Translation : Russian
“Are you still mad about it?” Shizuo asks. He’s sitting on one end of the couch with his feet propelled on the coffee table and a glass ashtray in his lap; it’s still smoking lazily where he just ineffectively tried to smother his cigarette. Izaya trails a thumb on his tablet with deliberate slowness.
“I don’t get mad,” he says simply.
Shizuo snorts. Izaya scrolls down his inbox jerkily.
“I didn’t mean to kick you. I was asleep. You feet are cold.”
“I could literally call the police on you for this.”
“I thought I was being attacked by an iceberg.”
“Yes,” Izaya drawls, lifting his head to finally look at Shizuo. “And I thought someone had broken in and was trying to beat me up in my own bed. Which I can hardly run away from.”
Shizuo aborts a move to get up; his fingers slip on the edge of the ashtray, catching it before it manages to fall off and pour cinders all over Izaya’s expensive leather couch. That would not help his cause.
“I already apologized like three times,” he growls after putting it down. He apologized four times, actually. The tension inside his chest has been growing exponentially with each of Izaya’s refusals, although he knows Izaya is doing this for the hell of it and not because he particularly resents Shizuo for accidentally kicking him out of the bed in his sleep—but still. There’s Izaya, sitting cold as a stone a few feet away from him, with his work face on and his shoulders tense from too long without contact. And the knot behind Shizuo’s ribs is starting to take the shape of actual guilt instead of mild irritation.
“Izaya,” he says lowly. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to.”
Izaya doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything.
“At least let me look at your legs or somethin’,” Shizuo insists.
There’s a breath, too awkward now. Then Izaya sighs and pushes away his tablet.
Shizuo is in front of him almost immediately, kneeling down on the ridiculous plushy grey carpet Izaya insists brings ‘life into their home’. It saves his knees some ache but doesn’t ease anything else; when he grabs the helms of Izaya’s sweatpants to push them up he does so as lightly as he can, slow so he doesn’t accidentally rip the fabric or jerk too-fast against bruisable skin.
There’s nothing wrong that he can see, even on the side of Izaya’s knee where Shizuo is sure his foot connected the hardest. For a moment he worries about the way Izaya fell, whether his hips took the impact, but then again Izaya hasn’t acted quite closed off enough for his pain levels to be above five out of ten or even complained the way he would to purposefully annoy Shizuo. Doubt seeps into him at the same time he hears Izaya chuckling, and when he looks up Izaya’s lips are stretched to a smirk so sharp it looks like it’s gonna cut against his palm where it presses to the side of his chin.
“You gigantic ass,” Shizuo groans, sitting back on his heels.
“Oh, come on, Shizu-chan,” Izaya replies lightly. “I’m allowed some revenge.”
“I got worried.”
“I gathered.” There’s a smile now, softer, less noticeable. Shizuo trails his hand down Izaya’s calf all the way to his ankle. Little hairs rise under his fingertips; Izaya twitches, shifts on his spot of the couch as though he can ignore the tickling just by pretending it’s not happening. “Stop it,” he snaps when Shizuo brushes behind his knee, and Shizuo laughs but complies before he accidentally makes Izaya jump away and hurt himself.
He twists sideways to sit properly, back against the couch and his right shoulder pressed against Izaya’s left leg. The TV is still on, volume low enough to be ignored and not actually watched by either of them—there’s a faint rustling behind him to indicate that Izaya is back to work, and Shizuo realizes his pack of cigarettes is at the other end of the couch but doesn’t move to get them, only leans further against the resistance of leather and the heat of Izaya’s skin against his arm.
“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says after a while. “Fetch me some water.”
Shizuo hums uncomprehendingly before his mind catches on to Izaya’s words. “Get it yourself, Jesus” he mutters. “I’m not your manservant.”
For a moment Izaya says nothing, and Shizuo lets himself fall into complacency; then the leg shifts against him as Izaya leans forward to push his wheelchair as far away from the couch as he can.
“Oh, no,” Izaya gasps above him. “It seems I’m stuck here.”
When he looks up Izaya is facing downward, his nose almost touching Shizuo’s. He’s smiling again, lazy and unperturbed, and then Shizuo opens his mouth to protest but Izaya is leaning down to press his lips close again.
He moves away after only a second, eyes glinting. “Fetch me some water, Shizu-chan.”