365 days of winter

I'll never be your valentine
The sleepwalker in me
And God only know that I've tried
the wallflowers, "sleepwalker"

august

It starts with flowers.

No, it's not that kind of situation. Namie reflects that in all fairness, as an employee, she should be free to make the workplace a more comfortable place. Comfortable for her, that is.

She doesn't particularly like these flowers, all blue and cheerful, she doesn't particularly like flowers in general, but she guesses of all the things she could bring to the office to make a claim on it, to mark out her territory like an animal, this is the most likely to strike Izaya as bothersome in some way, as too girly. She is not sure exactly what concept of her Izaya has, as a woman, if he ever stops to consider her personality beyond the errands she can take care of for him, and the fact that she is questioning means Izaya has some sort of power over her that Namie wants to snatch from his hands. Who cares what he thinks?

`What is this?´ Izaya examines the pot with blue flowers like somebody who would inquire after some suspicious-looking liquid and at the same time couldn't keep from dipping his fingers into it.

`For my desk. I thought of making it more... making myself more at home,´ she explains and immediately regrets using that word, home.

Izaya looks at the flowers and then back at her; `Of course, be my guest.´

Emboldened she sets out to abuse his good will; she plots to buy her own chair, pour the contents of her iPod into his computer so she can pick the music, considers changing the brand of coffee he keeps, hell she even fantasizes about buying a new coffee machine, he's paying.

The next day she brings in a family picture, places it on the center of the desk, before the flowers, where she can see it –Seiji's cold but lovely non-expression– whenever she is working at the computer.

When he sees it Izaya grabs the frame with disproportionate intensity.

`No no no no,´ he goes, from statement to muttering, as if it's something so evident. `That's... no.´

He is making less sense than usual. What is wrong with him this morning? Namie flinches when he topples the picture so it's facing down, fallen on the desk. And then he grabs his keys and leaves the flat without explanation. When Namie puts the portrait back up somehow it seems to her like Seiji's expression has got even more distant.

september

She has started jogging.

She is a scientist, she knows the importance of keeping fit. And she likes the quietness of being in her own head for half an hour, she likes how it refreshes her before she has to face a day of work and Izaya's idiocy.

The downside: one day she appears at his door still wearing her jogging clothes and aware of how unattractive that, and all the sweating, is making her.

`I need to use your shower,´ she announces, not really a request.

A conspiracy of traffic jams and alarm clock batteries. She could have called and said she was coming late to work, and now, hurrying upstairs and grabbing a couple of towels from Izaya's bathroom closet, Namie wonders why she didn't. And god, he has splendidly expensive towels, the moron, beige and with such an elegant pattern and Namie is almost disappointed to see they don't have Izaya's name threaded on them.

She knows where everything is: soap, shampoo, even his half decent hair products will do. She once spilled coffee on her skirt and had to go upstairs to wash the stain so she knows where the blow-drier is too.

`Don't you worry about a thing, Namie-chan. I'll stand guard by the door so that no pervert can come peek at you while you shower,´ he declares peeking at her through the half-open door.

`Idiot! You are the only pervert here.´

Izaya laughs. That mirthless, joyless, glacial laughter of his that Namie is starting to consider something alarmingly familiar.

october

`I'm not a babysitter.´

`It's just for thirty minutes. Can you stay with them for just thirty minutes?´

`Where are you going?´

`I have an errand.´

`Can't I do the errand and you stay with your sisters...?´

`Very sweet offer but... no, you can't.´

Something in Izaya's stance – perhaps the fact that she knows that when he buries his hand in his coat like that it means that he is carrying a knife and ready to use it – suggests that indeed this is not an errand that she can take care of for him.

One of these days he is going to get it, Namie thinks, (she still talks to Shinra from time to time and he has told her there's a pool about it, in Ikebukuro, about when and how and who will take down Izaya, winner takes all; she's even considered betting on it herself, insider information giving her the advantage). He is going to get it and then who would be willing to hire her? She doesn't care about Izaya's ultimate fate but she is used to getting her wages every month. Plus expenses.

She glances towards Izaya's sisters, who are flipping through a magazine and whispering conspiracies as soon as their brother is out of the door, casting nasty glances themselves towards Namie. It's hard to think about Izaya as a big brother, very hard. It bothers her, to think about the tone of his voice when he confessed in front of her – confessed! – that he worries about his sisters, that they are not normal, and that he fears it's his fault. She studies the two girls; they look normal, and at the same time they don't. They don't look like Izaya that much, if you ask her, but Namie has the feeling that no other person looks much like Izaya, Izaya being like some faustian evil spirit that one day appeared out thin air. But that's not the case. He's human. He has a family, just like she does. And the girls they almost look like him when they plot in sotto voce and glare at Namie shamelessly.

`Are you our big brother's lover?´ they ask coyly.

That doesn't even deserve a reply, a rebuttal. Namie turns her back to them, impervious to their audacity, using grown-up, controversial words like lover. They are old enough to understand the international "that doesn't even merit an answer" gesture.

I'm not your babysitter, she has told Izaya but she wonders if that's true. What is she, anyway? Secretary is too demeaning a word, and assistant implies things like "commitment", "trust" and they don't do those. Namie is the de-facto Chief of Staff of a staff made up of one. So babysitter might very well be within the realm of the possible when it comes to Izaya. She watches her sisters as if waiting for some explosion of violence. She is tense – she refuses to concede it's just awkwardness, it is awkward being left alone with the man's sisters without preamble. He has spoken of these two teenagers as if they were monsters. But apart from their eccentric way of dressing and their suspicious disposition Namie has nothing to complain about when, more than half an hour later, Izaya comes back to the flat.

Namie decides she will be paid extra for this sort of thing.

november

He teaches her to play a liar's chess; a variation of the game where each piece's value has been swapped for another's, but the opponent can't know exactly which and only finds out throughout the confrontation due to the particular piece's movements. Blank chess. More like playing poker, Namie thinks. It's a lousy autumn afternoon and she is bored so she lets Izaya put the chess board between them as they sit on the floor, legs crossed. Namie is smart as fuck and catches up with the idea pretty quickly but nonetheless she is still surprised by how patient a teacher Izaya turns out to be – jumpy Izaya, psycho Izaya, capricious Izaya, yes the same, a patient teacher as he waits for her to get the hang of the game. He even makes coffee while Namie (her leg has gone numb from sitting on the floor but she doesn't seem to care, she is having fun) takes her time deciding the changes on the pieces. He even smiles at her when finally she manages – small victory but a victory! anyway – to capture Izaya's Queen-disguised-as-a-Knight with her Bishop-disguised-as-a-pawn. And Namie surprises herself by smiling back, a warm sense of realization as Izaya concedes a checkmate and clears the board for the next game. They play well into the night.

december

At Christmas he gives her a green scarf as a present and Namie walks to the desk very ceremoniously and picks up the scissors; she cuts up the scarf in two and presents it back to Izaya. He pouts before breaking into a grin and admitting that, because he guessed that would be her reaction, he bought the cheapest one he could find.

He had insisted in buying a plastic tree for the office and even convinced her to decorate it with him one afternoon. She had nothing better to do that day. It was that or one of his games. Hell, she thought, decorating the tree was probably just one more of his games.

`Are you not spending Christmas with your family? Your dear brother?´ he inquires on the 24th.

Namie snorts.

`Ah. That must mean our beloved Seiji is spending tonight with his psychotic girlfriend. Well, it is a romantic time of the year after all.´

Her glance promises murder if he doesn't drop it. He drops it. He loves teasing her but lately he has been pretty obedient, leaving her alone when she says enough is enough. Maybe they are becoming dangerously familiar with each other, she reasons.

`Splendid,´ Izaya says, replying to no particular questions it seems, just, as often, the sound of his own mental processes. `If you are not doing anything tonight there's a cozy little shrine behind the station. Let's go.´

She wonders if Izaya really feels that lonely. That would explain a lot: from his hiring her when really he doesn't need a secretary and they both know it, to his curious obsession with group rituals, like hot pots.

It's Christmas and popular culture and saccharine preconceptions dictate that nobody should feel lonely on Christmas. Not even Izaya Orihara. Maybe that's why Namie grabs her coat too and follows him out of the house.

january

He disappears for over two weeks, without saying anything, not an email, not a post-it on the computer screen, not a message on the answering machine.

It's not the first time and Namie reproaches herself for thinking there wouldn't be a next time, chastises herself for being upset about it. She comes into work every day as usual, anyway. He said nothing so she shouldn't just suppose that he won't show up out of the blue as if nothing happened. She is a professional.

She checks the chat rooms from time to time, expecting Izaya to connect and continue his ridiculous net-babble from somewhere else, from wherever he is. Where is he?

The days are spent between tv channels and idleness, and switching on all the appliances in his flat so that he'll get a murdering electricity bill when he comes back. If he comes back... Now she's just being paranoid.

One day he shows up out of the blue, but not as if nothing has happened.

He wears a couple of ugly bruises to his chin and cheekbone and an apologetic smile. What is the idiot being so apologetic for, anyway? Namie acts as if she hadn't noticed his absence these past weeks.

`I'm sorry I made you worry,´ he says, but without irony, which is disgusting.

`Who was worried?´

But Izaya, for once, doesn't get caught up in the game; he takes off his coat and leaves it over a chair as if that was the single most difficult movement he's made in his life, as if his bones weighted like concrete, and then he lets out a breath and looks as if just happy to be home. As if recognizing what home is for the first time.

february

The first time she stays over – she is tired and cranky and doesn't want to take a cab, much less any form of public transport, and Izaya's fridge is a temptation of high-end frozen foods and expensive beer – she is aware of the implications. Not so much the implications (for her there are none) as how it might look from the outside. Here they are: two adults, unattached, attractive, and Izaya is sort of her boss who keeps on making flirty remarks if not downright sexually harassing her verbally at times. And yes, she does find Izaya attractive. Correction, she would find him attractive if she didn't know him, if he hadn't open his mouth. Under these circumstances it's easy to assume that something might happen. It doesn't. Namie doesn't really want to drag herself home and Izaya has a spare room. It's that simple. Pure maths.

Thankfully, he is not much of a pain about the whole thing.

`I knew I would get you into my bedroom eventually,´ he teases while he hands her one last drink for the night. Namie is surfing through 24-hour-news channels, effectively owning the remote.

`Your guest bedroom,´ she corrects.

But she is aware of how delicate the situation so she is extra sharp with him, just in case he gets ideas. So Namie surprises herself by doing it again, staying over, a couple of weeks later. Izaya, again, does nothing worse than unsuccessfully offering her a foot-rub. How serious was that offer anyway?

They repeat this pattern until Namie no longer questions it. Until it feels natural to make a joint decision on dinner takeaways and who will take the shower first in the morning. Namie learns how to manipulate the bathroom panel so that the water comes out just how she likes it, Namie learns her way downstairs and into the kitchen.

(she learns Izaya is almost nocturnal, and the kindr of bread he likes, how he spends as much time online-shopping as he spends looking at porn, all the empty closets and drawers he has, all that emptiness)

Things being what they are Namie thinks that, come Valentine's Day he will make one of his stupid jokes, he will tease her, flirt with her. He doesn't. Maybe he is, too, learning from this.

march

`You spend most nights here, anyway, that's what I'm saying.´

He is almost cute (if that word could be applied to Izaya Orihara and not tempt the Wrath of the Gods or whatever deity applies) when he is trying to be non-chalant.

`Just try it,´ he shrugs, throwing her clothes into the washing machine. When they are done he folds them and puts them in one of the drawers of his spare room.

Okay, Namie thinks, it's not hurting anybody. One skirt and one sweater are not going to make a difference. One toothbrush left in Izaya's bathroom is not going to change things. Leaving her favourite slippers at his house is not the end of the world.

Whenever he buys food for both Namie insists on splitting the bill. As long as the lines are clear... And in her mind they are.

Izaya still goes away, disappears for days on end and Namie is left checking and re-checking his email. Where he goes, what he does when he is away, whether he comes home bruised or intact, whether the blood on his shirt is his or someone else's, he sees no need to tell Namie.

He goes away, but her things stay.

Drawers that are no longer empty. Closets that Namie has started filling with her stuff. She doesn't want to brood on the symbolism.

april

They become lovers one morning.

Not as one would expect one night, one of Izaya's insomniac nights, with the relative excuse of the darkness; or even one afternoon, one tedious afternoon of dying orange light over blue glass buildings with nothing much to do in the office but this. No. It happens one morning of perfect clear daylight, of fresh untouched-by-the-routine air. It happens at 8.11 over the kitchen table. They fit surprisingly and slowly. They don't make excuses.

It's a one-time thing, that much they both agree on.

It's a one-time thing until it's a two-times thing until it's just something they do.

may

He haunts the suicides, the desperate, the lost.

His tradition, his rituals. He had never promised that would change and anyway nobody has asked him to. Namie hadn't really considered morality much until she met a guy defined by the lack of it. She knows he keeps guns in the house, she doesn't know where he gets them but she knows it can't be anything legal. She paid attention to the rumours for a long time after he became her employer; until she decided that not all of them could be true at the same time so it very well might be that none of them was. But she no fool; she might not be elected Tokyo's model citizen of the year but she has never killed anyone. And perhaps he hasn't, either, technically but now that they are lovers technicalities are no longer enough.

They don't use that word, lovers. It's ugly, inaccurate, optimistic. They don't talk about it. This is not the first time Namie has used sex as a commodity. In fact she has never used it as anything else, in her life. Sex means nothing.

The trouble with Izaya – the trouble with having sex with Izaya and calling it a commodity – is that so many space in her life had been taken up by the man (her boss, and, apparently, his house-mate now) and this is just one more thing.

Just one more thing.

`I can't be your secretary forever,´ she tells him one day, startled by her own tone, civil and considerate. `I have my own ambitions.´

Izaya mumbles from behind his furniture catalogue. He loves those: furniture catalogues and interior design magazines and gardening coffee-table books. By means of an answer he rests his feet across her lap. Namie makes a ugh gross gesture and pushes them away. Izaya repeats the manoeuvre, unfazed by the previous failure. This time he creeps up the length of her thigh, playful between her legs, a smug smirk of false innocence on his face.

It's all soon forgotten – or rather, pushed back for the sake of one little commodity; her professional worries, the magazine he was reading, all disregarded by a new mess of limbs and skin, hot and rushed, it all falls down to the floor, even –in a moment of clarity– Namie's claim that this is "just one more thing".

june

Young love never lasts, aw... he comments and it takes her a couple of beats before she realizes he must have heard about Seiji splitting up with that crazy stalker of a girlfriend, and worse still, he's been skipping classes again. Izaya's stare feels like a challenge, a throwaway "well, now the coast is clear for you" line. Namie has long since won the battle to keep her family portrait on the desk but only recently has Izaya stopped knocking the picture down –it was an accident! every time– whenever he passes by it. It's only now –

(now that they are sleeping together, although that is not accurate, they keep to their separate bedrooms most of the nights, and having sex is like a sentence between brackets, kept isolated, quarantined, don't let it intoxicate the rest of their lives)

that it occurs to her that Izaya might have been jealous.

july

Sudden summer storm caught them undefended two blocks from home and now they peel each other's wet clothes off like snakes shedding skin and now they taste city pollution where rain pools for a moment, the hollow of her neck, his collarbone, hands and navels captured with mouth and tongue.

Afterwards he fixes them two glasses of whisky to keep the cold away and he covers her head with a towel so for a moment Namie stays in the half-darkness of his smell, his proximity, his hollow laughter. She never stops to consider his presence but she always remembers his absence.

She still knows where he keeps his secrets, razorblades and firearms.

`If you were to disappear again,´ she tells her as he tries to dry her hair, such a bizarre gesture stiffening Namie's shoulders until he places his hands on them.

`Disappear?´

He is behind her, sitting behind her on the couch, trying to pull her to him. They are half-naked and the tv is on mute, it's getting cold. It's getting warm.

`You should leave a note or something. Give me holidays. It's really unnerving when you go away without a word.´

She can tell Izaya is trying very hard not to draw a victory from this. She rewards him by leaning back against him.

`Holidays?´ His voice is light and liquid. `This from the woman who told me she didn't want to be my secretary not two months ago.´

Leave it to Izaya Orihara to remember the little details when he should shut up. Leave it to Izaya to remember everything. She pulls the towel over her face, content to be left alone with his scent and his warmth for a moment longer, for now, content with Izaya's lips brushing against the back of her neck, and content knowing his favoured brand of milk and the password to his email account, and content with letting him fill his house, closets and drawers, with all her things.