Izaya.
That was he: magnetically loathsome instigator of a million nemetic flings, all ending the same – with some poor fool utterly broken, deemed of interested no longer, and discarded.
All except you.
A dubious honor.
He looks pale, paler than usual, and smaller. Unexpectedly, this makes you even angrier. Reminds you that even with a twisted, monstrous mind, he is human and can shatter like anyone else. You've always hated your violence, not because that scum doesn't deserve it but because you hate to lose control of yourself.
Except when it was Izaya. With him you could be uninhibited in your rage without feeling bad at all, and now you realize it was because you never thought there would be any consequence. But really the difference between you and him is a single misstep, a misstep that can turn him from opponent to paste and you from combatant to murderer. And now you'll always remember that pale small form, and it makes you sick to your stomach. The freedom afforded by your hate and his skill…Izaya, will you deny me even that one thing? Bastard.
Control. That was what it was always about, you suppose. That he was the one person that never did what you wanted or expected – it wasn't quite true. He'd always get mad and he'd always attack you and chase you down like the only thing he needed in the whole world was to catch up and finally crush you into tar. You thought you'd always have that much, at least. It was why you'd never, never let him catch you – it wasn't just about avoiding death. It was something much more. You wanted him to struggle. You wanted him to be the one to want and want and want – want you – in a pathetic angry futility and then never be able to reach you. You want him panting breathless and tasting blood while you stand there, taunting and tauntingly close. How does it feel, Shizuo? You hope it burns.
You make a point not to react at all when, accompanied by a tremendous cloud of rubble and concrete dust, your door flies past your desk and crashes into the wall. Its assailant (who you have every intention of billing for the damages) is none other than Shizuo Hejimawa, looking madder than you've ever seen. And you (you pride yourself) have seen him madder than has anyone else.
He walks – storms – right up to your desk, swivels your chair to face him, grabs you by the front of your shirt, leans in, and, with a pain that suggests he's almost too angry to form words, Shizuo growls, "Where. Is. He."
You narrow your eyes. "Can I help you?"
Boy does that piss him off.
Growl has been upgraded to shout (unnecessary). "Where is Kazuka?"
You say, deadpan, a little smarmy, "I don't know."
Shizuo says, "I don't believe you." But you can see it's starting to get through that brute's thick skull that his present line of questioning is not terribly effective. He's still got you by the shirt.
"Why don't you have a seat, Shizuo."
/
You're sitting on his fucking couch, like that makes any goddamn sense, and he's circling like a bird of prey, or maybe a shark. It creeps you out, and it's infuriating, to do this on his terms, but you've long ago learned that it is impossible to punch any answers out of Izaya.
"Where is Kazuka?" you say, staring down at the fists balled on your knees, trying and failing to keep your voice even.
"Like I said before: I don't know." His voice has a quality of ambivalence, with a touch of genuine annoyance at the thought that there's some piece of knowledge he doesn't have. He's obviously lying.
He's behind the sofa now, continuing a leisurely stroll. "They have your sisters too, you bastard." Izaya hums a kind of audible shrug of nonchalance. You try not to shudder when his fingers trail across your shoulders.
He's circled back in front of you now, and you use the opportunity to grab him by the shirt again, pull him in roughly without warning. He's already got his knife to your throat. Balanced with one hand on the back of the couch and one foot still on the floor, his knee has landed between your legs. You feel yourself shift them apart slightly to accommodate it.
There's that tension there, a special kind of game you know you have to win if you want the informant to talk. Neither of you breaks eye contact, wavers in your steady glare. Izaya's expression is meant to betray nothing, but in his eyes there's a kind of fascination, a far-away excitement that you suspect you're the only one to ever see. You see his lips quirk up just slightly – no, not even, it's more like you sense the muscles tensing, and fuck. Your mouth feels dry. You tighten your grip and your legs shift a little more and you draw him in just a little closer, and his knife bites your neck you can hardly feel it (one time you remember your blood was on it and he licked it off and grinned and your face burned and your face burns a little now) and for a few more long seconds you're staring and finally – finally – Izaya sighs and leans in…leans across, and whispers, "The folder, on top of that filing cabinet." He jerks his head slightly to indicate direction. His lips brush your ear, just. You glance over, verifying the folder's existence from the corner of your eye, and then you shove Izaya off. You walk right over to the cabinet, grab the folder, and walk right out the door-hole. You don't look back.
/
When Shizuo leaves, you're still on the floor, and you let yourself breathe hard. You cover your face with your hand and choke out a laugh. You've gotta tell Namie to get that door fixed.