Chapter Text
Shizuo sat on the edge of the bed, fists digging into his knees. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it, the echo of the slammed door still rattling in his skull.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but the images wouldn’t go away. Izaya’s words were still there — sharp, poisonous — dragging every old wound to the surface. Years of obsession, betrayal, never being enough. And now Kakashi was tangled in it too.
Friends, Shizuo thought bitterly. He said they were friends. I thought maybe I could trust this. Stupid me.
The anger was there, burning hot under his skin, begging to be let loose — to smash, to break, to destroy. But he stayed still. Breathing hard. Swallowing the scream clawing up his throat.
He felt… small. Played. Like he’d just stepped up to something fragile and real, something that might’ve mattered — only to have the ground yanked out from under him before he could take the leap.
Stupid. Should’ve known better.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached, too heavy to move. The walls felt close, too close. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t shout. Didn’t open the door. Silence was safer.
Outside, the air was so tense it felt like the whole apartment was holding its breath.
{ What were you thinking? }
Itachi’s voice was sharp in Izaya’s head, cold and cutting.
Izaya only smiled, twirling two stolen bills from Shizuo’s wallet between his fingers. “He needs space,” he said aloud, smooth as ever. “Let him cool off.”
Itachi glared, disgust plain, but said nothing.
Kakashi stayed seated, elbows on his knees, staring at the closed door. The silence pressed on his lungs until it hurt to breathe.
He wanted to knock. To say something. Anything. But what Shizuo needed right now wasn’t him. Not his excuses. Not his voice.
I should’ve told him before making a move on him. I should have hold back longer, Kakashi thought, throat tight. I should’ve—
He cut himself off, standing slowly.
Izaya pocketed the money like it was nothing and headed for the door. “Come on,” he said lightly, as if the whole world hadn’t just cracked open. “Let him sulk.”
Kakashi hesitated, one last look at the door, before following them out. The apartment was quiet again, too quiet, as if the fight had sucked all the air out of it.
And as they left, the apartment fell into silence again. Shizuo lay in the dark, alone with his storm, and Kakashi carried the weight of his own silence and the fear that maybe, just maybe, he’d already lost him, out into the morning.
The streets of Ikebukuro throbbed with life—engines growling, horns snapping, voices layering into a relentless hum. Salarymen in pressed suits hurried past, students laughed in crisp uniforms, bikers weaved through the chaos like sparks. Tokyo at rush hour was merciless.
Izaya moved through it all with his usual ease, dark robe swaying like he belonged. But beside him, Itachi in a muted yukata and Kakashi in his standard shinobi uniform looked out of place, ghosts pulled into the wrong world. Stares followed them—curious, sometimes amused. Whispers about cosplay floated through the crowd.
Itachi’s dark eyes flicked everywhere—neon signs, glass towers, vending machines glowing against concrete. No chakra pulses, no familiar hum of energy, only the city’s deafening, chaotic heartbeat. Izaya felt the tension in him, tight and raw, like static under his skin.
He slowed, letting their shoulders brush, then slid his fingers into Itachi’s. The Uchiha’s pale hand stiffened at first but didn’t pull away. The contact grounded them both, a quiet anchor amid the storm.
Kakashi noticed, of course, his gaze flicking to their joined hands and away, unreadable. But his thoughts were elsewhere, back at Shizuo’s slammed door, the hollow ache of what he’d lost lingering behind his mask.
The subway entrance yawned ahead, a funnel of bodies pressing them forward. The underground station was worse—fluorescent lights buzzing, air thick with metal, sweat, and coffee. Shoulder to shoulder, they moved, carried by the river of commuters.
Izaya dug into his pocket, brushing the bills he’d taken from Shizuo’s wallet. He slid them into the ticket machine; three tickets clicked out, smooth, impersonal, weightless.
I’ll pay him back, he thought, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Shizuo or himself.
On the platform, the stares sharpened. Three strikingly out-of-place men—yukata, mask, and robes—among a sea of navy suits. Teenagers whispered, giggling. An office worker tried to snap a photo. Izaya tilted his head, amused, but even he felt how alien the city must seem to them, how fragile their sense of footing.
The train roared in, wind catching their legs. Izaya squeezed Itachi’s hand again, steadying him as he guided him aboard. Kakashi followed silently, shoulders relaxed but alert. They found a small space near the doors, pressed among strangers.
For once, Izaya didn’t speak. The city’s noise filled the silence: announcements blaring, rails screeching, bodies swaying. He glanced at Itachi—set jaw, faint flicker of overwhelm—and squeezed his hand once more, this time without teasing.
The guilt weighed heavy in Izaya’s chest, unfamiliar and sharp. He had pulled Itachi into this world, into his chaos, into his orbit. And he could feel, through the bond, how much Itachi was struggling to stay upright.
For all his games, all his edges and tricks, he hated himself a little for this.
Shinjuku throbbed with daytime chaos. Neon was muted under the sun, glass towers glittered, billboards loomed, and the crowds surged like rivers. Amid it all, the three of them—two in yukata, one masked—looked out of place. Stares followed, but the press of bodies swallowed them quickly.
Izaya moved with effortless confidence, weaving through side streets until they reached a sleek high-rise, its mirrored exterior screaming wealth. He tapped codes on two doors in succession, pushing open the last one with a soft hiss.
It was like stepping into another world.
The apartment sprawled before them in stark contrast to Shizuo’s cramped, lived-in space. Two stories of sleek, open design. Walls of black glass and steel, minimalist lines softened only by the luxury of their scale. Black leather, dark wood, chrome, and glass dominated the living area.
The far wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, the Tokyo skyline spilling wide and bright across them. A staircase with floating wooden steps led to the second floor, and beyond the huge open kitchen area, a rooftop terrace glimmered in the sun.
Itachi froze just inside, hand brushing where Izaya had held it. His eyes scanned the space, wary and alert, each detail foreign and overwhelming. Words caught in his throat, replaced by a quiet, simmering anger he didn’t bother to hide.
Kakashi followed, hands in pockets, gaze flicking over the apartment but never truly landing. His mind was elsewhere—back in Ikebukuro, at Shizuo’s slammed door, at golden eyes that haunted him. The sleek perfection of Izaya’s world barely registered.
Izaya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a faint guilt pressing through his usual smirk. He could feel Itachi’s anger like static under his skin, relentless, raw, tugging at his own conscience. “It’s not much,” he said lightly, voice mocking, eyes sweeping the expanse.
Itachi’s dark eyes snapped to him, silence cutting sharper than any words. Kakashi moved toward the windows, staring out at the skyline, but his thoughts clung to Shizuo. The apartment’s glow, the luxury, the design—none of it mattered.
The room was heavy with tension, three men bound by storms they carried alone.
Izaya’s usual performance felt muted, the weight of their presence reminding him that wealth and control could never erase consequence.
The silence stretched in the cavernous room, heavy, brittle. Itachi stood in the middle of the living space, still taking in the alien skyline through the glass, but his gaze wasn’t on Tokyo—it was on Izaya. His jaw tightened once, then again. Finally, he exhaled.
“We need to talk.”
Izaya stilled, the words catching him off guard. They weren’t unfamiliar—Itachi had said them before—but they never carried anything good. His smirk faltered, the mask of ease cracking at the edges.
Itachi gestured toward the staircase. “Alone.”
Kakashi didn’t move from the window, but his ears sharpened at the tone. He stayed quiet as Izaya reluctantly followed Itachi upstairs, steps slow, wary, the tug of their bond already warning him that whatever was coming, it wouldn’t be easy.
The door of Izaya’s master bedroom closed behind them, shutting everything else out. Itachi turned, dark eyes steady, but the hurt in them was unshielded.
“Izaya,” he began, voice low but sharp, “sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew you.”
Izaya’s chest tightened, a flicker of panic rising. He tilted his head, forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
Itachi ignored the barb. His voice cracked, just slightly, the first sign of what lay beneath. “I am horrified by you. By what you did this morning. The way you… gutted him. Shizuo. In front of everyone. Do you understand how cruel that was?”
Izaya’s smirk collapsed fully now, his mouth opening but no words coming.
“No wonder he never chose you,” Itachi went on, anger breaking through his calm at last. “No wonder he never fought for you. If this is how you treat people when you feel threatened—how could he ever love you?”
The bond pulsed, hard and hot—anger, grief, exhaustion rolling off him like a storm.
“And since we arrived here?” Itachi’s voice rose, sharp and shaking now. “You’ve ignored me. Completely. Every thought, every look, every breath has been about him. About Shizuo. Not me. Not us.”
His eyes glistened, tears catching in the glow of the city light. “Do you even love me?” Itachi’s breath trembled. “Or have I just been a placeholder for someone you could never have?”
The words hit Izaya harder than any blade. His heart lurched painfully, panic clawing up his throat.
“If you love him so much…” Itachi’s voice broke, tears finally falling. “then maybe… if we ever find a way back to Konoha, you shouldn’t come. Soulbond or not, maybe it will break. Maybe you’ll finally be free of me.”
Izaya froze, his world tilting on its axis. The sight of Itachi crying—because of him—ripped through every carefully constructed defense. His chest squeezed painfully, bond screaming with Itachi’s hurt.
“No,” Izaya rasped, his own eyes stinging. He stepped forward, almost stumbling. “No, don’t—don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” His hands shook as they reached for Itachi’s arms, desperate. “I love you. I do. Gods, Itachi—I love you.”
Itachi shook his head, silent tears slipping free, but the bond told him what words couldn’t hide: Izaya meant it. The pulse of it hit him like a jolt, raw and real, the walls stripped away.
Izaya’s own tears spilled over then, frantic, panicked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Every time Shizuo’s in the equation, I—my stupid brain—I mess it up. I don’t know why I do this. I don’t want him. Not like that. Not anymore. I want you.” His voice cracked again, wild and pleading. “Gods, Itachi, I want you.”
The bond thrummed so hard it nearly hurt, love and terror and desperation spilling through it in waves.
Itachi staggered under the force of it, torn between the ache of betrayal and the undeniable truth he could feel in his chest: Izaya’s words weren’t just clever manipulation this time. Something had flipped inside him.
For once, there was no mask, no clever words, no armor—just Izaya, crying, clinging, panicked, begging not to lose the one thing that bound him more deeply than anything else ever had.
And Itachi had never seen him like this.
Izaya’s words tumbled out in a rush, wild and unpolished. “I love you, Itachi—fuck, I love you. I don’t care if I burn everything else down, just not this. Not you.” His voice broke, tears spilling, hands gripping the front of Itachi’s yukata like he could keep him from disappearing. “Please. I can’t lose you.”
Itachi stood like stone, chest heaving, the bond between them blazing with pain and fury and something softer beneath. Izaya’s desperation wasn’t a trick—he could feel it, raw and unshielded, pulling at him.
When Izaya yanked him close, forehead pressed to his chest, shaking like a man about to shatter, Itachi’s restraint finally cracked.
His arms wrapped around him hard, one hand splayed over his back, the other cradling the back of his neck. The bond surged—love, fear, need—crashing together until it was impossible to tell whose was whose.
Their mouths collided, a kiss messy and brutal, all teeth and salt and pain. Izaya kissed like drowning, clutching at Itachi’s shoulders, dragging him closer, closer, until it hurt. Itachi met him with equal force, lips bruising, tongue demanding, like he could devour the betrayal out of him.
Tears slicked their cheeks, their foreheads pressed together when they finally tore apart, panting.
“I hate you like this,” Itachi rasped, his voice shaking. “But I can’t stop loving you.”
Izaya’s laugh came broken, wet, and desperate. “Then don’t stop. Please. Don’t ever stop.”
The next kiss was different—hotter, rougher, all hunger and fury. Izaya dragged him toward the bed, nearly stumbling, tearing at his own robes to get them out of the way.
They hit the mattress hard, Itachi above him, his Sharingan glowing red in the city light. His control snapped. The yukata fell open, skin against skin, heat sparking where they touched.
Izaya gasped, arching under him, nails dragging down his back. “Here,” he choked, hips rolling up against Itachi’s, breathless. “In my bed—I’ve always wanted this. Always dreamed about you taking me apart in it.”
Itachi growled low in his throat, kissing him hard enough to steal the words away. Every bite, every thrust of his tongue was a claim, every rough pull of fabric a promise: mine.
Clothes were stripped, flung aside. Izaya’s back hit cool sheets, his thighs parting to pull Itachi closer. The bond burned hot, sharp with want, flooding them both. Itachi sank into him in one hard and deep thrust, without any preparation, cutting off Izaya’s breathing, before a long, deep moan escaped his throat.
From then on every movement was frantic, messy—Izaya gasping, swearing, begging for more while Itachi drove him higher, faster. Izaya’s desperate pleas echoing off the glass walls.
The sound of them filled the vast apartment—bedsprings groaning, harsh breaths, Izaya’s broken gasps. For him, it was more than sex, it was a twisted fantasy finally coming true, being taken by Itachi in this very space he’d dreamed of so many nights.
Izaya clung to him like he’d fall apart otherwise, like this was the only thing keeping him tethered. And maybe it was.
Downstairs, Kakashi sat motionless on Izaya’s sleek black leather sofa, elbows braced on his knees, mask tugged down just enough to drag a hand across his face. He didn’t have to strain to hear it—the sharp rhythm above, the dull thud of a headboard against the wall, Izaya’s voice breaking on a cry that was definitely not pain.
The sound clawed down his spine.
His jaw locked, breath hissing through his teeth. Unbelievable. First Izaya tore Shizuo apart over breakfast, gutted the room with it, and now—now he was upstairs with Itachi, fucking loud enough to make sure Kakashi couldn’t pretend not to know.
Kakashi’s hand curled into a fist against his knee. Rage simmered, not hot and wild like Shizuo’s, but cold, controlled, the kind that left splinters in your chest. Just hours ago, he’d been holding Shizuo, thinking maybe there was something real between them, some fragile thread to follow. Now that thread was snapping under the weight of every sound crashing through the ceiling.
He tilted his head back, staring at the spotless ceiling like he could burn a hole through it, bitter laughter catching in his throat. The apartment smelled too clean, too sterile, the whole place feeling like a stage set built for Izaya’s benefit.
Above him, Izaya gasped something desperate—Itachi’s name—and the bedframe gave another violent crack.
Kakashi let out a sharp, humorless sound, more exhale than laugh.
“Yeah,” he muttered to the empty room, voice flat. “Go on. Celebrate. You win.”
The words hung in the pristine air, swallowed by the hum of the city beyond the glass. And Kakashi stayed there, staring at nothing, letting the noise bleed into him until anger was all he had left to feel.
“Some fuckin’ day this turned out to be.”
The rhythm broke apart, every thrust turning ragged, urgent—less measured, more needing.
Izaya clung to Itachi like he was the last solid thing in the world, nails carving red crescents into his back. Their bond blazed, white-hot, each pulse of it slamming through them both until it felt like they might tear each other open just to get closer.
“Itachi—!” Izaya’s voice cracked, raw, high, desperate. His whole body arched, back bowing hard as release crashed through him, shattering him from the inside out. The cry tore free, unguarded, ringing against the walls.
Itachi’s control snapped with him. His body locked tight, hips grinding hard once, twice, as his own climax ripped through him, leaving him shaking. He buried his face against Izaya’s neck, a guttural sound tearing loose before he bit down, hard enough to leave a mark.
For a long moment, the world was only pounding heartbeats, the sound of their breathing, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.
Then, slowly, Itachi eased his weight down over him, pressing his forehead to Izaya’s, sweat-slick and trembling.
Izaya’s fingers threaded weakly into his hair, clutching, grounding himself. “Itachi…” his voice was hoarse, almost a sob. “You still want me.”
Itachi’s eyes were still faintly red, but softer now, the Sharingan fading. His thumb brushed a tear from Izaya’s cheek. “I love you,” he said simply, voice low but steady. “Even when you make me question everything. Even when you hurt me.”
Izaya’s chest clenched painfully at the words. But then Itachi’s tone shifted, sharp again, cutting through the afterglow.
“But this—” his hand caught Izaya’s jaw, forcing his gaze to stay steady—“cannot keep happening like this. What you did this morning was cruel. You gutted Shizuo, humiliated Kakashi, and you smiled while you did it.”
Izaya flinched, the memory stabbing through the haze of heat.
“You want me?” Itachi’s grip stayed firm, unyielding. “Then fix this. Start mending what you broke. You will apologise—properly. No games. No smirks. Not for me—for them.”
Izaya’s throat worked, silent for once. He wanted to protest, to deflect, to twist the knife back on someone else—but the bond stripped him bare. Itachi’s love, his disappointment, his steel, all of it pressed down until Izaya felt small.
“They won’t forgive me,” he muttered finally, bitter, almost pleading. “Shizuo will never forgive me.”
“Then start with Kakashi,” Itachi said, quiet as a blade sliding free of its sheath. “He’s downstairs right now. Go. Speak to him before the silence festers into something worse.”
Izaya swallowed, staring up at him, the ache in his chest twisting tight. But Itachi didn’t look away, didn’t soften.
And so Izaya nodded, once, sharp and small. “Fine,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll… try.”
For the first time since they arrived in this world, Itachi let himself kiss him softly, almost tender, sealing the promise against Izaya’s lips before finally letting him go.
Izaya descended the stairs slowly, every step deliberate, as though he were approaching the edge of a battlefield.
His hair was still damp from the shower, clinging to his temples, and the clean clothes he’d pulled on—his trademark black v-neck and dark jeans—fit too snugly, like armor that could barely hide the bruises beneath. He looked sharp, presentable, almost himself again, but the thinness of the facade showed in the way his shoulders curved inward.
Kakashi didn’t rise from the couch. He sat stretched out on the couch, one arm draped casually over the backrest, posture deceptively loose. But his single visible eye followed Izaya with a precision that could cut. There was no indifference in it. No laziness. Just the gleam of a blade kept honed for moments like this.
The weight of that stare made Izaya’s stomach twist. He had seen Kakashi tired, irritated, even cold—but disgust carried a different gravity. It was harder to shake off. Harder to mock away.
Kakashi tilted his head, voice dry as sand left too long in the sun. “Had fun?” The faintest arch of a brow, nothing more. “Sounded like at least one of us was getting lucky.” He let the pause hang, suffocating in its weight. “Not that that’ll be me, anytime soon. Thanks to you.”
The words sliced straight through him. Izaya’s chest knotted, his instinct to sneer, to twist the conversation in his favor, faltered. For once, he didn’t have the weapon ready. He rubbed a hand over his face, voice strained.
“Kakashi, listen. I’m… I’m sorry. For what I did this morning. It was cruel. Disgusting. Petty. I see that now.”
Kakashi’s eye narrowed but he didn’t interrupt, letting the silence stretch until it nearly broke Izaya in half.
Izaya dropped his hand, his mask failing him. “It’s Shizuo. He does something to me. I only love Itachi—gods, that’s true—but in my mind Shizuo has always been mine. Not as a lover. Not anymore. But mine to control. Mine to claim. Years of obsession, years of pulling at him like some twisted tether… I never let go. And when I saw him again, after burying him for so long—” His voice cracked. “—all the worst parts of me came out. I lashed out at him, and at you. Because I couldn’t bear it.”
The honesty burned his throat raw. “I don’t want him anymore. Not like that. But I don’t want anyone else to have him either. It’s sick. I know it’s sick.”
For a long moment, Kakashi didn’t move. His silence pressed heavier than words. Finally, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his voice measured, but heavy with conviction.
“That’s not how this works. Shizuo isn’t a toy you can throw across the room and pick up again when you’re bored. He isn’t your distraction. He’s a man—with feelings, with fears, with more love in him than you ever allowed yourself to see.”
Izaya’s lips parted, ready for the smirk, for the retort, but nothing came. His throat had locked.
Kakashi’s voice cracked as he pressed on. “I'm in love with him. Do you understand that? I wanted to be the person he could lean on. The one who could show him he wasn’t too broken to be loved. And maybe he was beginning to believe me. Maybe he was about to let me in. And then you—”
his fists curled tight on his knees, “—you tore it apart. You ripped through both of us, and you smiled while you did it.”
The weight of the words broke Izaya’s breath into fragments. He steadied himself on the wall, hands trembling.
Kakashi leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “Do you even know why I fell so hard for him, Izaya?”
Izaya opened his mouth to deflect, but nothing came.
“Because Shizuo doesn’t hide anything. No mask, no games,” Kakashi said, voice sharp. “He feels everything—anger, joy, fear, love—and he shows it. Reckless, explosive sometimes, but real. Every moment with him, I know exactly where I stand.”
He exhaled hard, gaze like a blade. “Do you know how rare that is? I’ve worn a mask my whole life, hidden half of myself just to survive. But when I look at him—” his voice softened, dangerous, “—I believe in him. In us. And you tore that apart because you couldn’t stand not being the center of his world.”
The words hit like hammer blows. Izaya’s jaw trembled, eyes burning. He pressed a hand to the wall to steady himself.
“I didn’t mean to destroy it,” he choked. “I just… can’t let go of him. I’ve kept him close for years, cruelly, just to stop him from moving on. The thought of him happy without me—” His voice cracked, tears spilling. “I can’t bear it. I didn’t want to see him with you. Not when I still—”
His knees wavered, shoulders shaking. “I only love Itachi. But Shizuo… he’s a wound I never let heal. And when you looked at him the way I never could—” A sob tore out of him. “I wanted to ruin it. To ruin you.”
Kakashi stood silent for a long moment, eye unreadable.
“You succeeded,” he said at last, voice low, almost gentle in its finality. “Congratulations.”
The blade of truth drove deep. Izaya dropped into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, the tremors visible through every line of him. No clever line. No smirk. Just the collapse of a man stripped bare.
Kakashi lingered above him for a long, silent beat, then spoke again, quieter. “Do you know the saddest part, Izaya? If you’d kept your mouth shut, I think Shizuo could have been the one for me.”
Izaya lowered his hands slowly, eyes rimmed red, despair carved deep into his face. He tried to speak, but only a broken sound escaped.
Kakashi didn’t wait. “You didn’t just ruin me. You ruined him, too. You pushed him further away. And he’s the one who’ll suffer most for it.”
The words carved deeper than any kunai. Izaya’s breath came ragged, his body folding inward as though to make himself smaller against the truth.
Kakashi didn’t linger to watch. He turned, walked to the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the terrace. The air was cool, the sprawl of Shinjuku alive beneath the sun, but it did little to ease the storm in his chest.
Upstairs, Itachi felt the ache in the bond, the weight of Izaya’s breaking. When he descended, he found him slumped in the chair, his face wet, his posture collapsed. Izaya looked up at him like a man hollowed out.
“Itachi…” His voice was ruined, threadbare. “I think I just lost everything.”
Itachi crossed the room and sank to his knees before him. He pried Izaya’s hands from his face and held them, firm but steady. His eyes were deep, steady, even as he felt the ache burning through the bond. “Not everything. Not me.”
That was enough to shatter what was left. Izaya folded forward, sobbing against his chest. Itachi held him tightly, anchoring him, until his breaths evened enough to speak again.
Finally, Itachi brushed his damp hair back, eyes unwavering. “Stay here. Rest. I’ll speak to him.”
Izaya only nodded, small and broken.
On the terrace, Kakashi leaned against the railing, mask pulled low enough to breathe. His gaze swept the city but never settled. He didn’t turn when the door slid open.
“If you’re here to defend him,” Kakashi muttered, voice flat, “save your breath.”
Itachi joined him at the railing, standing close enough their shoulders nearly brushed. His voice was calm, but it carried weight. “I’m not here to defend him. I’m here to tell you the truth.”
Kakashi finally looked, one brow raised, waiting.
Itachi’s gaze stayed forward, watching sunlight catch on the high glass towers. “Izaya’s obsession with Shizuo has twisted him for years. But today—” his tone dipped, quieter, “—I saw him break in a way I’ve never seen. And I believe this is the first time he truly regrets what he’s done.”
Kakashi scoffed, shaking his head. “Regret doesn’t undo the damage.”
“No,” Itachi agreed. “But it can shape what comes next.”
Kakashi’s eye narrowed, weary and sharp. “What do you expect me to do? He ripped it apart because he couldn’t stand to lose the spotlight. That’s not love. That’s selfishness.”
Itachi’s hands rested on the railing, his voice steady. “I expect you to listen when he apologises. Not forgive—not yet. But listen. Otherwise, the poison stays between us all.”
Kakashi gave a bitter laugh, but there was no strength in it.
Itachi continued, softer. “But remember this, Kakashi—the most important person here isn’t him. It’s Shizuo. He’s the one cut deepest. And he needs to hear from you. If you love him, if you want him to believe in you, then you cannot leave Izaya’s words as the last he remembers. You have to tell him the truth. Show him what you feel.”
Kakashi’s chest tightened, his breath catching. The thought of facing Shizuo again—after the look in his eyes that morning—nearly split him open. But the bond between them, the chance of something real, burned stronger than fear.
He finally turned toward Itachi, his eye raw. “And you… you think he can forgive me?”
Itachi’s gaze met his, steady, certain. “Shizuo is stubborn. But he clings fiercely to those who show him real loyalty. Don’t let this be the moment you walk away.”
The silence stretched, then Kakashi let out a long, shuddering breath. “Fine. I’ll hear him. Then…” His voice softened dangerously, tender and raw. “…then I’ll find Shizuo. And I’ll fight for him.”
The terrace door slid open again. Kakashi didn’t move at first, but he felt the shift in the air—Izaya’s presence, lighter now after his breakdown upstairs, but hesitant in a way Kakashi had rarely seen.
Izaya stepped out slowly, the city light painting sharp lines across his face. For once, no smirk curved his lips. He looked smaller, almost wary, as though afraid Kakashi might physically strike him down.
“Kakashi…” His voice was low, rough. He swallowed hard. “I need to say this. I was wrong this morning. Cruel. Disgusting. I thought I was in control, but all I did was lash out and destroy something I had no right to touch. I—” His throat bobbed. “I’m sorry. I can’t undo it, but I can admit it. And I want to fix what I can.”
Kakashi finally turned his head, his eye unreadable above the mask. Silence stretched, the city humming below them. Then, with a sigh, he straightened. “Words don’t erase scars, Izaya. Not for me. And not for Shizuo.”
Izaya’s shoulders sagged slightly, the desperation in his voice barely contained. “I know. That’s why… we shouldn’t try to see him today. Not now. He’s still too angry, too hurt. Confronting him while he’s like that would do more damage than good.”
He ran a hand through his hair, voice softening. “Tomorrow, after work… that’s when we have a chance. I’ll go first, talk to him, explain everything, apologize properly. After that…” He hesitated, the weight of his words settling between them. “After that, I’ll leave you both alone. You deserve your shot with him without me getting in the way again.”
Kakashi’s gaze stayed fixed on him, unreadable, sharp, dissecting every flicker of sincerity in Izaya’s expression. Finally, he gave a single, curt nod. “Tomorrow, then. But if you pull anything like this morning again…” His tone was low, dangerous. “We’re done. No more games.”
Izaya let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a faint relief softening his features. “Fair.”
The tension between them didn’t vanish, but it dulled enough for all three men to move back inside. The day stretched long and bright beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment’s black-lacquered surfaces gleaming in the sunlight.
They settled into something that resembled routine. Izaya, eager for distraction, finally powered up the computer that had been gathering dust in his absence. The familiar hum, the glow of multiple screens flickering to life, made his pulse quicken—it was like reclaiming a piece of himself after a year trapped in another world. His fingers flew over the keyboard, already pulling up newsfeeds, databases, everything he’d missed.
Itachi lingered close, calm but watchful, as though the bond itself tethered them together. He said little, but his presence kept Izaya grounded, fingers steady despite the storm earlier.
Kakashi took the furthest seat, mask back in place, flipping open one of the takeout menus Izaya had dropped on the counter. He pretended to study it, but his thoughts weren’t on food. They were already racing ahead to the next day—to Ikebukuro, to Shizuo, to the conversation that could either mend what was broken or end it before it even began.
Shizuo still sat hunched on the edge of his bed, hair falling into his face, hands digging into his scalp as though he could rip the thoughts straight out of his skull. Every breath felt heavy, dragging through his chest like broken glass.
Kakashi hadn’t lied about wanting him. That much was obvious. From the minute he landed in this world, Kakashi had been shameless — the teasing smiles, the casual touches that lingered, the easy flirting that made Shizuo’s ears burn. And Shizuo… Shizuo had liked it, though he’d been too stubborn, too suspicious, to admit it out loud.
But Kakashi had also called himself their friend — Izaya’s, Itachi’s — and with everything between Shizuo and Izaya, how else was he supposed to take that? Of course he’d assumed Kakashi wasn’t part of… whatever that complicated tangle was.
And maybe that was the part that hurt most.
Kakashi knew. He might not have known every detail, but he’d seen enough of the wreckage between Shizuo and Izaya to understand how deep it went. He knew what Izaya meant to him — toxic love, the obsession, the fights, the years of bruises that never healed.
And still—
Shizuo slammed his palm against the wall, the sound cracking through the quiet.
Still Kakashi hadn’t said a damn word. Not before his hands had been on him, pushing him past the point of thinking. Not before the kiss in the shower. Not before those soft, dangerous confessions that made Shizuo think maybe — just maybe — this time, this one was different.
The whiskey in the kitchen was too tempting to ignore.
Shizuo stalked out, grabbed the bottle by the neck, and drank until his eyes burned, until the fire in his chest drowned out the noise in his head. He leaned against the counter, breathing hard, trying to make sense of the knot twisting in his gut.
Maybe Kakashi hadn’t seen this coming. Maybe he hadn’t known he’d ever end up here, tangled up in Shizuo’s life. Maybe that thing with Izaya had been just that — one night. A mistake. Something he thought he’d left behind.
Maybe Shizuo couldn’t hold that against him.
But he could’ve said something. Given him a chance to think about it, to decide if it mattered, if it changed anything. Instead, Shizuo felt like the ground had been yanked out from under him right when he’d started to believe again.
He hurled the empty bottle at the wall. It shattered, whiskey splashing across the tile.
Breathing hard, Shizuo pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, wishing he could just punch his own thoughts into silence.
It wasn’t just anger — it was confusion, hurt, betrayal that didn’t even fit because maybe Kakashi hadn’t really betrayed him at all. Maybe this was just bad timing. Too much, too soon.
But none of that mattered right now.
What mattered was that he didn’t get a choice in how to feel about it. Didn’t get the chance to brace himself before his chest was cracked open and all the messy, vulnerable parts spilled out.
He dragged himself back to the bedroom and fell onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe tomorrow he’d think straight. Maybe tomorrow he could figure out what to do.
But tonight, all he could do was sit in the middle of the wreckage, fists clenched, jaw tight, heart hammering like it wanted to tear itself free.
And worst of all, even through the storm of anger, some stubborn part of him still wanted to see Kakashi. Wanted to hear him say it — that it mattered. That Shizuo wasn’t just another warm body, another mistake.
Sleep never came. Only the dark, the silence, and the unbearable weight of everything left unsaid.
Kakashi couldn’t sleep.
He lay on the too-soft guest bed Izaya had offered, staring at the ceiling of the guest room long after the city lights outside had dimmed into their midnight haze. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and restless, but it wasn’t silence at all—not with the memories running through his head.
Shizuo’s weight against him on the sofa bed, both of them too keyed up to pretend it was innocent. The heat of their hands, the way their bodies had pressed together, jerking each other off until neither could hold back. Shizuo’s voice breaking on a moan, raw and unguarded, had branded itself into Kakashi’s skin.
Then the shower. Steam curling around them, mouths colliding, desperate and hungry. Shizuo had kissed like a man who’d been starved of affection and suddenly given a feast—rough, reckless, and yet so painfully honest. Kakashi had pressed him to the tiles, swallowed every sound he made, and thought, this might be the real thing.
But what haunted him most wasn’t the heat. It was after.
Shizuo had kept his eyes closed when Kakashi reached for the mask. He hadn’t opened them until the fabric was back in place, until the familiar barrier was restored. And when Kakashi had tried, fumbling for words, Shizuo had cut him off with a muttered, almost defiant:
“I don’t even care what you look like under it.”
Kakashi had stood there, stunned, water dripping down his face, unable to answer. Because wasn’t that everything he’d ever wanted—to not be judged, not be pitied, not be defined by what lay under the mask?
And yet… a part of him had ached. Ached because Shizuo didn’t want to see. Ached because maybe the mask had become a wall even between them.
Now, in the dead of night, the ache twisted sharper.
Should he go to him? Slip into Ikebukuro’s quiet streets, knock on that battered apartment door, and face whatever storm waited inside? The thought of Shizuo alone, furious and hurting, made his chest tighten. But Kakashi knew Izaya was right about one thing—Shizuo needed time. Space to let the rage burn off, or at least settle into something less volatile.
Still, every restless turn of the sheets, every creak of the floor, whispered the same truth: he wanted to see him. Wanted to tell him the mask didn’t matter, that last night wasn’t just lust, that for once, Kakashi Hatake had found someone who made him forget how to keep his distance.
But he stayed put. He didn’t move. Because chasing Shizuo now, while the wounds were still fresh, could undo everything before it even began.
So he lay awake until dawn, torn between the need to see him and the discipline to wait, knowing tomorrow would be the real test.
The day crawled by, but Shizuo barely noticed. His steps felt heavier than usual, every muscle coiled too tight. Debt collection was usually routine—most people paid up the second they saw him. But today, there was no calm in the way he stood there, no measured edge to his presence.
Today, he radiated danger.
His usual simmering aura had sharpened into something cold, edged, like shards of glass grinding underfoot. People they confronted turned pale at a glance, stammering apologies, fumbling bills with shaking hands. They weren’t scared of Tom’s professionalism or even Shizuo’s temper—they were terrified of the grief and rage rolling off him in waves.
Tom, who had known him since middle school, walked at his side with his usual unhurried pace. But he noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d seen every version of Shizuo over the years, and this one… this one wasn’t just angry. It was hollow, heavy, and aching beneath the surface.
“Rough morning?” Tom finally asked, keeping his voice casual.
Shizuo didn’t look at him, didn’t break stride. He just muttered three words, voice flat and clipped.
“Izaya is back.”
Tom nearly stopped walking. That was all it took to understand. And it was enough to set every alarm bell ringing in his head. Izaya meant trouble—always had. If Shizuo was already wearing this storm across his face, then disaster wasn’t far behind.
They turned onto one of Ikebukuro’s main streets, the usual daytime noise of the city buzzing around them—traffic, chatter, the hum of neon signs.
That’s when Shizuo froze.
The hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickled upright.
That static. That hum in the air. His gut twisted violently, recognition hitting like a blow.
Tom had seen that look before—the one that meant Shizuo had sensed something before anyone else could.
“Shit.”
The air itself seemed to ripple. A shimmer bloomed in the middle of the street, small at first, like heat rising off asphalt. Then it warped, widened, the space itself bending in the middle of the street.
People began to notice, slowing, staring, some already pulling out phones. Voices curious but not yet afraid.
They didn’t understand. They couldn’t feel the wrongness seeping out of it like Shizuo could. This rift wasn’t like the ones Shizuo witnessed before.
It radiated a sickly, malicious aura. Darker, heavier, like something rotten forcing its way through. The air pressed down like lead, thick and suffocating, as the shimmer grew into a gaping wound in reality.
Shizuo’s fists clenched at his sides. His gut twisted. The air pressed heavy on his lungs, every breath like lead.
This wasn’t just bad. This was something worse.
The shimmer tore wider, stretching into a raw wound in the air. The street seemed to buckle around it, a distorted pull rattling against glass, bending signs, tugging trash and loose paper straight off the ground. At first, it was harmless—just scraps of newsprint and plastic bags spiraling into the dark core.
But within seconds, the pull deepened.
Nearby cars groaned, tires skidding as though dragged by invisible chains. One by one, they inched toward the black maw opening in the middle of Ikebukuro.
People stood rooted, phones raised, some whispering in awe, others choking on nervous laughter. Shizuo’s blood ran cold. No one moved. They didn’t understand. They didn’t see the danger.
Shizuo did.
His chest tightened. Instinct roared louder than thought. He grabbed Tom by the arm, voice low and urgent.
“Tom. Get out of here. Now.”
“Shizuo—”
“GO!” He barked it loud enough to shake the air.
Tom hesitated for only a second before obeying. He knew better than to argue when Shizuo sounded like that.
Then Shizuo turned his voice on the street itself, booming like thunder.
“Hey, everyone! Don’t just stand around! Run! Leave the cars or you get sucked in—MOVE!”
The command cracked the trance. Screams broke out, panic finally seizing the crowd. People scattered in waves, abandoning cars, stumbling over each other in their rush to escape.
But not all of them.
At the curb, a small bus sat trapped. The driver stared, white-knuckled on the wheel, paralyzed by terror.
The pull had already seized the vehicle, dragging it inch by inch toward the rift. Inside, children cried and shrieked, little hands slamming helplessly against the windows.
Shizuo didn’t think. He moved.
His boots hammered the asphalt as he sprinted through the chaos, dodging debris that whipped past in a violent stream. He reached the back of the bus just as it jolted forward, tires screeching under the force. With a snarl, he dug his hands into the frame, muscles exploding with effort as he planted his feet and grabbed on.
The bus shuddered, caught between the void’s hunger and his raw strength. His heels carved grooves into the asphalt as the pull dragged at him, every nerve screaming in protest.
“Come on…” His voice came out as a growl, low and feral, teeth bared against the impossible force. Blood pounded in his ears.
The rift deepened, sucking harder, like it had recognized him. Like it wanted him. The air vibrated with a low, hungry hum, and he felt it—not just dragging the bus, but tugging at him. Feeding on the strength he poured into resisting it. Every ounce of force he used seemed to vanish into its black core, as though the void was swallowing more than just matter.
His arms burned, tendons straining. The weight pressed on him harder than anything he’d ever lifted. Not vending machines. Not cars. This was worse. This was endless. His lungs screamed for air, his vision blurred red at the edges.
Still, he held on.
The children’s cries cut through the roar, and his grip tightened, blood slicking his palms as glass shards bit into them. A car door whipped loose and slammed into his ribs, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
The pull surged again, snapping streetlamps, tearing signs from buildings. The void was greedy, relentless, but so was he.
With a roar that ripped out of his chest, Shizuo planted himself deeper, body shaking, and refused. No way. No way in hell was he letting this bus, these kids, get swallowed.
And then—
A collapse. A deafening snap, as if the world itself exhaled. The rift imploded, folding in on itself until nothing remained but silence and the bitter stench of ozone.
The bus rocked violently, then stilled. Not even a meter from where the void had gaped moments before.
For a second, the street was silent. Nothing moved.
Then voices—shaken, frantic, incredulous—rose around him. People surged back into the street, crying, shouting.
And then applause.
A wave of it, echoing off the buildings, people clapping, cheering, crying his name.
But Shizuo barely heard it. His chest heaved, every muscle trembling. His knuckles were raw, his shirt torn, blood dripping down his temple and arms. The edges of the world dimmed, sound muffled to a dull roar.
Every nerve in his body screamed, but worse was the realization gnawing at his core: the void had fed on him. Drained him. For all his strength, for all the times he’d thought himself indestructible—he was mortal. His body had limits. And today, he’d brushed against them.
The applause blurred into static. His vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges.
He staggered back from the bus, legs buckling beneath him. In his peripheral vision he vaguely noticed Tom running towards him, face torn between panic and concern.
The last thought before the darkness claimed him was not of victory, but of humbling clarity: he was no monster. He was a man. And men could fall, could die.
And then the world tilted into darkness as he collapsed to the ground.