Tomoko shoves a cup of coffee into his hands.

He's barely awake, still shaking off the last aches of yesterday's hangover and picking crusted blood from every inch of skin that he can spot it on. The laceration on his chest has long-since been stitched up. The girls had screeched upon discovering that not all of the mess on his clothes belonged to "Hayashi-kun", and he hadn't even remembered slicing himself with Fukayama's knife until they'd mentioned it.

Adrenaline slowly faded to pain, and so he'd accepted the attention of a few nurses.

He takes the coffee sluggishly, barely squeezing out a 'thank you' as Tomoko takes a seat next to him. His stiches itch, but he ignores them. There's no use in freaking everyone out again. None of them have slept since they situated themselves in the waiting room.

Tomoko hasn't made a move to clean herself off. There's a smear of blood cracking on her cheek, and he resists the urge to lick his finger and wipe it off. He can't believe that the brute had so much in him. He's never seen someone bleed so much. He's never heard of anyone surviving a wound so horrible.

But it's been twelve hours and Shizu-chan is still alive.

He can imagine the monster strapped up to so many machines, lungs expanding only because of the air being forced into inside of them. He doesn't like this thought. Shizuo should never be so vulnerable. He's strong. He rants and he raves. He tears mailboxes from the ground and twirls them above his head as though they were made of cardboard.

"I—I don't understand any of this," Tomoko sighs, dark circles shadowing beneath her glassy eyes, "Why would Fukayama-san shoot Hayashi-kun? Why was Hayashi-kun in his room? None of it makes any sense."

Izaya struggles out a laugh. It's hollow even in his own ears.

"When Shizu-chan told you that the two of us have been dating all along," he breathes, pausing only to take a sip of his room-temperature drink, "That wasn't the biggest secret we've been keeping."

She flinches at that, but he can tell that she's known all along, to some degree. She might not comprehend the details, but he knows that she's been suspicious of the two of them. It would be impossible for her not to be, as perceptive as she's proven that she is about these sorts of things.

"Hayashi-kun and I aren't from around here. Those aren't even our real names."

She nods numbly. There's an inkling of something in his chest, and he chooses to ignore it. These are the moments that he lives for—exposing his own lies. He should be rejoicing. He should be overwhelmed with smug satisfaction. But now, sitting in a small, heavily-lit waiting room as Bunko-chan cries softly in the corner and a blank Chiyo wraps shaking arms around her, he feels nothing short of miserable.

"Heiwajima Shizuo is a bodyguard in Ikebukuro. Orihara Izaya is an informant. The both of us were commissioned for this job—to hunt down Fukayama Hiroto and make him pay. Each of you just got caught in the cross-fire."

He's moving through these confessions mechanically. Tomoko doesn't interrupt. She doesn't ask which name belongs to whom. She doesn't lash out and accuse them of using her. She sits tight. Her hand finds its way to his, gripping it as though she means to comfort him.

Why?

"Shizu-chan and I are famous for hating each other back home, so whatever this is… it's not normal for us."

And she laughs at that. He hates the way that she does it, but he doesn't stop her.

"Why would an informant and a bodyguard come all the way here just for Fukayama-san?" she questions suddenly, eyes burning holes into his empty smile, "Your boss couldn't find someone closer?"

It's his turn to laugh. It might be a good thing that Shizu-chan is so far from waking up. He has so much to explain, and he's not sure how long that might take.

"Did you never stop and ask yourself how Hayashi-kun could lift so many things with ease? He didn't need any help carrying those filing cabinets, and he was able to move the stoves with no help. Didn't that strike you as odd?"

She flushes lightly at his words. Did she… really not notice? How? Were the blond's good looks really so overwhelming that she'd overlooked his monstrous strength?

"He's known as The Monster of Ikebukruo back home, but sometimes as our Strongest Man. Shizu-chan has a reputation for being violent and dangerous. Really, if you're ever interested in taking a vacation, please consider coming to Tokyo and watching him lift a car over his head."

She's making a face as though she thinks he's joking, but she sobers quickly when she realizes that he isn't.

"And what about Orihara Izaya?" she asks, "What sort of reputation brought him here?"

His name rolls oddly from her lips. She emphasizes the wrong parts, and it's an odd, nostalgic feeling. The shock of introductions, the doubt that he's using his real name. It's out of place here and not back home. It's difficult not to correct her, to quell the terror of being found out.

"Orihara Izaya is an informant from Shinjuku, also a dangerous man. He works mainly for the Yakuza."

She bristles at the confession. Someone like Tomoko is probably unfamiliar with these things. To her, this dark world must be completely foreign, like something out of a horror novel—the things that she reads about in the paper in the morning, thinking only, 'I'm so happy that I'll never get wrapped up in that.'

They're silent for a long moment. Tomoko is playing with the hem of her skirt, dragging her eyes along the lines of the tile. Izaya takes another sip of coffee.

"So you'll be leaving then… when Hay—Heiwajima-san gets better."

He almost tells her to call the brute Shizuo, because he knows that's what the moron would want. He stops himself only because speaking for the monster feels entirely too romantic. As though he knows what the idiot actually wants. As though he could ever make him happy enough to understand how to do it without even trying.

"Yes, we'll be leaving. I apologize for not giving better notice."

A giggle escapes her, and it's the last thing he would have expected. It's not loud enough to alert the girls. None of them seem to have noticed their conversation at all.

"Are you scared?" she asks, and he stops himself from telling her that he's never been afraid of anything, "Of what people back home will think of the two of you? Since you didn't get along before."

He's been working very hard to not think about that. Orihara Izaya is a master of running away—from unruly clients, from angry teenage girls, from Heiwajima Shizuo, and definitely from himself.

"Shizu-chan says that everything will be okay," he sighs, trying his hardest to avoid the question without raising suspicion, "But the idiot got himself shot and nearly killed, so maybe he was wrong."

She twitches, obviously upset with him. She doesn't understand this version of Maki-kun—the version who is a sneaky liar who has been fooling her this entire time. She's thinking, probably, 'Where did that laid back smile go? How can he say such horrible things about someone who he's supposed to love?'

Before she can speak, the waiting room doors are pushed open. Everyone turns collectively, hoping to see a nurse, and only Izaya is not confused by the face that they find there instead.

Only by what he's carrying.

Koizumi saunters into the room, free of bodyguards for the first time since they'd met three weeks ago. He's not smiling, somber even, as he makes his way toward the informant and a stunned Tomoko. In his arms rests a bouquet of many different flowers.

"Orihara-san," he greets, so formal, so oddly absent of any ruthlessness, "How is he doing?"

It takes a moment for Izaya to register his words.

"Well… he's still in the ER," he replies eventually, narrowing his eyes, "He was shot three times. How do you think?"

Koizumi doesn't retort, just shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. Tomoko is looking between the both of them, finally connecting the dots and surely remembering the old pervert from one of his first shifts at the catering company.

She stands then, barely reaching Koizumi's massive shoulder at full height. She's on the tips of her toes, face red with rage.

And she slaps him.

"You're their boss, aren't you?!" she hollers, trembling with an anger so foul that would put Shizu-chan to shame, "You're the one who put Heiwajima-san in danger! Why wouldn't you take better care of him?! He's a person! He deserves to be safe!"

Koizumi's face stays planted firmly to the side, moved only by the initial connection of palm against skin. His cheek reddens where her hand touched him, and Izaya can't hold back a wince at the sound of it. Chiyo, despite her sadness and worry, still manages to coo at the drama. He swears he can hear her quietly cheering Tomoko on.

"I-I, well," the old pervert stammers, gripping tightly to the bouquet, "I didn't think… from what I'd heard… I didn't think he was actually… human…"

Everyone stands in silence. Chiyo is doing a poor job of suppressing her laughter.

Koizumi continues, "From what Shiki-san told me about him, I was really under the impression that bullets wouldn't… work on him."

Izaya blinks—once, twice, three and four times. He sets his coffee cup on the wide arm of his chair, leaning back and drawing his eyes along the room.

"Koizumi-san," he sighs, shocking even himself with his words, "He's… human. Just… a really strong human."

Koizumi clears his throat. Did no one actually do their research? How big of a joke is the Aomori Yakuza?

Tomoko moves back, scowling at the older man and taking a seat. She crosses one leg over the other, bottom lip stuck out in a pout that might actually have the fervor to set the pervert on fire.

No one speaks for a long time after that. Koizumi sets the flowers on the magazine-littered table in the middle of the room and takes a seat next to Kyou. Izaya can't believe it, he really can't, but the girl is sizing the pervert up from the moment he sits down.

"Hey," she whispers, wiping the stains of mascara from under her eyes, "I'm Kyou-chan. I love your suit."

Rolling his eyes, Izaya turns his attention away from the pair. If they eventually sneak off together, he might end up vomiting on another floor.

"Was Heiwajima-san happy?" Tomoko asks suddenly, her stare shadowed by a sadness that tugs annoyingly at his heart, "Back home, were people nice to him?"

Izaya holds back the retort that instantly rises in his throat.

'Of course not.'

But that's too cruel, even for him. He's not too proud to admit that the brute has lived a hard life. He'd helped fan that misery for many years. Despite it, the monster had reached out and touched the hearts of many unassuming humans, eating away at the pity in their hearts and building a small following of lost souls.

"Shizu-chan runs into a lot of trouble because of his temper and strength," he explains instead, wondering why this is the thing that she's chosen to ask about, "But he's found a safety-net. There are people who are waiting for him back home."

She nods, seemingly lost in thought.

"And you?" she asks. He expected this, but he still doesn't want to answer, "Are there people waiting for you too?"

He thinks of Namie, but to her, he's more of a paycheck and a shelter from the police. He thinks of the Awakusu group, but there are so many other informants roving the city. They've been fine all this time without him.

"No," he admits, and he's not sure why he doesn't lie, "There's no one."

She gives him a look that he utterly despises.

It's sympathy, maybe, and it stings deep in his chest.

Everything feels a little fuzzy.

In the furthest recesses of his mind, he can hear a long, slow beeping.

One beat, two, three, and four.

It's a muffled sound, as though his head is under water. Cold fingers work their way through his chest, pressing at his knee, dipping in his belly. There are voices, the gradual highs and lows of a conversation, words that he doesn't understand. There's light seeping in through his cracked eyelids, searing against his retina. The voices slip away. The beeping is all that he can hear.

And he sleeps.

He fades in and out many times. Someone is pressing against his arm. There's a pressure on top of his chest. His mouth opens to accommodate something that scratches its way along his throat, and then there's nothing.

A long blackness, winding out before him. The warm coils of slumber, the promise of never waking up again. He can barely push out a breath, drag the oxygen into his lungs. Pain pulses along his scalp, tremors jittering against his skin, growing stronger and stronger until his entire body feels as though it's vibrating.

The blackness parts gradually to accommodate a lone figure. Growing clearer, he can barely make out Izaya's blurry face smiling at him in the dark.

'You've really gotten yourself into quite the situation, haven't you, Shizu-chan?'

He goes to tell the louse to shut up, but his words are garbled and unintelligible. He tries to reach forward, to punch the grin from the bastard's face, but he can't move a single muscle. The weight against his chest shifts. He can breathe easier. Izaya cackles.

'Did you really think that bullets could kill you?'

No, he didn't. He knew he wouldn't die. He knew he would pull through. That torturously knowing voice, that sly twinkle in the informant's eye. Those things he'd remembered, and those things had pulled him from the icy grasp of death before he could even think about giving in.

'You told me that we would be together. Did you mean it?'

Yes, I did. I meant it. I did.

I love you.

These words refuse to leave him, but Izaya smiles as though he knows. He knows everything. He's always a step ahead, and then miles away. Shizuo has spent his entire life chasing, pursuing, desperately reaching anger-dumbed fingers toward the bastard, always too slow to catch him.

'You've caught me now. You've caught me.'

I won't let you go. You're mine, and I'm not giving that up.

I won't die now that I've caught you.

The bleary curtain of sleep lightens, then pulls away. The beeping grows louder. His lungs quiver with each breath, but he's alive. He's numb and he can't seem to move even his fingers, but he's here and he survived, and Izaya is out there somewhere, waiting for him.

The living world is a blur of lights and smells, of murmuring voices through closed doors and the tittering of birds outside of the hospital window. His eyes can't concentrate. Everything is fuzzy around the edges. The door opens and the dull footfalls of a nurse echo in his ears.

"Heiwajima-san, how are you feeling?" a man's voice calls. He trains bleary eyes to the ceiling. There's an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He can't nod, can't do much more than blink and breathe.

"Now that you're awake," the man continues, "It's time for your semen sample."

He jerks upright, muscles alive in mere seconds. Achingly, his head cranes to meet the eyes of the man—

Izaya, the stupid bastard, grinning down at him in a pair of oversized scrubs and a nametag that definitely isn't his own.

He croaks uselessly, heartrate rising on the machine next to him. Izaya hushes him, telling him to calm down or someone will rush in and catch them together.

"After all the work that I put into coming to see you," the louse whispers, cocky and insufferable as ever before, "Do you want to get me kicked out of here?"

He goes to count down in his head, but Izaya takes a seat on the bed, brushing the hair out of his face. The feeling of cool fingers against his skin calms him, and he finds himself staring up into those mirthful eyes as his anger melts into something else entirely.

Relief, he thinks. And maybe a hint of arousal. The scrubs are oversized, and he hates to think that maybe a childhood spent in and out of hospitals has embedded something forbidden and depraved deep inside of his brain, but…

The louse looks irresistible.

"Everyone is worried," Izaya soothes, dragging his hand along Shizuo's cheek, "Even Koizumi-san is waiting for you out there. Tomoko, the girls, the cooks… you've filled the entire waiting room."

He feels guilty at first, but a warmth spreads itself through his chest. He's okay. He didn't fail.

No one will be sad because of him.

Not this time.

Izaya plays with his hair, taking time with each strand as an unnamed emotion settles in the shadows of his eyes. A fondness, maybe. He wonders how hard he'd hit his head, if he can actually mistake any sort of emotion playing across the louse's face for anything but sneakiness or hatred.

He thinks about the Izaya in his hallucinations—smiling, laughing, and loving him, even. He thinks of the Izaya here, right now, maybe the same, maybe only sitting with him because something deep inside of both of them refuses to let them be apart.

He wants to tell the louse, "It's okay. I'm here. I'm not leaving."

But words won't move through his throat, even if the oxygen mask weren't covering his mouth anyway.

Instead, he lifts a sluggish hand, allowing it to fall slowly against Izaya's cheek. They lock eyes, neither saying a word. They don't have to, he thinks, because his stare is as strong as he can muster.

There's a lot of feeling behind his eyes, emanating from him like the fire of his inhuman body-heat. The bandages against the side of his face pull as his frown deepens. His head aches as he furrows his brows.

'I love you,' he thinks, 'everything will be okay.'

Izaya makes a strangled noise and turns away, and he knows the flea heard has him loud and clear.

Izaya slips back into the waiting room before anyone notices how long he was actually gone. He's changed back into his bloodied clothing, sneaking the scrubs and nametag back into the staff waiting room when the last of the nurses had left to resume their shifts. When he takes a seat, he notices immediately that Koizumi and Kyou are gone.

Gross.

So, so gross.

"You look like you're feeling better," Chiyo greets, thumbing through a magazine as Bunko slumbers against her shoulder, "Get any good news?"

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

"He just woke up," he hums, and he squashes the unwanted elation that he feels at the sight of her swiftly-returning smile, "He should be able to take visitors in a bit."

It's been fifteen hours now. No one makes a move to go home. A few of the cooks have went outside to smoke. Koizumi and Kyou have surely disappeared to an unmanned bathroom to do something heinous that he refuses to think about. Tomoko is texting someone, surely her boyfriend. Chiyo's fiancé is supposed to bring lunch later.

"I can't believe you squared off with Fukayama-san," the short haired girl adds a moment later, stretching her arms above her head and cracking her back, "I mean, I understand that you're apparently some scary informant back home, but that was badass! Why aren't we talking about this?"

Izaya laughs, and he finds that maybe it isn't as forced as he would like to think.

"He dropped the gun in his room," he replies, truly not understanding how chasing such a coward could be anything but second-nature after what he'd done, "His knife was dull anyway. I only needed three stiches."

She doesn't seem convinced. She goes on about fighting for the one you love, about Izaya as the blazing hero in an action movie, bursting out into the courtyard and taking down the bad guy with his wits as his only weapon. Tomoko giggles at that, and he finds that it's contagious.

"Chiyo, really," he chuckles, "If anyone in Ikebukuro heard you referring to me as a hero, they'd immediately take you to get your head checked."

She seems to enjoy that line, and he's absolutely not proud of himself for saying something so funny to her. He's not really going to miss these people at all.

These people who like him, even after being manipulated.

The doors open suddenly, and instead of the cooks or Kyou, or anyone else that they might be expecting, it's a nurse.

"Orihara-san?" She questions, looking around the room.

He raises his hand, sparing the most charming grin he can muster while so exhausted in bloody clothes, with a headache still pulsing through his skull.

"Heiwajima-san is awake," She speaks, returning his smile, "He's asking for you."

There's not a heat that settles against his cheeks at the words, and he's definitely not surprised.

He rises, making a show of bowing widely at the girls before following the nurse out into the hall.

The nurse moves to the side to allow Izaya into the room.

He's dressed in filthy clothes this time, probably having put those stupid scrubs back where he found them before returning to wait with Tomoko-san and the rest of the staff. He's smiling his smug little smile, but there's something entirely different floating around in his eyes.

The oxygen mask was removed half an hour ago, but he'd only just found himself able to talk.

And, of course, the first thing he'd done was ask for the stupid bastard louse.

"What's that on your chest?" he questions, eyeing the sutures warily, "Did you finally trip and fall while flipping around on shit?"

Izaya touches a gentle hand to the wound, his expression warped for a fraction of a second before his mask moves reliably into place.

"I was making a point," he replies casually, waving goodbye to the nurse as she closes the door behind him, "Fukayama's fingerprints are all over the knife that cut me."

He doesn't like the sound of that at all, but he doesn't press it. It's better for his health if he doesn't.

Izaya sits next to him on the bed again, drawing nimble fingers along his arm and stopping at the tape covering his IV. He imagines for a moment that the louse is going to tear it out, but they both know that he won't feel it. Even without the drugs that blur the corners of his vision and slur the ends of his speech, his tolerance is through the roof.

He can't remember if he even felt more than a twinge at any of the bullets entering his skin.

For that, for once, he is thankful. He's not sure if he could face Tomoko-san and the others if he'd been crying like a baby when they'd discovered him.

"Did Koizumi-san get the money?" he asks.

Izaya nods.

"He brought you flowers," the flea jokes, but he's positive by the scowl on the other man's face that it's not actually much of a joke, "He wants to thank you and apologize simultaneously."

He makes a low noise, as though to affirm that he's heard the words, but he isn't too happy about them either. He'd really hoped that he wouldn't be sitting in a hospital bed when finally meeting up with the pervert for the last time.

The old bastard will surely stand just far enough away that it will be impossible to strangle him.

After a while, a few more people are let into the room. Izaya stays by his side, hand still rested against his arm. He enjoys the weight of it, the warmth, even though he wants to reassure the louse that he really doesn't need to be comforted through this.

Tomoko-san, Chiyo, and Bunko-san shuffle in.

Tomoko-san rushes toward him, nearly toppling the flea over as her arms fling around the blond's neck. He stiffens, heartrate beeping dangerously as she apologizes and pulls away. Everyone is covered in so much blood. He's not sure how much a normal person has, but the amount of red stains against each of their outfits is mildly alarming.

"Haya—Heiwajima-san," she stutters, teary-eyed and trembling, "We were all so worried about you! I-I'm so relieved. I can't believe this—I'm so happy that you're okay!"

There's laughter after that, jokes made and stories being told. Izaya is unraveling a tale about one of their many fights, putting far too much emphasis on Shizuo's strength if only to elicit astounded reactions from Tomoko-san and the girls.

And it's nice. It feels comfortable. A loneliness tugs at his chest, reminding him that they'll be headed home as soon as he's discharged, but he tries not to focus on that.

Then, as though sensing that the moods were too high, Koizumi-san steps through the threshold of the room.

The oxygen depletes from the room. Tomoko-san is glaring at the old man for some reason. Chiyo takes a step back to clear a path between them. True to Izaya's word, the pervert is carrying a bouquet. He's smiling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Heiwajima-san," he greets, padding further into the room and setting the flowers on the nightstand, "Feeling better?"

Shizuo spares him a nod. He's not sure what to do.

"I apologize for this misunderstanding," he continues, twitching only slightly, "You see, I was under the impression—"

"I don't care," Shizuo interjects. He can feel stress bulging at his forehead, itching in his veins, "Listen, if you ever text Izaya again, I'm going to fucking kill you, got it?"

Koizumi looks startled, as though that might have been the last thing he would have expected to come out of Shizuo's mouth in this situation. Before he can reply, the blond continues.

"I look pathetic in this bed, but I'll be better tomorrow. And if I find out that you're still saying gross shit to him, I'm going to strangle you with your own spine."

Koizumi sits still for the longest time, seeming to mull over the threat and how capable Shizuo might actually be of seeing it through.

Then, he bows, long and low, before apologizing a final time and making his way out of the room.

No one speaks until Chiyo howls so loudly that he's sure the entire floor can hear it.

"Shizuo-kun is such a badass! Can you believe it, Tomoko-chan? That was so cool!"

True to his word, Shizu-chan is released the following afternoon.

The medical staff is flabbergasted, but no one in their group appears to be surprised.

It's funny, watching the brute as he's wheeled out to Tomoko's truck. He seems helpless, almost, as though he couldn't easily lift the chair above his head and maybe even the truck too.

They help him into the truck, even if he doesn't need it. Everyone is still bloody, filthy and exhausted. Their flight will arrive in only a few hours, and Izaya mourns the loss of much-needed sleep in favor of packing their things.

"Do you guys need help?" Tomoko asks, but Shizuo reassures her that they'll be okay.

They're dropped off at the hotel. It feels so much smaller than the first day, and there's an unfamiliar twinging in his chest as they ascend the elevator for the very last time.

The maids greet them, relieved of course to see the blond making his way down the hall. When they enter the suite, Shizu-chan's butler is zipping up the last of the brute's luggage.

"Heiwajima-san," the man calls, whipping around so quickly that Izaya thinks he might topple over, "I'm so happy that you're feeling better! I was so worried, but Koizumi-san barred me from the hospital—"

"Did you pack our things?"

Izaya's voice seems to pull both men from the joyful haze of their silly little reunion. Ota looks around at the bags nervously, seemingly ready for the barrage of insults. Instead, the informant forces a smile.

"Thank you, butler-san. How thoughtful of you."

They're leaving. Shizu-chan won't be able to fawn over the man ever again, so…

He might as well pretend to be nice.

Shizuo narrows his eyes, searching for deceptive motives. Ota fumbles a reply.

"I'm taking a shower," Izaya adds, trekking toward the bathroom (for the last time, he reminds himself), "I reek of monster blood."

The brute scoffs, but doesn't throw anything at him, doesn't fuss or fight. Just lets him go.

And Izaya might not be jealous, might not even be angry anymore.

Instead, he wonders if the beast will sneak away from his butler long enough to join him for a final bath.

He might even be nice enough to wash the monster's hair this time.

Closing the door behind him, he sheds his bloody clothes. His reflection looks half-dead, as though he's dragged himself from the grave for one last shower.

He ghosts his fingers along the mark on his chest, thinking about the banquet, about Shizu-chan bleeding out, reaching for him. He's not sure what to make of it, what he's feeling.

There's relief, and he reasons that it might only be because of the end of this job. There's exhaustion, there's bitterness, and—

Maybe even fear.

He doesn't want to address it, but his mind reels regardless. He'd been afraid of losing Shizuo, of letting him go so soon after getting to know him. He'd been terrified of traveling back home alone. At the time, in so much shock, he hadn't had the strength to ponder it, but now…

Now, he realizes that the dread still hasn't left him.

Shizu-chan will look as though he's taken a ride in a blender when they return home. Everyone will fret over him. They'll take care of him and embarrass him with their boundless love and affection.

And where will Izaya be? Will they allow him anywhere near the brute?

It's such a stupid thought. He doesn't care about being left out. All that matters is returning to the piles of work that he'd left behind. He has so many phone calls to make upon returning home that he's sure he won't be able to sleep for a week.

So it doesn't matter if he'll be shut out or not. He's not interested in dressing wounds and making soup for the idiot like some sort of housewife. If the distance spreads out between them and they find themselves becoming strangers, so be it. It doesn't matter.

He turns on the water, stepping under the heat of it and watching as old blood runs in brown trails down his legs into the drain. He works his fingers through his hair, stopping to add shampoo, trying to focus on work-related things as he cleans himself.

When he's finally found himself going over the information he'd promised to gather for his last client, the bathroom door opens. Shizu-chan gracelessly makes his way into the room.

He lied, of course, just like the brute has been lying this entire time.

He doesn't even consider offering to wash the monster's hair.

The airport is packed with people when they arrive, but not so many travelers as their group of new friends, saying goodbye.

Ota-san had talked to him fondly on the ride over, telling both of them about his son joining a sports team, his daughter making a new friend in class. It was nice, listening to his words, and Shizuo feels that maybe he'll miss the older man more than anyone.

Tomoko-san is tearful already. She takes a skittish louse in her arms, planting kisses on each of his cheeks as the other girls make fun of how uncomfortable he looks.

"You be good, okay?" she sobs, backing away and thrusting a finger in Izaya's face, "I'm going to call Heiwajima-san every week, and if he tells me that you're still up to no good, I'm coming to Ikebukuro!"

The louse is speechless for the first time Shizuo has ever witnessed.

Chiyo steps forward, extending her arms and smiling despite glassy eyes.

"Shizuo-kun," she sighs, "It's going to be lonely around the office without your pretty face."

He allows himself to be hugged, regardless of the embarrassment that bubbles in his chest and colors his cheeks. They both receive an embrace from each of the girls. The cooks bow to him in the most respectful way he's ever experienced.

"Good luck," one man says, patting him on the shoulder, "You know we're always here if you need a job."

He chances a smile, thanking each of them bashfully. Ota-san is the last person to approach him. They look at each other for a few heartbeats, silence heavy between them as the minutes tick by. They have to be leaving soon, but he doesn't want to go. It's been such a long time—twenty-one days of working, of growing, of falling in love and building connections with so many new people.

"H-Heiwajima-san," Ota-san starts, glassy eyes sparkling beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, "I guess this is goodbye."

Shizuo agrees. Yes, yes it is.

The older man pulls him into a hug, awkward only because of their height difference. It's so warm and gentle, so loving and desperate, so much more than he ever thought he deserved from another person. His heart feels as though it might explode. His throat is too tight to speak. He looks at nothing but the balding head beneath him, feeling suddenly as though he should try to call his parents and reconcile.

"Thank you, Heiwajima-san," The older man trembles, backing away, "I've enjoyed every moment of working for you. Please… take care."

Shizuo clears his throat. He chances a glance around the airport.

Then, he grins.

"I want to hear about your son's team again," he draws out, "I want to know how many games they win. So call me when they play. Tell me about it."

Ota-san is a sniveling mess by the end of it. He hugs the blond three more times before they finally have to leave.

With one last look at the tearful faces of their temporary coworkers, the group who they'll be leaving behind forever, they make their way down the hall toward the plane.

Izaya coughs, and Shizuo knows that he's a little sad about it too.

There's a knock on the bathroom door, and Izaya forces himself to calm down before answering.

"Just a minute!"

He can hear the stranger's disgruntled cursing. He wonders, only for a moment, if this person is so desperate, why they don't just use the women's restroom instead.

He's staring at himself in the mirror, hating the color on his cheek as his fingers dig desperately into the edge of the sink. The room is so small that he might be able to touch the ceiling if he tried. Both of his feet touch opposite walls as he struggles to hold himself upright.

There might be a little more room in here, he thinks, if Shizu-chan weren't squeezed in behind him.

The brute has an arm wrapped around his waist, working his erection in the most torturous of ways. The hardness inside of him is moving slowly—in, then out. In, then out again—and he stifles a moan as another knock taps against the door.

"J-just a minute!"

Shizuo stiffens with each person who disturbs them, but he doesn't stop. There's the squelching of the lube between them—something that the brute hadn't been as mortified to discover that his butler had packed in his carry-on bag as Izaya would have expected—but it's nearly drowned out by their strangled breathing. The blond is nibbling at his neck, creating new marks where the old ones have long-since faded.

He rests his head against the sink, pressing his ass firmly against the brute and spreading his thighs as wide as the room will accommodate. Shizu-chan lets out a low groan, the sound of it rattling in his ears and sending a rush of blood straight to his groin.

"S-Shizu-chan," he hisses, sweaty and cramped, too overwhelmed with pleasure to care, "Y-you'll tear your s-stitches."

Shizuo huffs a laugh, grinding against him and pumping more firmly at his cock.

"Who cares," the beast replies, a gravelly string of syllables, a noise so erotic that he can barely concentrate on anything else, "F-feels good."

The monster hits his sweet spot once, tearing a long moan from his throat. Shizuo is laughing breathily, and he sends the idiot a glare in the mirror as he bites down on his knuckle.

There's another knock on that door. Before he can open his mouth again to speak, Shizuo is banging his fist against it.

"We're busy," he barks, so unabashed in his anger that Izaya wants to melt into the floor, "Use the other fucking bathroom!"

The knocking immediately stops. He's not sure if he should be relieved or horrified. He wonders if the staff will wait for them to finish before reprimanding them.

However, Shizu-chan thrusts just a little too roughly inside of him, and the pain that wracks through his entire body is so delicious that he can barely contain another cry.

The brute digs eager teeth into his shoulder, thumbing the slit of his penis, so slick with excitement that the blond's fingers almost have trouble gripping it. He's breathing harder, leaning back into the other man's grip and closing his eyes. And he's cursing, writhing, cumming hard onto the edge of the sink and Shizu-chan's fist.

Shizuo grips him tightly, lifting him from the floor and falling back to sit on the toilet. He's too exhausted to argue, even as the monster is lifting him and dropping him down, bucking his hips deep inside of him and grumbling out the most delectable noises.

And then, sliding in completely, the brute finishes.

It's a surprise, but when they stumble out of the bathroom, disheveled and messy-haired, no one speaks to them at all.

No one will even look at them.

"You were too damn loud," Shizu-chan whispers, taking his seat by the window.

And for the billionth time, Izaya thinks, 'I hate you. Please, please just die.'

He watches as the clouds billow around them—fat, fluffy things that look so soft that he wishes he could reach through the glass and touch them. Izaya has dozed off next to him, having accepted one of those silly little next pillows from an oddly flustered flight attendant, and he busies himself by watching the sun set somewhere far beneath the clouds.

The sky is marked in oranges and pinks. Gradually, he spots the dots of lights from the cities far below. Izaya mumbles something in his sleep, turning over in his seat.

The louse is peaceful now, quiet and reasonably tolerable. There are tiny bruises dotting his neck. His lips are still a little swollen, and his hair hasn't quite stopped sticking out awkwardly no matter how many times he'd combed it down.

It's cute, really, even if he would never admit it aloud. Watching him like this is far more entertaining that the scenery outside. He's snoring just a little. A sleepy brush of color has worked its way along his face. Long lashes are stark against the paleness of his skin, and—

Shizuo knows then, that he really is in love.

His heart thrums, his stomach expands with so many wings of so many butterflies that he can barely think straight. He doesn't know what will happen when they step into the airport and greet their friends, but he does know one thing:

He wants to face the fear of his unknown future with this stupid bastard by his side.

Time melts by. Night covers them in a thick blanket of darkness. The stars seem so much closer than he's ever seen them before. The world outside of the window is like nothing he has experienced, and he wonders if he could ever witness something so beautiful for the rest of his days.

But then he turns—overtaken by surprise, by need and an aching sort of passion—and drinks in the serenity of Izaya's unconscious smile.

Reaching forward, he runs his fingers through dark hair. It's just silky as it looks. Each unruly piece pops back up as he moves further, and it takes everything he has not to pull back when he discover that the louse is leaning into his touch.

This is too much.

The plane is landing. The pilot announces it over the speakers.

Bleary-eyed passengers yawn and stretch. Izaya's eyes crack open. There are dark circles shadowing underneath, and he wishes that the idiot would just sleep. He's been awake for almost forty-eight hours straight.

Maybe they'll go back to the louse's house and take a nap when they get home. Maybe they'll stop by Russia Sushi for some breakfast. It will be sunrise by the time they meet everyone at the airport. There's a nervous tension building inside of him at the mere thought of seeing so many familiar faces after so many things have changed within him.

He thinks of Ota-san, of Tomoko-san and the girls, the cooks, that bastard Koizumi-san.

And he hopes that everyone is sleeping well. He hopes that everyone is okay.

(Well, maybe not Koizumi-san, he thinks. He hopes that the old pervert can never sleep through the night ever again.)

When they finally land, Izaya is completely awake. They don't speak. He can feel the louse's nerves without even looking at him. He's not really sure what the little sneak is so worried about, but something is keeping him from cracking his usual jokes.

It's annoying. He could really use the distraction right now.

Everyone rises to leave. They wait their turn, grab their bags, and make their way out with the crowd. Izaya doesn't even seem to notice him, he's so trapped in his own thoughts.

Light is hinting at the horizon when they step off of the plane. His bag hangs from his shoulder, a tiny weight that anchors him to the reality of finally coming home. His apartment is probably so dusty. Not that he's ever dusted it before, really, but the mere thought of the new mess isn't particularly exciting. He can barely fathom returning to work tomorrow. He wonders if Tom-san will give him another day off to settle back in.

He thinks about Celty waiting for him somewhere inside of the airport, of Shinra harassing her, surely, and Tom-san and Varona making idle conversation as both stifle yawns. He's not sure who else will be there, if anyone else is there at all. Maybe Izaya's sisters or that assistant of his. Maybe a skeevy Yakuza member who will escort the slimy bastard home.

Izaya stiffens next to him as they make their way down the long hallway, nearing the door. On the other side, they will grab their luggage and meet up with their friends. One more stop, just to gather their things, and this job will be completely finished.

They push through. Izaya is lagging behind.

The conveyor heaves as they watch for their bags. Shizuo spots his immediately, noting the tag fondly. Izaya takes a little bit longer, and he notices that the louse's bag has made three trips around before he pretends to notice it.

"Hey, louse," He starts, but Izaya shoots him a peculiar look.

There's a lot going on behind his eyes, hinting at the edges of the firm line of his lips. He's thinking about something very hard. Shizuo knows that it's probably stupid. He's worrying, and if it's about their friends seeing them together, he wants to tell the moron that there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone already knows.

They're walking toward the gates. A crowd gathers around them, strangers hurrying to meet their loved ones, business men rushing to find their next flights. In the confusion, he focuses only on Izaya carrying his bag, stiff-shouldered and vibrating with discontent.

He thinks of the last three weeks, of falling in love.

And he understands suddenly that the louse is afraid of everything going back to the way it was.

He can see their group of friends huddled together over the heads of other travelers. He stops, staring down at the informant and waiting until he stops walking too.

And he takes his hand, sending him a frown that tells him, 'I'm not letting go.'

They're moving through the crowd. Celty runs to embrace him. Everyone is laughing, greeting them, and chattering excitedly all at once. He never lets go of Izaya's hand.

They're tired, they're injured, but they agree to join their friends for breakfast at a café.

Izaya leans into him, their heat mingling as they make their way out into the bright sunlight of morning. They're together, after everything. Izaya allows a smile to play along his lips.

Shizuo breathes in deeply.

They're walking through the streets. Celty is typing hastily on her phone, turning the screen to convey messages that he barely has enough time to read. Shinra is going on about everything they've done over the last three weeks. Tom-san and Varona are laughing at the doctor's stupid jokes, and he finds, despite everything that's happened, despite not knowing what the future holds for them—

He's happy to finally be home.

So that's it, the end of this story. I would like to thank everyone for sticking by me to the end! This is more than likely going to be the very last story that I ever post on this site, so please feel free to follow me on ao3 (I'll try to keep my pseud updated on my profile here). It's been fun. I've really appreciated the reviews that I've received! I hope you guys enjoyed the ending!