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“What on earth are you wearing”
It’s an atrociously patterned thing that Tsukumoya answers the door in. The pyjama pants aren’t unusual, an awful sort of red and brown check that Izaya has long since gotten used to (and usually strips off of Tsukumoya as quickly as possible), but the shirt is new. Patterned with rows of numbers in a far too brilliant shade of green.
It’s absolutely horrifying. Although not unexpected. Not for Tsukumoya.
“You don’t recognize it?” Tsukumoya frowns down at himself, studying what he’s wearing for a moment before he looks up again and continues. “You’re the one who bought it for me. You left me under the impression that you preferred it when I wore the things you picked out.”
Izaya’s frown deepens, his brain humming over when he would have bought such a thing (and for the love of god why, although “mocking Tsukumoya’s bad taste” seems to be a likely reason) waving the whole thing aside with an irritable flick of his wrist. “Yes, well, some things are intended as a joke, Tsukumoya. I always knew you were absolutely humourless but this is truly above and beyond.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I have an excellent sense of humour.” Thin arms coil around Izaya’s neck, the fabric that brushes Izaya’s cheek a little bit dusty and Izaya wouldn’t be surprised if Tsukumoya had left the damn thing sitting out for months on end. The only thing Tsukumoya seems to care about keeping clean are his servers and whatever hardware he’s working on, the rest of the apartment would fall into a deplorable state of disrepair if Izaya never bothered to intervene.
Sometimes he wonders why he does. It’s not his job to babysit science fiction monsters with poor life skills. He doesn’t even clean his own apartment anymore, simply ordering Namie to take care of things. He should honestly leave Tsukumoya to his own devices.
Except he’s strangely fond of the idea of Tsukumoya being dependent on him. Not that it’s an overt sort of thing, it never will be. They’re both independent, viciously so, but all the same Tsukumoya has grown used to Izaya in his life. He has come to expect it and perhaps even enjoy it on some level.
Tsukumoya expects Izaya to pop in whenever he pleases, the pair of them will tumble onto the futon that is stuffed awkwardly into a corner, and Izaya will usually wind up with his arms bound tightly behind his back while Tsukumoya strokes and teases him somewhere beyond all conscious thought. Always managing to push Izaya’s body somewhere past its limits, the pair of them sticky with sweat and cum (all of it Izaya’s) and coiled together in a darkness that is broken only by the flickering bluegreen glow from various computer towers.
It takes hours for Izaya to manage to pull himself back together afterwards, stiff and sore and far too satisfied with Tsukumoya curled up next to him. That inhuman thing seemingly asleep (except Tsukumoya never sleeps he simply shifts his consciousness elsewhere) and Izaya will get up and shower and wipe Tsukumoya’s motionless body down and do all sorts of quiet little chores around the apartment for no reason other than the fact that it’s utterly unhygienic to spend any amount of time here and not take care of a basic minimum of cleanliness.
Tsukumoya’s body never stirs before Izaya leaves, but Izaya still knows that he’s being watched. Tsukumoya is always watching and very likely laughing at him and all the fussy little tasks he keeps performing. Something that Izaya assures himself he only finds marginally annoying when he slips out in the early morning hours. What Tsukumoya thinks is ultimately irrelevant in the long run, after all.