I don't own Durarara! or any of the characters.
It was meaningless. Izaya had told him that from the beginning—and he felt the same way. But after so many months, something changed inside him; he became excited for their encounters, but uneasy when they ended. He reminded himself that it didn't mean anything. But if it were meaningless, why was he crying? Why was he hiding his tears during an activity that was purely for release, or even to relieve boredom?
Masaomi moaned when Izaya hit that spot inside him. His back was stroked as he was told that the sounds he made were beautiful. Masaomi didn't reply; he merely continued in his attempts to keep the man from learning of his pathetic state. It was likely that he already knew, since Izaya had always been able to easily read him. Even so, nothing was said about it, so it was probably best to keep acting like nothing was wrong. He moaned louder and asked for more, wording his question in a different way when told. He was given what he wanted, and he became dizzy and weak as he reached his end. After feeling a warm liquid enter him, he fell onto his side and closed his eyes, hoping that his face wasn't red and tear-stained.
Masaomi's eyes remained shut as his hair was petted and he was praised for his behavior. He almost whimpered when the touches stopped, not wanting the pleasant sensations to stop. But he didn't protest or seek more; asking for gentleness insinuated that he wanted affection, which would contradict their agreement that everything was frivolous, and merely done out of carnal desire.
He finally opened his eyes when he was tucked under the covers and kissed on the forehead. His pulse raced as the man held his gaze. His stomach flipped over when Izaya climbed into the bed beside him, pulling him close and tenderly sliding his hand along his back. Masaomi lay paralyzed as he was embraced.
"I love you, Masaomi-kun."
He shut his eyes and hid his face in the informant's chest when he started to tear up again. That phrase was something he heard frequently. He never responded to it, but Izaya didn't seem to mind. Izaya didn't really love him—not in the way people normally associate with love, anyway. He wasn't the only one 'loved' by Orihara Izaya. He was one person in the group that the man loved—humanity.
It was meaningless, all of it. The praises, compliments, touches, and aftercare weren't presented in a manner that could immediately be connected with affection. The voice that said such sweet things was hollow, detached. The gentle physical contact felt like nothing more than skin touching skin. The adoring passion that should've been there was entirely absent.
Masaomi was slowly, but undeniably, falling apart. He couldn't even give the excuse that it was a game. He had been deliberately told that he was merely a way to relieve urges and pass time. On many occasions, he'd been reminded that the older male did not feel anything for him other than amusement and (his twisted version of) love.
He thought about leaving many times, just to see if he'd be chased after. But that was doubtful. The fear of rejection kept him from running away or talking about what they were doing. Masaomi was a disposable toy, and he dreaded the day that Izaya found a new one to play with. There was nothing he could do about it, though. In all matters involving Izaya, he was completely, pathetically powerless.
So, Masaomi would continue on with the meaningless intimacy. He would tightly hold on to anything that would keep the torturous affair from ending. He didn't care that he was postponing the inevitable. As he drifted off in Izaya's arms, all he cared about was staying with, in any way possible, the man that he had deeply, carelessly fallen in love with.