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Akabayashi knows how to get even the slyest, most tight-lipped men to talk.
It’s all in the wrists, really, when you’re swinging the hammer just right to crack the bone. Or when you’re fastening the battery in the most sensitive places, to fry them up until they’re begging to clue you in.
He’s been involved in the Yakuza for many years, watched the power change from the different hands of many crooked men. He’s fought his way to his ranking tooth and nail, like the rabid, unleashed dog that he’d been known for so many years to be.
But as the months passed, as the calendars flipped through so many days, and as he’d found himself growing older and only more tired of the violence, there's always been a singular, universal constant:
The men who barter information can always be bought at the right price. And the slimy rats who like to tell themselves that they’re too good at what they do to ever reveal their secrets free of charge can always be convinced otherwise, if the hand that feeds them offers up the right kind of poison.
This might not be the kind of poison that he would have anticipated to work on a sneaky little cockroach like Orihara Izaya, but if it works, well, he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“So as you were saying,” he begins, swirling the rum around in his glass as Orihara downs his third in one, long gulp, “You’re not involved with Ryuugamine Mikado in any way, shape or form?”
Orihara winks, giggling in a manner that Akabayashi can’t say is too different than the laughter of Akane’s young friends, before leaning forward clumsily and pouring himself another glass.
“I-I really… am not involved with t-the kid, alright?” he slurs, but he doesn’t seem to be too convinced himself, if the continuous, girlish laughter is any indication, “I’m completely innocent, A-Akabayashi-san. Promise.”
That’s doubtful, of course, for a myriad of reasons, but Akabayashi mentions none of them. He watches Orihara take another long drink before slumping back. He watches the color creep over those pale cheeks, as thick lashes fall downward over dark, glassy eyes.
“If you’re so innocent,” he says, after enough time passes that Orihara seems to have forgotten that he’s in the middle of a meeting with a member of the Yakuza in the first place, “Why don’t you tell me what you do know?”
Orihara tuts at that, lifting his glass to his mouth and allowing it to settle there, as though he can’t remember how to drink. Or maybe as though he's finally realizing that it’s probably not a good idea to get completely wasted in the presence of someone who might want you dead.
Whatever his reasons might be, he takes a drink eventually anyway. Akabayashi almost repeats his question after so much time passes, but Orihara cuts him off right as he’s opening his mouth to speak.
“Do you… do you know Heiwajima Shizuo?” he asks, and Akabayashi is momentarily thrown off by the question.
From what he’s heard, Heiwajima Shizuo keeps his nose clean. He might have been a member of the Dollars at one point, but he doesn’t seem to have found himself a place among the smaller ranks of the gang. He operates alone, from what Akabayashi can see. He doesn’t mess with anyone who doesn’t mess with him.
So what does he have to do with any of this?
“I do,” Akabayashi replies, careful not to let his disbelief slip through, “How does he fit into all of this?”
Orihara snorts. He takes another sip, cradling his glass against his chest as though it’s the most precious thing that he’s ever held in his life.
“Sh-Shizu-chan’s not involved with Ryuugamine,” he chuckles, cracking open a lazy eye as a lop-sided smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “H-he’s… just a stupid brute… what’s his deal anyway? Always… always… throwing things and yelling.”
He sits up a little, raising his arms high in the air and spilling a little bit of his drink in the process.
“Izayaaaaa-kuuuuun,” he coos, brows furrowed as though he’s trying to mimic the way that Heiwajima looks as he’s hurling something impossibly heavy at his unwitting victims, “S-stay the Hell out of Ikebukuro!”
He cackles at that, throwing himself back and taking another drink.
“I lived... in Ikebukuro too, y’know,” he slurs, “He doesn’t own the place.”
Akabayashi nods, frustration mingling with the confusion in his chest as he takes a long look at the ice cubes slowly melting in his drink. Did someone spike this? Is Orihara allergic? Do people usually ramble about their supposed enemies when drinking and speaking to business partners?
“Uh, so, about Ryuugamine—”
“And he’s so strong,” Orihara interjects, sitting back up so quickly that Akabayashi almost flinches in fright, “You e-ever seen him toss a truck? It’s crazy. It’s… so impossible… makes you kind of wonder…”
He trails off, and a sick sort of curiosity curls about in Akabayashi’s belly. He wants to get to the bottom of things, of course, but this informant prides himself on keeping a cool head at all times. Shiki claimed that getting even one unwarranted secret to wriggle free from those pretty lips would be akin to cutting off your own leg, but this…
He isn’t sure if Orihara would be telling him this willingly, if he weren’t so inebriated. He probably wouldn’t even be saying these sorts of things to himself.
“Makes you wonder...?” Akabayashi echoes, surely only adding fuel to the flame.
Orihara shakes his head, spilling more alcohol as he attempts to pour himself another glass.
“Makes you wonder…” he trails off again, cheeks scarlet by now, as he finally manages to fill his glass and empties it almost has quickly, “how… how he is in bed, doesn’t it?”
Akabayashi can’t stop himself from laughing, but he bites it off before Orihara seems to notice.
“Ah, no,” he says, “I can’t say that I was ever curious about that sort of thing.”
Izaya makes a noise that might be a snort, but it might also be an attempt at laughter or even… some sort of strangled breathing. Akabayashi isn’t particularly worried about his health, but it would be a shame to miss out on this free show when he has so many other, less interesting, meetings today.
“I think about it,” Izaya pauses to drink, “ a looooot . How can y-you not think about it? He’s.. he’s such a monster. I wonder… w-which parts of him are also m-monstrous, you know?”
Akabayashi chokes on his drink, regretting his terrible decision not to waste it while Orihara was speaking, as it burns its way up his throat and through his nostrils.
“Monstrous?” he coughs, “I—I’m sure that all of his other parts are completely normal, Orihara-san.”
Orihara seems to disagree. He shakes his head so aggressively back and forth that his entire body jostles on the couch. He takes a long swig, emptying his glass before slamming it down on the table.
“I bet it’s h-huge,” he says, loud enough that Akabayashi worries momentarily about what the other patrons outside of their private room must be thinking, “Sh-Shizu-chan is such a monster… I bet—I bet it’s huge. ”
He clears his throat uncomfortably. Orihara definitely would not be admitting this under different circumstances, even if it meant distracting Akabayashi from whatever secrets he might be hiding about the Dollars. He wonders if he should be recording this, if the higher ups might find this information useful for blackmail, but he thinks about the way that the Yakuza generally handles these situations, and even for a filthy rat like Orihara, it seems to cruel to out him.
He kicks himself mentally for becoming soft in his old age, but he can’t bring himself to purposefully set up this stupid kid in such a way.
“That’s nice and all, but going back to Ryuugamine—”
“I-I just—I keep thinking about… about how it would feel to… to actually see it. To actually look that monstrous thing in the face—d-do you… do you think that he’s ever used it?”
“H-his,” Akabayashi’s voice squeaks in a manner so unmanly that he’s thankful that Orihara won’t remember any of this, “His penis ?”
Orihara nods enthusiastically, downing the accumulated water from his melting ice cubes.
“I bet he hasn’t,” he adds, and despite the drunken slack that’s overtaken his features, he still manages to look pensive, “Sh-Shizu-chan… is definitely a virgin. I bet… I bet he’d be romantic about it too. He’d—he’d wanna look me in the eyes while—w-while we did it.”
“While you did it?” Akabayashi questions, despite the guilt tugging at his heart for egging this on, “You mean you and Heiwajima? Both of you having sex?”
Orihara cocks his head to the side, swirling the empty glass in his hands.
“O-of course,” he sighs, a dreamy sort of schoolgirl-esque grin settling over his lips, “Shizu-chan… is mine to kill… mine to torture… mine to… you know .”
He giggles at that, and Akabayashi has a hard time not associating this entire display with a giddy teenager recalling memories of her first boyfriend.
“Well, Orihara-san,” he says, searching his brain for any sort of remark that might be able to turn this disaster into something even remotely salvageable, “I guess you’ll have to sort this out on your own, but about Ryuugamine-kun—”
“I bet he’d be able to… you know… sometimes in the movies, the g-guy—the guy holds the girl up against a wall and—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure Heiwajima-san could manage to lift someone, since most people can do that, but Orihara-san, really, about Ryuugamine-kun—”
“H-he smokes a lot, you know, so I bet… I bet he likes putting other things in his mouth t-too—”
“Okay, Orihara-san, please, Ryuugamine—”
“Listen,” Orihara’s voice lowers as he straightens his posture, and if Akabayashi didn’t know any better, he would think that this entire fiasco were some sort of ploy, “Akabayashi-san, listen to me.”
He readies himself for some heart-felt warning, for a serious note from this ridiculously silly man before him—about staying clear of the Dollars, or not trusting Ryuugamine’s young face and understanding that something sinister must lie beneath, but no such luck.
“Do you think that Shizu-chan would want to bottom or top?”
And Akabayashi finally excuses himself, after deciding that this informant, after so many years of prying the intel that he needs from even the most secretive, steel-trap of men, will have to be the first, and hopefully the last, man to ever best him.
He lingers in the doorway for only a moment, drawing in a deep breath as Orihara drips the last droplets of alcohol into his glass. He ponders what he might say next, some parting words to evoke the drive into this poor man to finally be honest with—at the very least—himself and admit that the emotions tugging at his heart when he looks at Heiwajima Shizuo have nothing to do with hatred.
But he thinks about the words exchanged between them, and frankly, he thinks that this might be a lost cause.
In all of Orihara’s infinite wisdom, his all-seeing, all knowing eyes, he seems particularly blind to his own emotions.
“Uh, Orihara-san,” he sighs, “Good luck.”
And he leaves, feeling a Hell of a lot more filthy than he has in many, many years.