A/N: Since I'm not really writing much anymore (other than finishing some things here and there), I figured I'd just re-post everything that I already have completed.

He's dead.

Finally.

Dead.

Just as I wished for… just as I…

What happened? I'm supposed to be rolling around in my victory… in sweet, sinful, wretched ecstasy. What is this feeling? Why…? Why does it feel like… this?

When have I ever felt so… empty…?

Shizuo is gone… forever.

Shizuo is… Oh, God.

What have I done?

It wasn't my fault… this time, it wasn't me. So, explain… Why?

I never thought I needed medical attention until I couldn't remove his image from my head. The hallucinations wouldn't stop, and with them came the most disturbing sensation of guilt… like I killed him myself. Dealing with the imaginary images… I can put up with that. The feelings… those I don't want. I didn't kill him. Why should I feel responsible?

So I sought help. Me. Can you believe that? Help. Help gave me pills. Pills give me freedom. And nobody needs to know. Nobody needs to know that I saw him, after all of Ikebukuro watched as his little brother buried him. Nobody needs to know that when his passing left the city silent, he was alive in my mind… always watching me. Always staring with his coffee colored eyes fixated on my ever movement.

Always so close… yet too far for me to reach out and take him back. He was everywhere I looked until the pills kicked in.

Now I'm free.

No.

Wrong.

Now I'm just lonely… left in the cold without his presence.

Real. Dead. Fake. Alive.

I'd do anything to erase this emotion from my life.

The pills were nice for a while. A while. Now they're a drag… a wall preventing me from the things I really want. Saying my goodbyes to the small dissolvable capsules, I flush them down the toilet one-by-one, ready for my mind to sink back into a pleasant state of derangement.

How did I get here? I don't remember.

Oh, yes.

I'll wait with the utmost patience for the last of these medications to dissipate from my bloodstream, reopening the door that closes him out of my mind, but never out of my heart.

I haven't worked in a month. I can get by just fine, and barely put a dent in my funds. Money has never been an issue because people are always willing to pay a hefty load for what they're desperate to know. Even the most powerful of men can give into a high price if it allows them to locate the weakness of another. Talented in pinpointing weakness, they'll naturally come to me, making higher offerings than necessary. Who am I to refuse? Unfortunately, people are becoming desperate. I have a long list of clients piling up, each and every one of them needing something useless. Half the time I want to tell them to Google it. The other half, I just want to slam the door in their faces and tell them it's not worth it; to come back with something more interesting than what their rival is allergic to, or what their children really do after school. Then again, they don't know what form of hell has been raping my life since word came through that he was gone. Permanently gone.

An unexpected knock sounds at the door, tearing me away from the gaze I have fixated on the head, which sits in her place on my coffee table. She has been my only source of company through these unpleasant days since… well… since that day… Funny thing is, I don't remember when I put her there…

Pulling myself off the couch, I hide her in a nearby drawer. I know the guest couldn't be Namie… wouldn't be… since my true feelings toward my mortal enemy came forward just enough to unveil themselves to her. She's jealous. The stupid girl, who is obsessed with her own brother, is jealous, because I choose a dead man over her.

Ha. Haha. Stupid girl.

This guest isn't Namie.

Without hesitation or thought, I swing open the door, shooting an immediate glare at my visitor. I despise his eyes. They're so mocking, with their false apathy. He's not indifferent. He's just an actor.

"What do you want?" I sneer, hanging in my own doorway.

He answers smoothly, "To talk."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"Consider it business."

"I'm on vacation."

Refusing to look him in the eye, I take a single step backwards, fully prepared to shut the door so I may pretend he never showed up here. He doesn't belong in Shinjuku. I don't see how he could possibly find anything of value here. He should leave. He should go back to Ikebukuro. Or even Kyoto. Or… I don't give a shit where he goes. He should just leave. That's all.

So I give the door a gentle push, but he intercepts it with his hand. Regretfully, I noticed that he has hands like his brother… and as my eyes travel past his wrist, I see that, physically, they aren't too far apart. He's younger; less tired looking, softer in the face… cleaner hair… unharmed by peroxide. But just like his brother, he's bigger than I am… and their voices have this tone… calm, strong, commanding. I won't say no. I can't…

"You weren't at the funeral," his words sting, like a million needles being shot straight through my body.

I am now left without a choice. I allow him inside.

"Why, Izaya?"

Do the questions ever stop?

I shut the door and join him on the couch. "I wouldn't have been welcome there," I say, "Everything that anybody knew - thought they knew - was a lie…"

"You should have been there."

"Why?" I glare.

"Because I didn't want to bury him alone; not when there's somebody out there who loves him just as much as I do."

"It's not lo-"

"Save the bullshit for someone more gullible," he cuts me off. "Since when do you care what anybody thinks of you?"

"It wasn't me specifically," I try to explain. "It was us… it was the relationship. Ikebukuro's last memory of Heiwajima Shizuo does not need to be that he's taken a rival as a lover."

My unwanted guest sighs. "I suppose that's true… Have you cried?"

What a deadly question. Sprung on me, too.

"No," I respond simply.

"How are you handling this?" he interrogates me. "There are rumors… People think you murdered him and then committed suicide. Some are even saying you've been plotting the murder since middle school. Of course, there are many who don't believe this, and now they're making guesses at your relationship."

"I don't care what they think. As long as I don't spill the facts, they'll never know what the truth is."

"That doesn't answer my question, Izaya."

"I'm fine. How are you handling it? After all, he's your flesh and blood."

"Better than you are."

"Huh?"

"I've been prepared for this type of travesty for a long time now. It's something I've gotten used to."

He's full of shit.

"Yet it isn't what you want."

"Obviously."

"Kasuka…" I exhale, "What are you here for?"

"Honestly?" a look of shame washes over his Hollywood mask, informing the informant himself that he's about to tell me a lie. "I miss him. And I feel like you're the only person who could understand just how much I do."

"Shizuo was your brother… I'm sorry," I say, unwilling to carry on this conversation any further, "That being said, I could never actually comprehend your feelings for him."

"Izaya…"

"I'm going to ask you again, and you'd better not lie. Why have you come here?"

Placing his hand over his heart, he clutches at his lavender shirt and sighs. Kasuka is physically pained by whatever emotions flow through him. I've heard people can die from a broken heart. Literally die. They become so depressed, and so emotionally broken, that the most vital organ fills with water… and the victim of such emotional torment goes into some sort of cardiac arrest, and dies. It kills them. I wonder if it's true. Is the younger Heiwajima going to die, too? Not that I care about him. I'm just… curious.

Death is a curious topic.

"I saw him…" the words freeze my body, sending each and every hair to stand on end.

I force myself to speak. "You what?"

"It's crazy. It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean you saw him?" I push for an answer.

"I'm sure it was a dream… but it felt so incredibly real. He told me you weren't handling it right. He said you weren't letting go."

"Then it was a dream, indeed," it's my turn to lie, "I'm fine."

He shrugs, returning to his normal state of faux apathy. "I suppose I just had to see for myself."

"The concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

A few moments of awkward silence waft through the air, giving way to a discomfort so thick I can practically see it. Not feeling very hospitable, I give him no reason to stick around, while lacking the courage to outright ask him to leave. So I pretend the younger Heiwajima has vanished just like the first, and I stare out my window, into the city lights, until a small creak, and a light click tell me he's gone.

"Finally," my voice trembles for no reason.

I quite honestly hate everything right now. Humanity itself no longer seems appealing so long as the one I need most isn't around. I don't need to let go. What I need is to forget entirely. Somebody give me a concussion. Somebody knock me around the way he used to, until I suffer happily from a brain aneurism or indefinite amnesia. I could always give Celty her head, tell her the truth, and wait for her to tear me limb from limb. I'm sure I could get her to beat my ass in such a way if I really wanted it. Or maybe I can go back to Ikebukuro. I'll take my revenge out on those who stole my Shizuo from me, but I'll lose. I'll allow them to introduce me to the same fate.

No. Knock it off, Izaya. You're not suicidal.

Ugh.

How can this be happening? How is that monster's death changing me so dramatically? So quickly?

Let him go.

That's a fucking joke if I ever heard one. I was the one constantly disappearing. I was the one running away. I was the one who needed to be let go of.

Let go.

They can't be serious.

"But it's true. You do need to let go," I hear in the back of my diluted mind.

"No. I was never holding on."

"You can lie to yourself all you'd like, Izaya-kun. Problem is you can't lie to me."

"Shame. The world is full of li-"

My breath catches in my throat. Defenses go up, while I fight the feelings which threaten my dignity. Speaking to a voice in the back of my mind does us no good, only proving to the unforgiving world that I'm just as crazy as I say I am.

What's worse? Responding to my own thoughts? Or the fact that my heart races, because when speaking to myself, I hear his voice instead of my own? Izaya-kun. Now I'm calling myself by the name he once had for me.

"Turn around, flea."

And the names he'd insult me with…

I cringe. My body must have eradicated the last of the medications. It's only natural that he'd be back. One thing is wrong, though. So very, very wrong… Previous hallucinations of the dead Shizuo Heiwajima were never accompanied by words. Insanity has never spoken to me before.

Looking over my shoulder against my will, I am unsurprised by the delusion sitting on my sofa, messing with my untouched shogi board. Those pieces aren't really moving because he isn't really there. I know that… but I can't ignore it.

"Do you really think I'm just a figment of your imagination?" He is calm, as if his universe is perfectly at peace, but this is not the Shizuo I know. My Shizuo has never adorned himself in a white suit. He's always stuck to uniforms, like that butler getup. My Shizuo was a smoker, always in need of a nicotine fix to bring him down from a rage. My Shizuo never looked like he was comfortable where he was.

"You are not the Shizzy I know," I smile sarcastically, "So you're either a cruel imposter, or a false image."

"Is it impossible to be something else?"

"Yes."

"I knew Kasuka wouldn't be able to tell you," the dead man speaks to me in such a casual way, as if he had never gone anywhere. "I left because you asked me to, but now I'm back because my brother failed."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I keep my eyes fixated on this illusion as I take a seat in my favorite chair, and watch him continue to move the pieces on the board. He's not really there, but it irritates me to see him disorganizing my game pieces.

"Why are you always so afraid?" he asks me. It hurts. "You turn and walk away from everything as if it's going to sting or bite. Why are you so afraid, Izaya-kun?"

"You're not making sense," I snicker, "But why should it matter? You're not real."

"Please, you ingrate. If I were a fake, produced from your own mind, why would Kasuka, who never wasted his time on you before, show up at your door?"

"Why are you here?" I ask. "What makes you think it's okay for you to sit there, tormenting me?"

My gaze is pulled into his, like gravity gone haywire. "I want to leave this world, but there's something I need from you first," he says.

I've decided I don't like the way he is speaking to me. It isn't the Shizu-chan I knew. My Shizuo would be angry with me by now. My Shizzy would leave me with a cold shoulder, maybe a bloody nose, for being so resistant. I don't know this imposter in flawless ivory.

"Need? You're a dead man," I scoff, "What could you possibly need?"

"Let go, Izaya."

I rip my eyes off him. Idiot. What could he possibly know? "Tch."

"I can't move on if you can't accept my death."

"And I can't let go if I'm not holding on!" I opt for retaliation.

Shizuo drops the king on the board, knocking over several other pieces, including the queen. In the blink of an eye he stands less than two feet away from me, with only my desk separating the two of us. His gray eyes are fixed on me in such a way that I feel like he's attempting to extract information out of me, like a doctor might take blood samples from a patient. Discomforting and all.

Staring back, I feel small… like the insignificant tick I've been told I am. Are all illusions of the dead so perfect? He claims he's not just a piece of my insanity… If this were possible, are we all so perfect after death?

Perfection is a joke.

"Why do you refuse to see it?" he asks desperately.

"How can I see what isn't there?" I realize the error of such an inquiry immediately.

"You wished for my death. Now that it has come true, you're overcome with guilt. You can't accept that I've died. That's why I'm here. Acceptance."

"What would you know about acceptance?" I continue to argue, "After all, figment or not, you're the one who was never able to accept yourself for who you are. Why should I accept that you've died?"

"You wished for it," he reminds me once again.

My fingertips begin to tremble. "I never meant for it to go so far…"

"If it was never your intention for me to die, why ask for it?"

"I was angry."

"Why were you angry?"

"You were avoiding me."

"I wasn't avoiding you, worm. I was dying. And you weren't there."

"I'm sorry…" the apology snaps out of me like the hypnotic light of a freshly lit glow stick.

"You haven't cried."

My eye twitches with irritation. "I don't cry."

"Bull shit, you don't."

"When have you ever seen it?"

He chuckles, "I've seen you hold back those pain filled tears every time I've broken your face."

This, I can't help but laugh at. Not because it's true… and even if it were, I'd never tell him, but because he's damaged my body countless times, and I haven't shed a tear once. He's never hurt my pride, and I'm a masochist. So he really couldn't expect to see waterworks from me. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

"If you don't let it out, if you keep it locked inside your chest, it's going to destroy you," he says when my laughter dissolves. "It will eat you alive, and I'll never be able to leave."

Thinking on this, I know of only one reply to give to Shizuo. "I can't."

"You have to." He is adamant to push something out of me that I can't seem to see on my own.

"Why?"

"For the both of us."

"I don't need to do anything for you."

Shizuo sits on my desk, leans forward, and brushes some long strands out of my eyes as they catch in my lashes. His touch feels so real that my shaking spreads from my fingertips to my hands. Closing my eyes, I do everything in my power to chase away these feelings. Nobody should have so many emotions towards a fucking dead guy. I cannot be that insane. How can my mind be doing this to me? What the hell happened in my life to cause such a nightmare to become reality?

"Did you ever love me?"

Opening my eyes, I meet his frown. I pull back. I don't want him touching me. I don't need his hands on me, making me feel sorry for him just because he thinks he's more than a mental illness. The look on his face is verging on pathetic, like an abused puppy. How have I ever abused him, though? When have I ever lashed out? When did I ever cause him pain?

Tch.

Countless times, actually.

Haha.

Ugh… How to answer this question…

"Shizuo… I…"

"It's a 'yes' or 'no' question, rat," a small snarl tweaks his tone.

"It's never that simple," I mutter, burring my face in my hands. "I don't know what you want to hear."

"The answer you give is for yourself, Izaya. It isn't for me. I already know what you feel."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because until you admit it, you won't be okay with it. I need to leave, but your pride restrains both of us. I'll ask you again. Did you ever love me?"

I spend the next thirty seconds thinking, even going as far as searching deep within myself for the answer. Shizuo has never asked. I've never wondered. What we had… what we were… the feelings always went unspoken. We had a way of prevention as well. To speak of it was like a curse, so if either of us seemed to get curious, it would need to be broken immediately. Neither of us were against taking any means necessary to keep the topic from our conversations.

"No," I half smile.

The grin is returned. "No?"

"I never stopped…"

My focus is lost with this most dangerous confession. When did I become the type of person to give it up for free?

Shizuo moves around to my side of the desk with a satisfied elegance. I blame the white suit. It doesn't fit him at all. I mean… it hugs his body right in every possible direction, but… this isn't his personality. He isn't this pure, so it feels like a filthy lie to me.

A warm tickle rolls down my cheek, sending chills down my spine. What the hell is happening to me?

My dead lover's fingers lace with mine, shooting an unnatural warmth through my veins. Fuck this. What is he doing to me? Why won't he leave? Why are my eyes so wet?

I don't cry. These eyes don't shed tears. They laugh at them. Another person's emotional turmoil is my ecstasy. I do not cry.

"That's it," he whispers, "Let it out. Let it all out and let go."

He pulls me out of my chair and into his arms. I feel frozen… paralyzed… safe…

"I never wanted to lose you," I try my best with an apology. "I… I never should have said those things… done those things…"

"You were always meant to be the death of me, Izaya."

"But it wasn't me… I may have said those things… but it wasn't me."

"You say it, and it's true. I'm actually sorry that you weren't. So why can't you make yourself believe it?"

"For the same reason I don't believe you're really here. I'm a fucked up mess, driven completely insane by an addiction to be better than everybody else."

"Knock it off, then."

"Shizuo," I sniff. "I know it wasn't me… So why do I feel so responsible?"

"Love works in mysterious ways? But I have to go now."

There's a sudden change in the atmosphere, like a dream turned into a nightmare.

"Shizuo!" I pull back, looking him desperately in the eye. "No. This isn't how it's supposed to end! What happened to letting you go? You can't leave. I'm not ready! I'm still holding on!"

"You will. You know it wasn't your fault that I'm gone. You know. You'll be okay. I can leave now."

"How do I know that?"

"Because. I'm telling you."

"That's the worst reason I've ever heard."

He chuckles lightly. Taking my face in his large hands, Shizuo pulls me closer, landing a tender kiss on my forehead. His lips stay in place until I begin to feel him fade away. I shut my eyes to prevent myself from seeing him leave me forever.

This is painful.

Ngh…

This hurts… I feel ill. Hot and cold at the same time… Dizzy… Stuck…

I…

No…

For the better part of my life, I've been both with and against the eldest Heiwajima brother. In all the years I've known him - all of the days we've spent torturing each other - I never considered the possibility of actually losing him.

Each time we'd walk out on each other, there was never a doubt in my mind that we'd be back to our usual routine eventually. There was always hope for a "bright tomorrow." Always hope that we'd crawl back to where we belonged, even going as far as to force ourselves back into the other's life. We would never be separated, even if we tried. Gravity would always pull us back together… some how… I could never relay how many times I've left him, or he left me, nor could I ever regret going back to him. It doesn't matter how many times I promised myself that I'd never go back. Always did. What now? How does a person go back to what isn't there?

He has left me. Permanently.

He can't come back. Not this time.

Damn this pain.

Damn this life.

It shouldn't have to hurt like this…

"Don't go…" I plead. "Shizuo… Don't leave…"

"What are you talking about?" he grumbles.

Wait…

What?

A hand presses down on my forehead, completely obliterating the sensation of a ghost's lips. Something isn't right. Something has changed.

My eyes open, slowly adjusting to a light that wasn't present before. It is sometime during the afternoon, and I'm not alone. He is hovering over me, cigarette hanging from his lips, bowtie loosely hanging from his neck, tense expression on his sharp face.

"This is some kind of dream," I mumble, attempting to sit up. Instead, I'm knocked over by a sweeping wave of nausea and an unexpected coughing fit. Christ. What bus did I get hit by in the last five minutes?

"Don't try to get up," the commanding voice of another imaginary Shizuo tells me.

"Why… why not?" I ask, choking on air. "I'll wake up from this dream, and you'll be gone again."

"What are you saying?" he grumbles. "You've been hallucinating some shit about how I'm dead for the last forty minutes."

"What? A-are you telling me this is real?"

"Tch. Izaya. Do you not remember anything?"

"I remember everything. You died. And then you told me to cry."

"You have the crying down," he says, laying a blanket over my shivering body. I don't know when it got so cold in my bedroom. "But I'm definitely not dead."

"I don't understand…"

"Bronchitis. And a fever of 103."

"When?"

"Yesterday morning. Stop running around in the rain."

"You're not dead?"

"NO!" he barks, "I'm not fucking dead, but my arm is. I spent the better part of forty minutes trying to get you to let go of me."

This is the Shizuo I know, so easily irritated, looking stupid in that bartender outfit, looking down on me like I'm some sort of insect. Reaching for him, he meets me half way. This time, as his fingers blend with mine, I feel like I'm holding onto something, rather than letting it go as he insists that I do.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" he frowns.

"Die. Don't… die, Shizzy..."

He squeezes my hand just short of crushing it in his grasp, It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I'll take the pain with barely a wince. "I doubt I'll go easily, but don't be such a girl about it if I do. Sniveling like that is gross… and creepy."

"I wasn't sniveling!" I snatch my hand back.

"Looks like sniveling to me when you spend nearly an hour treating me like a ghost."

Trying to fight the fire rushing to my cheeks, I tell him, "You said it yourself, I've been hallucinating."

"Yeah, well if you ever say you love me again, not only will I puke, but I'll throw you out the window. Don't think I care what illness you've come down with. I will do it."

"Ngh.."

The soreness of my throat and chest is numbed by a warmness splurging out of my racing heart. I rarely fall ill, but when I do, my emotions are an uncontrollable disaster. I say things I don't mean. I see things that aren't there. I feel things I've never felt before. Illnesses. I should have known without thinking. If there's any way to make me spill my soul, fill my body with a virus.

"Your brother…" I search to get my facts straight as can be, but every word spoken is a step closer to coughing up a lung.

Shizuo puts a water bottle in my hand. "He was here. I asked him to check on you… I had to work."

"I thought you two were-"

Shizuo shook his head, as if a displeasing taste had filled his mouth with the inhalation of the last drag on his cigarette. "Don't worry about it. Don't give him such an attitude next time, though."

"I won't."

"You're a bigger pain in the ass when you're sick than when you're in good health," he huffs. "How'd I die, anyway?"

"I-" Well, that's a fairly good question. "I… don't remember… Murdered? Maybe…"

"Tch. I'd like to see somebody try."

Shizuo makes a fair point, making me wonder what it would actually take to kill off Ikebukuro's most invincible man. It's a nice feeling… knowing there isn't much that could destroy him, that is. No matter how many bones have been broken, stabbings he's taken, vehicles that have hit him, the Shizuo I know - my Shizu-chan - has a way of coming back stronger for yet another round.

"You look entirely helpless and fragile right now. It'd be so easy to take you," he tells me.

I grin. "Is that a good thing."

"Nah," he shakes his head. "You look too much like a girl… and I don't want what you've got…" he shudders. "Creepy hallucinations…"

Grabbing his hand, I will Shizuo to stay with me for a little longer. I know he's annoyed by the not-so-pleasant frown scribbled on his face, but in my mind, that dream was real enough to matter, so I don't want to be without him.

Stupid Shizuo. I should have known he wouldn't die.

"Not even a kiss?" I tease.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'm out of here."