Thereās sometimes just anger you canāt even fathom controlling.Ā
The demeaning look his elder whisked was something he could handle, something that he was used to. Typically when around the guy, the appearance of faux happy, well rounded and even on occasion, charming individual was washed away to reveal the true beast inside. A twisted expression, a hateful glimmer in the pupils, other times a jilted smile that screamedĀ āI want you deadā, were just some of the many facial features, he, as a target saw. Used to it at best, and never really thinking much too more than how it irritated him to see it, he could honestly say- having to witness it again wasnāt something that phased him. No. What phased him was the followup that came after the glower of repulsion. The sudden movement, otherwise known as-
The breaking of personal barriers.Ā
He knew, and Izaya knew, that he didnāt like people close to him. When someone got in your face it meant they had the upper hand, the aggression. As an aggressor himself, that wasnāt doing it for him. In fact, it was only pissing him off even more considering heād not only been pushed, but completely forced into the defensive alignment. Meaning, the moment that distance was closed, there was no denying the spark of rigidness and the upper lip curl he sported. If the jacket wearing, destructive bastard wanted to corner someone into feeling and fleeting to animalistic instincts--
His first act in response is to loom forward and use his height, along with his broader body structure to completely shadow over the smallerās. He knows, without thinking, that he has the upper hand in strength here. The closer his enemy is to him, the more likely theyāre going to ever-so bluntly,Ā āget the shit knocked out of themā, and the informant is no exception to that rule. He also knows, and takes into account, that there are people watching. Eyes staring. Mumbles flickering across lips as friends lean into each other to point out the scene that has tensions high.Ā
He should keep that in mind. He should do the mutual thought ofĀ ābe the bigger manā, but like always. The temptation that strikes into him as the dirty flea speaks is just too strong. Too thick. Relapse into old behaviors is a common thing, and as far as heās concerned; not always a flaw.
So he presses closer and knocks his chest straight into the set of shoulders positioned towards his own body. Then. Then he does something that isnāt too bright, but comes to action anyway. He leans in, lowers his head closer and stares the devil straight in the eye, small flecks of a golden brown in his own flaring.Ā
āAre you going to keep talking.āĀ
The question itself is said more as a cold statement, and he holds it as deep as he possibly can, using what lowered tone he has to try and keep it between them. As much as what is being thrown at him stabs and cuts, he doesnāt have the time to mull over it now. No. In the present he actually doesnāt have much of the time for anything, especially considering what the corner of his gaze spots as movement is made.
The hand went in the pocket.Ā
That means thereās a step being made thatās trying to best his own. That also means thereās something there and in a few seconds, heās going to have yet another scar across his torso if he doesnāt move. But moving. Moving means too much to him. Moving means heās showing fear. Showing fear means thatās what Izaya not only wants, but gets and what Izaya gets is not what Shizuo wants. They canāt live together in the same city for that very reason and for a brief moment, he actually considers what he should do.
Of course, then itās all red.
What thought and rationalization he had is simply thrown out the window by the following statement.Ā
Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster.
Without any further deduction or decision, nor even a word, he lifts his arm and throws his fist out; unmindful to the crowd. Uncaring to what people think. Enraged and only being able to visualize one thing alone. His knuckles going straight for that foul, disturbing, wretched, criminalizing cheek of a man who he wants to see take his last breath on this very street.