Work Text:
Shizuo's POV
The skies were rather clear today, a nice value and shade of blue reigning over Ikebukuro, and the streets buzzed with busy life noisily. Cars were slowing down, some to halts, due to today's average work day -- normally accompanied with angry drivers and traffic. Speaking of that, men and women hustled through the sidewalks. Ladies browsed the shop windows with awe and smiles, while only few others were left with their lovers. The men were merely blending in with society, the stores, and abstract women, while other men hoarded within gangs and unparalleled friends. The Yellow Scared were one of these gangs, easy to target. If you were to look for the Dollars on this particularly fine day, you would find none; the Dollars blended in perfectly, not that anyone knew who they were. The males of the Yellow Scarves are brawny, violent people, while I, Heiwajima Shizuo, hate violence. But even I must admit I am somewhat a hypocrite, one of my reason being that my job supplies quite of bit of violence.
Especially when you just piss me the hell off, but that's another story all together.
I stationed near my employer, Tom Tanaka, as he calmly negotiated to a client in debt, whom I dragged off to an empty, remote area of the sidewalks. The client was a pudgy man who wore a brown suit, had brunette, bowl-cut hair, and blue eyes. Not the most attractive person in Ikebukuro ever, but he was seemed decent, yet donned a slightly devious, shady look about him. The client could not keep up with Tom's demands to return his money. Those types of clients annoy me. The kind which creates a deal and refuses (or is not able) to repay their end of the bargain. The client was tremulous, with dialated eyes that gave me wary glances, stuttering often as he spoke to Tom. The client's voice annoys me, along with the shifty body language that took over his neatly dressed attire down to his mud-stained boots. I think it was time for another cigarette.
And as soon as I placed the cigarette betweem my lips and reached for my lighter, I thought I heard someone walk closer, but no one was around this secluded area. Shrugging, I lit the cigarette and immediately the taste of nicotine washed over to calm me. Taking a deep drag, I let the smoke enter my lungs, then exhaled. With mild fascination I examined the smoke twirl and dance through the air above me, then simply fade away . . . just like that. I forgot about Tom and the irresponsible client.
I took another inhale of the cigarette, eyes closed to help me further relax, but to my chargrin, no smoke met my tongue. What the hell . . . ? With a deep frown I swiped the cigarette out of my mouth and latched it between my two fingers. The but was cut clean off, yet unevenly. I could feel the raw anger fill my being once again, and I was unaware of the client screaming from fear that a knife had lodged into the cement ground only centimeters from his foot. Tom even jerked back, eyes wide and mouth agape, but I am sure he was unsurprised by it. Only one person could have done something like that. I jerked my head to the voice of the man I hated the most, to the point of which no one's could ever hope to rival -- Orihara Izaya.
"Shizu-chan!" he cried in mock joy. "Fancy meeting you here! I am sorry for missing your face, but," his most irritating smile turned into his most irritating smirk, "my fingers slipped."
"Bullshit, flea, you cut my cigarette up just to piss me off." I immediately claimed out of pure aggravation. I glared knives into Izaya. I could feel my eyebrow twitching.
Izaya rolled his eyes, fumbling with the fur-trim on his stupid jacket. "Oh well. I must simply speak to mister Tsukiwa Hejo, who is currently cowering on the ground from your monstrous habits. Because, really, smoking? Oh, right! Haven't you tried to stop five times, before?"
"Six," I lied, I could feel my teeth grind against each other in a most painful way. It has only actually been five times, but this fucking louse will get no satisfaction from me. It was the few milliseconds of flittering confusion on Izaya's face that I took immeasurable pleasure in, but extreme agitation returned as he spoke once more.
"There's no point in lying to me, Shizu-chan! I already know everything about you. I know everything about everything!" he stated this with a tone akin to stating the obvious to an infant as he gestured carelessly, lazily, over to all of Ikebukuro. Where the hell is a stop sign when you need one?
"Right, and you know the solution to end world hunger," I scoffed, sneering at him. "What do you want anyway, flea? When you're around, you're causing trouble. How many times to I have to tell you stay the hell away from Ikebukuro--and me?"
The louse's bottom lip jutted out in a (fake) pout, "But I've already told you! Don't you know how to listen properly, you brute? How rude. All I want to do is have a nice chat with Hejo-san, then I'll be on my way back to Shinjuku with all of the information I need!"
I pushed my sunglasses higher onto the bridge of my nose. This guy . . . what could he want with Hejo? The client looked nothing of any interesting value, so what could drive Izaya to purpose of travelling from Shinjuku to Ikebukuro, then to return soon right after? None of it made any sense to me, or to Tom, whom was still attempting to calm the client down but making no attempt to leave. The unanswered questions filled my mind with a burning rage.
"Aww, is the protozoan jealous of Hejo-san being the center of my thoughts? If it's still any consolation, you're still my favorite plaything," he grins, swaying from side to side as he looks about ready to scat. I glare him and I noticed something felt wet in the palms of my hands. I glanced down briefly to observe that my nails had dug in to leave small cresents of blood. I was not some plaything to be cast aside! Ugh, nor was I one to begin with.
That flea . . . is pissing me the fuck off! I started after him, ignoring Tom's complaints and the client's gasping cries. I saw the louse give a smirk which burned into my brain with a passionate fire and soaked into my limbs and muscles, and he turned the opposite direction into the streets.