Izaya has learned that Delic tastes like smoke in the morning, bubblegum in the afternoon, and liquor at night. No matter their schedules, if the two so much as pass one another by, Delic will sneak in a kiss. He's grown accustomed to hands cupping his face as they kiss, long and languidly, in between sips of freshly brewed coffee and puffs of a cigarette. Learnt that if they pass on the sidewalk his arm will be grabbed by the other and he'll be spun on his heels and kissed softly, lips innocently pressing together, momentarily before being freed and allowed back on his way, the pops and snaps of Delic's gum going with him. He's begun to crave the alcohol ladened drool of messy kisses where the two can't seem to breathe without the others tongue down their throat as hands roam his flesh and his body's thrust into.

Izaya's no longer sure whose stringing the other along for their own benefit anymore. Their arrangement had been simple enough and its hidden intentions obvious to the sharp lothario that had happily taken advantage of the informant's pathetic, juvenile weakness. But even so, Delic's affections eventually picked up from the instinctual mechanics of sex and the practice of pampering his clients to... this mess. When his heart began to feel heavy with the fullness of passionate attentions from a blond rather than the hollowness of rejection and hatred from a blond, the brunet began to wholly fear the new attachment his traitorous heart had formed without his knowledge or consent. He had foolishly allowed himself to be lulled and made drunken while seeking momentary refuge from the dread of loneliness and grant himself some physical comfort, and now he was trapped in a new cycle, possibly worse than what he had been in before. The fear and paranoia of abandonment now swam in the gut of the stupid god that allowed himself to be human for a few frenzied nights of pleasure.