Warnings: General warnings can be found in chapter one. Specific warnings for this chapter: mentions of illness, pain, and suicidal thoughts.

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"The New Akao Resort?" Izaya murmured as he looked at the confirmation of reservation for one traditional Japanese styled room in the secluded pavilion of the expensive resort, that was pinned to his fridge. "Ocean view, even. Oh, sweet Namie, you shouldn't have." He snickered sadly. Well, at least it would be a stylish exit. Now, though, he really should get going; if he hurried up a bit, he could catch the four o'clock train and be at Akao by five.

Putting on his fur-lined coat, putting the note in his pocket along with his wallet and phone, he double checked that all his little knives were properly strapped to his person, before putting on his shoes and heading for the door. He put the keys on the small set of drawers by the door, adjusted his clothes, and without even a backwards glance, he exited the flat for the last time.

He hadn't bothered to pack anything with him besides the memorial tablet of his Daddy dearest and the photo of Shizuo. It was the only belongings that meant anything to him and they both fit in his messenger bag without problems. All the other things were just... for show, really. Namie would come by later in the afternoon and clear everything out. The computers, including his laptop, were just a pile of melted plastic and metal by now, and all the files he'd kept in paper form were shredded and burned along with them. It had been a pretty little bon fire, those last traces of his existence.

The drugs he'd taken half an hour earlier were burning like ice in his veins and he giggled as the world sped up and slowed down, blurred and focused, its sounds muting and rising like thunder at his every step. His own heartbeat echoed in his ears and the sound of air going in and out of his lungs sounded like waves on a shore. It was so bizarre it was beautiful, and he laughed as he made his way towards Shinjuku across the rooftops – feeling almost like his old self again.

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I can't thank you enough for you help, Kida, Celty typed as the teenager emerged from a tiny and filthy storage-space under a roof, clutching a stack of files close to him.

"Yeah, well, I aint just gonna watch my big bro' go and off himself without tryin' to help him!" Kida replied. "Just don't tell 'im you got these from me. If he find out I stole and read 'em, he'll slice me up for sure."

You read these?!

"Yup. Didn't understand what it was at first. Not until I saw a picture of Izaya-san as a kid." He looked grim. "I threw up first time I read these. There's some real nasty stuff in there. Just sayin'."

Celty looked at the hard-bitten gang-leader and nodded.

We already figured. Could you come with us?

"Uhm, sure, but why?"

You've spent more time with Izaya-san these last few years than almost anyone. Maybe you can help.

Kida nodded and followed the black-clad demon to her bike.

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Shizuo felt the hair in the back of his neck stand on end as he walked down a busy street with his hand in Naomi's. He only just managed to push her to safety by a wall and turn around when a knife flew through the air – missing his throat by just an inch. Rage swelled in his blood as he dodged another one and locked eyes with the Flea who was perched on the railing of a fire-escape ladder. The informant looked absolutely awful, he couldn't help but notice. He had been scrawny to begin with, but now he was hardly more than a skeleton, and he looked ill; the pale skin that stretched over his sharp features had an unhealthy shade to it and the circles under the crimson orbs were so dark they were damn near black. His hair was matted, listless, and looked more like a crow's nest than anything else. To put it very bluntly: Orihara Izaya looked like a walking fucking corpse.

Shizuo noticed all of these things even as the red haze of wrath clouded his vision and he launched an attack.

"Iiiiizaaaayaaa!" he roared as he lunged, a street sign already in his grasp and ready to be used to bash that annoying skull in.

The laughter that rang over the streets at least sounded the same; loud, high-pitched and completely demented. Izaya leapt from the railing, did a impossibly agile flip in the air and landed right next to Naomi. Shizuo turned around in time to see him bow to her and then kiss her cheek and whisper something, before giggling and bouncing away and leaping to safety on a branch in a nearby tree.

"You really are the most beautiful monster I've ever seen, Shizu-chan," he purred as the raging blonde came closer, dodging the street sign and jumping away before Shizuo could tear the tree from the ground with his hands. "Keep up, freak!" he giggled as he made for safety. "See if you can catch me!" One last time, Shizuo. Can you catch me this last time? Can you save me...?

Jumping and dodging and giggling, Izaya headed towards the train station and the sounds of destruction, rage and chaos rose to the skies behind him. The adrenaline pumped through his veins, enhancing every little bit of sound and feeling, making them blend and blur into the kaleidoscope of beauty and monstrosity that was so frightening, so profound, so all-consuming and so... unique. This almost transcendental experience; the eternal chase, the dance of life, that no one could understand but them. Izaya was Shizuo's prey, but he would only fall when the Beast found the gap in his armour and ended his will to run.

He leapt from the platform onto the train just as Shizuo caught up with him. But before the blonde could pull him out again, the informant reached out a bony hand and pulled him close. Shizou's mind went blank as a pair of soft, slightly cold and salty lips pressed against his own. He vaguely felt the lips pull away and Izaya's voice whispering in his ear:

"Goodbye, Heiwajima Shizuo."

Then he was shoved back, and before he could get a grip on himself the doors closed, leaving him to see the tearstained face of Orihara Izaya disappear into the distance. Wha-? The Flea was actually crying? Why? The world was spinning around him as he reached up a hand and touched his lips. The feeling still lingered and he felt lightheaded, dizzy, as if he'd been kicked in the head rather than kissed. What the hell just happened?

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The New Akao Resort bathed in in the golden light of the slowly setting sun, and the sound of waves rolling in against the shoreline paired with the haunting calls of seagulls and other marine birds was like a sweet lullaby to Izaya's ears as he was led to his quarters by a gentle faced old lady. Immediately upon entering the main lobby, she'd come scurrying towards him, fuzzing over him like the grandmother he never had. It had taken nearly five minutes for him to work out that Namie had told the staff he was suffering from a serious illness and needed peace and quiet while recovering. The staff had apparently taken this to mean cancer, and thus treated him accordingly – which was to say, they treated him like a fragile porcelain doll, and would not stop fuzzing. He almost regretted not bringing more luggage, just for show – but a quick lie about him losing it on the train did the trick. The manager was appalled that anyone would steal from a sick person, and he re-arranged the informant's room in a shared pavilion to a small house all of his own, saying he simply could not force someone as frail and obviously ill to share lodgings with a bunch of noisy people. Orihara-san would be treated to the best the place had to offer, and he would hear no objections!

In the end, Izaya just went with it, thankful to finally be on his way to his room so he could change out of his sweat soaked clothes and be alone with his grief. The train ride had been a maelstrom of emotions, thoughts, memories and pain, and he just could not get over the feeling of Shizu-chan's lips against his own. He'd never planned to do that originally, and it was admittedly a really stupid action, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Now at least he could go to his ancestors knowing that yes, those lips could have saved him. Those lips could have given him the peace and safety he'd always craved but never gotten. Those lips could have silenced the madness inside him and allowed him to function, to be calm, to be... normal.But it was too late now. Far too late, and far from possible, seeing as those lips belonged to someone else, and that kiss had been a theft from a woman who'd done him no wrongs. After all, one can't help who they love, and Izaya only hoped she would make Shizuo as happy as he could possibly be.

The old lady shooed him off to the shower as soon as they got inside the small pavilion, and then promptly disappeared – muttering something about clothes. Izaya didn't protest. He felt tired and cold, and one look in the mirror told him that yeah, he looked sick alright. Dying even. Well then, at least no one would be surprised seven days from now when he would end up that way. He stepped under the scorching water, forcing himself to remain there despite his body's cries for cooler water, or at least a swift move away from the cause of the pain. He ignored it and began to wash his hair. Funny, that. After being so fucked up for so long, suddenly now his body had decided to feel pain again. Then again, he hadn't had a drink or a hit of something for hours, so no wonder things registered at bit more clearly now. He had a hunch he would be kept away from alcohol by his new 'caretakers', seeing as they probably thought he was on chemo or something. Izaya wasn't looking forward to this withdrawal, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it. His mind was wreaking havoc, his body was screaming and protesting at his every move, his headaches were worse than ever and then there were these dizzy spells that would cause him to fall helplessly to the floor and try to keep himself from throwing up. His stomach was cramping like mad from lack of food, and what little he ate went right through him or came back up again. Maybe they weren't so wrong in assuming he might be dying. In fact, they were most likely very right. He knew his body very well, and despite his very carefully concealed eating disorder, which he'd somehow managed to keep Shinra from ever finding out about – and make no mistake, Izaya knew he wasn't just a picky eater; he knew a disorder when he saw one – he'd never ever felt like this. Not even when Shirou put him on forced starvation just to see what'd happen. Not even when he'd been having a shitty time and refusing himself food until he got a grip on himself, worked harder, worked faster, got better data, just did something right for a change. He knew this sickly shade to his skin was probably a sign that there was something else going on inside him as well that wasn't a very good thing.

"Come on, body," he muttered as he turned the water off and wrapped himself in a big towel. "Just seven more days. Just work with me for one more week, 'k?"

He looked into the mirror, the image of himself coming in and out of focus as a dizzy spell gripped him and he threw up into the sink. Nothing was coming up but acid and some remains of a cheap muffin he'd had on the train. Turning the water on to rinse the disgusting stuff away, Izaya clutched his stomach and whimpered. It hurt! It felt like a thousand knives digging around in his intestines, his throat was on fire and his heart was beating heavily in his chest. Finally, the dizziness passed and the pain loosened its grip, and Izaya wobbled out into the main room, the only room besides a little kitchenette and the bathroom, only to see a complete set of yukatas, a haori, socks and sandals laid out on his futon. Something inside him ached as he picked the outer robe up; it was a very traditional design, simple and elegant, in dark grey cotton silk with a pale floral pattern around the sleeves and hem. The obi was in the same pale shade as the flowers, and long enough so he could tie it comfortably. The fabric was light, so it wouldn't be a strain to his frail physique even with a robe underneath and a warmer haori over it. The designs and style were appropriate for both his age and the season. It was definitely not one of the standard guest robes. Someone had brought this here especially for him. Someone had actually gone out of their way to find him proper clothes after he'd 'lost' his. He realized the source of the strange ache inside: Care. He was being cared for. His heart stung again, and he bit back a sob. He didn't know what to do when people cared for him. Normally, he'd just push them away, like he did with Shinra and Celty. Normally, he be all sass and snark and 'fuck you, I can take care of myself'.

But before he could even ponder on it, the old lady was back, her round face all wrinkles as she smiled. She took the yukata and held it up to his face, muttered something to herself again, and then nodded in grim satisfaction. Izaya was more or less frozen to the spot. After all, he was standing there in just a towel, his disgusting body and all the cuts and marks and scars in plain sight – just waiting for her to judge him, to turn away, to show disdain.

But she didn't.

Instead she arched a brow and said;

"Well, what're you waiting for, child? This yukata aint gonna fit itself on you. Come now and let old Chiyo help you with this. You look like you're gonna faint."

Then she just pulled the towel off his hips, and proceeded to redress him in the clean and almost sinfully comfortable clothes. When he was properly dressed, the old lady, Chiyo, nodded and smiled.

"You look really handsome, young man," she said. "You should stick to traditional when you get better. It suits you."

With that, she smiled again and told him she'd come by with some tea later, but that he should rest now, he looked exhausted, poor thing. Izaya didn't argue with that. His legs were shaking from the effort of keeping him on his feet, and he felt so cold. Giving up the struggle, he just sank down onto the soft futon and lay there with his heart racing and his breath ragged for a long time, feeling for all like a piece of fruit jelly on wobbly ground. His stomach cramped again, and he had little choice but to crawl his way to the bathroom for another round of vomiting. When there was nothing left for him to throw up, he sank to the floor by the toilet, trying to catch his breath, tears streaming down his face from the feeling of his insides cramping all over the place, and ohGodIcan'tstandallthispain!

Just one week more, Izaya, he thought to himself. Just one more week, and then we'll sleep.

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Right, so... uhm. Izaya is really sick. Like "he should be in a hospital"-kind of sick. Good thing he has got Chiyo there to care for him.

And poor Shizuo – he just hasn't got a clue, has he?

With the next chapter, Izaya will begin his countdown. Stay tuned to see if he makes it to zero, or if help will arrive in time for this to turn in a happier direction.

The New Akao Resort is a real place, located by the sea, about an hour's train ride from Tokyo. I don't know if they have a secluded pavilion or a single room pavilion like the one Izaya's staying in, but I took the liberty of adding those for this story. They do, however, offer traditional Japanese style quarters and clothing to their guests. I've done a fair bit of research, and I really wanna go there myself now. *sigh * Google it, the main complex may lack some in architectural appeal, but it still seems like an awesome place!