I wrote this all in one go and did not look through it again after publishing this. So…sorry for any grammatical or spelling mistakes !

"Grandfather died, Iza-kun."

What a strange reason for a phone call.

Izaya did not tighten his grip on his cell phone, nor did he take his sharp gaze from cloudy Shinjuku outside his window. His breath did not hitch and nothing within him fell—not his stomach, not his heart, not his blood, nothing. He only continued standing by his desk, not too stiff or too weak, with his cell phone against his ear.

"I see," said Izaya. "Is that all that you wanted to tell me?"

His mother on the other end took in a deep breath. Somewhere in the background, one of their clocks ticked, perhaps in unison. Strange—time almost never agreed with itself.

"I wish you would come visit us soon," Mother said. "Visit your family again, sometime. We'll be home for a long while."

"Mm," he said, but without promise, for who would leave one family to see another?

"Your father would really like to see you, Iza-kun," said Mother.

"I hope he is doing all right," Izaya said.

"He really misses you."

For six years?

"How's Grandmother?" asked Izaya.

"She's living with us now. We'll be taking care of her. She really would like to see you too, Iza-kun."

"Ah."

A dry click of the second hand, while another followed far too closely. Time once again quarreled into normalcy, never to meet halfway.

"Will you even come to the funeral, Izaya?" said Mother.

Izaya exhaled. He closed his eyes.

"I've got to go," he said. "I've got business to attend to."

He took the silence on the other end of the phone as consent, so he shut his cell phone. He thought—just for a brief moment—that he might have heard a sob before he ended the call. But he would never know now.

All that lingered was the clock that seemed to tsk at him, shaking its moon-round face. It was terribly loud to the point of bothersome, and he wondered why he couldn't just replace it with a perfectly silent digital clock instead, or the clocks whose second hands glided seamlessly. The apartment was silent to the point that even white noise was a frantic nuisance.

He approached the wall where the clock hung, right above the shelves of empty picture frames, an empty vase, and a stack of empty envelopes. A museum, in a way, of sterile silence.

He reached out his arms to unhook the clock from the wall. He sat down on the black couch and stared at its plain face. He could just barely see his reflection against the dusty glass. It ticked on cue, second after second, pushing along the minutes closer and closer to tomorrow.

"Grandfather's dead," he said.

The Earth did not stop spinning. Time did not freeze in its tracks, and heaven did not cry like it promised. The world went on, as if life and death did not matter.

He left the apartment, abandoning the clock on the coffee table.

"I don't get it."

Shinra lounged on Izaya's smooth couch, resting his head on the armrest. Izaya was in the kitchen with the shrieking water pot and matcha.

"You charge people probably tens of thousands of yen—if not hundreds of thousands. The least you could do with it is add a little more color to your house, if you aren't going to do anything else with it."

"I'm not so desperate as to need frivolities, Shinra." Izaya returned with a cup and a teapot, pouring Shinra green tea before setting it firmly on the coffee table. "If you needed a place to escape from your daily life, I offer more than just a useless finger painting or a copy of the Venus statue. Not that the latter would please you anyway, you'd prefer missing heads than arms."

"Har har, you're witty," said Shinra. He sat up and took the cup in his hands. The heat seeped through the porcelain and nearly seared his skin. "Don't you get bored of this supposedly minimalistic turnout?"

"My entertainment is outside my place, not inside."

"Right, right. Humans and et cetera," Shinra said with a lazy wave of the hand. "What now? Suicidal teenagers? Desperate debtors? Vengeful ex-spouses?"

"You don't give me enough credit, Shinra. I like myself variety as well, just like anyone else."

"Says the man who runs amok with solely unhappy people."

"They're intriguing in different ways."

"They wouldn't be if you had a gram of gloom in you. You should try sucking theirs in sometime, experience it for yourself. Maybe then you can answer all your questions."

Izaya shot a raised eyebrow at Shinra, who shrugged. "Just saying. You're human too; go find yourself interesting and leave the rest of the world alone."

"Fascinating idea, Shinra. If you're so inclined for me to let people be, then what are you doing here?"

Shinra paused, blinking perplexedly behind his lenses. "I was in Shinjuku for some business and I decided to drop by."

"I'm flattered. You would forego an extra hour with your darling headless Orihime to see me instead. A likely story."

"My Celty is lovelier than any legendary weaver girl. But anyway, she has business with that Shiki character you work with."

"Aha, so you're desperate. Let me guess, she won't be back for dinner?"

"…I was going to pick something up for her at Russian Sushi anyway."

Izaya snorted and sat opposite of Shinra, his arms crossed.

"Good, because I wasn't going to offer you dinner."

"No doubt it would be poisoned."

"You could blame Namie for that, not me."

"That part secretary part housewife of yours? Where is she?"

"She leaves right after cooking my dinner. Do you really expect her to loiter here after her job is done?"

"Right, right."

Shinra tapped his fingernail on the side of his cup as if his finger was a woodpecker. Izaya scoffed.

"Why are you here?" he said.

Shinra looked into his cup. "I told you already."

"You wouldn't have business in Shinjuku. Business comes to you. Why are you here?"

Shinra closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "I heard your grandfather died."

Izaya laughed. "Let me guess. My mother paid you a call, didn't she? Thought that she could bribe the childhood friend to wheedle what's going on with me, right? Well, if that's the case, I'll just warn you now—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had it easy."

Shinra said nothing. Izaya swung himself off the couch and toward the window, his lean back facing Shinra. Shinra lifted the cup to his lips, paused, and set it back down untouched. It knocked a small nail out of the way, a curious little thing. It spun in pinwheels before running off the edge and underneath the couch.

"I still wanted to know if you were doing all right," said Shinra.

"All humans die. Most of them, anyway," said Izaya. He must have sensed Shinra's frown of confusion, for he immediately added, "Unless they get whisked away in a fiery chariot like God's prophet, at least."

"Yes," said Shinra. "But it doesn't make it any more meaningless."

"I've seen many of my lovely humans die, Shinra. I'm not unused to it."

Shinra turned his head to face the wall, past the shelves full of emptiness.

"Where's your clock?"

"Pardon?"

"Your clock."

"Ah."

Shinra let his gaze fall to underneath the couch, where the small nail hid. He thought perhaps he saw splintered plastic, but between blinks it was gone.

"Never mind," said Shinra.

"It wouldn't stop working, so I threw it away," said Izaya.

Shinra turned toward Izaya sharply.

"It stopped working?" he said, as if to correct his own hearing.

"No," said Izaya.

Shinra let his gaze fall. This time he was positive he saw the glimmer of broken plastic.

"Do your parents need help cleaning?" Shinra said. A lame attempt to steer a tricky path, he admitted. "Your grandparents' house, I mean. Since your grandmother is moving out."

"I believe so."

"Maybe I can help."

"How kind."

"Are you going?"

Izaya sat down on his swivel chair. He let momentum rock him around and around, spinning without his control. Not everything, Shinra mused, needed Izaya's control.

"I wouldn't be much help," Izaya finally said. "Look at me, who am I to know what cleaning is? I have Namie do everything here for me."

The humor did not faze Shinra.

"There's nothing here to be cleaned up," said Shinra.

"Not at all," said Izaya.

Shinra stood up and walked toward the shelf. The old picture frames were adorned with dust. Just looking at them made Shinra choke.

"Nothing," said Shinra.

Izaya watched his old friend with unreadable eyes. When Shinra turned to face him, he didn't look away, and yet Shinra read nothing. How unfair it was that Izaya could understand oceans about a person from just a flinch, a cough, a slight stumble, and yet Shinra could fathom much less after all these years.

"Remember when you brought me to visit your grandfather back in middle school?" said Shinra.

There it was. The glint, the setting of the jaw. So brief that Shinra would have missed it if the sun had sunken just a little more in the horizon.

"What were we, twelve years old? Funny. You didn't even take me to your house to see your parents ever. But you took me to see him."

Izaya didn't look away from Shinra, but Shinra knew that by God Izaya desperately wanted to. What a delightfully sadistic thing pride was, that it could force a man into a shredder if it called for it.

"I don't remember right now, but he was quite elderly—"

"He wasn't that old when you saw him," said Izaya. "He's seventy-seven now."

He paused, his tongue pressed against his teeth. Shinra bit down hard on his own tongue, and for a moment he wanted to take Izaya's shoulders and shake him until he broke that metal encased around his head, that mask or cast or whatever he could call it.

"He told wonderful stories," said Shinra.

"Yes," said Izaya.

"One," Shinra said, raising a finger, "about a little boy whose best friend was a kitsune. How the kitsune was real but also not, how it disappeared when the little boy grew up and didn't believe anymore, but in a way it didn't, because it was always with the boy. It was there even when the boy forgot about him, protecting him."

Izaya breathed. It almost seemed like something new to Shinra, Izaya breathing. Many sometimes forgot Izaya lived.

"I remember the name of the boy, I think. Hiroyuki, right? And the kitsune's name was—"

"Saigo," said Izaya.

"Saigo," repeated Shinra, nodding. "He told how many stories that afternoon? Probably ten, maybe more."

"That was only a fraction of stories he told," said Izaya.

"Was it?" said Shinra. He gripped his fists, holding on to this once chance, this thin thread that connected him and Izaya.

"Thousands. Maybe millions," said Izaya. "And trips through the park, with dango at the end of the road when I was younger," He gave Shinra a very hollow smirk. "You missed out."

"You should have taken me to him more often, then."

"You should have asked."

"Too bad," said Shinra. He took off his glasses and rubbed his lenses with his coat. "Didn't you once have this carved wooden tiger from him? Yeah, he gave you a tiger, didn't he?"

"He gave me many wooden carvings." Izaya raised his eyebrows. "You have a long memory."

"Where are they now?"

"Not here."

"I figured, considering how lifeless this place is." Izaya snorted. Shinra plowed on. "Where are they?"

Izaya shrugged a shoulder. "At my parents' home, I reckon. I've no room for mementos here."

"Obviously not. Heartless picture frames take up a lot of space."

Izaya blinked. Shinra clenched his teeth, waiting. Nothing.

"He must have had a brilliant mind," said Shinra.

"Must have," said Izaya. "But all brilliant minds have their limits."

"Imagination has no bounds."

"No, but it has a time limit."

Shinra tilted his head.

"Well, look here," said Shinra. "Not every day you poke fun at the subject of death."

"What does it matter," said Izaya. "Why should we fear the inevitable?"

"Because it is inevitable," said Shinra.

Izaya silenced. He was usually never this quiet. Shinra wished he had his tea to calm his own nerves and worries, but he was afraid if he broke Izaya's gaze—just shifted away from the path—he would have lost his friend, and must grapple for who knows how much longer to find him again. After another tragedy? Another loss?

"He wasn't afraid of death anyway. Grandfather," said Izaya. "Strange man."

"How do you know?" said Shinra.

"He told me," said Izaya. "When I was nine. You want to know why?"

Shinra nodded.

"He said his brother was waiting for him." Izaya then let out a chuckle. "You know that kitsune named Saigo? Saigo was his little brother's name. Saigo, the brother. Saigo, the kitsune. Saigo, the water spirit that saved the sailor from her suicide attempt. Saigo, the dog spirit who brought orphans to paradise. Saigo, the ghost that plagued every one of his damned stories."

Izaya's grin was too casual and it made Shinra ache. He wanted to run away, leave Izaya and his ramblings behind, run back to someone he could understand, he could help, because Izaya was a helpless case, a hopeless case, there was nothing Shinra could do for him now, he had gone too far off the edge—but he didn't.

"Grandfather's brother was a pilot in the war. A good three years younger than Grandfather. He was sixteen and he crashed his plane in Okinawa. You know? Grandfather said so once, just once. He said—he said the damned emperor killed his brother. Daring, isn't it? I told you—Grandfather didn't care about death anymore. Keeps thinking he'll see Saito again, after he dies. That's what he always said."

Izaya's chuckles swelled into laughter, until he clutched his sides. Shinra stood very still, and very silently.

"And now he's dead, and will be nothing but ashes in an urn. Where's Saigo there, now? Where's Saigo, and his parents, and every other dead soldier? Where's my cousin, where's the neighbor's daughter, where's my damned old cat from years ago? Nowhere. They're all nowhere. There's nothing to see after we die. Not floating in space, not on the other side of a mirror, nowhere in existence. Everything's gone."

Here it came again—the flood, the franticness, the shouts of laughter that tried to stand on their own. Everything that plagued a once clear mind into distorts of shadows and agonies called reality, called humanity—no, called fear.

"You won't see him again, Shinra," Izaya said. He lifted his dark red eyes full of gilded mirth to Shinra. "Sorry I didn't take you to him more—sorry you didn't ask! Because none of us—no one—is ever going to see anyone again after we die. Are you sorry, Shinra? Are you scared?"

"Are you scared, Izaya?" Shinra finally said. "Scared to admit it hurts?"

Izaya's laughter died immediately. He sat up straight, his eyes narrowing. Shinra swallowed hard, because for a moment, just a second, he thought he saw Izaya—really saw him. But he couldn't be sure if he did—he couldn't be sure if there was anything new to see.

"Everyone dies, and everyone loses," said Izaya. "I've known it for a long time. There's nothing new."

"Goddammit, Izaya," said Shinra. "You won't admit you're sad about it, will you? Because then you think you'll show that you're afraid of death—that you can't stand the thought of it—and you'd rather swallow your own heart than to admit it. But 'everyone dies,' you say—and it's true, everyone dies. Every one of your lovely humans is going to die, so you say it won't hurt you anymore. But that's a lie. You'll know just as much as you want to know about a person, and if they die they'll always be a stranger and you just won't care. You don't truly know anyone."

"Stop it," said Izaya.

"But none of those humans ever tried to know you back, did they? They never gave you anything, never poured their heart into what they gave you. They never gave you stories, or walked and talked with you or knew you as much as you knew them. That's when death starts hurting, doesn't it? Is that why you never try to understand a person's dreams, their minds, their fears, beyond just knowing about them? Because any move they make—it'll tug you along, and it could rip you. And that's what you're scared of. It's not just your own death you're afraid of."

Izaya's fingers curled into a fist, then he released it. Held it, then released. Shinra breathed, waiting. No clock interrupted the silence between them.

"But that's something else, Izaya," said Shinra. "Because you think driving a fault between you and everyone around you would protect you, but it won't. You say I should regret never seeing your grandfather another time after that one day, and I do. But who are you going to regret never knowing once they're gone? Your parents? Your sisters? Ha—maybe even me? If not here, not now, there won't be anything left. You said it yourself—nothing left."

Izaya stood from his chair. For a wild moment Shinra thought a concealed switchblade would come flying his way and everything Shinra had said just moments ago would be applicable to himself. But that wasn't the case.

"You built quite a tall tower with those painted words," said Izaya. "But they're just words."

Shinra exhaled softly. In his pockets, he slowly released his fists.

"I'm going to ask you to leave," said Izaya with such a voice as edged as his blades. "I've got a phone meeting with a client soon."

Shinra raised no objections. He shrugged, downed his lukewarm cup of tea in one gulp and kicked on his shoes. He didn't look over his shoulder to face Izaya, but he felt his friend's ruby gaze drilled in his back.

"Maybe," said Shinra, "you can sneak into Ikebukuro sometime. Not to give Celty another job. Just sit down and breathe for a while." He paused. "You know you don't have to be afraid of being afraid around me."

"Leave, Shinra," said Izaya.

Shinra did as he was told. Just as he stepped out, for just the wildest and briefest of moments, he thought he heard a sob behind his back, but the door slammed shut and locked behind him, so he would never know.

It was probably a week later, or even a week and a half, when the phone rang. Shinra was cooking lunch, since Celty was too ashamed to step near the kitchen. He turned off the stove and ran to the phone before the voice message answered it for him.

"Hello? Kishitani speaking," he said, wiping his hand on a hand towel.

"Shinra-kun?" said the voice on the other end. It was quiet, not so much that he couldn't understand, but enough that he couldn't immediately remember it.

"Yes?" he said, frowning.

There was a breath, a rattled sigh. "Thank you."

Shinra tightened his hold on the phone. He didn't ask what happened, for he already knew, nor did he ask how it went, for he felt as if he would intrude, would infest into a secret hideaway that he did not belong to. He instead dropped the phone back onto the receiver and carried on.