The apartment is very quiet when Izaya gets home. He knows Shizuo should be there; the other's key is still hanging by the front door, his shoes are still toppled one over another in the entryway. But there's no trace of him in the front room, no sound of vague experimentation in the kitchen, and Izaya is left frowning in the doorway while he toes his shoes off and unwinds his scarf from around his neck.
"Shizu-chan?" he calls, deliberately lilting over the nickname so the sound of his voice will carry the clearer and still pass for offhand disinterest. "Are you home?"
"Yeah," comes back the reply, faint with distance and the barrier of a door but still audible against the quiet backdrop of the rest of the house. Izaya waits for something else: a clarifying explanation, the sound of a door opening, the appearance of Shizuo himself coming down the hallway. But there's nothing further, just that one brief acknowledgment, and Izaya is left to frown irritation down the silent hallway. He shrugs his coat off with more force than is necessary, casts it onto the hook alongside the door without any care for the motion at all, and when he steps into the apartment to continue down the hall it's with his footfalls coming hard on the frustration along his shoulders.
"'Good to see you,'" he says aloud, pitching his voice to carry as he reaches the bedroom door and pushes at the handle. "'I missed you, Izaya-kun, I'm so glad you're home.'" The door comes open, revealing the mismatched array of possessions scattered across dresser and desk alike, and Shizuo, sitting at the edge of the bed and just looking up from a box clasped in both hands.
"How sweet of you to say," Izaya continues, leaving the door open so he can tip himself sideways against the frame as he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Shizuo. "To think someone would care about my comings and goings, you're really too kind."
Shizuo blinks. "Izaya," he says, sounding faintly surprised. "You're home."
Izaya's frown deepens. "Yes," he says. "So good of you to notice." He'd like to be irritated - usually Shizuo is all but hovering at the front door waiting for him, this casual disregard reminds him too much of the early days of their partnership - but Shizuo is staring at him, his gaze fixed on Izaya's features as if he's trying to memorize them, and there's something strange and dark behind his eyes, some uncommon focus that prickles self-consciousness taut all across Izaya's shoulders. Izaya's frustration fades even as Shizuo stares at him, like the attention in the other's gaze is enough to strip away whatever fleeting irritation there was in him, and all he's left with is a growing sense of unease, as if Shizuo has spontaneously developed Soul Perception and can see right through Izaya to the core of him any time instead of just when they're in Resonance.
Izaya doesn't shift his feet, but it's a narrowly won victory over his own impulses. "What's wrong with you?" he asks instead, trying for a sharp edge on his voice he suspects comes out more brittle on stress than he hoped. "You look like you've forgotten who I am. It's me, Orihara Izaya, your weapon partner? Roommate? Lover? Any of this ringing a bell?"
Shizuo's forehead creases for a moment. "I know who you are," he says, with something like his usual growl on the words, and some of the tension across Izaya's shoulders eases at this renewed familiarity. "Welcome home."
"Thank you," Izaya drawls. "It's so nice to be recognized." Shizuo's mouth pulls up at the corner as he huffs flickering amusement at this; but then his expression falls back into its previous weight, the soft at the corners of his eyes giving way to steady attention.
"Izaya," he says, and he's getting up from the bed without easing his hold on the box in his hands. Izaya's attention drops to the shape of it, to the way Shizuo's fingers are bracing against the outside as if supporting some notable weight, but only for a moment; it's hard to look at anything else when Shizuo is gazing at him with that absolute focus behind his eyes. He steps in close, closer than Izaya expected; when he stops the edge of the box in his hands is brushing Izaya's shirt, and Izaya has to tip his head up to maintain eye contact.
"This is for you," Shizuo says, and extends the box in his hands very slightly to press against Izaya's chest. "Take it." Izaya lifts his hands automatically, his fingers sliding to fit just alongside Shizuo's against the shape in the other's hands; Shizuo lets it go almost immediately, leaving the surprisingly minimal weight to Izaya's hold. Izaya doesn't look down at the box in his hands; he's not sure he could look anywhere other than Shizuo's face even if tried.
Shizuo ducks his chin and lets his gaze drop to Izaya's hands for a moment. "Open it," he says, and Izaya is obeying immediately, his hands moving on impulse before he's yet decided that he's going to follow Shizuo's command. It always makes him think of Resonance, this unthinking movement that grips him sometimes, as if some part of his body remembers what it is to be Shizuo, to have Shizuo sharing out control over his actions, as if it's trying to attain that again while Izaya is in the isolation of his human form. It shivers over Izaya's skin like electricity, an echo of Shizuo's Soul Force skating across his skin like a whisper, and he does duck his head then, because he doesn't know what expression is on his face and he'd rather cast it into shadow while he decides if he wants to share it or not. The box is coming open in his hands, the lid sliding free without catching at any unseen tape or ribbon holding it shut; inside there's the white of tissue paper, the thin translucence laid in enough layers that Izaya can't make out what's underneath it.
"Paper," Izaya says, attempting a deadpan tone that falls flat even to his own ears as he slides the lid in to fit against the bottom of the box. "Shizuo, you shouldn't have." Shizuo doesn't bother responding to the weak attempt at teasing and Izaya doesn't look up to wait for one; he's reaching for the paper instead, settling his fingers into the rustle of the layers to fold them back like he's pressing open the petals of a flower. The top layer comes back, he can see the shadow of something curving underneath the second as he reaches for it; and then he's drawing that back too, and his breath goes still for the first moment of recognition.
It's a simple thing, really. There's nothing inherently remarkable about the dark circle in the box; it's simple, unadorned black, the material some kind of thin leather or maybe a heavy fabric, Izaya can't tell at a glance. It's not the material that has stolen his breath, though, any more than that he's shocked by the object's appearance; it's the silver of the buckle at the back of it that has done that, the shine of light off curved metal and the open latch that makes the whole clearly a collar laid out neatly over the plain white of the tissue paper.
Izaya can't breathe. He feels like he's choking, like his throat has closed off any hope of air or voice either one, like his chest is straining against some unbearable pressure in its reflexive attempts at oxygen. His hands have stilled at the edge of the box, his gaze has caught on the shine of that open buckle; he feels like he's coming apart, like everything that he is is disintegrating to spill through his fingers like sand.
"Izaya."
The voice is steady, is sure, resonant with force enough to run straight down Izaya's spine and pull his attention up to the speaker. His head tips up, his gaze drawing away from the collar inside the box to meet Shizuo's eyes; Izaya doesn't know what expression he's wearing, but Shizuo looks warm, looks solid, his cheeks only very faintly flushed into self-consciousness as he stares at Izaya in front of him.
"It's for you," he says. "From me." It's a stupid clarification, Izaya wants to tell him; obviously it's from Shizuo, even if he hadn't handed it over directly there's no question who it must be from. But he huffs an exhale instead, his throat suddenly opening up to let the weight of shock spill from his lungs, and Izaya can feel some of the knot in his chest loosen, as if Shizuo's words alone are enough to lift the burden of disbelief from his shoulders.
Shizuo's lashes dip, his gaze drags over Izaya's face and back down to the box. He reaches out, his fingers dipping into the soft crinkle of the tissue paper without care for how his touch rustles the give of it as he catches the end of the collar to draw it up and free of the box.
"I want to put it on you," he says, and looks up again to meet Izaya's gaze. He's not smiling; there's almost no emotion on his face at all, nothing Izaya can gain traction on except the dark focus behind the other's eyes fixing on him as if to pin him immovably where he stands. "May I?"
Izaya can't find voice for himself. It's as if the whole of his speech has slipped into the weight of the buckle pressed between Shizuo's fingers, as if the idle movement of the other's thumb across the clasp is holding his tongue hostage and pinning his coherency to silence. His heart is pounding in his chest, he feels like he may never be able to calm down again; but the question is direct, and he knows what his answer will be even without words. He takes a breath, holding Shizuo's gaze for the span of his inhale; and then deliberately bows his head, letting his gaze drop into submission as he ducks his head in surrender to Shizuo's request. He can hear the breath Shizuo takes, can hear the drawn-out rush of air as the other fills his lungs with recognition; and then, clear and steady on the weight of that air: "Kneel," the command so absolute Izaya's knees are giving way before he's even consciously processed the word. His balance goes, his whole self reflexively obedient to Shizuo's order, and then his knees are on the floor at Shizuo's feet, and his head is tipped forward to bare the back of his neck, and for a wild, dizzy moment Izaya feels an echo of that terror from their first few months together, like all his long-lost vulnerability is making a last, desperate bid for control. His skin prickles with anticipated electricity, his shoulders start to hunch into insufficient protection for his neck; and then Shizuo's fingers touch him, the familiar texture of them printing warmth against the nape of his neck, and all Izaya's tension drains out of him at once in immediate response to the contact. His shoulders drop, his hands go slack; the box topples free of his fingers to clatter to the floor, but he hardly sees it, and Shizuo doesn't show the least sign of noticing. He's drawing his touch sideways, dragging against the back of Izaya's neck to sweep the other's hair aside and away, and then there's the soft friction of fabric, the momentary chill of metal on skin, and Izaya sucks in a sharp inhale as Shizuo braces the collar in place at the back of his neck. His pulse is skidding out of rhythm in his throat, he feels sure Shizuo will notice as he draws his fingers against the curve of the collar to press it flush to Izaya's skin; but if he does he doesn't say anything about it, just fits the grip of the texture close to Izaya's throat as he tugs the trailing end up to the waiting clasp. The collar pulls tight, cinching hard against Izaya's neck for a moment as Shizuo slides the end through the metal of the buckle, and for a heartbeat's worth of time Izaya can feel the pressure bearing down against his windpipe to ache the start of reflexive panic in his chest. His mouth comes open, his lungs flex hard for air; and then the latch slides into place, and the tension eases, and Izaya gasps a sudden breath as Shizuo smooths the end of the collar in over the clasp.
"There." There's weight against the buckle, Shizuo's touch pressing it against Izaya's skin for a moment of appreciation; and then Shizuo's hand lands in Izaya's hair, his fingers weight the dark of it down over the other's neck, and Izaya is left to sigh an exhale against the unfamiliar weight against his throat. It's pulled close to his skin, the pressure too much for him to ignore; he can feel the collar with every breath, the texture of it fitting flush to his skin even if there's no restriction to his inhales. His pulse thuds against the weight of it with every beat of his heart; the clasp presses to the back of his neck like fingers bracing him in place to hold him steady against the whirl of his thoughts.
"Izaya." That's steady too, low and certain of obedience; Izaya lifts his head without thinking, turning his face up to gaze at Shizuo looking down at him. Shizuo's expression is level, his gaze dark and considering; his attention barely skims over Izaya's face before dropping to his throat. His fingers brush Izaya's hair, his touch draws along the curve of the collar at the other's skin; Izaya can see Shizuo's lashes go heavy, can see the give of the other's mouth as his lips part on an exhale.
"It looks good," he says, his voice ringing with finality; and then, as his attention skips back up to Izaya's face: "Do you like it?"
Izaya has to swallow to bring moisture back into his mouth. Shizuo's fingers are still at the side of his neck, as if the other has forgotten to pull his touch away. It's a distraction, a demand for his attention he can hardly stand; he thinks his heart is going to thrum itself right out of rhythm in his chest. But the collar feels like a grip against him, like it's locking the texture of Shizuo's fingertips to his skin, and: "Yes," he says, his voice strange and strained but clear nonetheless. "I like it."
Shizuo's lashes move again, pulling his expression out of his deliberate calm and into something hot and shadowed for a moment. "Yeah," he says, and if Izaya's heard that tone from him before it's still enough to run through the whole of his body like the charge of Soul Force, like Shizuo is pulling the beat of Izaya's human heart into Resonance with his own as surely and easily as he handles the sharp edge of the other's blade. "I like it too." He lifts his free hand, turning it palm-up as he extends it towards Izaya; his other stays where it is, resting at the other's neck like he never intends to move it. "Stand up."
Izaya isn't sure he can. He can feel himself trembling, can feel Shizuo's electricity running through his veins to knock his muscles shaky and uncertain; but he can lift his hand, and he does, pressing his fingers close against Shizuo's and letting the other's grip tighten around him. Shizuo's thumb fits at his wrist, Shizuo's fingers curl around his palm, and then Shizuo pulls, and Izaya is drawn onto his feet in a single movement that has far more to do with Shizuo's strength than his own. He stumbles for balance and reaches out to grab at Shizuo's shoulder, and in front of him Shizuo is ducking his head, tipping down to bump his forehead against Izaya's as his grip on the other's wrist holds him steady against the movement of his uncertain footing.
"Izaya," Shizuo says, his voice low and rumbling down the whole of Izaya's spine. His fingers slide against Izaya's neck, trailing over the texture of the collar before his palm fits against the back of it, his fingers settling into the other's hair as his hold braces Izaya in place where he stands. "I've got you." His gaze runs over Izaya's face, lingering at the other's eyes and sliding down to his mouth. Izaya stares at him, watching the brown of Shizuo's eyes go dark as his lashes shift, as his head tips; when he takes a breath Izaya exhales like Shizuo is pulling the air from his lungs directly. Shizuo leans in, his lashes dipping over his eyes as he does; Izaya keeps his open, watches the warmth of anticipation melt Shizuo's expression to unconscious beauty in the heartbeat before the other's mouth lands at his. Shizuo's fingers tighten against the back of his head, Shizuo's mouth shifts warm against his; and Izaya slides his hand up around Shizuo's neck, and shuts his eyes, and lets himself be kissed.
The collar against his skin is as warm as Shizuo's mouth.