So You Think You Can Love Me? (Izaya X Reader)

Beautiful

Your POV-

You softly shut the door and made your way over to your bed. It was a day bed, overlooking your floor to ceiling window of the city. You sat down, stroking the cotten white sheets, 'they're so pure,' you thought, entwining your hands in the loose upbringing. After a few moments later you began to speak aloud, "whites such a beautiful color... Isn't it Matsuo?"

You looked over to your bedside desk, where a picture of a blonde man smiled back at you. His eyes were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, and each time you saw them you felt as if he could see through you. He was the only person who could ever tell you what was wrong with you.

You smiled back at his lifeless photo, "Oh Matsuo, it's so beautiful here. The people are beautiful, the violence is beautiful, the sky is beautiful, and the air is beautifully impure. Don't you see Matsuo? Even though all this beauty occurs, you still aren't here. It seems no matter what I try, you just won't come back."

Matsuo was not his real name, it was a nickname you had given him; named after Matsuo Basho, the greatest poet in Japan. Sadly enough he was long dead, as he lived from 1644-1694. You always looked up to his poems, you mother used to read them to you before bed. Both you and she agreed, that he may just be the greatest poet ever to have been documented. Of course this was an opinion of your own, although many would agree his natural takes on life are simply beautiful.

That word seemed to come up a lot when you talked with Matsuo; beautiful. The word itself held no meaning but the possibilities of what it refered to were abstractly pleasing. The only way beauty was to be obtained, was to also obtain pain. It was a yin and yang that summarized the world in one word. It showed the struggle of humanity to yearn for even the slightest of pure. How eras coped and shaped beauty into a new meaning, how the word itself had an infinite amount of definitions.  

Matsuo used to love the word beautiful.

You sighed and turned around to face the window. You watched the people of Ikebukuro. Even from 11 stories, you could still see the faint expression on their faces if you squinted enough. Every single person read of different emotions. And that was the beauty of human emotion, no two 'feelings' were the same.

After nearly an hour of staring out your window longingly, you laid back in your bed, preparing for what you knew was to be impossible sleep. Deciding to abide by the habits of an insomniac you began scrolling through your old messages with Matsuo. The last one read 1/9/07, nearly six years ago. 

You had read over the text at least 300 times. You mouthed each word from memory as you read the text;

"Sick on my journey,

only my dreams will wander

these desolate moors"

It was Matsuo Basho's infamous quote of death. In those three lines he explained the agony of life, and his soon to be resting upon the stars.

When you had first received the text you immediately knew what it meant. The police claimed he was missing but you knew the truth. You had something they didn't: the text. 

You knew that you were the one who drove him insane, or maybe he was the one who drove you to sanity. He was the only person in the world who would look you in the eyes and say "I know you're insane, and that's what I love about you. Just as much as you love your mere humans. But it's okay, because I'm insane too, and that's what I love about us."

You stared at the text for an allowed time. Thinking of the memories you two had shared together. How surely no one else in this world could ever make you happy.

You shut your phone off at 02:48, having read through a mere eighth of the texts sum. You two always used to talk. Both you and he would both start conversations at an equal rate, and the other would always reply in seconds.

But now, it was just you who prompted the conversations.

Always met with an empty silence that surely only death could fill.