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He goes to Izaya’s after another fight with Saki.
They’re becoming more and more frequent, and he doesn’t want to think about what it implies. It’s always his fault. He’s too tense, too angry, too distracted, too everything, and he doesn’t even know what to about it.
At least with Izaya he can be as shitty and foul tempered as he likes. Or tired, or moody, or resentful, or anything, and Izaya just won’t care.
Izaya’s secretary is leaving just as he arrives. She frowns at him, clearly not wanting to go back inside.
“He’s out. You have an appointment?”
“No. I can wait.”
“I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
“That’s fine.”
She looks at him a moment longer and shrugs, holds the door open for him. Izaya really doesn’t have any friends.
Alone in the informant’s apartment, Masaomi paces around, adrenalin-fuelled, taking in the high ceilings and the pristine furniture. He can do anything here – steal, burn, destroy – but then it hits him that he can’t, because of the secretary. He sighs.
Not that he could do much anyway. Izaya could come through the door any time. And for all his bravado, Masaomi really wouldn’t like to push him. Though Izaya would probably just find it funny.
He sits on the couch in front of the TV, as if to wait, but the adrenalin gets to him and gets him up again. He’s in Izaya’s space, unsupervised, and he can’t let the opportunity pass him by.
He finds himself in Izaya’s kitchen. The informant had said you can tell a lot about someone from what they eat.
Izaya appears to eat extremely healthily, and to drink extra strong coffee. The only incongruous item is a tub of vanilla ice cream in the freezer, half eaten, though he knows Izaya doesn’t have a sweet tooth. Perhaps he’s on better terms with his sisters than he implies.
Masaomi leaves the kitchen area. He doesn’t even look at the computer, knowing it will be password blocked. He tries the filing cabinets, but they are all locked. There are files on the shelves, but they wouldn't be interesting if they were not locked up.
No, Masaomi’s kidding himself; he knows what he wants to see. His feet are already taking him to the stairs.
Izaya’s bedroom is as pristine as the rest of the place. There is a lot of books, all poetry and novels, some in different languages. His bedding looks expensive. No photos. He stands there, adrenalin coursing through him, and for one absurd, teenage moment, considers going into the bathroom to jerk off. But knowing his luck Izaya would come back before he could finish and just know what he’d been doing, the way he knows everything.
He shakes his head to clear it and goes to examine the books. If Izaya comes back, he can just say he was looking for the bathroom.
He fingers the spines, itching to see which were the most well thumbed, which were old, childhood treasures. They are not alphabetiszed, in no semblance of order, unless it’s one exclusively in Izaya’s mind. It is like looking inside the informant’s head. He doesn’t dare touch any of them.
He backs off and goes to the closet instead, opens it after some hesitation. It is neat, mostly blacks, navy blues and browns, jeans neatly folded, shoes lined up on the floor. All well made, soft against his fingers. There’s a faint scent of cologne.
He finds himself crouching and slipping his hand in one of the shoes, finding it warm, as if recently discarded, but it is of course probably the heat of the apartment. He swallows. He is still hard.
He fingers one of Izaya's rings on the bedside table, presumeably a spare, and tries it on. It is cool, smooth, vaguely reflective. He slides it around his finger a few times before placing it back as he found it.
He sighs and backs out of the room, easing the door closed behind him. His heart is in his mouth. What is wrong with him? He needs to go downstairs and watch TV, maybe help himself to that ice-cream. Forget all about this.
He’s halfway across the landing when he hears a key in the lock. He freezes out of instinct. Then he edges towards the bathroom as if he’s just left it, adjusts his pants, tries to force his features nonchalant. He puts the back of his hand to his cheek and finds it burning. He’s about to call out when he realises Izaya’s not alone.
“I am so sick of having the same fight, Shizu-chan,” he complains, and Masaomi backs up at the name. He does not want to get mixed up with these two. He slides down the wall and inches forward on his knees, until he can just see them from the floor.
Izaya’s back is to Shizuo, throwing his coat off, and Shizuo is glaring at his back.
“It’s a fight you always fucking start.” He is seething, Masaomi can see the tension even from here. He wonders why Izaya let him in. “Every fucking time. I’m not the one who- “
Izaya jumps on him then, and Masaomi cringes automatically until he realises it is not an attack. Izaya is kissing him. His fists are holding Shizuo’s shirt. Shizuo’s hands fall to his waist.
Then he seems to come to his senses and pushes back, holds him at arm’s length.
“You’re not fucking your way out of another fight.”
“Who says I want to get out of fighting?”
He throws himself on Shizuo again, hard enough to knock him to the floor. His view’s slightly obscured by the coffee table, but he sees them shedding their clothes, hears them groaning, swearing, and it hits him when he realises what’s happening. They’re fucking. They’re fucking, they’re fucking, they’re fucking. He almost groans out loud, and this makes him realise he’s still hard, raging now, and it fills him with horror.
He leans back, closes his eyes, but he can still hear them. He shoves a hand to his groin, pressing himself through his jeans.
“Can we at least take the couch this time?” he hears Shizuo saying, raw voiced. “I had fucking carpet burns last time.”
“Then move,” Izaya’s voice comes, also breathless. “I don’t mind carpet burns.”
Masaomi doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t touch himself properly. He doesn’t dare. Izaya makes these glorious little noises when he’s getting fucked – so helpless, so unlike him – and Shizuo’s quieter, just swears now and then, until they’re close to the end and his voice starts to crack.
Masaomi has to stuff his sleeve into his mouth and bite when he comes with them, snapping up into his hand, almost blanks out the whole thing in that moment of bliss.
He sits there still twitching with his sleeve in his mouth as he comes down. He has the sense to control his breathing. He hears them talking.
“You can shower here, Shizu-chan,” Izaya is telling him. “Finish your damn ice-cream. I want more space in my freezer.”
“I’m not fucking staying,” Shizuo snarls, and Masaomi blinks at the malice in it. “Did you listen to a fucking word I’ve said?”
Izaya sighs like he’s the biggest nuisance in the world. “I listened, protozoan. You’re upset with me. But I only – wait, you’re going now?”
“If I stay I’ll fucking kill you.”
Masaomi hears his voice moving away as he talks.
“Oh, come on. Just yell at me some more. Maybe go again. It’ll help you feel better!”
He raises his voice until a slam cuts him off.
Izaya sighs again when he’s gone. “Rude,” he says to himself, as if he knows he has an audience, and the thought reminds Masaomi of his situation. He backs off until he’s pressed into a corner. He has to get out. He’ll just duck out once Izaya’s in the shower. As soon as the water’s running.
He’s figuring out which room is the safest to duck into, so absorbed in this that he doesn’t hear Izaya’s bare feet on the carpet until he’s looking right at him. Masaomi with his stained jeans and soaking sleeve, pushed back into a corner with his knees up, flushed, eyes terrified.
Izaya stares at him, in shock for the first time Masaomi had seen.
Then he begins to laugh. He laughs so hard, he has to grab on the stair rail for support.
Masaomi stares at him and feels the mad urge to push him, to throw his body into his and send him down the stairs, breaking those pearly teeth and his beautiful, perfect body, shutting him up forever.
Then he comes forward and the moment’s gone; he’s just a terrified kid in a corner.
“I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying. His voice is as weak as if he’d been screaming. “I’m really, really sorry. I…”
It makes Izaya laugh even more. He lets himself slide down the wall near Masaomi. He struggles to speak.
“Ma-sa-o-mi,” he giggles. “You – oh, this is unbelieveable, this is priceless, you – oh, aw, look at your face. Relax, I’m not going to eat you.”
“Your secretary said I could wait for you,” he stammers. “I was using the bathroom.”
“Of course she did, and of course you were. Oh, wow. I needed that.” He tips his back against the wall, still smiling. He does not look at all concerned.
Masaomi stares at him.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell someone?” he says slowly, afraid of setting him off again.
His smile fades into his usual one, dangerous, calculating.
“I wouldn’t.” His voice is light, but Masaomi knows him well enough to know it’s a threat. He nods.
“What about Shizuo?”
“What about him?”
“Are you going to tell him?”
He snorts. “That monster has enough on his plate. And you’re rather useful to me at the moment; I’d rather not have you thrown off a roof.”
Masaomi swallows.
Izaya gets to his feet and extends a hand towards him.
“Come on, up you get. I know you probably want to run home and scour your eyeballs and ears, but we- “
Masaomi’s hand wraps around the wrist and pulls, forcing Izaya to one knee, rising up on his own knees as he does so. He catches Izaya’s mouth before he can react.
Izaya remains there for a moment, half balanced, before pushing back.
“Masaomi,” he says, almost seriously. “I can’t laugh anymore. My ribs hurt.”
“Fuck you,” he whispers. He’s hard all over again. He sees Izaya smirk at the phrase and pulls him in again. He needs this, needs Izaya to see what he needs.
Izaya stops him again.
“You’ve got come on you.” He indicates the mess between Masaomi’s legs.
This of all things makes him furious. “So? You’ve just had Shizuo’s all over you.”
“And what makes you think I want anyone else’s?”
Masaomi stares at him. He feels something he didn’t even know he had inside him sink.
“Please,” he says. He can’t help himself. “All the things you’ve done, and this is what you want to get all moral about? Just do it. You can use me. You can- “
“Masaomi.” Izaya is no longer smiling. He stands up. “I’m going to shower. Why don’t you put your jeans and pants in the laundry. I’m sorry I don’t have anything that’ll fit you. Just cover yourself in a blanket or something. I’m sure you’ve done enough exploring to feel right at home.”
Masaomi ducks his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn. Izaya doesn’t offer him his hand again. He goes past him into the bathroom. Masaomi hears him lock the door.
He’s tempted to run – he wants to – but he doesn’t quite dare disobey Izaya after what’s happened.
He puts his jeans and underwear in the machine, feeling ashamed, like an animal, a child. He finds a throw blanket folded to cover himself with. He sits in front of the TV without watching it, feeling sick.
Izaya comes back dressed and rubbing a towel through his hair, like nothing’s happened.
“How long have you been here, anyway? Want something to eat?”
“Ice-cream,” Masaomi says before he can stop himself, out of spite, but Izaya only laughs.
“Why not? The protozoan had his chance. Help yourself.”
He eats it as slowly as possibly, knowing Izaya won’t bother him until he’s done. He doesn’t know how he can look the informant in the eye ever again. Or even his own reflection.
“Forget it,” Izaya says, almost nicely. As nice as he gets. He takes the bowl away and bring him some tea. “What did you come for, anyway?"