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You feel the intruder before you even enter the apartment properly, the broken sanctity of the room like a wall that hits you as soon as you open the door, and the familiarity of the situation has a growl working its way out your throat.
You should’ve remembered there are some devils no blood of the lamb can keep out.
“What, no ‘hello’ for me?” He says in feigned hurt, and his words echo through the room like there are no barriers to sound, so clear and loud he could’ve been standing right in front of you. Somehow, you thought the months that have passed would’ve changed the sound of his voice into something unfamiliar, less painful, but as usual, you were wrong. He seems somewhat dazed under his usual façade of impersonality, but his voice is still very much the same – as smooth as you remember the lines of his back being, with the same melodiousness to it.
“Formal greetings are exclusive to people who enter my house with permission and through the front door.” You say, a biteless bark in your words, because by now you both know how thoroughly Izaya has you wrapped around his fingers.
You don’t turn around just yet, venturing into the kitchen and grabbing a cup of milk to keep yourself distracted instead.
“Seems unnecessarily prejudiced against a very specific set of individuals.” Izaya says, and the sound of feet padding against carpeted floors tells you he’s coming closer.
“You mean burglars, spies, assassins and those with ill intent?”
“Under which of those categories have you filed me, I wonder?” His voice is the type of innocent curiosity you know to be fake, and he’s gotten close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of your neck.
You try not to let the shivers that go down your spine seem too obvious, but Izaya would have noticed it anyway. Izaya always notices, and you practically feel the smirk on his lips.
“Don’t you think you should clean that up?” He asks, and you startle when cold fingers wrap themselves around your wrist – you hadn’t noticed the glass shatter in your hand
Izaya’s pull has little to no strength to it, but you turn like it’s unbreakable, magnetic.
You look up at him. It’s a mistake.
You hadn’t forgotten Izaya’s face, of course you hadn’t. It doesn’t seem like a feat one can easily accomplish – Izaya is the type to forcefully etch himself into someone’s mind, snake into their subconscious and burn himself there, demanding to be thought of even long after he’s gone.
So no, you hadn’t forgotten. But seeing him in person like this, so close, after so long–it’s jarring. Because Izaya is still the same as was in your memories, in your dreams, your thoughts; you look at him and there is the same soft swell of his lips, crooked into a humourless grin, the same sharpness of his cheekbones, the same eerie crimson to the brown of his eyes.
You don’t know why you keep expecting Izaya to have changed so drastically. Maybe to soften the blow of his abandonment– the comfort of knowing you weren’t the only one who was affected by all the months he’s been gone.
But at least on a superficial level, Izaya remains the same, and it feels like he’s plunged another knife into your liver.
You’re very much aware of the fact that you’re staring, all unguarded and obvious, and you can almost hear a faded version of Izaya mocking you for your lack of tact.
Izaya moves.
“What are you doing?” You ask, trying not to let the genuine curiosity you feel leak into your voice as much. You must’ve failed, because the tip of Izaya’s lips quirk up.
“I am picking the glass off your flesh, since you seem in no hurry to do so. Really, Shizuo, even monsters should have self-preservation.” He says, amusement dyeing his voice, and when you finally look down, you see that indeed that is exactly what he’s doing.
His pretty hands are stained with your blood, and you can’t help but feel the knife plunge a little deeper into you.
“You’re not the best person to lecture me about self-preservation.” You spit back, but allow him to keep at it, removing the shards of glass from your palm. You barely feel it, but you’re not really paying attention on anything that’s not Izaya, so you’re not worried. “You’re here, after all.”
“Hm. Do you still trick yourself into believing that you would ever hurt me again?” You think there was a time where these words would’ve hurt – maybe that’s what Izaya was trying to conjure up, or maybe he’s just stating the obvious, you don’t know –, but now all they do is wash over you like the truth they are.
“Maybe I’ve changed.” With your free hand, you reach for the cigarette pack in your pocket, picking one from the few left and taking into your lips before searching for your lighter.
Izaya, always faster, beats you to it, and before you’re even aware of it, he’s holding an open flame in front of you with his blood-stained hands, eyes so dark and focused on your face that your breath almost catches in your throat.
You look at him as you lean toward the flame to light your cigarette, your wrecked hand still dripping red in offering to him while your free hand grabs a hold of his wrist to bring the flame of your lighter closer.
Satisfaction sweeps through you, and you attribute it to the burn of smoke in your lungs and not to the way Izaya releases a sigh at your touch.
“Fair point.” He says after what it feels like an eternity, putting your lighter back into your pocket and turning his attention back to your hand. “Come wash this. I’m sure even beasts can get infections.”
He pulls again, and again, you follow without resistance, not muttering a word of protest as he dips your hand under the running water of your kitchen sink.
You take a deep drag of your cigarette, watching him.
“You really should be more careful, Shizu-chan, at the very least for the sake of your supply of glasses.” He says as he washes the blood of your hands with unusual care.
“Why do you care?” You exhale the question along with the smoke on your lungs. Izaya looks up at you through the foggy haze, and you’d never noticed how had widened if you hadn’t learn to make a fraction of a second last an eternity whenever he was around.
“What makes you think I do?” His brow is raised in mock curiosity, and his lips are curved in forced nonchalance.
“Well…” He follows your gaze as you look down at where his hand is still gently holding yours under the coolness of the running water, and looks back.
“Circumstantial. I might just not want any blood on my shoes.”
“You’re here.” You raise your own brow in in response and take another drag as you try not to let the smile you feel wanting to form become a reality.
“I might have a number of reasons.”
“What are they, then?”
“What are they what?”
“Your reasons. Why are you here?” You ask, and Izaya stares at you for what it feels like a long time, before dropping his gaze back to your hand.
He turns off the tap and grabs a paper towel, gently pressing it over the still bleeding cuts on your palm.
“Go wrap this up.” He gives you a quick look before turning around, leaving you with no choice but obey, because you know Izaya well enough to know that pressing the matter will get you absolutely nowhere, especially when it comes to what’s going on in his head. Izaya needs time to deal with his emotions by himself before spilling them out into the open vastness of the world, and you intend to give it to him.
So you blow the smoke into the air, put the cigarette out, and turn around to go in search of the first aid kid you’ve always kept around.
You deliberately take your time wrapping up your hand, being extra careful and making sure to do it the exact way Shinra taught you such a long time ago.
By the time you make back to the kitchen, a good ten minutes has passed. Izaya has cleaned up the blood and glass and was sitting on the counter, distractingly staring at the sunset that washes your apartment in pale orange light.
You don’t let the thought of how he had the same look on his face when you last saw him enter your mind.
“Will you just stare all day? Come here and give me a cigarette.” He says, and you startle – you hadn’t realised he noticed you.
“Didn’t know you smoked.” You pull out a cigarette out of the pack and hand it to him, choosing to hand him the lighter instead of offering a flame like he did.
“I don’t.” He answers, taking a deep drag that says otherwise, and you can’t take your eyes off him, even as he’s blurred behind a cloud of smoke.
“Right.” You say, because you’ve long given up on trying to understand Izaya. He passes you the cigarette, eyes still focused on the horizon. “So?”
“So.” His lips quirk up. “What do you want to know?”
Everything, you want to tell him. Why did you leave, why did you come back, why do you keep doing this?
“Why are you here, Izaya?” Is what you settle for, turning your eyes to the sunset as you feel him turn his to you, like a physical weight being placed on your shoulders.
“I don’t know.” Izaya answers after what it feels like an eternity.
You snort.
“I find that hard to believe.” His lips draw into a shadow of the sharp smile he always seems to have on his face; he seems pleased at your answer at least.
“You’re learning– I’m glad.” He says. “But it’s misguided this time, at least. I’m being as truthful as I can.”
“It’s been a year.” You pass the cigarette back to him as he extends his hand, but when he takes it it’s only to put it out. In the past you’d have protested about him wasting your damn cigarettes, but you don’t have the energy for that now.
“I’m aware.”
“Were you even planning on coming back?”
“No.” His voice is light enough that it could be carried with the breeze, but it feels like a kick in the face anyway. You knew this, of course, at some level. Izaya doesn’t settle, he’s not capable (or willing) of living his life like the rest of his humans, but–
But you had hope, hidden away in a deep dark corner of your soul, apparently. That maybe you were the exception, that you could help him belong somewhere.
Fuck.
“Then why did you?” You ask, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as shattered as it feels when it makes its way out your throat.
Deep breath.
“I have no idea.” Something’s off with his voice, and you turn to him.
It’s strange to see Izaya emoting so openly impromptu like this; even when you lived together it always took some time to get anything from him, especially real emotions.
But you look at him, and there’s a shadow of angst on his eyes, and a rawness to his expression that you’ve only encountered on rare occasions before. Your heart hammers in your chest, violent and ruthless like what used to thrum in your veins every time you saw him before, so long ago now.
“You can’t do this shit, ‘Zaya.” You rub a hand over your face, suddenly exhausted. “I know you work on some other level, but I’m not wired like you.”
“I know. I don’t expect you to be– I don’t want anything from you.” You flinch, but his words aren’t harsh at all; they’re spoken softly, almost a whisper, so unlike him, who always exuded confidence in what he said no matter how bullshit it was. “Surprisingly enough, you are not the problem in this relationship, Shizu-chan.” His laugh is humourless, but the use of the nickname again softens your mood.
“‘It’s not you, it’s me?’” You say, because you don’t know how to deal with this at all, and you especially don’t know how to deal with this right now . It’s too much for you, downright overwhelming, and you can’t, not now.
You touch his wrist, running your thumb over the his veins, vaguely feeling the pulse of his heart between your own. He doesn’t startle like he once would have, like this kind of touch from you burned; instead he lifts his hand, tangling his thin fingers with yours like in one of the rare moments of tenderness you used to share before he left.
His touch feels like fire, like an electrical current surging through your body and you almost gasp. You can’t remember if it always felt like this or if this is a new development, some twisted result of withdrawal, but you can’t find it in you to dislike it.
“Don’t you know, Shizuo?” He’s looking straight at you when you look up, the crimson of his eyes clear even in the darkening of the day, like the arrival of the moon brings out another aspect of him every night. There’s nothing but honesty in his gaze, the rawest of kinds, and you exhale a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. “It’s never been you.” Your gaze flickers to his mouth, the swell of his lips as he speaks. “The problem has always been me.”
It feels like a confession– it is a confession, something that came from the deepest corners of his soul, that’s been locked away so tightly not even he knew it was there most of the time.
You move before you realise, placing yourself between Izaya’s thighs without letting go of his hand.
You don’t kiss him like you so, so desperately want to, but you cup his cheek with your free hand, touching his bottom lip with your thumb, feeling the slope of his mouth, the sharpness of his cheekbones.
He looks at you, eyes half-lidded, leaning in to your touch like he was as starved for it as you were, like this is the only thing he needs in his life. You can feel his warm breath on your face, on your lips, the smell of cigarettes that probably mirrors the taste of his mouth and suddenly it hurts to breathe, to think, to do anything.
Still, you don’t kiss him.
“What happens after this? If we– if I do this, what happens after?” You ask, eyes glued to his face like there’s nothing else in the world worth seeing.
“I don’t know.” He sounds borderline pained, and it’s such a foreign tone to hear in his voice.
“Will you leave again?” You lean forward, closing your eyes and touching your forehead to his. You really didn’t want to ask that question; it feels childish, it makes you feel vulnerable and powerless. You hate it.
You’re fucking terrified of what his answer might be though.
“I don’t know.” Your veins turn to ice, and it feels like he’s stabbed you all over again, but you don’t let go, and you don’t move away. “I don’t want to.” He adds after a while, and he sounds small, scared, like you’d never thought you’d hear, like you’re feeling right now and yeah. It’s enough.
“Then I won’t let you.” You say, and when you open your eyes, Izaya is staring wide-eyed at you, hopeful and scared all at you.
He leans forward and kisses you, and it’s been a year, and you’re plenty aware that he might leave again, might fuck it all up again, but you don’t care.
You kiss him back.