Durarara!
#1
Izaya x Namie (!)
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"How strange you are," he remarks, idly watching her as she goes into a happy little trance over incestuous thoughts of her beloved younger brother; "Other people express their love with flowers, you know? Or something else equally commonplace that gives off the appearance of sincerity – chocolate. Happy tears. And then there's you, sending him telepathic messages, stalking him, and coercing dying girls into getting plastic surgery in order to fulfil an obsessive childhood fantasy of his. There's no point."
He twirls a pen with his fingers, she continues her filing.
"I like getting flowers," he continues, meditatively, provocatively, "the look on people's faces when they hand them to me – ha! It's really something. Wouldn't you agree? Ah, but then again you're the sort of woman who doesn't bother to receive flowers face to face, or look at people when they're talking to you, hmm? …Unless you feel you have something to lose."
And success! He leans forward in anticipation, completely fixated on the disgusted set of her mouth, her pale pink lips as they reluctantly separate.
"Flowers?" the scorn in her voice is so palpable, it drips from her words like poison; he laps it up like honeyed mead.
"The rose has but a summer reign," she drones, voice deliberately schooled into something vaguely resembling nonchalance; and it's not just ordinary nonchalance, it's bemusedly omniscient nonchalance. Well.
"Flowers," she continues at length, brooding rather spectacularly, "are unfit to represent the form my love takes. Something so…organic and…ephemeral – cannot possibly hope to accurately convey the undying, transcendental nature of my love for him."
He smiles at that, (the cheek of him)and eyes her saucily, pupils dancing with mischief. She half lids her eyes, and waits for it.
"The daisy never dies, though," he scoffs, "it's a hardy weed, you see," he adds, and spins the office chair he's perched in around, kicking off the floor so he can keep going in circles that let him revolve ever closer to where she stands, so they can lock eyes in comical, deadly impasse: but it is a universal rule that all narrowed glances and disdainful lip curling between two persons must eventually shift into laughter of the most incongruous sort.
When they finally snap; the office feels almost too small to contain the sudden eruption of noise in that moment.
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They both end up as near-lifeless heaps on the plush carpeted floor, occasional relapses into mirth making them quake uncontrollably – the sort a disinterested observer would be likely to label as acute seizures. Or something like that.
He's stretched out on his back, fur-trimmed coat and all; hands over his eyes as he rolls from side to side in bizarre pantomime of an emergency drill – now if only he were really on fire, she thinks, brief lucidity of thought piercing through her still-hazy awareness.
She hasn't laughed like this before, has she?
She's sure he laughs like this almost every day.
He whips around to face her then, coiling his lanky frame around, and from where she lies curled on her side, and she blinks. Slowly, once, and simply for the sake of briefly breaking the eye contact he's forced on her, for the record.
"I've decided," he says, feral grin stretching his face wide. "I'm going to get you some daisies."
Daisies – childhood, innocence, purity.
It's a bit of a stretch, but she supposes he could be considered so, in a certain way, when it comes to certain things, if one squints very hard. From what she's heard, he's been this same twisted self since his younger days, and seeing as she doesn't think she can label it maturity in a middle schooler, it's better to say that it is childlike behaviour in an adult (an adult who claims to be forever twenty-one, yes, but let's not split hairs).
"Hey," she yells from the kitchenette, where she's dispensing hot water into a porcelain cup. "Is there anything innocent about you in the least?"
"I don't think so," he calls back, smiling lopsidedly as she places his customary cup of tea in front of him. Ah.
Chamomile.
It seems she's beaten him to it.
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He'd said he wanted to get her daisies - they'd have been the perfect mocking representation of her twisted love and its enduring nature. White and small for the innocence of childhood, the period of her life in which her obsession with that boy started, and that boy's obsession with the head started.
She really should learn to appreciate the beauty of metaphors, is what he wants to say, but can't say. Because what she's done has more than proved that her grasp of allegorical symbolism is satisfactory. Who'd have thought she would one-up him first, by presenting him with daisies in his tea? He's definitely learning not to underestimate his new secretary too much.
Her message is clear; the gesture functions as a comment on how he himself is nursing an enduring, twisted love, his notorious love for humans, so who the hell is he to talk? Still, there's something more subtle underlying it, one that makes him curve a secret little smile into the rim of his teacup. It's reassuring, he supposes, to know that she thinks that there's something pure in everyone, even a generally denounced scumbag like him. But of course.
It's probably more from a desire to consecrate her own idea of love, but still, he'll take this as a compliment. Those are hard to come by these days.
They're both pure in their sick devotions to different things, aren't they?
He takes another pull of his tea, watching the petals swirl haphazardly at the bottom.
It's perfect.
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[notes]
this just happened ok