That flea didn't go to the cemetery. A low growl rumbled from deep in his throat as he made his way down the dark corridor, fury blinding the glint of a mahogany frame perched neatly on an oak shelf. He's too proud to lay his knee's on the dirty ground for other people- whether it means their life or death. He wouldn't of have. Because it would have denied everything Shizuo knew about the informant for the past eight years. Another growl was near from slipping his lips as he pondered: how much did he really know about him?
Apart from his relationship with Shinra and his odd relationship with his sisters, he realised with furrowed brows that he knew near to nothing about the raven-haired man (except his address of course). The only things Shinra ever mentioned about Izaya was how he was such an amusing man when you get to know him- and much more human than the man himself would like to admit. Not that anyone would want to get close to the insect in their right mind. That, of course, made Shinra an anomaly.
A dull ray of a single lamp gilded the opening of the lounge as the blond peered over the glass railing. The room might of well had flea written on it: the fancy lampshades; the expensive book cases; wide panel windows by a mahogany desk in which sat the informants infamous leather chair; space that seemed to ridicule that of a more middle class home.
"Tsk." Damned flea and his damned money. He began making his way down the set of stairs as he spotted a figure sprawled messily over the sofa. As he straitened the gap between him and the figure, he stared at the matted figure that stood out from the coherent room, hunched over the sofa in disbelief so that the lithe frame was right under his nose.
There were three things that disturbed the blond greatly.
The first being that indeed, more incense* and petal of silky rouge littered the carpeted floor beneath his feet- the trail still fresh as though purposely pointing to Shizuo that the silt had only gathered their recently. However, he was distracted by other facts.
It should of occurred to the blond that someone as rich as the informant would have benefit to a variety of fine clothes, but somehow picturing the insect other than in his trademark jacket seem ludicrous and as concerning as how much skin was actually showing on his nimble legs- the fine silk of the shorts and shirt boasting his slender yet lean shape.
And there lay his biggest and most foreboding concern: if the image of the raven-haired sleeping in front of his enemy wasn't inane enough, how was anyone allowed to look so humane and vulnerable sleeping, and of all people- that flea. His bloodlust seemed to be twisted, perturbed into a new lust that breathed fire down his veins as he gazed at the shadows left on the informant's high cheekbones from the curtain of elegant, curled lashes. Like a girl's.
It pissed him off how perfect the flea's face was, from his provocatively shaped lips to his handsome yet feminine jaw line. It made an irritant heat itch across every cell in his skin as he drank in the informant's deliciously slim waist thirstily as his lips dried. The way his muscles and bones seemed to jut out- defined by the falling shadows of the dimly lit room- yet body leaving sultry curves in the exact right places. The irritation crawled down his torso to the juncture between his legs as the man let out a breathy moan as he turned, silky hair falling across his brow neatly.
The blond lifted a fist above his shoulder, fire burning his hazel irises, till it came down as a gentle caress to the informant's supple, slender legs. Eyes wide, Shizuo jerked back.
What the fuck am I doing?
It was only then in his right sense did he realise that he had left the back door astray in the corridor, rushing back to grab the wooden frame between his strong fingers (not wanting to be in debt to his archenemy of all people) as he filled the gap in the wall with the door, only to let in fall back into his outstretching arm. With a grumble, he jammed the damned thing into the hollow, before turning sharply on his heels till a thump of a body was felt beneath his feet.
Oh shit. He hurriedly turned from broken door to the spill of hazy light, breath hitching as another thump stilled the already dense air. Oh shit shit shit shit shit shit shit-
And then silence.
The fortissimo of Ikebukuro huddled into what protection the dark provided, only to poke his head out at the thought of the informant cracking into laughter as his shaming position as he staggered to his feet. He leaned his back to the wall as he sneaked a view round the corner.
* incense is commonly used in japan to pay your respects to the dead, as I did every year I went to japan.
Also, if anyone is waiting for 'mature content', that doesn't come up till later into the story. Sorry for the wait but i'm trying my best not to rush too much. 3
