"I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don't tell truths. I tell what ought to be truth."

― Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

Izaya was one more misplaced touch away from gutting the man and eating his intestines raw, blood and all. It was disgusting, the feel of unwanted fingers brushing the hem of his dress in a manner that was both nauseating and lacked refined subtlety. He'd been in this position before, dressing up all pretty, heels and dresses, with female perfume drifting about him. Though, never in his life would he have guessed that the only way he, the greatest informant in all of Tokyo, would be able to draw a piece of information out of this pathetic misogynist was to emasculate himself to such a degree. When he dressed up, he had done it for his own personal amusement, simply to see the flustered flush sink onto hormonal teenage boys in his presence, not―

Izaya subtly knocked the man's hand off his thigh.

"Naughty Mr. Christopher-san!" He cooed, and although the foreigner's fingers were no longer laced around his leg, the man's perverse smile grew, "we're here on business, remember?"

"Business is no fun without some form of, how shall I phase this, convincing, no?" The man leaned forward, resting one hand right next to Izaya's drink, the other on the back of the raven's stool. The man was too close for comfort, the stink of alcohol was starting to make Izaya dizzy in the worst of ways. He hadn't even gotten a tidbit of information, and he'd been here for a while.

"Kanra-chan is not for sale Mr. Christopher-san, you have to impress me first!" He pouted playfully, the blood draining from his face when he heard the man hum and saw him attempt to lean in even further. His intentions were clear, and Izaya wasted no time in bringing the pineapple Malibu to his lips, effectively blocking the advance.

"So," Izaya attempted to redirect the conversation to where he wanted it to go when the man had drawn himself away in disappointment. He knew that at some point, he would have to give into this man's advances if he planned on getting the information he needed. The man's knowledge of Izaya's single state was a plus, and the informant knew this well. He just couldn't help his skin from crawling whenever the man tried to touch him. "Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Christopher-san―"

"Just Chris is fine, sweetheart," Oh Thor, save me now.

"Yes. Chris-san," Izaya cleared his throat, mainly to clear the bile rising up. "Tell me more about you."

"What's there to know, just a rich western man― what's there not to like, darling?" The man took a long sip off the Bloody Mary that sat in front of him, openly looking Izaya over in the blue and magenta hues of the bar.

"Mm," Izaya swooned externally, "a confident man who speaks fluent Japanese. Truly, what is there not to like!"

"Been here damn near fifteen-years," the man chuckled lowly, "I know pretty ladies like you inside out, I know your type, I speak your language." Izaya wanted to scrub every inch of his body with acid, burning the layer of skin this man laid eyes on. With a flirtatious roll of his hips, Izaya pushed forward against his better judgement.

"Oh? And what brought you here and made you stay, Chris," Izaya near sung the name wantonly, and if the heated gaze of the westerner was much to go by, Izaya figured he was on the right track.

"Money, sweetheart, money," he purred right back, "a shipment of the sweetest smelling, wads of cash you'll ever see." The man threw down the now empty drink, signaling for a refill.

"Oh!" Izaya faked a flabbergasted gasp, bringing a beautifully manicured finger to his mouth, "sounds dangerous!"

"What does?" The man asked, looking mildly confused. Izaya smirked internally, he'd have the man eating out of the palm of his hand in no time. He flipped his hair outward seductively, leaning in with a cupped hand to whisper near the man's face. The foreigner seemed all too happy with the raven's approach.

"Counterfeit money, no?" Izaya lied, playing the card of the misinterpreted statement. The man's flushed, drunken face broke out into a loud laugh, one that seemed too amused for Izaya's liking. Yes, he was playing the role of the 'bad' yet blissfully ignorant young-lady, but this was simply ridiculous. He was being laughed at.

"No, no, darling. I don't fake money. It's more, complex, than that. No need to put a damper on the night." He smiled, wrapping an arm around Izaya's waist, the other hand resting on the raven's hip, attempting to reel him in closer.

"You don't trust me― but I'm a good girl, Mr. Christopher-san," Izaya whined, allowing the man to proceed even though it was killing him inside. The strong smell of cologne, paired with the club's loud, undying music made Izaya sick. He wanted out, he wanted personal space, and nothing more than to throw off his wig and burn the shoes and leave. Though, as he watched the bartender wink at him and the foreigner― who had his nose buried under Izaya's ear― he knew there was no getting out of this.

"Kanra," he mumbled into the ravens neck, "I'm not talking about money, doll, I'm talking powder, yeah?"

Now we're getting somewhere, Izaya smirked, eyes wicked under the bangs of his wig. "Powder? You mean― oh my, you're so bad Chris! Shipments too?"

"Boat―" the man inhaled Izaya's scent heavily, "―fuls, love."

Izaya giggled, "No! And how much is a boatful, Mr. Christo―" That's when Izaya felt the man forcefully shoved off him, paired the slight clattering of glass as the man was roughly shoved up against the bar. Then Izaya felt his heart stop.

He looked into the flaming eyes of Shizuo Heiwajima.

"What d'you think you're doing, cheating on me, Kanra, baby?"

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