Another, hopefully short, series. I should really finish the alter egos one, but I'm in a bit of block with it.
Anyway, this is basically the normal storyline, but Izaya is an artist. As always, tell me what you think!
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A painter goes through moments when he has his muse. It's usually his or hers latest lover, as it goes through moments when it's happy, when it's dramatic, or even, when it's angry. Izaya Orihara - an exceptional painter to every extent, who has been for years - is no exception.
The latest phrase, one lasting several years, shows a strange relationship. One of love, one of hatred. One of loving your enemy. And it all started with one painting.
The painting of a tall man. His skin was tan, and his dyed blonde hair was what could be considered windswept. He was grinning at something out of frame, sweet honey-colored eyes glancing at the artist.
Izaya, his clothes splotched with various shades of paint, felt his heart skip as he let his gaze slide over the painting. It would seem to be okay, to be romantic even, but it just reeked of disappointment from the artist. The blonde in his painting was his enemy. His heart shouldn't be skipping; he shouldn't want the real blonde so badly to be there that it hurt. It would seem, though, that his heart skipping for Shizuo Heiwajima had become the norm. To be quiet frank, it was pissing him off.
Cursing in his head, Izaya left the painting, pulling off his splotched shirt. He wasn't ready to admit that he was in love with his enemy, it just didn't seem plausible. He had painted Shizuo before, a piece named "Monster" of Shizuo yanking out a street sign. It had pissed the blonde to no end, and Izaya had, for a while, basked in knowing he pissed the man off with his art. But lately…
He ran a hand through his hair, lying back on his couch, tired and angry. His painting was easily his best, his subject gorgeous, the colors blending in ways the only happen in paintings. It all pulled together. And, it shouldn't. It should be rage filled and sharp, but this... this painting was of a rare smile, one not even given to the artist, and it was soft. It hinted to, well, love. Izaya admitted defeat as the warm feeling flooded him again.
…
When his assistant came by later, Izaya was collapsed on the sofa. He had been sleeping for some time. The woman moved silently to the painting, careful as the man could wake up any second. She was smiling as she admired the painting, the lazy haze of sunset adding to the effect. She picked up a clipboard, the painting's name scribbled across its page.
"…Or is he?"