Sex is an itch you just scratch...but love — that's the itch so far down your back you can't ever reach it with your own hand. - River, episode 4.

"...You didn't cum."

Izaya sits back and licks his lips hesitantly, hazy eyes meeting Namie's without a shadow of the rampant egoism he's so well known for. It's humid, the air unbearably close despite the muffled whirring of the air conditioning. The windows are thrown open in a futile bid to allow more air to circulate, and she can hear the distant sound of sirens — the hum of traffic and voices rebounding between towering glass buildings. There's moisture collecting at the back of her neck as she sweeps her hair over one shoulder, irritation building as guilt settles on her skin. One of the voices outside reminds her of Seiji, and it's no longer just her and her insufferable boss, still down on his knees in front of her. She feels unpleasantly exposed as she shuffles her pale pink lacy underwear on from around her ankle and hastily tugs her skirt down.

A small frown betrays Izaya's confusion, and he gets to his feet slowly, eyes hardening as though Namie somehow hasn't orgasmed on purpose, as though this is all just another game and he isn't pleased that he hasn't won. His expression is infuriating: the barely perceptible dip of his eyebrows, the tension in his jaw — little things she shouldn't notice, shouldn't knowabout somebody who has done nothing but make her life a conflict of unwanted lust and misery.

"What did you expect when you can't locate the clitoris unassisted?" She snaps, reaching for the silky shirt she's worn in place of her usual green jumper. "I'd have thought that you, the oracle of all knowledge, would have known that it takes more than badoral sex to bring a woman to orgasm."

There's a pause, a fleeting moment of calculation before laughter rings through the air. She knows what he's going to say before he says it, can see in the curve of his lips and relaxation of his shoulders, his smile still carrying traces of laughter. It's the sort of smile that draws people in, playful and assured, but Namie knows better. If Izaya is anything he's a Venus fly trap, only too willing to lure you in and leave you a husk.

"Is that so?"

She wishes that the divide between them were irreparable. That she could fall into the warm comfort of her brother's arms and forget about him— but there's an inextricable connection forever redefining the poles between them, and her efforts at disentanglement have proved unsuccessful. The ties that bind them are not the red strings of fate: they're a cutting knot of piano wires, never destined to be harmonious.

He approaches her casually, a mock show of retrieving the long sleeve shirt he'd abandoned earlier. She knows that's not really why he's come over, and it's confirmed by one hand reaching across her shoulder, the other bracing against the desk as he leans down and whispers in her ear: "Then tell me, Namie, why do you keep coming back for more?"

Her mind flashes back to yesterday, cool fingers tracing the vertebrae of her spine as they lay in bed together. She'd closed her eyes and bit back a sigh even as she wondered if he was counting them like notches on a bedpost.

"...I wonder what Seiji's doing tonight?"

Rings graze her collarbone as a finger winds in her hair. His touch is gentle, but she knows that it'll hurt if she pulls away.

"What about you? Why do you keep coming back for more?"

His voice is cool when he speaks, his posture stiffening behind her.

"I think that we both know the reason for that."

They don't love each other.

At least, not in the traditional sense.

The first time they had sex Namie drove her fingernails so hard into Izaya's back it drew blood. Whether it was from wanting to pull him closer or push him away, she wasn't sure.

Izaya talks about love a lot. Saika's love of humanity is fraudulent. Heiwajima Shizuo is a monster undeserving of love. Namie's love for Seiji is obsession, and Seiji's love for Celty's head is delusional.

Sometimes Namie wonders if he loves her, or if he's using her in a bid to find the type of love he claims to know so much about. The idea of Orihara Izaya showing a singular, directed love of any genuity is ludicrous, but there's a certain tenderness in the way he touches her that invalidates his claims to love all humans equally, and she can't help but think of the way he treats Heiwajima Shizuo: 'All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others'.

Namie doesn't love him, but seeing him in bared moments of vulnerability creates a tangible though tentative closeness, always on the brink of collapsing. There are days when she's disgusted by their growing intimacy, when he provokes her and she envisions closing her hands around his neck and squeezing until the life extinguishes from his eyes — but those days were before, the concept becoming increasingly invasive. She thinks of all of the times he's made her breakfast, coffee just the way she likes it; of the times she's watched him fall asleep after sex, long eyelashes and their limbs entangled, and she wonders when she started wanting to feel his body pressed against hers, to stroke the shell of his ear instead pulling it.

He leans down, kissing her softly on the cheek before straightening up and turning to retreat to the bathroom. She knows the lines of his body without looking, the scar on his abdomen and the line of hair beneath his navel, how he's all lean flesh and bones and sinew. She reaches for his wrist and catches it. It's her way of making up for the earlier taunts, a truce of sorts, regardless of whether she regrets what she said. He interlocks his fingers with hers, a small smile playing across his lips.

It's genuine this time, and she wonders if she's starting to love him after all.