Day 3 of my fic-dumping, a.k.a. doing all of this before school really starts, which is tomorrow.
Happy Labour Day!
Morning's Glory
By – Hime no Ichigo
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Pairings: Masaomi x Mikado
Story Type: Drabble/One-shot
Summary: It's all meaningless if you're not here.
Disclaimer: Durarara! is the property of Narita Ryougo.
Spoilers: None, taken out of timeline context.
Warnings/Notes: I'm very tempted to put the genre as Angst/Angst...well, guess that's all the emotional preparations you need to proceed?
Thank you to the amazing Jenn, who beta'd this for me!
"Masaomi, are you sure you should be coming over tonight? We can always do it another time... Don't you have—"
"Mikado, I wouldn't miss you for the world. You have to wait for me until I'm done, okay?"
"...I'll be waiting, then."
Beep.
Plitter platter. Ba-thump. Plitter platter. Ba-thump.
The rain falls noisily, but not loud enough to overshadow his own rhythm. His surroundings are still, unmoving bodies in piles left, right, and centre, yet his body keeps telling him to keep moving, need to keep moving, even though the numerous cuts on his limbs tell him that he needs immediate treatment. His shoulders heave, his laboured breathing falls deaf on his own ears, as his hair clings to his face and hides his eyes to the damage he's caused.
It's over.
It's over.
Ignoring the blood smears on his hands, he rakes them through his hair and exhales.
The last time this sort of thing happened, it cost him dozens of members and a precious person who, to this day, still holds sway over him and rules his heart in an unforgiving grip. This time, he's made sure it doesn't happen (it'll never happen again, his mind whispers).
"General!" someone shouts behind him and he vaguely makes out the sound of feet pounding on wet cement, stepping into puddles every now and then. It's noisy. So he doesn't reply other than a slow nod of his head to show he's listening.
"There's a problem three blocks west – they've gone out of control and—"
Without waiting for him to finish, he takes off in the direction with one thought firmly in his mind: it's over.
Twenty minutes later, there are more bodies strewn carelessly on the streets. Blood mixes with the rainwater and run down the sewers. The stench is awful but he doesn't notice, because he's only occupied with the thought of leaving. I'm sick of this, it's supposed to be all over already, why am I still here when I can be—
"General!"
He grows impatient. But for his age and position, the night is still young.
The number you have dialled is currently out of service or out of range. Please try your call again later.
The screen on his cell phone flashes 03:47 at him. In the warehouse, there are considerably less people, and those who are present are soaked to the bone in rain and blood. Hisses fill in the gaps between the thundering outside, as they huddle together and treat each other and lick their wounds.
As for him, he's on the couch that no one else dares to sit on, sweater sticking to him and hair plastered to his cheeks, staring emptily at the time on his phone. Seconds tick on and minutes pass by, and he doesn't pay attention until he slowly becomes aware of the restless scuffling. It's quiet outside. It's safe to say it's their win. When he does look up, it's dawn, judging by a pinkish tint amongst the fog.
Where did the time go?
It's Monday, he needs to attend school, he'll see Mikado—
To whom, he remembers, he promised to spend the night with, but because of one phone call – just one phone call –
He wonders if Mikado is angry. The missed calls on his call log are all from him: the first one came in an hour after their meet-up time and the last one at two fifty-six in the morning. It's been on vibrate for the entire night and while dodging punches and knives he's confused the pulses as the adrenaline pumping through his veins and muscles.
Mikado's absent from school.
He keeps up a smiling face for his classmates, because a different expression would guarantee unwanted questions that he's unwilling to answer. He jokes and during breaks he picks out girls and chats them up, like routine. No one notices his half-hearted attitude, and he makes sure to avoid Anri while he's at it. The girl is too perceptive, sometimes seeing things before he does, and it scares him.
When the bell rings he runs out of the classroom, just barely making out a "Kida-kun!" at his back.
Mikado's house is empty.
And so is his heart.
He makes his way to the warehouse, careless as to where he throws down his bag, and types frantically on his cell phone, logging into the Dollars website under his alias.
There's no one in the chatroom.
He scrolls through the most recent posts in the forums, scanning quickly; nothing suspicious so far, and a couple more posts down—
Wait. What was that?
The Dollars leader is missing?
Poster – Kanra.
He hesitates as he stares up at the building, not knowing how to approach the man. He wants—needs—to know what transpired, where Mikado is, and if anyone knows, it will be Ikebukuro's infamous information broker.
Before he decides, the door is already opening.
Five minutes later, Orihara Izaya hums a merry tune and walks out, scribbling down a note for Namie to take care of the rest.
His guest remains seated on the sofa, trembling and mute.
He finds himself in Mikado's residence again.
The walls are thin, the tatami mats have seen better days, the leak in the tap still drips, the room is bare except for basic necessities; clothes are neatly folded in a pile, tucked in a corner, along with notebooks and textbooks. It's half his home, yet he feels uncomfortable because Mikado's not here.
He's done it again.
The last time, it caused him dozens of members and a precious person who, to this day, still holds sway over him and rules his heart in an unforgiving grip. This time, he's lost another handful and another precious person, who will never again smile at him, breathe into his neck, or fumble in their kisses. He wishes he hadn't taken that phone call yesterday, hadn't made Mikado promise to wait—
You should've just stayed put. Didn't I say I'd be there?
His eyes hurt.
He's tired.
He hides his face in his knees.
What good is a victory if you're not here, Mikado?
- Owari -
Authoress' Notes: The title is meant to be a pun on the flower, morning glory; in Japanese floral language, it means "wilful promises", which is different from the Victorian floral language for the same flower, meaning "love in vain".
...I'm sorry for adding more angst to the pairing! TAT; This plotbunny wouldn't leave me alone...