Long last chapter... makes this the first thing I've ever written that exceeds 20,000 words! (Yay!) So, thanks for reading and all the reviews and everything!

"You still look like shit."

Shizuo was sitting beside Izaya again – cross-legged, mouth turned down at the corners in something like a pout. He looked so incredibly small in the midst of just half of a bed that was maybe a queen size or maybe even larger.

"Thanks," Izaya managed. It was silly, of course, and he understood that well; there was no reason for him to worry so much about responding to Shizu-chan's every comment. Not when his throat hurt as bad as it did, his voice coming out in mangled croaks and near-silent whispers – but he could speak, and maybe he could still learn something about the blonde.

And maybe Shizuo had already learned a thing or two about Izaya.

"It's not a compliment, flea," Shizuo growled, and his tiny hand on Izaya's forehead felt impossibly cold. It felt cold, and Izaya sighed almost-contentedly.

"What?"

The informant shook his head slightly. "Feels – good."

Shizuo blinked, retrieved his hand slowly and frowned to himself.

He was tempted to comment on that honesty – creeping me out, the hell's wrong with you, or maybe even how cute – but instead he only frowned more deeply, crossed his arms on his chest and muttered something about how little he actually cared.

Izaya turned to stare at the wall on his other side as what he imagined might have been a fond smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

It was the second-to-last day, the hours winding determinedly down to the deadline, and neither of them said a single word about that obvious inevitability.

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

And then it was the last day, it was the evening, and Izaya hadn't been consistently aware of the time passing but it tugged at him like a starving puppy forlornly demanding his undivided attention. (His attention not focused on the pain in his throat and his head and the oppressive heat becoming a shuddery kind of frigidity every few hours. The long periods of not-really-awake drifting into close-eyed darkness, heavy limbs and persistent, exhausted dizziness. The rice and water and everything else he couldn't keep down – but Shizu-chan didn't know about that.

Because Izaya always managed to reign his stomach in long enough to send the blonde on some paltry errand, to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom, his hands curling about smooth porcelain and his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead.)

The sun was cool blue light reflected off of ice and snow and a darkening city. Izaya rolled over in bed, felt something heavy and previously unnoticed – a damp towel? – slide off of his forehead and onto the pillow beside his head. Shizuo was nowhere to be seen, but Izaya was just able to make out the scrape of a too-heavy stool being dragged across the kitchen floor.

His stomach felt as if it were driving relentlessly upward – up to his throat, a sick feeling and the stinging, burning ache of unspeakable words decaying in his throat.

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

Dinner was still more rice, but Izaya didn't bother complaining about the incredible redundancy of it all. He'd seen the browsing history on his laptop when he'd briefly convinced Shizuo to bring it out to him; it'd been full of searches about food for upset stomachs, the dos and don'ts of boiling rice and how to flavor it without making anything worse. Rice was supposed to be easy to digest and everything, of course, and so Izaya always ate just enough that the blonde wouldn't feel the need to complain.

(He had yet to keep any of it down for very long, either, but he disregarded that as something of a fluke.)

Shizuo ate beside Izaya just as he had the day and night and morning before. He looked strangely pensive this time, though, and his little hands were trembling just slightly as he finished his food and collected his and the informant's plates to carry them back into the kitchen.

"'Night," he called over his shoulder. "'M just gonna go to bed after I take care of this, so…"

Goodbye.

Izaya smiled wistfully behind the blonde, the half-light of the moon and a single lamp further obscuring the regret that settled like a fine layer of dust in his eyes. He would have called back to Shizuo – tried, even – but his voice failed him completely this time. He had to settle for listening quietly to the brief clatter of dishes and running water, the soft patter of little feet on wood and then the whisper of a door slipping shut.

"See-ya," Izaya murmured at last.

And it hurt.

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

Shizuo woke up slowly the next morning to find that he was lying – completely naked, and fuck was it cold in Izaya's apartment – amidst severely disheveled blankets and the too-small clothes he'd gone to bed in.

He didn't remember waking in the middle of the night to remove them, but that was obviously what had happened. He didn't remember going back to sleep, either, and yet here he was. He had been planning all along to leave as soon as he was back to his regular self, but now – now, he was awake and it was morning and everything was back to normal save for the informant lying sick in the other room.

And – maybe, just a little – the worry that tugged earnestly at the pit of Shizuo's stomach when he thought of Izaya.

He'll be fine, he rationalized as he gathered up various, scattered bits of bedding to fold them into a neat stack in the middle of the floor. He stood staring – sighing – at the small mountain of soft and warm fabric for a little while before he finally hefted it into the closet and turned to retrieve some of the clothes he'd bought with Izaya days prior.

"He'll be fine…"

He'd be fine, but Shizuo was hungry and there was plenty of rice waiting in the kitchen. Rice again, but he didn't mind. No, he actually loved rice. He had to have some right then, right there and maybe even with Izaya.

And, hell – as long as he was going to heat some up for himself, anyway…

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

Izaya's eyes were closed when Shizuo found him. The blonde assumed that he was still sleeping, but that didn't keep him from collapsing back onto the bed with enough force to send it shaking – probably enough that Izaya would be jarred into semi-awareness, Shizuo thought, but when he looked he was surprised to see the informant's eyes still shut.

"Hey. Izaya…"

The informant didn't move, and for one horrible moment he looked so still that – god, no, Izaya – he might not have been breathing at all, his chest frozen in place like so much weather-worn marble, snow-packed-into-ice.

Shizuo reached forward, let the bowl of rice in his hand almost-fall through his barely-trembling fingers, and whispered something incoherent. Something desperate. Please don't no Izaya you were fine we were fine we were – we were –

And Izaya opened his eyes to reveal long lashes adorned with bright drops of already-cold tears and he was obviously beyond stunned, the bright garnet of his eyes wide and disbelieving. "Shizu-chan," he mouthed – and, aloud, "You left…"

Shizuo didn't know what to say to that – not to the words, because the answer to those was simple enough, but to the look in Izaya's eyes. The look that had been fermenting for days – maybe for an entire week – and the longing. The not yet daring to be happy, to feel relieved.

"You okay?" It was weak – useless, even – but that was the first and most important question.

Izaya shook his head. "Don't look it," he croaked, "do I?"

Shizuo grinned in spite of himself. "You look like shit."

"Thanks…"

Shizuo's expression turned somber suddenly, and he took a deep breath before mumbling, "You don't… want me to leave?"

The easy way out, not the easy way out – what he wanted, what felt best and less forced than everything else…

Izaya blinked once – Shizu-chan, you're too blunt, you can't ask me something like that and expect a straight answer – and then his face turned instantly red, his eyes zeroing in on his hands in his lap and remaining focused there as he thought.

And thought.

And then shook his head once.

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

And so Shizuo stayed. And then it was night again, and dinner was rice just as lunch and breakfast and every other meal had been. Shizuo tried to interest Izaya in a bit of apple – look, flea, I know you just keep throwing it all up anyway, but at least try this – but to no avail, for the informant was having none of it.

He was no longer interested in rushing his recovery, after all.

He'd spent most of the day alternating between sleep and typing messages to Shizuo on the laptop – saying nothing important, but none of it was planned and he knew that he wasn't looking for data to be used against the blonde, not anymore. Not ever, not really. He was just talking, just learning new things because they were especially interesting in their own right.

In a way that was decidedly distinct from what he felt for humans, his humans. His Shizu-chan.

His Shizu-chan was special.

And Izaya dared to think that he had something new and good to look forward to even before his Shizu-chan opened his mouth to speak again.

"And… when you're feeling better – "

He stopped, cleared his throat. His gaze wandered briefly about the room – anywhere but at Izaya, Izaya and his clever eyes and soft lips hiding more words than he'd yet had the chance to speak – before coming to rest on the floor directly in front of him.

That was odd, Izaya thought – talking about the future, the things to come and not what was directly in front of them – and he voiced his surprise, confusion, and curiosity with the look in his eyes as he stared hard at his companion.

"Ah, no, I mean…" Shizuo glanced back and saw Izaya looking – reached up to mess with his hair, exhaled slowly, then tried again: "I mean, I haven't had a decent meal in days, and I guess you're probably sick of the rice, too. So, when you're over your stupid cold, I'll… I dunno, treat you to dinner again. Or something…"

Izaya tried not to laugh. "What an honor," he teased.

He'd look forward to it.

(~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~)

Dullahan are mysterious creatures. Rarely encountered by the living, they are regarded as harbingers of death. Their legends are founded on vague rumor and the superstition of old. Who knows how much of that can be taken seriously?

Maybe not the death. Maybe not the buckets of blood and spirit of vengeance. Maybe not everything that makes them so decidedly terrifying to what few humans know of them.

This world, seen and unseen, is full of possibilities. It doesn't hurt to keep an open mind, for one never knows when hatred might turn to love and normalcy to the extraordinary world of the supernatural, the just-glimpsed underbelly of places like Ikebukuro.

It's far more interesting that way.

Don't you think so?