PART NINE

The clock struck noon.

For all intensive purposes, it was just a normal day. The customers of Maid Latte came and went; the maids themselves were always smiling, like they were hiding some damned secret; and Shizuo . . . well, he was working.

Working as well as he could, anyway.

Ignore it, ignore it, he chanted in his head, taking deep steadying breaths to dilute his anger. But the feeling of eyes, staring straight at him, never left and he, in an obvious attempt to control his rage, was grasping the hammer so tightly a dent was beginning to form. And yet, those eyes were none the wiser. They continued staring at him, staring, staring, as if he was a newly discovered insect in an apocalyptic world—

He felt his eyebrow twitch and wished so desperately to turn around to see who was being so bold towards him. Granted, many people didn't know about him—or hadn't, at any rate, until he'd oh-so-delicately barged into Maid Latte and single-handedly destroyed nearly an entire part of the Manager's store, not to mention three of her most avid customers. After that tiny fiasco, everyone had started avoiding him like the plague . . . well, everyone except for Misaki and that weird kid who always followed her around, Usui. However, Shizuo had a sinking suspicion that had Misaki not been a blood-relative of Shizuo's, both her and the green-eyed wonder would've left him alone.

Smirking, he brought the hammer down against a nail hanging precariously out of the ground. Maybe not, he conceded, eyes alight with mirth and an almost suppressed fiery rage. Maybe she really would've beaten the shit out of me. Sometimes I feel like the only thing stopping her from attacking me is the fact that we're related.

He honestly wasn't sure what to think of her; sometimes, he thought she was this sweet school girl, embarrassed and flustered like there was no tomorrow. But other times . . . he shivered. Other times, she was like a bat out of hell, eyes wild with murderous delight, fangs leaking venom, waiting to sink her demonic fury into a less-than-willing victim. He'd dealt with a lot of stuff back in Ikebukuro—a swarm of Saika blades, being shot by the Yellow Scarves, even fighting with that damned flea, Izaya—but when she glared at him as though he was the source of all of humanity's strife and war, all that stuff seemed mild compared the beating she surely would provide if he ever went out of line. In a sense, she was irrevocably and increasingly reminding Shizuo of . . .

"Shizuo-kun! Why don't you take a break for lunch? I can't make it seem like I'm overworking you, after all!"

At that last part, Shizuo resisted the urge to face-palm. The Manager . . . was an entirely different story all together. Unlike Misaki, who very rarely ever acted like a girl her age, the Manager always acted like she was some schoolgirl, eternally eighteen. She was just so . . . carefree, sure, but motherly, kind, someone that Shizuo had, surprisingly, come to like in the short amount of time he'd so rudely barged into her life. Actually . . . and it was here he blushed, for his thoughts were alarming—actually, she reminds me of that woman who I used to see when I'd walk home with Kasuka. And it was true. Besides the obvious fact that they looked nothing alike, they acted—or reacted, as the case may be—almost the same way; both were, without a doubt, incredibly kind to Shizuo, always smiling, greeting him as if he was the sun after the long-forsaken rain. Shizuo frowned.

At least, that's how it used to be.

"Shizuo-kun?" Satsuki appeared, her smile brighter than one thousand suns, her hands placed precariously on her hips. "Shizuo-kun, didn't you hear me? I said, lunch is ready." She smiled even wider, if it was possible. "Taking a break once in a while isn't so bad, now is it?"

"Uh huh. Uh . . . Right. I'll be back there in a moment."

Still smiling, Satsuki turned on her heel and exclaimed, "All right! I'll be waiting!"

Shizuo gave a little wave in response to her retreating form before he lowered his head and sighed. A brilliant blush was staining his cheeks, though with some difficulty, he pushed it down. What was he doing exactly? Here he was, thinking about Satsuki—the Manager, he quickly corrected himself—for almost five minutes straight! And now, he was blushing like some goddamned schoolboy while he felt the heat of those eyes return to his spot—

Suddenly, as if possessed, he stood up, grasping the hammer even harder than before, the metal cracking, the wood splintered. Who the hell was staring at him?! Here he was, having a little mini-breakdown on the café's floor, while the fucking coward from earlier couldn't keep his goddamned eyes away. Had he no fucking shame?! All he wanted to do right was shove the broken hammer right down the stranger's throat and hope he bled to death right on the pallid linoleum . . .

Calm down Shizuo, he chastised, though it hardly seemed to have any effect. With a deep breath, Shizuo gritted his teeth together in the fashion of a wild animal, prowling and hunting for prey. He wasn't calming down. He wasn't calming down—!

Suddenly, Satsuki yelled out, "Shizuo-kun! Your food's getting cold!"

And just like that, the bloodlust was gone. Sighing, Shizuo yelled back, "I'm coming!"

But not before he found out who couldn't keep their eyes away from him.

Turning around, a deep, dreadful fire settled in his gaze, and he discarded the hammer—which was now hanging precariously on a splinter no bigger than his pinkie—hoping to intimidate whoever was staring at him. He turned and turned and turned—

—And was greeted with the sight of some guy, wearing all black, a guitar hanging conspicuously over his left shoulder, ducking under the table as if he was avoiding Shizuo. Narrowing his gaze, Shizuo walked a little closer, confused. If this guy was so adamant about staring at Shizuo, then why couldn't he take it if Shizuo stared back? Slowly, the rage crept back again and if he wasn't careful, he'd be seeing red. Like a lion stalking its prey, Shizuo slowly walked closer as though he was going to pounce. Just a few more feet . . .

Then, abruptly, the guy stood up, wobbling with the weight of the guitar, before he righted himself like a penguin and waddled to the door. Shizuo watched him, confusion etched in his brows, before he shook his head and continued on his way. It was such a strange meeting that Shizuo decided it probably wasn't worth it to beat the guy within an inch of his life, staring or no.

But as he got closer to the table, he realized something— saw, at any rate, a large leather wallet sitting on the table, the guy obviously having forgotten it in his pathetic attempts to get away. Picking it up, he thumbed through it, noting nearly ten thousand yen in bills, all crisp and fresh and just waiting for someone to steal them.

He frowned.

"Hey, wait—," But the guy was quick, impossibly so, and had ducked out of the café before Shizuo could even catch his gaze, let alone alert him to the wallet left hanging precariously in his grasp. Shaking his head, he yelled to the kitchen, "I'll be back in a moment!" And, with a walk bordering dangerously close to a run, he went after the strange man, ignoring the cautious glances being thrown his way. He ran to the door, being careful not to break it—

And he saw it. Well, not 'it.' But him. The man.

He was just sitting outside, crouched down, barely glancing over the windowsill, his black—or was that brown?—hair blowing messily in the wind. He didn't seem to notice Shizuo, but that was all the better. The way he was acting, it was almost as if he would start at any moment, like a cornered rabbit facing a rabid dog.

The door squeaked in protest, the little bell at the top ringing, acting like a beacon in the night. The man, startled, glanced up and, before Shizuo could say anything, was already halfway down the street, his guitar forgotten in his mad pursuit to get away. Picking up the guitar that weighed little more than a pebble to his impressive strength, he uttered one word that seemed to carry down the entire street.

"Wait."

The man froze; fear's icy fingers had grabbed his soul. For a long while, he didn't say anything, just stood there, facing anywhere but Shizuo, his fingers twitching nervously. With a little more force, Shizuo said, "Are you going to answer me?"

No response.

"Fucking answer me, you ass!" He hefted the guitar over his shoulder, prepared to strike; then, thinking better of it, reluctantly placed it on the ground, giving an embarrassed half-shrug to the man. Not like he could see it. "Look," he said, stepping closer with each word he uttered, "all I'm trying to do is give you back your wallet. This whole staring-at-me-then-avoiding-me shit is getting ridiculous." He sighed, lighting a cigarette. "I mean, if it was me, I would want someone to return my wallet to me. Especially with this much money in it."

"Y-you . . ." The man seemed at a loss for words, his voice holding an effeminate tone to it. "You're . . . returning that . . ."

"To me?"

Shizuo sighed again and threw the wallet, which landed helplessly at the man's feet. He still hadn't turned around. "The hell does it sound like, bastard?!" And then, just like he hadn't wanted to do, he grabbed the guitar and threw it—not with all his strength, hardly not, but with enough to cause the flimsy guitar to splinter into shards of wood, landing hardly three feet away from the man.

Finally, the man looked back, but what Shizuo saw made him freeze in his tracks. The man's eyes, if they could, seemed to spell out murder, the aura around him deadly, like a demon on a rampage. Shizuo shuddered, the cigarette falling from his mouth; this felt . . . nostalgic, somehow, as if he'd experienced it before.

That wasn't necessarily a good thing.

The man glared for another minute; then, as if remembering where he was, his quickly dropped his eyes and bowed his head in apology. Without a word, he picked up his wallet and walked away, his shoulders drooped in defeat.

Shizuo gave one last glance to the man; and then, shaking his head, he went back to the café, slightly smirking the entire time.

That is, until he smelled something that reeked. It smelled like a flea.

"Damn it!"

XXX

"So how bad was it?"

Glancing back, one Ayuzawa Misaki glared at a certain green-eyed menace, her brow twitching. "I don't know what you mean." As if to emphasize her point, Misaki threw the trash, her anger almost palpable in that act alone.

"That bad, huh?"

"I said I don't know what you mean," she gritted, her face feral, like a coyote. "He just . . . if he's as bad as Orihara-san says, then why did he return my wallet? It doesn't make any sense."

Usui was unusually silent, taking in her spiteful glare, her slightly labored breathing. She might not have admitted it, but Misaki was scared of Shizuo. Maybe not outright, maybe not even consciously—but she was scared, her eyes glancing this way and that, her neck stretched and taunt. To anyone else, it would've appeared as though she was incredibly angry, seething at the seams; but to Usui, he could see it.

He could see her fear, and he didn't like it.

He knew, somewhere deep down, that she probably wasn't afraid of Shizuo's reputation or even his strength; no, if anything, she was more afraid that Shizuo would turn out exactly like her father, taking everything her family had ever held dear to a place far, far away. That she would be let down by another man in her life . . .

"—talk to Orihara-san. But should I, Usui?"

"Huh?" This wasn't like him. Spacing out like this . . . He chuckled, reminded of a certain hazel-eyed individual who was prone to this sort of thing. She knew it too, if her look of confusion was anything to go by, and Usui felt as though he was letting her down, though he wasn't sure why. Deciding to play it off like he always did, he said, "Why didn't you call me by my given name?"

Her reaction was almost immediate.

Red, the color of blood, or perhaps a beautiful, setting sun, painted her face, stretching all the way to her ears. He smirked, strangely pleased by the action. He said something so casual, and she got this worked up about it? His Misa-chan sure was fun.

"Misa-chan?"

That seemed to do the trick and she was back to her glaring, indignant self. "D-don't call me Misa-chan! Wha . . . what if someone heard you?!" Almost like a child being scolded, she glanced away, a pout adorning her lips. "A-and . . . don't say such embarrassing stuff, idiot! I . . ." She didn't finish, but he knew, almost instinctively, what she meant.

"I don't know how to deal with it."

Usui smiled—a real smile this time, not one of the many smirks that usually adorned his face—as he walked closer to Misaki, his hand outstretched. Perhaps she simply didn't see him, or maybe she was ignoring him, but whatever the case, she didn't flinch away when Usui patted her head. His fingers found a golden purchase in her soft hair, each digit rubbing her scalp almost reverently. And if the blush on Misaki's face was anything to go by, she was enjoying this just as much—no, possibly more so—than Usui.

As if answering some unasked question, she subconsciously leant into his hand.

"Misaki," he purred, his eyes dead serious, a small frown adorning his lips. A bout of childish possessiveness surged within him. "Misaki, don't ever show anyone this face but me."

"H-huh?" Almost like a drunken stupor, Misaki opened her eyes slowly, lips parted slightly. Usui found he could not pull his gaze away. "What're you saying, stupid Usui? I . . . that's impossible."

"Is it?" He questioned sardonically, trailing his fingers down to her neck, tracing the heated skin there. Her breath hitched a little and she made a move to step away, but he held firm. "Misa-chan," he scolded playfully. But then, just as suddenly, he was only a few inches from her, his hot breath hitting her ear like a tornado. "Misaki."

"U-Usui . . ."

"Call me Takumi." He might have been joking before, but this time, he was curious to see if Misaki would actually follow through with his request. It wasn't everyday he got her this worked up, after all.

Misaki frowned, turning her head away from his heated breath, noting somewhere in her mind that Usui was too close, that she should be fighting such a blatantly sexual advance. But that voice was small, and fragile, and she couldn't care less. Right now, all she wanted was Usui . . . No, Takumi.

"T-Takumi . . ." Her face flushed scarlet, and she screwed her eyes shut, afraid of his reaction. Okay, she took back what she'd said before. This was too embarrassing! "Takumi . . ."

"Yes?" He was like a cat, purring into her ear, and she felt her knees go weak. He seemed to notice this too, for he grabbed her waist—again blatantly ignoring her personal space—and pulled her close, his eyes unreadable.

"T-Takumi . . ." It was strange, she mused. Not even two days ago was she being held in almost the same way by a certain raven-haired flea, and she'd thought her skin was going to burn off. The guy reeked of danger, of power, and sadism. He was so very unlike Usui, who emitted power, sure, but also gave off a vibe of . . . content? No, that wasn't quite right. She usually got flustered more than happy when she was with him, but that in and of itself was a small happiness . . .

Safety.

"It's strange," she said, leaning her head against Usui's chest. "I just . . . I feel so safe with you, like nothing bad will ever happen if I just trust you." She didn't know where this urgent honestly was coming from, but she decided not to question it. Glancing up at Usui, what she saw nearly took her breath away.

His eyes were wide, cheeks painted red, though only slightly, and a sort of incredulous trepidation showed in his eyes, the shimmer of something deep and unidentifiable lurking deep in their wake. It was the first time she'd ever seen him so shocked, so taken off guard that for a moment, she wasn't sure how to react. All she knew, and was certain of, was that she was leaning closer and closer to his lips, her eyes fluttering shut . . .

"IIIIIIIIZAAAAAAYAAAAAA-KUUUUN!"

It was loud, like a peal of thunder, and the moment was conceivably broken. Both teens blinked repeatedly as if they'd been in a trance; and then their eyes met.

Misaki flushed an impressive shade of scarlet.

"I-I . . ." Oh God, what had she done?! She'd told Usui some of her deepest thoughts, she'd hugged him, she'd almost kissed him . . . She'd called him Takumi! What the hell was wrong with her?! This was Usui! Hello brain, this was Usui! The no good, perverted space alien who didn't know the meaning of personal space . . .

"IIIIIIIIIZAAAAAAYAAAAAAA-KUUUN!"

The thunderous voice echoed again, effectively stopping her train of thought. Glancing up, she noticed Usui's eyes—oh God, why were they so green and beautiful and perfect—swimming with the confusion she felt. It was dusk, nearly the beginning of night; so who was making such a big raucous in such a quiet neighborhood?

"Usui . . ."

"I know." He sounded sort of resigned when he said that, but she was already ahead of him, the screams and yells of fury leading her through the slowly filling street. She wasn't running away, no way! She was just curious about who was yelling, and what the fuss was all about . . . Nothing more!

The crowds of people suddenly became too thick to get past and Misaki was left teetering on her tippy toes. Glancing to a girl at her right, she asked, "What's going on?"

The girl glanced at Misaki, then shrugged, completely ignoring the demon president of Seika High. Her phone, like many of the other spectators, was held high, hoping to get a shot of what Misaki assumed was a fight on the street in front of her.

A little more urgently, she said, "Excuse me, do you know what's going on?"

The girl popped her gum obnoxiously, obviously displeased at having been interrupted again; but with a resigned sigh, she brought her phone down, rewinding the last few seconds in a whirlwind of pictures. The colors stopped a few moments later, the grainy visual of two men making Misaki freeze.

The girl popped her gum again. "Do you wanna see?" She didn't have to elaborate.

Misaki, too shocked to blink, much as speak, nodded her head slowly. She could feel Usui's eyes burning holes into her head.

The girl smirked and pressed a button, the grainy images suddenly springing to life, the two figures now walking, talking animations. One was tall, blond hair hanging shaggily just below his eyes, a strangely out of place bartender's uniform outlining lean muscle. He was smiling in the picture, but Misaki knew better; her fears were only cemented as she saw him spit his cigarette out, stomping it out like an annoying flea on the roadside. The other, a raven-haired male, stared at the scene with obvious interest, his carmine eyes narrowed in utmost glee. To his side were the broken guitar from earlier and a recently broken vending machine that lay in shambles. The man was strangely familiar, nostalgic; and then recognition hit. She watched with wide, pale eyes as the blond man said something unintelligible before he leaned to the side and plucked a stop sign from its roots, like a child picking a daisy . . .

There was no doubt about it. The dark-haired man was Izaya. And the blond brute . . . was her cousin, Shizuo.

XXX

Please don't forget to review! And a special thanks to monymoon, who beta-ed this chapter. Thanks girl! You da best! :)