Prompt from the durarara! kinkmeme:

Izaya is involved in an abusive relationship and Shizuo can't stand the "fucking flea" being mistreated like that even if it's him.
- please make it as IC as possible; the guy (higher up mafia guy?) has leverage over Izaya that makes resistance impossible
- Izaya is ashamed of his situation and would rather DIE than reveal what's happening to him. Bit by bit Shizu-chan noticed that the numerous wounds are not just caused by their fights.
- slow development is slow

Posting this story here because it was requested and because Livejournal is getting screwier with each day.

The sun was shining, birds chirped innocently, despite there not being that many trees around, and Orihara Izaya felt like everything in his environment was trying to laugh at him and mock him for his current state.

With sweaty palms, he smoothed down his slightly torn shirt, before closing the zipper of his favorite jacket to hide the bruises littering his neck and the purpleish bitemarks on his collarbone and chest.

He was a mess, and he knew it. Usually, he wasn't left in this state. Sometimes, he was even shown enough mercy to be dropped off at his apartment after the 'meetings', or at least allowed to take a shower to wash away blood and other fluids, to give him at least some kind of semblance of relief.

Not so this time. With a snickering laugh, he had been shoved out the door to the Awakusu-kai base and left out on the street.

The sun was burning every inch of him and his already sweaty hair began to dampen again. The dull throbbing in his skull evolved to a fullblown headache because of the sun's blinding light, and he felt tingling waves of nausea ripple through his stomach.

Cynicism always had his back, and a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth, albeit weak.

Using the hand he could still move somewhat properly without it feeling like the limb itself was going to fall off, he wiped his face, making sure to get rid of the crusted blood, which had dried messily from his nostrils down to his chin.

After he decided he looked somewhat decent, so that his beloved humans wouldn't have to worry about him, or try to attack him now that they thought he was weakened, he tried his best to walk without limping.

Some of the people passing by shot him curious looks of recognition. Many of his dear humans were interested in him, almost as much as he was fascinated by them. The usual crowds that might have looked like a dull gray mass of people to anyone else, faceless and uninteresting, consisted of so many fascinating individuals to him, he would have liked to have the time, and energy, to talk to and see through all of them. Another reason that made him so desperate for immortality.

Pushing his useful hand into the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out his cellphone, looking through a few text messages waiting to the read and answered. Maybe he was just trying to distract himself, but he pushed the thought back, because he was not like the humans around him, who needed to distract themselves from unpleasant events to block them out.

Then again, denial was another thing humans were so very good at, and so prone to doing.