and i wanna hear what you have to say about me
hear if youre gonna live without me
i wanna hear what you want
what the hell do you want?
The apartment is a mess.
Shattered glass from the mirror that had been slammed into; broken porcelain from the lamp and the plates that had been smashed over a blond head. Drying smears of blood decorates the walls and the floor, and there are few holes in the plaster as though someone had driven their fist through it at some point. It's all deadly silent save the sniffing that's heard here and there, and there are only two occupants in the entire apartment; both of which are located in the bedroom.
Orange and white pill bottles decorate the nightstand near the bed; some of the containers left carelessly open where they spill their contents across the wood; down on to the floor where the multicolored pills mix with glass and messy clothes. Several liquor bottles mingle with the tiny orange ones; a wondrous combination.
Pulling the tissue away from his face once it's soaked crimson to it's maximum extent, and a pale hand tugs a few more out of the box resting in his lap. There are bruises on his wrists, and he holds the fresh sheets up to a still bleeding nose; the used ones joining a small building pile of crumpled ones at his feet.
A flick of a lighter breaks the silence as a deep inhale is heard. The room slowly starts to fill with the smell of tobacco.
With his body covered in dark, purpling bruises – a lot of which are shaped like hand an fingerprints – Izaya lifts his marked face a little so he can look at the tanned, muscled back of the other male in the room. The blond has deep cuts and scrapes littered down his skin and arms, but they've pretty much all stopped bleeding. Izaya knows that the blond's chest probably looks like mutilated raw meat; he certainly went to work with his switchblade this time around.
They're both sitting on the king-sized bed with it's blankets and sheets twisted about; stained with blood and other body fluids. Izaya's up near the headboard, clad only in his black boxers as he wills his nose to stop gushing blood. It's getting quite annoying, to be honest, and his jaw aches from when Shizuo slammed his fist into it. He's probably going to have a mark the size of a baseball near his mouth and cheek by tomorrow; and his lip is busted at the corner from the impact.
Shizuo has his back turned to the smaller man; twisting the cigarette in his mouth with his teeth and tongue. He's already pissed the fuck off, but he's hoping the nicotine will calm his nerves a little. The moment that fucking maggot behind him starts talking, he'll snap. He can't put his shirt on because he knows that moment he does the white material will soak up the clotted blood decorating his torso; he doesn't really want to ruin his clothing.
The bed shifts a little bit and Shizuo can both hear and feel the movement behind him; a brief moment later the battered brunet enters his line of vision and Shizuo has to will himself not to act out again. He grips his fingers into the bedsheets and bites down on his cigarette. Getting arrested for murder wasn't exactly something he wanted to experience.
He watches the maggot pick around on the floor for a few minutes; weeding out his clothing from the mess they've created. His long-sleeved shirt is in shreds and his pant's are completely ripped open. The only thing that actually managed to stay in tact was is stupid fucking girly coat; even if the white fur trim was mussed with flaked and drying claret.
Deciding he can't really take much more of having the informant in his sight; Shizuo abruptly stands and stalks towards his bathroom with irritated strides. Once he's inside with the light flicked on, he makes sure to lock the door behind him and he grids his half-finished cigarette out on the dingy wall beside him. The florescent light above flickers and sputters a few times every other minute or so; but that's what happens when you live in a shitty apartment on the bad side of town.
He avoids looking in the mirror as he strips himself of his bloodied pants and boxers, thinking about what kind of excuse he should use when he has to take them to the dry cleaners so his uniform doesn't have stains. His hands are a bit jerky with frustration and built up aggression, but he manages to successfully turn on the shower tap to a rather reasonable temperature before climbing in beneath the spray. The shower-head is a bit rusted around the tips, but the water is relatively clean, and he cannot remember the last time he replaced the curtain. It looks just as filthy as most everything else he owns.
A slight hiss escapes his lips; the mixture of sweat and water stinging the deep cuts that are littered across the expanse of his torso, but he instantly blocks it out until he can't feel it anymore. Pain was easy for him to disregard; his body had it's own little set up defense against it.
Shizuo lowers his head a little; hand braced on the tiled wall before him as he's leaning forward, and he watches blankly at the deluded red and pink rivulets that the drain swallows down. Watches as his blood mixes with the water; spiraling down his skin in a rather morbid fashion.
He lightly scrubs himself clean; rinsing away all of the gore and sweat in less time than he'd originally thought. The waters turning a bit icy in contrast but he doesn't particularly care because it feels soothing against the welts and slashes he's been decorated with. They've all clotted over a while ago, and with the rapid recovery rate his body has, he doesn't think it'll really take long for them to scab over and heal. Maybe a few days – a week at most.
Shizuo yanks the shower curtain open once he's turned off the tap, and grabs at the towel hanging messily on the rack to his left. He gives his head a quick shake to muss out as much water from his hair as he feels the need to, and wraps the gritty towel around his waist where he holds it closed with one hand. He's still dripping wet all over the tiled floor, but he doesn't care about water stains so it doesn't really matter.
Kicking his dirty clothes to the side as he makes his way out of the door; he makes a mental note to gather them up tonight so he can get them laundered. He makes it back into his bedroom and his movements halt to a stop in the doorway when he see's Izaya sitting back on the bed again; still wearing only his boxers while he picks dried blood from underneath his nails.
"...Why are you still fucking here?" The blond demands, because Shizuo Heiwajima doesn't ask the informant questions – he demands answers.
"You ruined my clothes." Izaya states like it's the most obvious thing in the world; not looking up from his fingers to address the other properly.
"So? Get the fuck out of my apartment." Shizuo retorts as he moves to one of his dressers; intent on digging out some jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual bartender uniform. He has no intent on going anywhere today.
Izaya merely leans back against the headboard, one leg stretched out before him while the other hangs off the bed, his foot brushing the carpet. He doesn't say anything more as he takes his time watching the blond dress with sharp, dark red eyes. He still doesn't move as Shizuo pulls his jeans up and takes a seat on the edge of the mattress before him, tugging on a dark gray shirt as he taps out a fresh cigarette from the pack at that sat half-crushed on the floor.
Letting out a sigh, the brunet doesn't wait for the dept collector to speak again as he finally raises himself to his feet. It hurts a bit to walk, but he knows that tomorrow he'll feel like he'd been hit by a train – and that was perfectly alright with him. In fact, he was looking forward to it. Pain to him was always delicious, and he can't stop himself from tonguing at his busted lip in thought. All he can taste in his mouth is blood and tobacco.
Shizuo smokes in silence as he watches the other move; padding past him without showing an ounce of physical pain. Izaya stops in the doorway so he's facing out in the hall, and the blond takes the small moment to let his eyes scan over the deep bruising across pale skin, and the blood that's slicked down the brunets thighs; now mostly covered by his black boxers. A sense of accomplishment flutters inside him a little – he was hoping that he'd broken some bones this time, but by the way the informant is moving he doesn't seem to have any breaks.
"I'm using your shower." Izaya states as he turns himself a little so he leaning lightly against the door-frame to the bedroom.
Shizuo grits his teeth and he can feel his bedsheets starting to rip in his fists. "No, you're fucking not." He corrects as though the smaller man had spoken his words by mistake; didn't fully realize what he was saying.
"Yes, I am." The informant snaps right back; his tone is light but the words are much to biting and his eyes are much too sharp.
Huffing out a bit of white smoke, Shizuo tugs the cigarette from his lips as he glares at the other man; thinking his next move. "¥ 7,000,000."
"...What the hell does that mean?"
"¥ 7,000,000 should be enough to cover all the damage that's been done. Pay up and you can shower."
It's almost funny to the informant – sometimes he forgets that Shizuo can be just as fucking manipulative and twisted as he is. That was probably one of the roots to their hostility; both of them being like ends of the same magnet so they can do nothing but repel each other with sick disgust. God, he wants to kill that fucking blond shithead so bad.
Izaya bares his teeth for a moment, not at all impressed by the others disposition. "In addition to the shower, I get to keep a pair of your clothes to wear home, seeing as you destroyed mine with your cavemen tendencies."
"I get to pick out the clothes."
The nonchalance is pissing him off, but he knows the blond is only doing it on purpose. He knows Shizuo's anger is likely so flared that it's bordering on homicidal. But that's alright – that was good; he wanted the dept collector mad at him. He relished in the way the other acted when his sanity snapped; just as he knows the blond gets off on the fact that he does. Such a twisted relationship; but Izaya couldn't deny that it was fucking suffocating.
"We'll stop by an ATM after I'm dressed."
After nearly five years of this shit, it was killing them both.
Listening to the brunet shuffle about in the hallway, Shizuo can see his shadow shift and move against the bedroom door. Stupid fucker. The blond bites down irritably on his cigarette before he leans back; reaching idly to grab one of the assortment of pill bottles decorating his nightstand. Snatching up one that was relatively full and popped the cap off with the thumb of the hand that held it, removing his cigarette just long enough to swallow down a few percocet. Anything to settle his nerves.
Shizuo closes his eyes as he hears the bathroom door slam shut; falls back against the stained and ruined sheets on his bed while he waits for the painkiller to kick in. He reaches a hand up to pluck the cigarette from his mouth so he can hold it off to the side, arm hanging off the bed as white smoke rolls from his lips. He has to tilt his head a little because the bright sunshine streaming through his window is blinding him a bit. Mocha eyes scan the ceiling above; imagining the shapes that all of the dirty marks on the paint make.
He's fucking sick of this whole situation.
for your own protection
Shizuo thinks – no; he knows there's something wrong with him.
There was never anything loving and soft between him and Izaya. It was always hard and rough; always a game to see who could bleed more. Who could hurt more – this twisted little mockery of a relationship that was shielded from the outside public. Their injuries could always be blamed on fights, and it's not a complete lie. After all, the two of them fuck just like they fight.
He'd never been in a relationship with anyone – never actually slept with anyone other than the one person on the planet he can't stand. Why? It had nothing to do with his appearance – he was regarded as model material by many; even approached by many talent scouts in his life.
It was all his temper – his strength. He was always afraid of hurting people; hell, he couldn't tap someone without giving them a bruise; couldn't hold a hand without breaking bones. Sex just wasn't for him – not that anyone would want him with his short temper.
But then there's Izaya.
Fucking maggot got off on his abuse and found his flared temper endlessly entertaining. There was no one else, and Shizuo was only human; not like he could resist anyway.
Izaya was the one who instigated it all; the one who came onto him first, even if he was wired on the fucking coke he snorted at the back of some club. They were about twenty back then and the blond was serving drinks at the bar of the trashy club that the flea liked to get shit-faced at.
Shizuo couldn't even recall just how it happened – one minute he was doing his job, and the next he was in the grungy bathroom with his enemies legs wrapped around his waist while he fucked him into the gritty wall. The light blinked and flickered with the pounding music outside, and the brunet's pupils were constricted into little dots from the drugs pumping through his system.
There was nothing romantic about it; it was dirty and quick and all over in less than ten minutes. Then he's slumped against the disgusting wall with his pants undone while he watched the brunet collect himself while snickering out a few insults and predictable lines. Then – Izaya's gone. Just like that while Shizuo tries and fails to figure out what the fuck just happened.
He didn't see Izaya for nearly two months after that. Next thing he knows, though; he's getting arrested for some false shit he didn't do because the prick wanted to jerk him around yet again.
Once he was released the next day with his charges cleared; after he's sitting at home pissed the fuck off because he got fired from his job – Izaya comes banging on his door with that typical shit eating grin that Shizuo wants to cut off the informants face. Then it started; the entry point in their sadistic and artificial relationship. It started the moment the blond drug the informant into his apartment where they could bring their hatred to an all new level; the playing field had been altered.
Shizuo has a lot of regrets in life; but that one tops above all else.
He wishes he would have punched Izaya in the face that day; beat him, kill him – anything other than pulling him into his apartment. It's his fault that they're where they are now, and it hurts him to think about it.
nobody broke your heart
Izaya hates Shizuo's apartment.
It's dilapidated, dingy and all too small. There is no air conditioning and the heater only works half of the time, which means you've got to bundle up in clothes during the winter time because the insulation isn't all that great. The blond doesn't seem to grasp the idea of cleanliness; he always keeps shit tossed around on the floor and almost never puts anything away. There's always a punch of empty liquor bottles laying around with crushed out cigarettes, and it's like living in a frat house.
To Izaya; it's a complete shithole.
But that's where he finds himself; alone and sprawled across the king-sized mattress in the single bedroom. The blankets and sheets are clean of their last rendezvous; but there's still several marks of dried blood on the walls; he makes a mental note to bitch the blond out about it later. He doesn't really know why he's here – why he always caves and comes back. But, he's not the only one. If he stays away then Shizuo always comes to him. It's fucking smothering and they can't seem to keep away.
Maybe it was something with their chemistry. But – this wasn't love. It was far from anything sweet and cuddly – it was hate that had escalated into a new sort of expression. The sex was always painful for both of them; but that's what got them off, it seemed. There was always a consistent amount of bleeding and bruising from both parties; damaging each other equally, but it was driving Izaya nuts.
He didn't work today; called Namie to tell her that is was something akin to a short vacation – take the rest of the week off because he simply didn't feel up to it, lately. He didn't really have it in him to manipulate and spin people around; didn't have it in him to be his cunning and provocative self.
Shizuo was wearing him down – physically, mentally, and emotionally. Yet, seeing as he was the one who decided to invite himself into the blond's apartment while the man wasn't home; it was enough to prove just how much of a masochistic he truly was.
His mind is completely blank; empty and filled with static. He feels completely focused and alert; yet inside he's docile and unfeeling – like a zombie. Wide awake yet too apathetic and hollow to do anything more than just lay there.
A light meowing makes him tilt his head in the direction of the noise; staring disinterestedly at the window. He knew right off the bat what it was; a small calico cat down below keening for attention. That was the stupid stray cat Shizuo liked to feed and pet on; he once heard the blond call it 'Cali' which was obviously short for it's breed name. Zero creativity, that one.
He's been laying on the dept collectors bed for the better part of the day; and the alarm clock sitting next to some empty pill and liquor bottles told him that it's ranging close to 4pm.
Shizuo didn't start using, or drinking excessively until after their faulty relationship began. Which was funny, because; Izaya didn't start using or drinking until he couldn't take their game of cat and mouse anymore.
Izaya slides his gaze towards the hallway from where he lay still; he heard the apartment door knock open with a bit of rustling as a person softly cursed to themselves.
Footsteps sound in the dead silence that the brunet had maintained until finally Shizuo appears in the doorway to the bedroom; already in the process of removing his vest and bow-tie before his movements halt. The blond growls softly, tugging the material from his neck with irritation as he glares at the brunet sprawled across his mattress like dead weight. Izaya's expression is rather blank; pupils dilated as he blinks slowly here and there.
Not bothering to ask what the fuck he was doing in his apartment, Shizuo takes a heavy seat on the edge of the bed so he's faced away from the other man. After all these years; it's getting more and more predictable.
"What're you on?" The blond grunts out by way of curiosity as he digs into his pants pocket for yet another cigarette.
"Adderall," Izaya murmurs back in a flat tone; shifting his gaze back to the ceiling above him. A small, hollow sound laugh titters past his lips for a moment, but the lack of smile and amusement in his eyes make it seem all the more empty. "Hey, Shizu-chan," he says and his voice is barely above a whisper; as if he couldn't be bothered to speak any louder than that. "...feel my heart. It's beating so fast..." The action clearly takes him a lot of effort and will, but he reaches lazily out the the blond to take loose hold of his wrist.
"I don't want to feel your fucking heart," the dept collector growls back, but he doesn't tug his hand away when Izaya drags it towards him. The brunet lays it on his chest, and sure enough he can feel the organ beating much too fast, and much to hard.
The informant doesn't make another move after that, opting instead to lay still and listen to the thumping in his own body while he stares blankly at the ceiling, and Shizuo rolls his eyes. He tugs his hand away from the man, glaring irritatedly at him form the corner of his eyes.
"How much did you take?"
Izaya remains completely still save the way he's tapping his index finger over his heart in a steady rhythm; mirroring his own quickened heart-rate. "One-hundred-seventy-five milligrams..."
Shizuo grunts a little at the response, looking away to another part of the room so he didn't have to be greeted with the sight of such a drugged up and pathetic looking Izaya. "I'm not taking you to the hospital if you O.D," he states but can't deny the way he feels pissed at the others action. He leans back a little bit so he can dig his cigarettes from his front pocket. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I think that..." The brunet turns his head just a little bit so he can face the dept collector head on; blinking slowly every now and then. He sort of feels like he's not getting enough oxygen in his body; not breathing enough.
"...being with you is making me crazy." Izaya finishes; his answer completely honest..
you broke your own
Two weeks later, Izaya constructs a plan.
This cannot go on any longer; he can't take it. Their toxicity is getting to the point that it's fraying him apart – he's been drinking more; often too drunk to do any sort of worth-while work. Many of his clients are beginning to think he's going crazy to real this time, and he can do nothing to prove them wrong, because – it's true. He sets things on a hiatus; prolonging the tiny vacation he had announced he'd been taking, and decides he'll take time off until further notice. Namie's pissed beyond comprehension, but Izaya doesn't really give a fuck.
He's been at Shizuo's apartment pretty frequently over the past few weeks; and it's where he finds himself yet again. Though, this time everything is different. He's not playing this game anymore – not letting that blond ingrate twist him any further. Izaya is stretched to his limit; a thin little string that's daring to snap if it's pulled on anymore. He sorta feels like his psyche is made up of broken glass – all mismatched and aligned; broken pieces that won't fit properly, so they're stuck together with tape and cheap glue.
Izaya smooths his hand across his mouth; crimson eyes watching through the dark bedroom. The moonlight streaming through the window acts as the only form of illumination, as it spills across the bed in shifting shapes of passing clouds. He's got himself up and dressed; leaning against the frame of the bedroom doorway where he stares absently at the sleeping blond on the bed. A piece of folded paper is gripped in his free hand.
Laying on his stomach across the mattress; Shizuo's torso his bare and Izaya can clearly make out each muscle dip and line down the man's back. He has his face pressed comfortably against the pillow he's got his arms buried under, and the sheets are shoved down around his waist. Under any other circumstance Izaya would find the sight endlessly appealing and sexy; he would probably even crawl over on the bed and initiate yet another fuck with the man. But not this time; it was past that point.
"I hate you."
His voice is whispered through the darkness from where it stands in the doorway; brows knitted together in a distressing fashion. His red-brown eyes are pained, as if merely looking at the other man produced a physically adhering effect. This was taking too much out of him – it needed to end; soon. The paper in his hand crinkled just a little as he tightened his grip.
"Shizuo," he murmured; not speaking that horrid nickname he knew the blond hated. Said man continued sleeping undisturbed. "I can't - …." Izaya has to stop for a moment, swallow thickly and collect his words along with his thoughts. "You really are making me insane."
Izaya moves to take a couple steps forward; making to get closer, to do something – he forces himself to stop before he can reach his intended destination. He stands silently in the dark room; illuminated only by the bluish-gray moonlight shining through the dingy solitary window near the bed. Retracing his steps, he bends down to grab up his favorite coat, only to smile sadly when he catches sight of the dark red blood staining the white fur trim.
Holding the article with one hand, he leans forward just a bit to set the scrap of paper he held on the bed, near his adversary's bare torso. He pulls back, making sure not to linger to long on his actions, as he moves to slip on his fur trimmed coat with minimal effort. Turning his back on the sleeping blond, Izaya grits his teeth for a moment as he stands still; breathing deeply before letting a forced and practiced grin cross his features.
Hands tightened into fists that left his knuckles white, contradicting the carefully placed mask on his face; Izaya walks calmly from Shizuo's apartment before he can loose his resolve.
cause you cant finish what you start
A soft groan of frustration emits from his lips against the chill against his skin; goosebumps on his arms. Cracking mocha eyes open irritatedly, Shizuo blinked hazily at the alarm clock on his nightstand, groaning at the numbers. He's so used to having to wake up early for work; even during his days off his body forces him up like some kind of sick habit he hated.
Growling a little, Shizuo grabs at the covers, pulling them up further on his bare torso; trying to rip off the cold, as well as the idea of getting up this early on his day off. He moves to lay on his side when a bit of crinkling catches his attention. Blinking to ward off his sleepiness, he furrows his eyebrows as he stares blankly at the bit of paper laying near his pillow.
Izaya is never there in the morning; they never fall asleep together. Their interactions typically consist of a rough fuck, followed by one of them ingesting a dose of something destructive on their bodies. Directly after getting his fix and fuck, Izaya is gone just as quickly as he came; but he's never once left a note of any kind.
Moving to adjust himself, propped up on his elbows while he lay on his stomach; Shizuo grabs at the scrap of paper and opens the single fold. He stares uncomprehendingly at the hasty scrawl; still remaining neatly printed despite their intent. Izaya was always a meticulous little bastard, after all.
-I'm not playing this game anymore. You're making me crazy, and I hate you so much for it. I'm done, Shizuo.-
Just like that; nothing furthermore written – not even a signature to signify formalities. Regardless of their mutual animosity, Shizuo can't stop the flood of anger that spreads through his system like fire. The scrap of paper is crushed in his hand; nerves making him shaky with aggression and mirrored hurt for what the brunet had implied.
They weren't in a relationship of any kind – there was never anything soft and sweet between them, but Shizuo still feels incredibly rejected and humiliated. It's almost like getting dumped, though there was never anything to get broken up from. In any case; he hated thinking of the fact that Izaya treated it like they could just stop – like he was the bigger man to end their twisted association.
"Stupid fucking maggot..." Shizuo growls to himself, and he he angrily balls the paper up in his fist before tossing it to another part of the room; lost amongst a mess of scattered clothes and liquor bottles.
Turning his back to the offending note; Shizuo shifts his pillow a little to better comfort him. He lets out a frustrated sigh before closing his mocha eyes.
He'd deal with this shit later. Izaya was a fucking moron if he thought he could end it all like this.
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