Moonlight hides so much
Moonshine conceals so much
Hide, hide, hide
Here beneath the silver luminance, two shadows meet.
Intermission – Moonlit Meeting
[WEEKEND 1]
Izaya hated Shizuo.
Humans were predictable. Calculable. They were line numbers and symbols in an equation. Simply string them together and start the algorithm; the answer was sure to follow. And Izaya was good at guessing the answer, at removing himself from the equation so that he could observe objectively. Excellent, in fact. Sometimes, the occasional outlier would shake up the equations and he would be thrilled, but the outcome was still—if not predictable—within the realm of possibility.
Shizuo was a complete impossibility.
From his herculean strength to his hair-trigger temper; nothing about him screamed human. The opposite, actually. He oozed danger from his pores, rage running red through his veins and bleached blond hair a distinct warning sign for all. A lion amongst sheep. A beast, a monster. As much as Izaya was interested in studying and deconstructing his psyche, he felt an important obligation to destroy him.
It was, after all, the shepherd's duty to guard his flock.
And yet…
("I may have the body of a monster, but you certainly have the mind of one," Shizuo laughed humorlessly. "What a pair we make, don't you agree?"
Izaya hated Shizuo.
Who was he to tell him that? He was a stupid, single-celled Neanderthal. What does he know about the differences between humanity and monsters?
(Amber eyes gazed at him, calm, serene, infuriatingly accepting. "I know enough about monsters.")
Izaya hated Shizuo.
("The feeling is fully mutual," Shizuo returned, but the words lack a certain edge, a bite that, with it gone, turned the words into something resembling kindness.)
(Why did he smile like that at him? Why did he look so sincere, so happy?)
I don't understand what he's thinking at all.
Shizuo was more than unpredictable. He was impossible, a wild card in his carefully arranged deck, an extraneous variable interfering his controlled experiments. No human was able to do that, and so Shizuo, with all his impossibility, must be a monster.
("You're the monster here. I'm one hundred percent pure, genuine human.")
Monsters needed to be killed.
(Who was he to tear down his carefully crafted masks? Who was he to see through his façade like it was a thin film of mist? Who was he to look at him and smile, as if accepting everything that he was—even the parts Izaya rejected?)
(How dare someone like Shizuo exists!)
The cool night air felt refreshing after hours in the smoky bar.
Izaya grinned to himself, stepping out of the bar's glaring neon lights to walk into one of the many dark alleys strewn across the city. His hand gently patted his black messenger bag, which was filled to the brim with his illicit earnings, its mundane appearance making it a perfect vessel to hide the cash he won from the gambling ring he often participated in. With his youthful looks, the brunet looked more like a lost school boy who wandered into the city's underbelly, but those who judged him as easy prey would soon find out the business end of his switchblade.
This should be enough for the house.
Now all I have to focus on is Mairu and Kururi's fees.
He nodded to himself, feeling remarkably cheerful after winning several rounds of poker. This was what he needed, something to reassure himself that his skill at aggravating dangerous people and still come out on top intact, especially after an infuriating week with an oddly calm Shizuo. Oh sure, the blond still grumbled and chased him, but it lacked the certain bite his beastly rage gave. Instead of thrashing and throwing furniture at him, the monster had taken to talking back at him, snapping and snarking and unearthing things Izaya rather left buried, digging his grubby little paws at all the weak points he could find, widening the cracks and ripping out all his—
Enough.
I am not going to think about the brute. Nope. No way. Nuh uh.
Good mood effectively ruined, Izaya grumbled to himself and kicked a pebble. The intense neon lights from behind him casted long shadows, darkening his scowl. Hands in his pockets, the brunet kicked another rock and wondered the benefits of throwing out the towel now.
No. I don't give up. I never lost at any games I play, and this is no different.
So what if he's not playing by my rules? I'll just force him to. I'll win no matter what it takes.
With a determined nod, he decided that it was time for him to step up the game.
As he was about to leave the alleyway, a voice called out to him. "Nakura-kun!"
Izaya stopped, and upon recognizing the voice, sighed. With his back facing the speaker, he drawled in the best haughty tone he could muster. "Ah, Benihime-san, to what do I owe this displeasure?"
"Now, now, Nakura-kun," the woman replied, purring out his pseudonym in the same way he did hers. He couldn't hear her footsteps as she approached, but then if he heard she would have made a very poor ex-assassin. "Is that any way to greet your elders?"
Sensing there was no way out of this until he gave her what she wanted, Izaya turned and faced her with a smile, his usual arrogant mask firmly in place. In return, the brown-haired woman greeted him with a congenial smile of her own. Her long hair was tied into a braid and swept over one shoulder, arms crossed under her chest and back leaning casually against the wall. In the luminance of the moonlight, her smile turned into a smirk, her chocolate-brown eyes tinted a silvery hue.
"Ah, excuse me," he gave her a mock bow, eliciting small laughter from her, "I was never taught to be polite to people I couldn't stand."
"So rude…" she shook her head, more exasperated than irritated. Pushing herself off the wall, she stepped towards him. "How are you doing, Nakura-kun? I haven't seen you around for a while."
"I do have more things to do than play cards every night," Izaya replied smoothly.
She tilted her head, the smirk curving down into a small frown. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought that the underground freelancer was concerned.
"If only you were 'busy' every day," she sighed, clever chocolate eyes soft, "Kids like you should be enjoying their life, not hanging out in places like this."
"Who says I'm not enjoying it?" Izaya smirked. "I must say, it was fun to see you throw out Ran Izumii."
'Benihime' huffed, smiling ruefully. "I wouldn't need to do that if you didn't harass him."
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" The brunet chuckled.
She shook her head, gazing at him with eyes so soft; it briefly reminded him of Shizuo. The moonlight gave her chocolate eyes a silvery shine, but he could easily see it turn golden in the sunlight. The momentary reminder of his current headache gave him another reason to loathe her.
"You have a twisted sense of fun," she said, as blunt as ever, "Either that, or you're an adrenaline junkie. Can't decide which is worse."
"That's the last thing someone like you should say to me, Mrs. Hitwoman," he teases, drawing out the title until it became an insult.
She shrugged, easily dismissing his jab as if it was a wave lapping a beach. "True. With my past, it is pretty hypocritical of me to tell you what you should and shouldn't do. But that's why I'm telling you, because I've been to the places where you've been," chocolate eyes slanted sideways, mouth tipping into a sad smile, "And the places where you'll be, if you continue doing this."
"I can survive without you looking over me," Izaya was quick to point out, something which he refused to admit as irritation simmering in his chest. To acknowledge that her words, her actions, her care was frustrating him would mean admitting that she had the ability to get under his skin. And no one could do that, much less touch Izaya's composure.
(And yet, look at Shizuo.)
Her mouth twisted into a firm line, and she glanced away, gazing up at the moon, at the starless night, before sighing, tension relaxing from her shoulders, and shook her head again. When she moved her gaze to meet his, her chocolate brown eyes were (infuriatingly, aggravatingly, impossibly) accepting.
"If you say so," the underground freelancer replied amicably, smiling softly, kindly (Who was she to smile like that?). She stepped around him, sleeves almost brushing past his. At the mouth of the alleyway, she stopped and turned, tilting her head as she said. "You know, I have a son around your age."
"My condolences for your child," Izaya drawled mockingly.
She sighed, more exasperated than truly annoyed, "If you ever meet him, I think you two can become great friends."
"Friendships are for the mundane," he dismissed her words, "I love humanity, but I will not stand with them."
"You two are so alike," she laughed wryly, turning on her heel and waving over her shoulder, "You know, you should come over to my place someday. I'll introduce you two. I'm sure you'll like him."
"No thanks," he repeated the same answer he gave at the end of each of their meetings. "I don't need anyone. I never needed anyone."
She turned her head, revealing a small, sad smile and chocolate eyes that briefly flashed amber in the passing car lights, and left without further words.
(And yet it echoed there anyway, lingering in the spaces within the night, hidden under the shadows of the moonlight, in the places Izaya feared to look: "Yes, you do.")
Izaya hated her.
If Izaya didn't owe her so much—if she hadn't helped him out and watched out for him during his early days in Ikebukuro's underground—he would have stopped at nothing to dig out every little secrets she hid and absolutely ruin her for treating him as if he was another boy, another human.
(Who was she to look at him and smile, as if accepting everything that he was—even the parts Izaya rejected?)
As it was, he restrained himself from even finding out her true name.
