Work Text:
There is a popular misconception enforced by society that claims if someone is beautiful, they must also be pure. If someone is beautiful, they cannot be cruel or rotten or evil. If someone is beautiful, they must also be fundamentally good.
It's everywhere – taught to children by cartoons before they are even able to speak, reinforced by adults in media, even unintentionally.
It's the greatest lie you ever remember being told, and it is also the easiest to disprove.
Some might consider you an outlier – you're part of the Mafia, after all, you must encounter dubious entities in far greater frequency than the average person –, but the fact remains: there is no lack of intersection between 'beautiful' and 'bad'.
You've seen your fair share of muses with blood on their hands, either figurative or literal, and you can affirm they exist and they exist en masse.
Every single person in this world has the ability to be wicked, after all; its what makes the good ones so good.
So, the fact that yet another very common and wildly spread belief is false is not, and has never been a mystery to you, at least not since you learnt to think for yourself.
But it has never seemed more unfounded, more untrue than when it comes to Orihara Izaya.
Like most people in your field of work, you meet Orihara through Kine.
More specifically, you meet Orihara when Kine steps down and throws the weight of that responsibility onto you. You're in your late twenties by then, not quite edging on thirty yet, while Orihara is on the opposite end of the scale, in his early twenties and fresh out of college.
At that point you had never seen him in person; Kine always had his own way of dealing with him, and there had never been a need for anyone else to interfere, for anything to change.
So you'd never met Orihara, but you sure had heard of him. It was difficult – irresponsible – not to, really.
By the time Orihara left high school, he was already working towards building a solid reputation for himself by angering monsters and escaping unscathed. By the time he was out of university, the frightened gossip of dark alleys already spoke of the Informant of Ikebukuro .
Don't cross his path, don't say his name, pray you don't pique his interest.
The Mafia was an organisation, decades of history building up to the reputation it currently had; Orihara was one person, and by his twenties he was already one of the urban legends of the city.
It was impressive, any of you could recognise it.
Don't mess with the Informant, people said. You'll know him when you see him. He has the face of the devil and he'll lead you astray, they said.
You always assumed it was nothing but waxed poetry, histrionic myths mingled with half-truths, and you forgot the devil was beautiful too.
So when a stranger saunters into your office one evening, with a face cut from marble, half-lidded eyes sharper than any knife you ever held and full lips quirked into the most ill-intentioned grin you've ever seen, you don't quite expect them to open their mouth and say, with a voice so smooth it could trick a grown man into parting with his kidneys:
"What a pleasure, to finally meet such a famed Awakusu executive." The smile grows, and it doesn't turn any kinder. "I'm Orihara Izaya– I believe we'll be working together from now on."
You take a long drag from the cigarette you're holding.
You don't let your surprise show.
And when he leaves, after an hour of sly smiles and and quick wit, you heave a sigh of relief and slump back against your chair, feeling an augur of trouble in the air.
It's through working with Orihara that you understand how deeply the idea that beauty equals goodness affects people, how much it influences thoughts and actions of even the most enlightened of beings.
Because it is undeniable that Orihara's nature is corrupt.
Not wholly evil maybe, but intentionally disregardful of rules and norms, wicked and even loathsome at his worst.
You live on the margins of immorality– Orihara bathes and thrives in it.
And it's not hard to notice it, either. Wherever he goes, he is preceded by whispers, rumours. Ikebukuro is big, but his reputation has grown beyond it, and faux furs and dark coats are a well-known omen of chaos.
So to you, it was unthinkable that someone would still trust Orihara outside of a strictly professional setting, when it was no secret that nothing good ever came out of it.
But then you saw his face, and you met him and suddenly you knew; the reason people find it so easy to trust him, to disregard rumours, the aura of malicious curiosity he exudes. It's the same reason heads turn his way even in a room where no one knows his name, the same reason he still brings comfort to the unwitting even when his face is the last thing they see before everything goes to shit.
Because Orihara Izaya is one of those people. The people that in the past have had poems written about them, odes, hymns even, that were heralded even when all they brought upon the world was chaos and destruction.
Orihara was Helen, Hyacinth, Salomé; he was Lucrezia and Apollo.
When he talked, people stopped to listen, when he walked by, people turned to watch.
He was charming and he was beautiful and he was utterly rotten.
Another thing you realise after some time is that it is remarkably difficult to ignore Orihara once you notice him.
Because, despite his insistence of love for the anarchic, Orihara is methodical, enjoys having and exerting control over peoples and things. He lets the greater scheme run amok, sure, but he's there overseeing the smaller details so not to feel powerless before events as they unfold; it's smart and sensible and quite far from the image he tries to paint of himself.
During your meetings he is professional and straightforward, if not teasing and sly and irritatingly cryptic with matters outside his payroll.
He never does anything to fuel your interest in him, never even hints that he knows or acknowledges such thing.
So why, you wonder, has it not faded yet?
You've been interested in people before. People you could have, but chose not to, people you could have and did , and people you couldn't have, whether for a lack of interest on their side or because it would not be right of you to start anything.
And every time, without fail, your interest in them faded away until there was nothing but distant memories of it.
Except with Orihara.
The process of noticing him cannot be undone.
You've been cursed from the start, fated to notice the gentle curve of his neck, the soft dip of his cupid's bow, the line of his collarbones against the expensive softness of his shirt. Damned to feel his presence whenever he walks into a room, to feel his gaze as if it's a physical weight on your shoulders, undecipherable and inescapable.
And finally, you empathise with the humans he loves so much, the ones he loves to wreck and ruin, because just like them, you found your doom in Orihara Izaya.
All of this leaves you with a Schrödinger-esque situation in your hands: it's both entirely possible that Orihara knows and entirely possible that he doesn't.
You're careful, but he's perceptive and you're good at keeping appearances, but he's intuitive. He either knows or he doesn't and you won't know until the box is open and the putrid smell of a dead cat flows out of it.
Orihara has made no indications that he knows anything, but you have your doubts as to whether he would in the first place.
The idea that he'd jeopardise his work just to mess with you doesn't quite fit the image you have of him, but accurately predicting how he might act before this type of situation is a power you do not possess, so you do what you do best.
You remain cautious; you pick him up and you sit through meetings. You don't look at him if you can avoid it, and you don't take the bait when he taunts you. You treat him like any other associate, and he treats you like any other client.
Life goes on.
Jealousy is something you're entirely unfamiliar with.
You never felt jealous of someone, not really; none of your relationships were serious, and you were never invested enough in anyone for that type of feeling to surface.
Orihara, of course, insists on making an exception out of himself.
It's ridiculous and irrational, but you seem to have lost any control over your own emotions a couple of years back, maybe at that precise moment you first laid eyes on him.
Usually it's faint, only a vague feeling of envy whenever you catch him walking with some unsuspecting soul on the streets, laughing like he cares, leaning in and making them feel safe and pleased with themselves.
Only on two occasions do you feel the heavy weight of it twisting uncomfortably in your stomach, making you feel a concoction of unwanted and unpleasant emotions that you have no experience in dealing with.
The first time it happens is when you see him at the doctor’s place, sprawled on the couch like he owns it, looking far too much like a particularly satisfied cat.
As soon as he spots you his expression closes off, and you can see his guard lift back up as he sits up and greets you with a smile as fake as the irritation on his eyes is real.
“Shinra.” He says, voice a volume above normal, but not quite making an effort to be heard. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who is it? It’s not Heiwajima, is it? If so, please refrain from angering him, we just remodelled the living room.” Kishitani’s voice echoes from the bowels of the apartment, and you hear his footsteps approaching as Orihara gets himself up from the sofa. “Ah, of course.” He says when he finally shows up at the living room, wearing the same lab coat and cheerful demeanour as always.
Your chest burns, but you do your best to ignore it.
“You can bring whoever it is up! Orihara was just leaving.” His smiles as he says it, and Orihara turns to him with a shadow of a frown.
“Rude, Shinra.” He answers, which only seems to further amuse Kishitani. “But I suppose I’ll make myself scarce anyway.” He sighs, like walking out of a room is the most burdensome thing in life. “Good evening.” His eyes meet yours as he grabs his coat, and he brushes against you as he walks past and–
It’s fucking absurd how your skin reacts to something so infinitesimal, a barely-there touch through layers of clothing, completely unintentional and meaningless.
You hold an exhale, but you’re a fraction of a second too late with turning your attention back to the situation.
Kishitani’s gaze feels heavy and all-knowing on your back when you finally turn around to go fetch the reason you’re here.
It happens for the second time not long after that.
You’re both on the street this time, in an alleyway by a tall building on one of the busiest parts of town, looking as stereotypically ominous as possible.
Orihara is speaking, relaying information on a new group of foreigners trying to move drugs in your territory when he just stops talking.
His eyes widen in sudden understanding and before you know it, he’s stepping forward, into your personal space, pushing you flat against the wall behind you.
You have half a second of absolute confusion, the feeling of him pressed against you like acid on your skin, your heart speeding up to a worrisome rate, before the reason for all of it makes itself known.
A vending machine flies by the exact stop Orihara was just standing on, tearing through air with a violence that only presages one coming.
“Izaya!” The shout cuts through the crowd, and they all spread out in confusion; nobody knows where the voice came from and nobody knows where it was aimed at, but everyone scrambles to get out of the way nonetheless.
You school your expression back from surprise just in time to see Orihara’s nose scrunch up in distaste as he looks up at you and steps back.
“I apologise. It seems I have some sudden business to attend to.” He says, pushing back the hood of his coat, irritation making itself clear on his voice. “I’ll arrange something shortly, so please hold onto payment until then.” He pulls the envelope you handed him earlier from his coat, before opening yours and shoving it carefully into the inner pocket.
Your blood feels like fire in your veins, but you don’t let yourself react.
“Good evening, Shiki.” He smirks and jumps backwards as a mail box flies through where he was standing before dodging back into the street, where a terrified crowd stumbles to move out of the way of an angry bartender, and running.
You hear a shout of the nickname he gave Heiwajima with that preposterous honorific attached, and you feel your chest burn with envy as you think about how attuned to each other they are.
Heiwajima, it seems, is just as aware of Orihara’s presence as you are.
You wonder if he realises what that means yet.
The certainty that Orihara knows finally comes when you walk into his apartment for the first time in what seems like years.
This might not be his home, you know this. You’re aware that he must have at least another apartment hidden away somewhere, that this one might be just for show, for entertaining guests. Orihara is sensible enough and does dangerous enough work to take precautions.
Still, knowing doesn’t stop you from feeling a vague sense of accomplishment at being invited over after so long.
It doesn’t matter that you’re accompanied by two employees or that this, like all the others, is nothing but a business meeting – there is always a sense of comfort in being somewhere familiar, and no matter how much control Orihara has over himself, like everyone else, he’s bound to feel more at ease in a place he’s familiar with.
You’re proved right when he finally sits himself down after opening the door for you.
Immediately you notice the details; how his posture is less rigid, his eyes less sharp. His coat is redundant indoors and he’s not wearing any shoes or slippers.
He’s comfortable, like he was at Kishitani’s, like he never let himself be before you until now.
It’s surprisingly satisfying to witness.
But then, Yagiri Namie walks in, a bag of groceries in her arms.
She seems surprised to see people other than her employer lounging about, but it doesn’t last long– she spots you.
Her impassive expression is replaced by controlled curiosity as she looks at you before turning to Orihara who seems to be ignoring her very presence.
Yagiri Namie chuckles as she turns her back and heads to the kitchen.
When you turn back to Orihara his shoulders are tight, tense, but his face reveals nothing, so you continue like nothing happened.
The cat is dead – but you knew all along anyway.
You expect nothing to change with the revelation that Orihara is not only aware of your… infatuation with him, but knows you have realised that he knows of it.
Alas, you should have known better than to try and predict what he'd do with this kind of information – Orihara has, after all, a taste for complicating matters for no reason other than his own personal enjoyment, for twisting situations to either suit his own interests or for the mere joy of being able to do so.
His actions are never simple and straight-forward, his goals never quite clear to anyone but himself, and he seems to take deep pleasure in poking tigers with short sticks.
It's good that he made himself so valuable for so many people, because you're sure that he would have gotten himself killed by now otherwise.
Orihara Izaya is an unpredictable mess of a person, too powerful and too filled with chaotic intent, and the idea that you thought you could predict what he'd do with any sort of information is laughable.
That you thought nothing would change is even more absurd.
Everything changes.
Not drastically, not at once, or even in a continuously constant process, but it does.
The work meetings remain the same; you doubt Orihara would put his job in jeopardy unless he was absolutely certain he could get away with it. The stream of information keeps flowing, uninterrupted and efficient.
What changes is that now you see him – and he's everywhere.
Before, you never saw him outside the scheduled times you had together, either on the car or on the shade of some building downtown.
But now, it seems, he's on every shadow and every crevice in the city, a ghost haunting you in broad daylight on the busiest parts of town, reckless and fearless.
Mostly, you see the tail end of his coat as he turns a corner, hear the echoes of his voice and his laugh as you pass a restaurant, feel his presence even in the midst of a crowded street; it gets to the point where you'd think you were imagining things if not for the theatrical whispers that follow him wherever he goes.
You're not the only one to have noticed, not the only one worrying.
On a rare occasion, you'll cross paths with him, feign indifference as he walks by you, either on his phone or accompanied by some poor unfortunate soul. His eyes meet yours always, every single time, and a grin more wicked than any smile has the right to be blooms on his face.
Even his fights with Heiwajima tend to somehow lead your way these days, and you get to bear witness first hand to the trail of destruction they leave in their wake: Orihara with hiccups of laughter falling from his lips, Heiwajima with an aura of ire so strong it physically pushes back anyone near him, eyes focused on his target head.
Orihara's figure is graceful and fast as he jumps around with a skill you'd been privy of so far, and his eyes sparkle with mischievous adrenaline as he tricks Heiwajima Shizuo into losing the edge he'd gained through sheer power by forcing him to follow as he makes unnecessary jumps to and from buildings.
The enjoyment he gets out of this is obvious, and on the odd occasion where his eyes meet yours during those chases, the look they send you is enough to have heat prickling on the back of your neck.
"You are one of brother's work clients." A young girl says, pulling you out of the reverie you hadn't realised you were lost in.
Her voice is high and she stares at you like she knows something you don't, looking unnervingly at ease before someone any rational person would think twice before abruptly approaching.
The way she holds herself is vaguely familiar, and you're wondering why when it finally clicks.
"You're one of Orihara's siblings." It's obvious now that you think about it, and as soon as you see it, you wonder how it took you so long– the resemblance is there, not quite strong physically, but in attitude.
"Mairu." She doesn't offer you a hand, just states her name with a bright smile that's jarring to see when you know who to compare her to.
"Is there anything you want?" This whole situation feels surreal to you; meeting one of Orihara's sisters is strange beyond belief, forces you to think of him as a person like any other.
It's not quite idealisation, but Orihara has always seemed greater than life, detached from society – an entity rather than an individual. It's how most people think of him, you suspect, because it’s easier to perceive him that way. Thinking of him as anything other than preterhuman requires accepting that he was raised , that he became what he is now instead of always having been.
It makes you wonder what happened, it makes you want to know more, to dig deeper. It's not healthy, so you shut that line of thought down, aiming to destroy it as soon as you can, and turn your attention back to Orihara Mairu as she stands before you with wide eyes that glint familiar mischief.
"Just wanted to check!" She smiles again, bright and excited for reasons beyond your understanding. "It was nice meeting you!" She says and leaves, strutting happily back to wherever she came from, leaving you to wonder if everyone in the Orihara clan was this fucking delphic.
It gets worse after that. If before you only caught glimpses of him or watched as he passed you by, now he seems to be purposefully inserting himself into whichever environment you’re currently inhabiting.
More often than ever you feel the weight of his gaze boring into you when you’re not looking, almost burning through your skin. You feel his presence, hear the faraway edge of his laughter and the further still sound of his voice.
It’s maddening.
First, because you have no fucking idea of what to do with his attention. Second, because he seems to be waiting and you have no clue what for; it’s unnerving to think that he’s watching you with any sort of expectation, a vulture circling above your head.
It leaves you more and more on edge, this feeling that something is about to happen, makes it harder to stay composed when he’s around, which is all the fucking time now.
You’re not the first person to have their life made hellish by Orihara, but until now it had always been without his direct influence; that he’s actively messing with you is both infuriating and confusing.
And he hasn’t even done anything.
He’s just– around you, within reach but still too far for you to do anything but pine like a schoolchild. It’s humiliating, someone having this much power over you without doing a single thing, but at this point you can’t help it.
You’re far, far past the point of no return, you think as you catch the edge of his smile widening during the half a second where your eyes meet his across the room.
“I need a smoke.” You gruff, leaving all attempts of politeness behind as you excuse yourself from this mind-numbing shit storm of a deal, letting the others to deal with it.
You find an alley to sneak out to and lean against a wall, raising a hand to protect the flame of your lighter from the wind as you light up a cigarette.
It takes a true level of idiocy to make you lose even a sliver of composure during a meeting such as this, but people today have decided to not only rise to the challenge, but go above and beyond.
Maybe you’re getting too old to deal with the kind of people in this part of the business; overseeing shit like this is one of the many things you should have compartmentalised years ago after all, so you might as well just do it.
The idea of never having to collude directly with people like this is far more pleasant than you thought it’d be.
“My, what a surprise.” The voice cuts through the silence of the alleyway like a knife, echoing softly into the night and settling like a rock in your stomach as you turn to the source of it. “Good evening, Shiki.”
“Orihara.” You say and on cue, as predicted by his fondness for theatricality, Orihara steps into the light.
It seems impossible the way the moonlight washes his face, making his features look softer than usual even as his eyes shine brighter with something that seems altogether not that well-intentioned.
“No ‘good evening’ for me? I’m wounded.” There’s amusement on his voice, but only a hint of a smile on his face as he moves closer.
“What do you want?” You try to remain as impassive as possible, but you know Orihara is more than capable of seeing right through you.
He doesn’t answer, just leans on the wall opposite to yours, looking at you as if from above in a way that makes your mouth dry out.
“You’ve been following me around lately.” You say, feeling confrontational all of the sudden, and he smiles, smug and mischievous.
“Have I? Hm, I wasn’t aware.” His voice is feinted naiveté, which you assume is just for the purpose of annoying you further since nothing else about his stance projects it. “Are you quite sure of that?” He moves towards you as he speaks, slow as if he thinks you might startle and run if he’s too sudden.
“Whatever it is your scheming–”
“I’d never.” He interrupts, having the nerve to look confused.
“–either tell me what it is if you want my assistance or leave me out of it.” By the time you finish talking, Orihara is standing in front of you, gaze unwavering and calculating. “So I’ll ask you one more time: what do you want?”
The air shifts as he takes one last step, breaking into your personal space as if he knows he’s welcome. This close you can see all the small details, the ones you never let yourself focus on; you can see the thickness of his lashes, the freckles that rest high on his cheeks, how soft his hair looks.
“I think the important question here,” He says, and you can feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks, feel him staring like he wants to burn through you and it’s– unreal, hypnotic, even. “is what do you want?”
“What I want,” You raise a hand to his face, cupping his cheek and gently brushing his cheekbone with your thumb. The reaction you get is far more open than you expected and much more satisfying because of it; the way his eyes widen slightly in surprise, the soft gasp he lets out, how he leans into your hand without even realising. “is for you to stop with the cryptic bullshit and say what you mean for once in your life.”
You drop your hand and get to watch outrage wash over him before he gets his expression under control again.
“You know, I imagined you’d be able to infer from context.” He says, maybe sounding more annoyed than he intended. It’s delightful to see such a range of emotions on his face, you think.
“I am. But I prefer things to be explicitly stated.” You’re not just saying for the sake of playing with him, though that’s a pretty big part of it. You like things to be clear: no dubiousness, no blurred lines. And while you’re aware that this is far from how Orihara usually deals with anything, you’re not willing to make an exception.
“I won’t beg.” Orihara says, the harsh tone of his voice catching you off guard for a second.
“I’m not asking you to.” You answer, fast enough for him to be sure that there was no hesitation, for him to know that you’re telling the truth “I’ll give you anything you want – all you have to do is ask for it.”
He looks at you again, really looks as if he’s trying to decide if you have any ulterior motives he might not be aware of, malicious intentions you’re trying to hide. You don’t protest this, just rest against the wall and let yourself be analysed.
The silence drags on for a while, but you’re not bothered by it, content on just watching Orihara as he attempts to find a hidden agenda that does not exist. His brow is furrowed, if only a little, and his mouth is set in a line instead of the usual uncaring smile. You’re enjoying it far more than you should.
“Your cigarette is burning out.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he speaks, but you take yours off him, turning to put out what was barely a stub of your smoke and tossing it at a nearby trash can.
When you look back, he seems to have reached a decision if the way his lips twist into a smile that’s borderline predatory is any indication.
“Okay.” He says, and then there’s a hand in the collar of your shirt, pulling at you until there’s not a full inch between the two of you.
Your hands find their way to his waist under his long coat, feeling the warmth of his skin even through the fabric of his shirt and when his speaks, you can almost feel the words as they come out.
“This is what I want.” And he’s kissing you.
It’s– transcendent. Maybe it’s because you’ve wanted this for so long, but you can’t help but think there must be something otherworldly about it. His lips are soft and warm, and when you pull his body against yours it fits in such a way that it seems to unlock another level of need and want.
It’s not soft or sweet, because that’s not how either of you work, but it’s not aggressive as you once thought it might be – it’s greedy and hungry, but slow and careful. It’s like it was made to rob your soul from under your nose and make you feel grateful for it.
It’s entirely fitting to Orihara Izaya.
You pull apart once you run out of air, and you get to take in the half-dazed expression on Orihara’s face as he licks his swollen lips without even noticing.
Neither of you get to say anything.
As soon as you open your mouth to ask where the fuck do you go from there, the sound of a door being pushed open startles you, and Orihara moves back so fast you’d have missed it if you blinked.
“Sir? They’re asking for you.” It’s someone from the security detail, a new kid whose face you’re sure you’ll hate forever now. Their eyes fall on your present company and you see them physically shrink into themselves and drop their gaze to the floor.
“I’ll be right over.” You try your best to not be impolite, but there’s no stopping the irritation that’s flooding your veins from leaking into your voice or face. The kid in turn tries to make themselves even smaller, and flees with a mumbled ‘yes, sir ’.
You heave a sigh and turn back to Orihara, who seems entirely too amused about the whole thing.
“Well, that was poor timing. You should really teach your subordinates to not barge into random alleys at night, Shiki. This is Ikebukuro, after all, who knows what might be lurking?” He smiles, wide and satisfied, before shortening the distance between you and invading your personal space all over again. “Anyway, how about I see you back at your place?” He asks as he pulls you by the collar of your shit again.
“You’re not supposed to know where I live.” You say, but you’re not overly concerned about it and he knows it.
“Am I not? I didn’t realise.” He smirks and pulls you in for a distressingly short kiss before walking away with a chuckle that echoes through the alley. “I hope you remember that I’m not very fond of waiting.” He says, and disappears into the main street.
You don’t go back inside after he’s gone. Instead, you stop to smoke another cigarette and when that’s done, you text your people to let them know you won’t be rejoining them this evening.
You have more pressing business to attend to tonight, it seems.