Work Text:
Orihara Izaya doesn’t smoke.
He hates the taste of it, the smell of it. Something heavy and suffocating, that lingers in the air and his clothes, that clings to the roof of his mouth like bitter medicine. He hates the way it makes him dizzy with thought, hates the wave of nausea it brings with it. Hates the memories it brings to the forefront most of all.
And what a nasty thing those memories are.
The memories of his very presence, brutal in its intensity and oh so captivating. His step, heavy and smothering like smoke in the air. The bright of his eyes, the glistening blond of his hair, the sign of danger he chose for himself. The memories of his sound, his growl, that low, wonderful thing that makes his stomach twist just by the thought of. That savage, cruel grin, the one before giving chase, the one only for him. His voice breaking on words of goodbye and hatred. Oh, what hatred. What a goodbye.
Orihara Izaya didn’t smoke.
But those memories are something he has learned to savor, now, to cling to like smoke clings to his clothes. He has learned to chase after them like he’s used to being chased. They’re important now, vital even, to keeping him afloat, and sometimes, only sometimes, keeping him sane.
So Orihara Izaya lights a cigarette, and remembers.