity and brightness. Is that what he used to be? For Izaya, the answer has become most unsure ever.

What about now?

He suddenly remembers that there is no NOW any more, for Shizuo Heiwajima.

What about a week ago, then?

For a moment, a shadow of golden color appears in sight, clearest ever, with something unchanged.

The shadow turns vague before it melts.


Still there are an immense amount of histories to dig into. Stacks of files. Pages after pages. Everything about this faint shadow is rushing down upon Izaya’s head, yet eventually nothing more than his name can be transparently remained.


18-year-old Shizuo Heiwajima. 24-year-old Shizuo Heiwajima.

The focal distance of memories is being constantly adjusted. He struggles to remember, and sometimes, to forget, but never succeed in either side.





There is no one like you, playing those running races with me. Endless chases. In my pulse and blood, every time, there arose enormous, darkened clamor.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

Those voices could be yours or mine. Or of both of us.

They were promise. They were vows. And they were broken.


Farewell. To both of us.

Today there is nothing more than thin cold air for my flickblade to tear.

And the chessboard named Ikebukuro looks so unreal.


He wanders like a ghost who had lost his shadow.





Black, inauspicious smoke has been rising upon the grassland. Izaya is walking towards a dying great metallic bird with broken wings. Finally he finds himself standing among a mess of wreckage which had been the cabin. The previous information proves to be wrong. There is only one person who got killed. From where he stands, he can see the man’s shirt drenched with blood.


Izaya stoops to pick up a pair of sunglasses from the ground. He doesn’t know, at precisely this moment, he is likely to be breaking a curse.


The dead man wakes. He stands up in front of Izaya. Sunlight pours all over him, rinsing his blood away. Both stupidity and brightness in his uncovered eyes, upon his face he drew a familiar smile.


- My huckleberry friend.


Izaya runs out of the cabin. He scampers across the colossal corpse of the plane, then to the vast wild land. With galloping steps he turns his head back and sees Shizuo running after him, as usual.


Izaya hears himself laugh. “Don’t drop behind, Shizzy-chan


O please my non-existent God, wake me up.



Everything of Izaya Orihara’s world goes on fine during the week after the declaration of Shizuo Heiwajima’s death. The broker has been busy, every single minute. There is information. There is money. They come sluicing into his pockets. And of course, there is his non-stop, fervid love for human race.


One exception.


Ever since he woke up from a weird dream Saturday morning, he has been haunted. By Shizuo Heiwajima.


There he is. Among the crowds of Ikebukuro. On the top of a sparkling billboard. On the backseat of Celty’s motorcycle. Next to a red vending machine. And, against the railing by the road, in front of an apartment building in Shinjuku.


Not illusion.


He is nowhere. He is everywhere.






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