Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11248662.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Durarara!!
  Relationship:
      Heiwajima_Shizuo/Orihara_Izaya
  Character:
      Heiwajima_Shizuo, Orihara_Izaya
  Additional Tags:
      Inspired_by_Drama_CD, Established_Relationship, Vignette, Love/Hate, No
      Plot/Plotless, Flirting, Innuendo, Valentine's_Day, Pining, Smoking,
      Light_Masochism, Sakura_(Cherry_Blossoms), Kissing_in_the_Rain, Hand
      Jobs, Threats_of_Violence, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Beaches
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-17 Completed: 2017-09-01 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 21794
****** We Remain the Same ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "I’ll say this now, I hate this annoying, lying, good-for-nothing
     flea! So remember that I’m not fighting with him; I’m always giving
     my 100% to kill him!" Shizuo and Izaya spend a year trying to kill
     each other, with more or less effort.
***** Introduction *****
Izaya’s talking to a reporter when Shizuo finally sees him.
He’s been following the trace of the other across the city all morning,
frustrated more by the absence of any tangible presence than by the persistent
tang of metal in the air, like winter-chill iron suddenly warmed in direct
sunlight to crackle into the sky as electricity made physical. By the time he
rounds the corner to the central park Shizuo’s tense with electricity of his
own, his hands formed to fists at his sides until he can feel the white of his
clenched knuckles aching dully up the whole of his arms with the need to
attack, to lash out, to ground out the lightning of his building rage against
the highest point he can find. He doesn’t look at the passersby around him,
doesn’t spare a glance even for those more-familiar faces of classmates or the
calls of greeting that follow him as he moves; he’s following that bite in the
air like it’s a trail, or a leash, maybe, drawing him as inexorably forward as
it always does, as it always has. He knows what will be waiting at the end of
it, knows who it is that is ever waiting for him at the end of his chase; and
so when he steps out into the sunshine painting the park to gold, and sees the
casual slouch of narrow shoulders under a dark shirt, it’s relief that unfurls
along his spine instead of surprise, anticipation instead of shock.
Izaya doesn’t look at Shizuo approaching. Shizuo’s not subtle about it; he lets
his feet fall heavily, lets every step land like a portent of doom for the
other to feel. But Izaya doesn’t turn, doesn’t so much as glance at him as he
draws nearer, and even as Shizuo comes into earshot he’s still talking, still
rambling something about “this society believes and is guided by violence” that
Shizuo doesn’t bother to listen to the details of as he approaches. Easier to
step in nearer, to cast Izaya into the unmistakeable shadow of his shoulders,
to growl “Shut up,” as the most efficient means of cutting off the slurring
spill of the other’s voice to the audience Shizuo barely notices.
“What’s this?” Izaya drawls, cutting his gaze sideways and up towards Shizuo as
the corner of his mouth drags up into a smile even brighter than the one he
usually offers to the crowds of humanity that he claims to love so much. His
eyes flash bright for a moment, sparking like they’re reflecting Shizuo’s own
electricity back at him before dark lashes flutter to sweep aside the telltale
bright of enthusiasm into shadows instead. “So you were here, Shizu-chan” as
low and purring as if to wholly undo the claim to ignorance his words imply. It
makes Shizuo’s jaw tense, makes his fingers tighten harder against his palms,
and when he turns it’s to fix the reporter with a glare, to spit rejection of
whatever most recent lies Izaya has been offering to the stranger.
“I’ll say this now,” he growls. “I hate this annoying, lying, good-for-nothing
flea!” The reporter is staring at him wide-eyed, her whole expression given
over to confusion and the beginning of panic, now that Shizuo is looking at
her; but in his periphery he can still see Izaya grinning, can see the flash of
the other’s smile going brighter with every word Shizuo grinds out past the
rising heat in his veins. “So remember that I’m not fighting with him” as he
turns back to fix the whole of his attention on Izaya, as if the weight of his
glare will somehow add enough force to finally break past the liquid shine of
delighted amusement in the other’s expression. “I’m always giving my all to
kill him!” He’s leaning in on the last words, bearing down on Izaya’s personal
space as if the other is the metal that flashes in his favorite knives, as if
he might bend and snap as easily as the supports of street signs do under
Shizuo’s grip; but Izaya’s smile doesn’t so much as flicker at the onslaught,
his lashes don’t so much as shift.
“Wow!” he chirps instead, his eyebrows raising into a mockery of surprise and
his voice spilling right over the edge from laughter to unmitigated delight.
When he tips his head to the side it turns his smile off-center, makes a show
of his throat like he’s taunting Shizuo with the vulnerable curve of it.
“Shizu-chan’s so scary!”
The fury rises in Shizuo like a wave crashing into his veins, spurred on by the
tilt of Izaya’s head, by the lilting taunt of his voice, by the mocking fear he
makes a show of with the soft of his mouth and the crease of his forehead while
his eyes hold to the dark shadows that always draw Shizuo’s rage to the surface
like iron rising to a magnet. “Die,” Shizuo growls, and his arm is swinging as
fast as he speaks, that long-held fist arcing through the air towards the
laughter at Izaya’s mouth and the suggestion in his eyes; but Izaya darts
backwards as effortlessly as if he’s dancing, tipping his weight back by such a
narrow margin Shizuo can feel the strands of the other’s hair brush his
knuckles as he swings. There’s no chance to catch back the motion, no
possibility to do anything other than follow it through to its conclusion,
which turns out to be crashing full-force through the minimal resistance of a
trash can to rend metal beneath the weight of his fist and shatter apart the
glasses and cans inside. The reporter yelps some incoherent noise of panic,
stumbling backwards along with the microphone still clutched in one hand, but
Shizuo doesn’t even spare her a glance; Izaya is standing still again just out
of reach, watching Shizuo with his smile spreading wide and bright all across
his face while his eyes hold shadows enough for all the rest of him.
Shizuo knows he’ll dodge, knows the other will dart back as soon as Shizuo
reaches out for him, that at most his fingertips will skim the soft of a dark
sleeve before Izaya is skipping backwards and away from him again. He still
reaches. He can’t help it. It’s impossible to keep his hands still when Izaya
is so near, impossible to hold his temper back when maybe this will be the time
he’ll close his fist on the other’s shirt, or wrist, or hair, when maybe this
will be the time he can finally hold Izaya still long enough for the weight of
Shizuo’s fist to land against delicate bone or the crush of his mouth to land
against smirking lips. He never knows which it will be before it happens, can
never be certain which of the two impulses will win out to take control of the
adrenaline-fueled motion of his body; but Izaya’s smile says that he does know,
says that he can predict Shizuo’s decisions with that same uncanny certainty
that always keeps him just barely beyond the other’s reach no matter how much
Shizuo strains for him.
Shizuo keeps reaching. He might only ever catch Izaya when the other decides to
let him gain the upper hand; but those rare moments of satisfaction are
inevitably more than worth all the effort that leads up to them.
***** January *****
Izaya is fond of New Year’s Day. It’s one of his favorite holidays in the year,
he’s sure he would say, if anyone ever asked him. There’s something pleasant
about having the whole of a new year spread out before him, like the unmarked
smooth of fresh snowfall, a canvas for his actions to paint evidence of his own
existence upon. The winter sunlight is warm, the day bright and clear as he
pushes open the door to his apartment building, as he steps out into the fresh
air of a new year, as he--
“IZAYA-KUN!”
Izaya turns slow, pivoting on a heel as he lets his smile go wide across his
face, as he lets his lashes dip his gaze into preemptive shadow to meet the
weight of irritation in his audience’s dark eyes. There’s a man standing at the
far side of his apartment doorway, his shoulders straining on anger under the
pale weight of his blue school jacket, the tension creasing his forehead
entirely undoing whatever cheer might have otherwise been granted by the slash
of a smile across his lips. The full force of his attention is as fixed on
Izaya as his gaze is; Izaya thinks a truck could hit him and Shizuo wouldn’t
even blink until the moment of impact. The thought makes his blood run hotter
in his veins than the sunlight could ever manage, makes his breathing come
quicker on the rush of adrenaline that surges through him, but when he centers
himself he keeps his hands in his pockets, keeps his shoulders slouched into
the appearance of casual interest even as Shizuo takes a step in closer to eat
away at the distance between them. Shizuo’s still smiling, his mouth twisting
on the harsh edges of that vicious grin, and Izaya can barely remember how to
fill his lungs with the pressure of Shizuo’s attention on him.
“When they say to leave things from last year behind, they must mean this,”
Shizuo snarls past the tight of his smile, his hands curling to fists at his
sides as he draws closer. He’s tipping himself forward, his whole body tilting
closer in advance of his footfalls, as if he can’t keep himself to the too-slow
forward motion his steps grant him to bring him closer to Izaya. “I can return
all the favors you did for me last year.”
Izaya manages a smile, curving his mouth into the taunt of a smirk as he feels
his lashes go heavier with the thought of last year’s favors, the ones touched
by blood and shouts the same as those hidden by shadows and marked with moans.
“Don’t be silly, Shizu-chan,” he lilts, tipping his head up as Shizuo looms in
closer to him, close enough that he can bump his forehead against Izaya’s like
a prelude to a shove, or like the foreplay before a kiss. “I already forgot
everything about last year.”
“Don’t worry,” Shizuo growls, the rough edges of the words going hot at Izaya’s
mouth. “I remember.” Izaya thinks for a moment he’s going to lean in closer,
that he’s going to punctuate that with the weight of his mouth as proof of what
exactly he does recall; but then Shizuo’s drawing back by an inch, by enough
distance that Izaya’s eyes can focus on something other than Shizuo’s mouth, if
he cares to make the attempt. “So do you. That gang of bastards that attacked
me a few hours ago was your doing, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” Izaya purrs, drawing the words long and startled to match the
innocent-shocked blink he gives to the grinning viciousness in Shizuo’s
expression. “Too bad, that wasn’t me.” He shrugs, making a performance of the
motion to go along with the lilt of the lie in his throat. “Someone told me
they wanted to tell you thanks so I gave them your address.” He tips his head
to the side, lets his mouth tug down into a show of concern while he drawls his
words into condescending sweetness. “Shizu-chan, it’s bad manners to not accept
a thank you--hm, or was it a thank you?” He lifts a hand to his mouth, presses
a finger thoughtfully against his lips as he looks up to frown at the sky. “Now
that I think of it, they said they were going to return a favor.”
Shizuo huffs an exhale. His frown gives way, the set frustration against his
jaw eases itself into certainty; when he rocks back on his heels he’s grinning,
his mouth pulling up sharply at one corner as the tension across his shoulders
sags into the boneless grace of a predator, as his stance steadies into languid
elegance. “I’ve decided,” he announces, and his voice is lower, too, purring
over the resonance of the words until Izaya can feel the tremor of it in his
bones, like the beginning of an earthquake or the warning of distant drums.
“I’ll kill you.” He lifts a hand to his face to push his hair back from his
features; Izaya watches the flex of Shizuo’s fingers against the strands,
tracks the unthinking grace that writes itself into the familiar movement as
Shizuo shakes his hair back to leave the color of his eyes bare to the
sunlight. Izaya’s skin prickles with the weight of Shizuo’s unobstructed gaze,
with the awareness of the other’s attention pressing so directly against him;
he can feel his lashes dip heavier over his eyes, can feel his chin tilting
down as if to shadow his vision from the glow of Shizuo’s focus so blinding
against him. “That’s my New Year’s resolution.”
“Wasn’t that last year’s resolution too?” Izaya asks. He doesn’t need to ask.
He remembers it with perfect clarity, remembers the growl of Shizuo’s voice on
the words with more anger and less suggestion than they carry now, remembers
the drawn-out chase they ran through Ikebukuro before Izaya let himself get
pinned back against a fence with his knife against the white of Shizuo’s
shirtfront. That New Year’s had ended well, he thinks; from the way Shizuo’s
breath huffs on a tiny, barely-voiced laugh, that’s something even they can
agree on.
“I’ll beat the crap out of you until you’re so red no one can recognize you,”
Shizuo tells him, growling over the words in a way that thrums all the way down
Izaya’s spine like electricity, as if Shizuo’s voice is thunder warning too-
late of the lightning that has just grounded itself out against Izaya’s blood.
“Really?” Izaya says, and shifts his weight back over his heels as he tips his
head into the sharpest cut of a smile he can find. “Is that a promise, Shizu-
chan?”
Shizuo doesn’t respond with words, or at least not with coherent ones; his
reply is a growl in the back of his throat, and a lunging motion forward that
he combines with a closed fist swinging towards Izaya’s face. But Izaya’s
moving before Shizuo is, darting backwards so fast it’s a stumble more than a
step, and then he pivots on his heel and starts to run in earnest with the
sound of Shizuo’s footsteps and the shout of his name on the other’s tongue to
promise that he’s still being followed.
Izaya’s smiling even before he takes the turn he knows will lead to an
abandoned street, that will give him the excuse of a dead end to stop running
and turn to face Shizuo as the other catches up to him. He can almost taste the
bite of secondhand nicotine on his lips already, can almost feel the weight of
bruised-in fingerprints crushing against his hip and dragging up under the
heavy fall of his coat, and the anticipation rushing through his veins is warm
enough to more than make up for the winter chill in the air he gasps with every
forward stride.
There’s nothing he likes more than starting the New Year off right with favors
from Shizuo.
***** Valentine's Day *****
Shizuo is already in a bad mood by the time Izaya shows up.
It’s been an unusual morning. The class has been full of groans and laughter
alike, nervous giggles and halting conversation and heads ducking to hide the
telltale color of a blush that is perfectly obvious in spite of attempts to
hide it. It’s like a mania that catches up the whole of the class at once and
holds them in a vice grip for the entirety of the day, until any attempt at
actual education is forced to fall by the wayside simply because of the
impossibility of anyone managing to spare any attention for the teacher.
Shizuo has ample opportunity to notice what’s going on around him. He’s not
usually one for people-watching – that’s his forte, not Shizuo’s – but the
space born of fear that usually follows him through the school day is all the
more obvious on this date, when everyone else in the class is caught in pairs
of shy confessions or tittering gossip between a cluster of heads bent low over
some neatly wrapped gift. Under the circumstances Shizuo is left to his own
devices even more than usual, as if a glass wall has gone up around the
vicinity of his desk, until the boys in class steer around him and the girls
won’t even make eye contact, as if they’re afraid of his reaction if they raise
his hopes by recognizing his existence and then dash them with the absence of a
gift.
It makes Shizuo’s teeth grind against each other, makes his jaw ache with the
strain of clenching his teeth into a brittle press of barely-restrained temper.
It’s not that he’s angry, quite – there has been none of the direct frustration
that usually sets him off, none of the obvious foolishness that burns through
his ever-short store of patience. It’s something deeper than that, something
that settles into the space of his chest like it’s making a home for itself in
the ache of loneliness that is so much more noticeable than it usually is,
until he can feel the raw edges of it like they’ve been carved into him, like
he can feel the outline of it scarring into his psyche with a permanent mark.
By the time class stops for lunch Shizuo’s hunched in low over his desk, with
his shoulders up around his ears and a scowl weighting hard at the corners of
his mouth. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, friend or otherwise; he thinks
he’d be ready to snap at Shinra or even Kadota, if either of them so much as
said good afternoon to him.
And, of course, it’s in this moment that Izaya chooses to appear.
Shizuo doesn’t know how he does it. It must be some sixth sense the other has,
that he can so precisely materialize right when Shizuo least wants to see him;
it’s as if it’s his entire life purpose to make Shizuo miserable, to take an
already unpleasant day and make it truly unbearable. If Shizuo were better at
anticipating it he would be expecting Izaya already, would already be looking
for the other as the rest of his classmates trickle out the doors of the class
in pursuit of the unseasonably warm weather outside; but he’s out-of-sorts, and
not thinking about much of anything, and so when a voice lilts from the other
side of the classroom, “Why, if it isn’t Shizu-chan!” with put-upon surprise,
the tension that comes with it runs down the whole of Shizuo’s spine like an
electrical shock.
He lifts his head at once, frustrated unhappiness giving way to the familiar
heat of distaste, of frustration kindling to the warmth of a bonfire inside
Shizuo’s chest. “Izaya.”
“What are you doing in here all alone?” Izaya asks from where he’s leaning in
the doorway. He has one arm up over his head to brace himself as he leans
against the frame; his hand is resting at the back of his neck, his head is
canted far to the side as if to make a deliberate show of the smirk pulling
hard at the corner of his mouth. With his hip angled out he looks like he’s
posing, like he’s making a show of his unconcern for the threat of Shizuo’s
scowl. “Shouldn’t you be reveling in all the chocolates you received from your
devoted admirers?”
“Shut up,” Shizuo growls. There’s a relief just in giving voice to his anger,
in letting his frustration spill hot past his gritted teeth for Izaya’s
hearing. “Get out of my classroom, you’re not even in this class.”
“Is it your classroom?” Izaya asks, blinking wide-eyed innocence as he catches
his fingers at the edge of the doorframe to step forward and into the room. “I
wasn’t aware that you now owned the school, Shizu-chan. Did you come into a
sudden inheritance while I wasn’t paying attention?”
“Get out,” Shizuo says, feeling his hands tighten into fists against the desk
in front of him as he glares fury at Izaya. “I don’t want to see you.”
“You never want to see me,” Izaya says with pointed unconcern as he crosses the
space of the classroom. “That hardly needs declaring. Are you just in a bad
mood because you’re left out of the festivities?” He rounds the corner of the
aisle running alongside Shizuo’s desk and begins to approach, trailing his
fingertips idly over the top of the desk as he does. “What were you expecting?
Girls are hardly going to include a monster in their courtesy chocolates, you
know.”
“Shut up,” Shizuo says, and twists in his seat to reach out and make a grab for
Izaya as the other goes by; but Izaya is expecting this, evidentially, because
he skips over the span of two steps to slip past Shizuo’s reach as he comes by
the other’s desk. Shizuo is left glaring after him, a growl in his throat and
his hands empty as Izaya rounds the corner of the aisle and slows to continue
his casual pace back up the next.
“How cruel, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, his head tipped back so he’s offering the
words more towards the ceiling of the classroom than to Shizuo himself. “And
after I shared my chocolates with you.”
“After you...” Shizuo repeats, forehead creasing in confusion as he stares at
Izaya; and it’s only then that he looks down to see the pink-wrapped bundle on
the corner of his desk.
“I’m feeling generous with my own oversupply of gifts,” Izaya says airily,
while Shizuo is reaching out to touch the crinkling plastic wrapping the candy.
“Happy February and all that.”
Shizuo frowns hard at the candy for a moment, scowling at the package in front
of him as if it’s likely to lash out with the edge of a knife in lieu of Izaya
himself; and then he closes his fingers on the wrapper, and draws it in towards
him to tug roughly at the loop of ribbon holding it shut. “Damn, is it already
February?” he says, without looking up to see Izaya’s face and remind himself
of who he’s speaking to. “During this time we make so many new chocolates that
I have a lot to taste.” That’s a blatant lie, as the total absence of packages
on his desk makes clear; but he’s hunching in over the candy Izaya dropped on
his desk, and Izaya doesn’t say anything from where he’s stopped in the next
aisle over, just barely out of reach of any attempt Shizuo might make to grab
at him. Shizuo works the ribbon loose and lets it fall over the surface of his
desk before reaching into the package to pick up a bite-sized square of
chocolate and hold it up to consider. “Now that I think about it, to think that
every year there’s a day dedicated to making chocolates is kind of amazing.”
“Well, it is Valentine’s Day.” Izaya sounds off-hand, like he’s hardly paying
attention to the conversation; when Shizuo glances sideways at him he’s perched
himself at the edge of the adjacent desk and caught one ankle behind the other
to swing his feet through the clear space beneath him. He’s watching Shizuo’s
face rather than the chocolate, with his chin dipped down so his gaze is
shadowed by the fall of his hair; the dim softens the color of his eyes and
eases the suggestion of blood-red that usually saturates his irises into
something gentler, a little more of a suggestion and a little less of a threat.
Their eyes meet for a moment, Izaya’s shadow-softened gaze catching Shizuo’s
own unthinking consideration; and then Izaya tips his head up, and raises his
gaze to the ceiling, and lets a lopsided grin pull against the corner of his
mouth. “But to think that someone somewhere made this holiday simply so they
could confess their feelings.” His hands are braced at the edge of the desk,
his arms locked out to hold himself steady. Shizuo can see the tendons flexing
tight against Izaya’s wrists just past the dark cuffs of his coat. “People
getting dragged into the flow of things and confessing their feelings to
someone...it goes to show that that’s only as far as their feelings will ever
get.” His chin comes down, his gaze catches at Shizuo’s again. “It’s more about
self-satisfaction that anything else.”
Dark lashes dip, Izaya’s gaze slides down to the chocolate in Shizuo’s hold.
When he speaks again Shizuo can feel every word hum in the air as if it’s a
touch sliding across his skin, following the path of that electricity down the
back of his neck. “I think that learning about the person and being the
aggressor is the only way to truly get anywhere.”
Shizuo can feel the rush of heat run through him from the top of his head all
the way down his spine to prickle out into the tips of his fingers where he’s
still holding the square of chocolate, the dark sweet of it unadorned by any of
the details he finds more of a distraction than anything else, leaving just the
candy itself promising the rich flavor he prefers to any other kind of treat.
Izaya’s gaze holds to his fingertips for a moment, lingering like it’s
weighting the chocolate in Shizuo’s hold with intent; and then his focus skips
up, rising to catch Shizuo’s gaze in a flicker of crimson, and Shizuo looks
away as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“You just stay quiet,” he says, and lifts the candy to his lips. “The chocolate
will start to taste bad if you keep talking.”
It’s a ridiculous claim, the kind of thing that would usually prompt Izaya to
spill a mocking laugh or maybe even frame the shape of a taunt to urge Shizuo’s
temper past the breaking point and pull the other bodily over whatever space
yet remains between them. But Izaya surprises Shizuo yet again, by obeying this
time instead of taking the obvious opening Shizuo left for him, and when Shizuo
looks back over Izaya is gazing at the open wrapper around the chocolate with
the usual tension of his expression gone soft and almost pensive on whatever is
going through his head. Shizuo looks down to follow Izaya’s gaze, his forehead
creasing with curiosity about what it is Izaya could be seeing in a package of
chocolates with neither a giver nor a recipient listed; and it’s then that he
realizes, finally, what it means that there’s no name attached to a package
that was supposedly a gift to Izaya himself.
Shizuo supposes it should make the chocolate go bitter on his tongue, to know
its actual source, but if anything it just tastes the sweeter for the unvoiced
awareness of the giver’s identity.
***** March *****
It’s a challenge to find Shizuo.
Izaya’s been looking for him all afternoon. Not that he’d say as much, to
Shizuo or to anyone else; but he knows what he’s been doing while he wanders
the halls of the school with a deliberately slow pace, while he lets his gaze
linger on scenes he doesn’t care about and people who fail to hold his
interest. Crowds can be interesting, humanity certainly has its charms when
he’s trying to fill idle hours; but at the moment he’s looking for a single
individual, and under the circumstances he finds he can’t keep his attention on
anything else for more than a span of seconds. It’s frustrating to realize how
pronounced the problem is, irritating to acknowledge how much effect Shizuo has
on him when he’s not even in the same space; by the time Izaya is climbing the
stairs to the rooftop he’s scowling without realizing it, his mouth tugging
down onto a frown far more disconsolate than he would ever consciously show. He
wonders if Shizuo didn’t go home early, if maybe he hurt himself again in one
of those all-out brawls that he gets caught in as regularly as Izaya can
maneuver him into them; but Izaya didn’t hear anything about such a fight, and
certainly didn’t manufacture one. The thought that something might have
happened that he didn’t know about is no comfort to his frustration; it only
tenses harder in his shoulders and hunches him forward until it takes a
conscious effort to keep his hands from curling to fists in his pockets. Izaya
climbs the stairs with a heavier tread than he needs to, aware that he’s being
sulky and not able to restrain himself, with no audience around to see him, and
when he reaches for the handle of the door leading to the rooftop it’s with the
bitter thought that at least the view will be nicer from up here, if nothing
else. He pulls open the door and steps forward to squint into the sunlight; and
all his frustration evaporates instantly, disintegrating into a warmth that
spreads through the whole of his body as quickly as his gaze catches at
windswept yellow hair and the forward tilt of broad shoulders as their owner
leans forward against the green-painted chainlink of the fence lining the roof.
Izaya stands in the doorway for a moment, gazing unobserved at Shizuo’s back.
There’s no one else up here to see him, no one following him in the stairwell;
he has no audience at the moment for his attention, no one to make note of how
long he spends watching the unthinking elegance of Heiwajima Shizuo’s movements
when the other thinks he’s going unseen. There’s a grace to the curl of
Shizuo’s hand at his side, a comfortable ease to the shift of his feet against
the rooftop and the slide of his thumb against the metal of a lighter as he
lifts it towards his face; and then Izaya takes a breath, and takes a step, and
moves himself forward before his own self-awareness catches up with his
indulgence.
“When it comes to March it’s definitely graduation season,” he says, pitching
his voice loud so it will carry clearly to Shizuo standing by the fence. Izaya
can see Shizuo’s shoulders tense, can see the shift as the other turns his head
to almost look back at Izaya’s approach; and Izaya lets his gaze slide away
from Shizuo and out to the far side of the fence instead, to the front
courtyard of the school as if he’s just happened to run into Shizuo, as if this
meeting is a complete accident instead of the result of almost an hour of
steadily-increasing effort on his part. He steps up next to Shizuo, just barely
within arm’s reach; but when he reaches out it’s to catch his fingers against
the fence, to curl his touch around the metal instead of against the handle of
the knife in his pocket or the cuff of Shizuo’s shirt against the other’s
wrist.
Shizuo huffs an exhale. Izaya doesn’t look at him. “I think that there’s
something I should graduate from.”
“Hmm,” Izaya offers, and he does tip his head, then, glancing sideways through
his lashes to see Shizuo still looking out at the courtyard with a frown
lingering against his lips as he gazes at the pavement beneath them. He looks
utterly absorbed in the scene in front of him, as if he hasn’t yet noticed who
it is alongside him, as if he maybe doesn’t yet realize with whom he’s having a
conversation. Izaya lifts his chin, and lifts his tone, and lets his voice lilt
into the teasing edge he knows will grate over Shizuo’s temper like fingernails
dragging across the texture of a chalkboard. “Shizu-chan graduating, huh?” He
unwinds his fingers from the fence and turns sideways instead, leaning hard
against the metal with his shoulder so he can cross his arms over his chest as
he looks up at Shizuo next to him. “What is it? You ‘couldn’t graduate because
of a broken heart’ or something like that?” He has to force his laugh past the
tension in his throat; the effort makes the sound come out sharp and strained,
but it’s enough to carry the aggressive amusement he intended it to. “Wow! How
sentimental.”
Shizuo glances at Izaya without turning his head. His eyes look very dark in
the shadow of his hair; he only looks at Izaya for a moment before turning away
again, dismissal heavy enough on the gesture that Izaya can feel it set his jaw
on the rise of that frustration again.
“What,” he says. “Am I wrong?” He lets his attention slide over Shizuo from
head to toe, skimming for any kind of traction for a taunt sufficient to pull
Shizuo’s full focus onto him, to unleash the anger that Izaya so loves to bask
in. His attention stalls at the cigarette caught at Shizuo’s lips, the end of
it glowing faintly with the ember of heat given by the other’s lighter, and the
corner of his mouth drags up sharply with the satisfaction of a new topic.
“Then, smoking?” He lets his gaze linger against the line of the cigarette, the
curve of Shizuo’s lips, the spill of smoke that comes with the huff of the
other’s exhale. “I guess in order to buy them you need a job, but I don’t think
it’s worth losing a character trademark.” He doesn’t put words to the second
part of his thought -- that losing the habit would give Izaya himself far fewer
excuses to stare at Shizuo’s mouth -- but the awareness is clear in his own
mind for a moment, however quickly he tamps it down after parsing it.
He’s still thinking of his own mental state, still chasing down the tells that
give away his own self-denial for what it is, when Shizuo heaves a sigh and all
Izaya’s attention to anything else scatters at once. He blinks, his focus
coming clear on Shizuo’s face again; but Shizuo’s not looking at him, he’s
still gazing past the links of the fence with consideration sitting heavy on
his features to make him look older, calmer, more mature than he’s ever seemed
before. “I thought of finally putting an end to it.”
Izaya hums far in the back of his throat, confused and not willing to admit to
it. “End what?”
Shizuo lifts a hand to his mouth to draw the cigarette free of his lips,
deliberately working through the motion of holding it in front of him as his
fingers brace against the thin paper, as his hold flexes to snap the cigarette
in two and crush tobacco to spill across the rooftop. The cigarette falls to
the cement under their feet; when Shizuo moves it’s to plant the toe of his
shoe atop the ember and scuff it out with finality. “This ridiculous game of
tag and chase that I play with you,” Shizuo says, and then he lifts his head to
look at Izaya fully, to fix the other with the full weight of his glare. Izaya
can feel the whole of his body go hot with self-consciousness, as if his skin
is coming alight under the effect of Shizuo’s attention on him like a
spotlight.
“Today I’ll finally kill you and graduate from all this,” Shizuo says, and then
he’s turning away from the fence and pulling with the hand still caught in the
links, wrenching the support of the fence segment up and out of the cement
underfoot as part of the same motion. His eyes are bright, his teeth are bared;
Izaya can almost see the anger in his expression rising to the surface in time
with the flex of his arm as he draws the mess of tangled metal in his hand up
and over his shoulder. “Die, you shitty bastard!” And he flings the torn-free
section of the fence, hurling it towards Izaya in front of him with more
strength than finesse. Izaya should be an easy target -- he’s only a few steps
away, it’s hardly any distance at all -- but the wind catches the metal, or
maybe Shizuo wasn’t really trying to hit him at all, because as it is all he
has to do is duck down by an inch and tip his head to the side for the weight
of the mangled fence to go just over him instead, close enough that it ruffles
his hair but doesn’t so much as scratch his cheek before crashing into one of
the unoccupied benches behind him.
“Whoops,” Izaya says, straightening to look over his shoulder with ostentatious
interest. “That was close.” He slides his hands into his pockets and turns to
look back at Shizuo, to face the other with the full force of his presence.
Shizuo is coming closer, now, following the trajectory of the projectile with
slower, weighter motion; Izaya keeps watching his face, keeps a smile clinging
to his lips as Shizuo draws nearer to destroy the distance between them.
“What a coincidence,” he purrs, tipping his head up to keep holding Shizuo’s
gaze as the other’s approach makes the few inches of height difference between
them clear. “I thought about ending this pointless game with you, too.”
Shizuo’s toes bump Izaya’s, his shoes run up against the other’s with more
gentleness than they ought to carry; Izaya doesn’t even have to stumble to keep
his balance as Shizuo leans in towards him. His mouth tugs up at the corner,
tension pulling at the edge of his expression as Shizuo tips in closer, so
close his bleached-blond hair brushes Izaya’s forehead, so close the force of
his exhales gusts heat over Izaya’s mouth. Izaya takes a moment to savour the
proximity, to taste cigarette smoke secondhand over his tongue, and when he
speaks his voice is softer too, almost a whisper just for Shizuo before him.
“But the one who will be graduating will not be you, Shizu-chan.” He takes a
breath of air gone hot with proximity, tips his head into something part a
taunt and all suggestion, watches Shizuo’s lashes dip telltale as the other’s
gaze drops to the part of his lips. “It will be me.” Izaya blinks, letting his
gaze flicker to Shizuo’s mouth for a moment before he looks back up. “I’m
correcting you on that part.”
Shizuo huffs an exhale hard enough that the heat rushes over Izaya’s lips, like
he’s trying to force the fire in his lungs into Izaya’s own by force. “Oh
yeah?” he says, and he’s turning his head, his shoulders are tipping forward
into expectation. “Well, come get me if you can.”
“Mm,” Izaya hums, agreement hot as satisfaction on his tongue; and then he
takes a breath, and takes a step, and pulls back just as Shizuo leans into his
expectation of more, ducking away and back with as much easy grace as he dodged
the casual toss Shizuo made at him earlier. “But I won’t today.”
The sound Shizuo makes is almost wounded, as if Izaya had reached out to stab a
knife into his chest instead of just stepping back out of his reach. “Huh?!”
“In order to kill Shizu-chan, I would have to make arrangements,” Izaya lilts,
backing away with so much elegance to his steps he feels a little like he’s
dancing, like he’s skipping backwards more than just walking. Shizuo is staring
at him, his eyes wide and whole expression knocked wide-open on shock; Izaya
has to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright, and even then he can feel
the intoxicating pressure of amusement building in the strain of his chest.
“So, until we meet again” as he slides his hand free of his pocket and lifts
his fingers to wave a farewell. “Bye-bye!”
“Wha--?” Shizuo starts, confusion still clear across his face; and then Izaya
starts to turn, and he can see the flicker of unbalanced uncertainty on
Shizuo’s face clarify and harden into frustration as he finally catches up with
what’s going on. “Hey!” he shouts; but Izaya is pivoting away, turning and
speeding his run towards the door back into the school hallway with all the
efficient grace he can bring to bear for those few seconds he maintains his
headstart. “Don’t run away, you little bastard!” Izaya doesn’t slow, doesn’t
even turn around, and as he reaches to yank open the door off the rooftop he
can hear footsteps behind him, can hear the impact of Shizuo’s steps landing
hard enough that they shake the pavement under Izaya’s feet and purr vibration
up his legs and into his spine. Izaya leaves the door swinging wide behind him,
not bothering to wait for it to close before he’s bolting forward and down the
stairs as fast as he can go, leaping up to swing himself over the railing to
save a few feet at the turn of the landing; and behind him there’s a growl of
frustration, and the sound of those steps closing in on him with speed born
more from an instinct for the chase than from conscious decision.
Izaya doesn’t care. If he can make it to the hallways of the school before
Shizuo catches him he’ll be safe, his victory so nearly assured as to be a done
deal. If he doesn’t -- well. The bruises he’ll get from the press of Shizuo’s
hands will be worth it, for the friction of those fingers against his skin.
***** Hanami *****
The cherry blossoms are beautiful.
Shizuo appreciates that. Sometimes he feels like the whole of his life slips
past without him noticing, his surroundings and experiences alike washed out
with a haze of red fury; but there’s something about the springtime, something
in the flutter of the pink petals drifting like snow through spring-fresh air,
that he can pause to observe, that he finds himself appreciating even as his
temper flares and eases with the rhythm that has become part of the structure
of his life so far.
“Hmm.” It’s a familiar voice, the tone sing-songy even over that one simple
sound; and it’s enough all on its own to set Shizuo’s jaw on the beginnings of
anger with no regard for the peaceful beauty of the scene around him. “To think
that Shizu-chan enjoys hanami.” There’s an impact against Shizuo’s shoulder,
the jarring force of another person’s weight shoving hard against him; it
barely rocks Shizuo off-balance, but it’s more than enough to grit his teeth
together and curl the fingers of both hands into a promise against his palms.
“Tomorrow spears might fall down from the sky. Although, to damage you,
missiles might be necessary.”
Shizuo doesn’t look over his shoulder to the other side of the blanket he’s
sitting on. He doesn’t need to; he can see Izaya’s face in perfect clarity in
his mind’s eye, can all but taste the biting tang of the other’s presence
winding into the fresh of the air when he takes a breath. His response is
unthinking, too; it’s easy to find words to snap back a reply, as instinctive
an action as that tension knotting itself into his fingers to make a fist out
of the slack weight of his hand. “If they do come down, I’ll get those missiles
and throw them all back at you.”
“What?” Izaya’s voice skips up high, sliding over the edge of injured innocence
he likes to adopt, sometimes, as if there’s ever been a moment of his existence
when Shizuo didn’t know him for what he was, as if his tricks and games have
ever worked on Shizuo before. There’s movement against Shizuo’s back, the shift
of an arm sliding behind him, narrow fingers catching at the back edge of his
shirt to trail their way down to the line of the other’s belt sitting against
his hips. “No way, spare me from that. I have nothing to do with it.”
Shizuo takes a breath and lets it go slow, tasting the cool of the air in his
lungs while his skin flickers as if with an open flame, as Izaya’s arm presses
in against his back and Izaya’s fingers tighten at his hip. “You know,” he
says, with the closest thing to a conversational tone he can muster. “I hate
guys who make a fuss over nothing” as Izaya’s hand slides up his chest, as
Izaya’s weight presses in closer against the rising strain of frustration in
Shizuo’s arm. “But in the end I hate your guts more!”
“Hmm,” Izaya hums again. He’s closer to Shizuo now than he was; the sound of
his voice ruffles against Shizuo’s hair like an errant breeze winding itself in
against the back of his neck, warm and humid with some measure of the
summertime to come. “I hate Shizu-chan, too.”
Shizuo’s breath pulls free of his chest worn ragged around a growl, tearing
hard against the friction of his clenched teeth at the lilt of those words over
affection made mocking by their meaning. “Then why the hell are you here?” he
demands, twisting sharply against the blanket spread out underneath him to
glare at Izaya wrapping himself around the other’s shoulder. “Huh, I-za-ya-
kun?”
Izaya’s smile pulls hard at the corner of his mouth and brings out flecks of
blood-red scarlet from the darker color of his eyes. His lashes are smudged to
shadow from this close up; Shizuo can see the weight of them dip as if in
surrender to the force of the sunlight illuminating Izaya’s face as the other
blinks up at him. “That’s simple,” Izaya says, and arches his back to push
himself in closer against Shizuo’s arm, to pin the whole of his body against
the other. Shizuo can feel the rhythm of Izaya’s heartbeat thudding against the
straining tension of his arm. Izaya’s mouth pulls up higher, his lips part to
bare a flicker of white teeth to view; as he leans in Shizuo can feel the heat
of Izaya’s breathing spill against his lips, can feel the shiver of warmth run
the electricity of anticipation straight down the whole of his spine. “I might
hate Shizu-chan, but I love being there to make fun of you.”
Shizuo hisses against Izaya’s half-parted lips as the tension under his skin
coalesces into fury, as his fingers clench so hard at his palms he can feel the
edge of his nails tear and draw blood to the surface of his skin. “Why you…” he
growls, and he’s turning, twisting in towards Izaya next to him even as he
reaches for the nearest makeshift weapon, as his hand closes around the neck of
the open bottle of tea on Izaya’s far side. “Lousy bastard!” He swings the
bottle like a baseball bat, aiming for somewhere against the side of Izaya’s
head or maybe the sharp upturn of the grin pulling at the other’s lips; but
Izaya ducks his head, tipping sideways with more grace than Shizuo expected he
could muster the way they’re positioned, and Shizuo’s blow misses entirely, the
weight of the bottle swinging uselessly through the air in front of Izaya as
the other falls down to sprawl across the blanket. Shizuo’s hold on the bottle
slips, the glass made slippery by the wet of blood smeared across his palm, and
the bottle arcs away through the air to crash and shatter against the trunk of
one of the cherry trees around them. Izaya’s head turns to track the
destruction, his lips part on a huff of a laugh as the sound reverberates to
chase away the peace around them, but Shizuo doesn’t look to see proof of his
latest burst of temper. He reaches out instead, leaning in to brace himself
with a hand over Izaya’s shoulder as he grabs at the other’s jaw with
bloodstained fingers to drag Izaya’s attention back up to him, to turn the
other’s face towards the sunlight so Shizuo can duck in and crush his mouth
hard against the sharp edges of that teasing smirk. Izaya makes a sound against
Shizuo’s lips, something vaguely reminiscent of a whimper at the impact of
Shizuo’s mouth on his, but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, just keeps pushing until
the noise in Izaya’s throat softens and deepens, until it’s a moan thrumming
against his mouth instead of something more like protest. Shizuo eases his hold
on Izaya’s chin, pushes his hand in and around to tighten against the back of
the other’s neck instead, and when he opens his mouth to lay claim to the
inside of Izaya’s Izaya arches up to meet him, his body curving up off the
blanket as his hand slides up to fist at a handful of Shizuo’s hair so he can
drag the other downward as fast as Shizuo pulls him up.
Shizuo hates to admit it even to himself, but he has to agree with Izaya in
this case. The satisfaction of having his hands on Izaya more than makes up for
the frustration of tolerating the other’s presence.
***** Golden Week *****
The school is very quiet over Golden Week.
Izaya expected that. There’s no classes, no faculty and no staff to offer even
minimal sound to fill the hallways; just the empty shell of the building itself
around him, the walls seeming wider and ceiling higher than it does when the
rows of rooms are occupied with teaching the city’s next generation. But today
there’s only Izaya himself, with no company but the sound of his footsteps
echoing in the empty corridors, nothing but the sound of his breathing to fill
the space around him. He can feel the heat like a weight across his shoulders,
can feel the summertime humidity like steam filling his lungs with every
inhale; but he keeps walking, pacing through the corridors of the empty school
as if he’s looking for something, as if he has some goal in mind beyond
lingering in the familiar space as long as he can manage. He thinks he could
stay here all day, maybe, if he stays quiet enough; with no one to complain
about noise and his presence going unnoticed, he could linger here for the
whole of Golden Week, if he felt like it. The thought aches against the inside
of his chest, pulls tension against the corner of his mouth, and Izaya speeds
his steps as he tells himself it’s a smirk pulling at his lips and not a frown.
It doesn’t matter anyway, he tells himself, lifting his chin and tossing his
hair back from his face as he rounds a corner to the AV room tucked away behind
one of the stairwells. He can amuse himself, it’s hardly as if this is the
first time he’s been alone in his life. It’s a good opportunity, too, to
indulge in the peace that has been so sorely lacking in his existence since he
began high school and gained the attention of a certain schoolmate; all his
energy lately has gone towards dealing with that, and the associated fallout
from it. It’ll be nice to have some time to himself, some space to spread out
and get comfortable in his own existence, he tells himself as he tugs against
the locked door to the AV room with the rattle of the handle that always pops
the latch free from its frame; he’s more than capable of keeping himself
entertained even if there’s no one else around him. He steps forward into the
darkened room, reaching out to turn on the overhead lights so he can make his
way past the chairs left empty by their occupants’ departure for the break, and
it’s as he clears the front of the room and makes for the back corner that he
heaves a dramatic sigh and speaks loud for the benefit of a nonexistent
audience.
“I’m so bored,” he announces, catching his fingers against the edge of a table
as he swings himself around the edge of it. “It’s finally summer and there’s
nothing to do, nothing can be more boring than that.” The table is covered with
a variety of electronics, buttons and wires all tangled together into an
impressive-looking mess; Izaya tips his head to the side to consider the array
of wires, reaches out to touch his fingers to one.
“Anywhere you go there’s no one that’s interesting,” he goes on, still speaking
loud as if there’s anyone to hear him as he traces the wire down and along the
table to one of the PA system microphones left plugged in by a careless
student. “This country should really concern itself with the shortage of
talented people.” He reaches out to press hard against the red button at the
base of the microphone and leans in towards the metal mesh. “Ah, ah, test
test.” His voice catches at the amplification, echoing out into the empty halls
of the school like he’s expanding into them, like he’s filling the whole of
that silent space with his own presence, with proof of his own existence for a
few brief seconds, even if it goes unacknowledged. The thought makes his
forehead crease and pulls a gusty sigh from his lungs. “I’m so bored.”
“Then I’ll give you something good.”
Izaya looks up at once. He was sure he was alone in the school, sure he was
speaking to no one but himself; but there, in the doorway of the room, is the
audience he always has, now, the attention that seeks and finds him like a
searchlight no matter where he goes. Shizuo is breathing hard, his shoulders
visibly shifting on the effort of his inhales as he glares at Izaya from across
the span of the room; but his mouth is pulled up on a grin, his expression dark
with the satisfaction of finding what he was looking for, and the uncomfortable
freefall of Izaya’s stomach steadies as if the earth has come back under his
feet to offer him a place to stand.
“Shizu-chan,” he says, still tipping forward so the nickname purrs out into the
halls of the school, echoing proof of the other’s presence to all those absent
listeners; and then he slides his finger off the button, and straightens from
his lean over the PA microphone to consider Shizuo instead, the breadth of his
shoulders under a plain t-shirt and the snarl of anger at his lips and the
length of metal in his crushing grip, what Izaya suspects was once a support
from the front school gate and is now torn free to be an accessory to the
other’s strength more than anything else. Izaya’s mouth curls up onto a grin
without him even realizing it. “Don’t tell me that thing in your hands is my
present.”
“Yeah,” Shizuo growls, and hefts the weight up with no apparent effort to close
both his hands tight against the give of it like it’s a baseball bat instead of
a solid weight of metal. “Thanks to this your boredom will be gone right away.”
He steps forward into the room, maneuvering around the desks between them
without even glancing their way; his lips are dragging over a grin vicious
enough to match Izaya’s own, his eyes sparkling with light brighter than the
brilliance of the summer sun outside. “In fact with this you won’t feel a
thing. Isn’t that great, Izaya-kun?”
“Yeah, but I’ll pass,” Izaya drawls. There’s still the span of a desk between
himself and Shizuo, and there’s still space behind him for him to back into;
but he doesn’t move away, even as Shizuo steps forward into the gap between
them. “I don’t want anything from Shizu-chan.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Shizuo growls, his voice going so low Izaya can feel the
tension of it drag all the way down his spine, as if it’s his body under the
strain of Shizuo’s grip instead of the weight of metal creaking with each of
the other’s forward steps. Shizuo lifts the bar from his side, swinging it up
to brace against the line of his shoulders under that t-shirt as he tips his
head back to flash his teeth into a grin at Izaya. “I brought this just for you
with lots of love.”
Izaya’s eyebrow lifts. “Just for me with lots of love, huh?” He keeps his voice
teasing, keeps the words lilting over a taunt instead of dropping into any of
the heat that he can feel shuddering through him from the sound of those words
on Shizuo’s lips, even as the mockery they are. He lifts his chin to sneer at
the metal crushing under Shizuo’s fingers. “How in the hell does that weapon
look like ‘lots of love’ to you?”
Shizuo huffs. “This one was just finished this morning.” His grin tightens, his
jaw tenses to pull the angle of his smile into something far closer to a
grimace as he lifts the weight from his shoulders and brings it around behind
him once more, dropping forward onto the balls of his feet as he growls at
Izaya. “Now, go to hell with this!” and he swings, and Izaya skips backwards,
taking his cue from the flex of Shizuo’s arms against the sleeves of his shirt
more than the whip-quick motion of the bar itself. The weight of it crashes
into the table in front of him, splintering the wood as if it’s made of
matchsticks with no regard for the tangle of wiring the action sends spilling
to the floor underfoot.
“Wow!” Izaya chirps, grinning wide and making no attempt at all to hold back
the expression. “That was close!” Shizuo takes another swing at him, at
something close to head level; Izaya has to duck, this time, coupling the
action with a sideways motion to get himself closer towards the escape the door
offers. “Woah.” Shizuo pivots on the ball of his foot, twisting to steady
himself as he brings the bar up in front of him again, and Izaya takes the
opportunity to turn away and bolt for the door with all the speed he can
manage.
“To think he would bring that with him,” Izaya mumbles under his breath as he
swings himself around the corner and out into the hallway. There’s a shout from
behind him, a yell loud enough to echo off the walls of the AV room, and Izaya
looks back over his shoulder without slowing his forward motion. “This is too
much service.” There’s a crash from the room behind him, the sound of metal
giving way to a crushing blow; and then Shizuo stumbles out of the doorway,
turning as immediately as if Izaya is a magnet to pull his gaze. He lifts his
head, his glare meets Izaya’s backwards glance for a heartbeat of electricity;
and Izaya grins, and twists away, and sprints down the hallway with the sound
of Shizuo’s footsteps crashing against the floor behind him.
The quiet of the school is as thoroughly shattered as the desk back in the AV
room, but Izaya counts that a more than fair trade for taking his boredom with
it.
***** Rain *****
Shizuo hadn’t even noticed the storm.
It’s a summer downpour, one of the sudden, drenching ones that sweep over the
clear blue of the overheated sky and spill water enough to soak through coats
far heavier than those that anyone reasonable would wear in the heat that hangs
like a blanket over the city. Usually Shizuo would have seen the clouds coming
in, would have seen the sky darken with the untimely shadows of dusk in the
middle of a clear afternoon, and he would have had at least a few minutes to
either find cover or resign himself to walking home wet. But he didn’t see the
clouds shifting over the sky, didn’t realize as the light above him dimmed, and
in fact it’s not until Izaya breaks away to gasp a breath and manage “Looks
like it’s raining” that Shizuo even realizes that his hair is sticking wet
against his scalp.
Even then it takes him a moment to make sense of the words. His mind is hazy,
his thoughts tangled somewhere at the part of Izaya’s lips and the pant of
Izaya’s breathing; it takes a conscious effort of will to pull back enough even
to look away from the other’s face and tip his head up to squint at the sky
overhead instead. It is raining, the brilliant white of the sky has shifted to
steel grey to accompany the weight of the low-hanging clouds overhead; Shizuo’s
lashes catch a spray of raindrops as fast as he lifts his head, his vision
blurring out-of-focus for a moment as he hisses and ducks forward again to try
to clear his sight.
“Well,” Izaya purrs, sounding amused and self-satisfied. His hand at the back
of Shizuo’s neck slides up, his fingers wind into the damp of the other’s hair;
when he pulls it tugs Shizuo off-balance and brings him almost falling forward
over the other. Shizuo has to throw his hand out to catch himself over Izaya’s
shoulder, can feel the jolt of the impact run up the whole of his arm;
 underneath him Izaya cants his head to the side and flashes the edge of a
smirk up at Shizuo leaning far over him. “I don’t hate the rain.”
Shizuo can feel the rain dripping against the back of his neck and soaking into
the cloth of the jacket over his shoulders instead of landing on Izaya’s
shirtfront. He bares his teeth into a growl of frustration he doesn’t try to
soften. “Well I hate your guts,” he says, and punctuates at once by leaning in
to crush his mouth down against Izaya’s without waiting for a response. Izaya
arches up without hesitation, curving up and off the flat of the school rooftop
beneath his shoulders to press himself to Shizuo’s chest, and Shizuo lets his
free hand slide in and under to grab hard against the dip of Izaya’s spine and
drag the other closer.
They stay like that for a while. Shizuo doesn’t keep track of the passage of
time; it’s a near-impossible task any time Izaya is around, and instantly
futile with the added distraction of the heat coursing through him like
wildfire in his veins. It’s easy to push aside his awareness of the damp
trickling across the back of his neck and soaking to plaster his hair flat to
his scalp when he has the friction of Izaya’s lips under his own, and the curl
of the other’s fingers in his hair, and the thudding rush of Izaya’s heartbeat
coming fast against his chest. Shizuo thinks vaguely of what they could get
away with, with privacy all but guaranteed by the unexpected downpour; there
won’t be anyone out onto the school rooftop until the rain gives way, and with
how fast the drops are soaking into the pavement around them that won’t be for
another quarter hour at least. Maybe he could drag open the front of Izaya’s
jeans, could wrench the button loose of the buttonhole or free of the denim
entirely to get the space to slide his fingers down under the fabric, to press
against the near-scalding heat of Izaya’s skin and over the resistance of his
arousal and see what kind of sounds he could pull from the other’s throat, see
how quickly he could win the moans that always sound like surrender, that
always taste like victory on his tongue. He’s caught in the thought of it, his
fingers tensing against the pavement with the building urge to act that he
hasn’t yet moved on, when Izaya’s fingers fist into his hair, pulling at the
strands with enough force that Shizuo is drawing back with a hiss of pain
before he’s even thought through the motion. He blinks, frowning confusion at
this abrupt loss of contact, and under him Izaya heaves a sigh loud enough to
be heard even over the patter of the raindrops against the pavement.
“Since you answered so meaninglessly the conversation ended,” he observes. His
eyes are half-lidded, the weight of his lashes dipping the color of his irises
towards black as he looks up at Shizuo over him. “Can’t you try a little
harder?”
Shizuo growls frustration, the sound incoherent and strained in his chest.
“You’re such a pain.”
Izaya’s gaze says he knows this already, his smile says he doesn’t care. He
goes slack against the pavement under his shoulders, lets himself relax against
the support; when he tips his head up Shizuo can see the dark of his hair fall
back from his face, can see the shift of the tendons in the other’s throat as
he lifts a hand from Shizuo’s hair to turn palm-up over his head like he’s
trying to catch the texture of the rain in his hold. “Today is a lousy day to
do laundry.”
Shizuo snorts, confused and unwillingly amused by the change in subject. “If
you left it outside and have to go get it, you’ll be dripping wet when you come
back in.” The idea is satisfying in itself: Izaya caught in the deluge
drenching Shizuo’s hair and spilling over his shoulders, his hair sticking wet
to his face and the irritatingly crisp line of his clothes hanging water-heavy
against his slender frame. Shizuo’s attention slides down without his
intention, following the curve of Izaya’s body under his as his thoughts
wander; his fingers drag over the other’s clothes to pin the dark of Izaya’s
shirt hard to the other’s waist as he considers the possibility.
“Then just stay home.” Izaya’s tone is conversational, as casual as if they
really are talking about dealing with the weather; but under Shizuo’s hand his
hips are curving up, his body is arching to make an offering of himself, to
make a suggestion for the path the other’s touch is following.
Shizuo huffs an exhale, not sure if it’s more frustration or desire against his
lips and not caring enough to draw a line between the two. “If I just stay home
looking at nothing I get really pissed.” His gaze follows his fingertips as
they slide against Izaya’s hip, trailing over the seam of the other’s shirt and
down to the line of his jeans riding low against the dip of his pelvis.
Izaya hums far in the back of his throat and lifts his wet hand over him,
tipping his head like he’s considering the drip of water against his fingers.
“How troublesome,” he sighs, sounding almost as if he means it, and then he’s
reaching down in a single elegant motion, catching his fingers at the front of
his jeans before Shizuo can get there and thumbing open the button at once.
Shizuo blinks at this sudden motion, his attention tangling like thread around
the motion of Izaya’s fingers, and the other keeps moving, his hand working
completely separately from the lilt of his voice. “I never have to worry about
my laundry,” he offers as his jeans come open, as the dark denim gives way to
the shadow of suggestion and he presses his hand in against the flat of his
stomach, as he pushes his fingers in and down like he’s acting out the unspoken
dare for Shizuo to move. “Even in the rainy season I’ll be completely fine.”
Shizuo doesn’t look up to see the way Izaya is looking at him. He doesn’t need
to; he can imagine the shift of dark lashes perfectly well, can picture the
curve of Izaya’s lips on that smirk without needing to see them directly. He
knows them too well already, as well as he knows the lilt of that voice, as
well as he knows the drag of those teeth, as well as he knows the heat of that
skin, and he doesn’t need the taunt in Izaya’s eyes to lift his hand to follow
the other’s.
“So if you become dipped in blood you’ll dry up and you’ll be fine, right?” He
shoves against Izaya’s fingers, replacing the idle motion of the other’s hand
with his own; Izaya huffs a breath, something like the very beginning of a
laugh, and Shizuo growls and closes his fingers tight around Izaya’s cock under
his hand. When he looks back up it’s with his mouth tugging on a grin hot
enough to turn his words into suggestion, to flash his teeth into the edge of a
smile sharp as a knife. “I-za-ya-kun.” And he drags up hard, drawing sensation
out into Izaya’s body as fast as he can think it, and under him Izaya’s eyes go
wide, Izaya’s mouth comes open on a groan that Shizuo can feel thrum against
the inside of his chest like thunder. Izaya shudders against the pavement, his
back arching to bring him closer to the stroke of Shizuo’s hand, and Shizuo
braces himself over the other’s shoulder and focuses on unravelling all the
amused mockery in Izaya’s voice into want too hot to be anything but sincere.
By the time they’re finished, they’re both wet through to the skin, and neither
of them is paying the least attention to their clothes or the weather either
one.
***** The Beach *****
“Ah,” Izaya sighs, tipping back against the support of his hands as he turns
his head up towards the glow of the summer sunshine. “The blue sky, the white
clouds, the beautiful sand.” He lets his head fall back to make an offering of
the line of his throat for the warmth of the illumination overhead; he can feel
the heat like the touch of fingertips pressing over his skin. He heaves another
sigh, letting the warm weight of it spill free of his chest along with any
tension he’s carrying in his shoulders. “Wow, the beach is the best.”
There’s a growl from alongside him, familiar syllables dragged into the rough
edge of a threat just by the tone they’re framed in. “IZAYA.”
Izaya opens his eyes to gaze up at the brilliant blue of the sky overhead. “The
sand is so soft that it doesn’t hurt when you stand on it, and if you hold it
in your hands it will slip out easily.” He tips his head down to consider said
sand, reaching out to dig his fingers into the fine spill of the grains and
collect a handful against his palm. When he stretches out sideways it’s to
angle his hand over the shape next to him before he spreads his fingers wide to
let the sand trickle through like rain to demonstrate his point. “This is truly
the ideal sand.”
Shizuo tips his head to the side to avoid the particles sliding loose from
Izaya’s fingers, but he can’t get far with all of him but his shoulders and
head buried in the golden sand of the beach around them, and it’s an easy thing
for Izaya to tip in closer so he can continue sprinkling sand into the tangle
of Shizuo’s hair and against the flexing frustration in his shoulders. Shizuo
hisses fury, giving up on escape in favor of turning his head to glare outrage
at Izaya next to him. “You bastard, I’ll never forgive you!”
“Ah, you’re so cruel.” Izaya turns his hand up over Shizuo’s head to drop the
last few particles of sand before bracing his palm alongside his hip so he can
turn onto his side and lean in closer to Shizuo’s eyelevel. “I prepared that
special view all for you, Shizu-chan.” Shizuo is glaring at him, his eyes
crackling with heat and his mouth set hard on fury; it’s thrilling to be so
close and to have the other trapped so still, like poking at a lion through the
bars of a cage. Izaya holds Shizuo’s gaze for a moment, letting his mouth curve
up on a smirk he doesn’t make any attempt to restrain, and then he looks away,
turning out towards the sea before them and lifting a hand to gesture
expansively towards the cool water and white-crested waves far out by the
horizon. “So what do you think?” Izaya lets his arm fall and turns back in,
letting himself roll onto his stomach across the soft of the sand beneath him
so he can offer Shizuo a deliberate, taunting smile. “How is the view zero
meters above sea level?”
Shizuo’s jaw clenches, his breath hisses hard through the set of his teeth. “I
don’t give a fuck about that!”
“What a waste,” Izaya hums without turning around to look at the ocean behind
him. Shizuo is scowling at him, his mouth set hard on the shape of a frown and
his forehead creasing against the shadow of rage building in him. Izaya can see
the color of his eyes going darker, can watch the frustration climbing in the
other’s expression as he stares at Izaya with all-in attention, as if he
doesn’t notice anything else around them, as if there is nothing else around
them. It makes Izaya’s mouth pull up at the corner, drags the tension of a
smile against his lips, and he doesn’t try to hold it back as he gazes at
Shizuo trapped to stillness before him.
“Just so you know, the view I have right now is the best,” he says, lifting a
hand from the warmth of the sand so he can reach out and ruffle his fingers
into the yellow of Shizuo’s hair instead. Shizuo jerks back as far as he can,
hissing incoherent frustration at the contact, but Izaya was expecting that and
doesn’t let his touch slide away. The sand caught in the other’s hair slides
free to his touch, falling to return to the sun-warmed glow of the beach
beneath them, but Izaya doesn’t pull his hand away; he lets it linger instead,
winding his fingers into the golden waves of Shizuo’s hair as Shizuo’s
immediate frustration eases enough to let him return to scowling instead of
trying to actively break away. Izaya hums satisfaction in the back of his
throat as he lets his fingers slide in and over the other’s hair. “No one looks
better stuck in a hole full of sand than you do, Shizu-chan.” His touch drifts
against Shizuo’s scalp, sliding in and around to fit a curl of yellow hair
behind the other’s ear before drawing against the line of the other’s jaw. “It
truly is a good view.”
Shizuo growls in the back of his throat again, his shoulders shift hard in an
as-yet-futile attempt to break free of the sand holding him in place. “Why
you!”
“With this sun you could easily get burned,” Izaya observes rather than
responding directly to Shizuo’s words. He slides his fingers up across Shizuo’s
face to skim over the arch of his cheekbone and along the line of his nose.
“Shizu-chan with a terrible tan,” he purrs, and then breaks into a laugh. “How
lame.”
“I’ll kill you,” Shizuo tells him, with absolute conviction on the words. “I’ll
kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.” He’s falling into a
rhythm on the statement, turning it into a chant that rapidly strips all
meaning from the sound; behind them there’s the sound of water rushing over
itself, a crash of noise enough to pull Izaya’s attention around and away from
Shizuo’s steady mantra. The water is pulling back from its last foray up the
beach, collecting into a crest of water feet higher than any of the others that
have broken over the sand; Izaya watches it approach the beach for a moment,
gauging its height and strength as it proceeds, and then lets his hand slide
from Shizuo’s cheek to the other’s shoulder as he tightens his fingers to brace
himself.
“Oh,” he says with deliberate casualness. “What a big wave.”
“Huh?” Shizuo says, his speech cut off by the interruption of Izaya’s words,
and Izaya turns as fast as that, twisting away from the oncoming water as
Shizuo blinks to finally notice something beyond Izaya’s face in front of him.
Shizuo’s eyes go wide, his lips part on a sharp inhale of shock; and Izaya
lifts his free hand to press at the side of Shizuo’s head, to brace his hold
steady against the other, and he leans in to pin Shizuo’s mouth under his just
as the wave crashes over them. Izaya’s ears fill with the roar of sound, his
skin prickles with the sudden chill of the ocean water sweeping over his skin;
but he keeps his eyes shut, and holds tight against Shizuo in front of him, and
keeps his mouth pressing as close to the other’s as if Shizuo is likely to give
him air to breathe while they’re yet caught in the rush of water.
They’re both dripping wet as the wave recedes back over the beach to let the
warmth of the sunlight glow against them again, but Shizuo’s cheeks are flushed
anyway, and Izaya’s confident it’s more than a sunburn coloring the other’s
skin to pink.
***** Summer *****
The day is too hot.
Shizuo doesn’t mind the summer, as a general rule. The humidity’s not so bad,
if he can lie still in the shade of a closed-up house, or if he can indulge in
the coolness of a swimming pool or the ocean to take the edge off the heat
hanging so heavy in the air. Even the wandering through the park he used to do
with Kasuka wasn’t so bad, he thinks, with the sweet of popsicles and the
comfort of shorts to go along with their quests for some particularly rare bug
waiting for the right moment to make its appearance.
It’s not a bad memory, he reflects, as he steps into the dappled shade of the
trees and reaches to close his hand around the lightpost set alongside the
bench currently left unoccupied by anything but the brilliance of the sunlight
streaming down from overhead. He remembers the relief of having something to
do, of being able to follow Kasuka’s lead in choosing a topic to flesh out his
stories of summer vacations and humid weekends. It was almost pleasant, he
thinks now, as his fingers dig into the weight of metal and his grip carves
indentations against the lightpost bending like it’s melting under his hold. He
looked forward to those days, back when he still had them in his life, and even
the oppressive heat of the summertime wasn’t such a burden to his younger self.
It’s a warm memory, in the end, something soft and golden in his mind; he
drifts over the details of it, gazing unseeing at the trees in front of him as
his hand tightens on the pole and his arm flexes to uproot the metal from the
block of cement intended to keep it upright. Maybe the bug catching he did back
then will prove to be useful after all.
“Useful?” a voice comes, sharp-edged and laced with mockery, and it’s only then
Shizuo realizes he spoke aloud, that he slid from reminiscence to monologue
without noticing the shift in his attention. “In what way? Did eating dung
beetles make you stronger?”
Shizuo shakes his head, partially to turn aside the casual insult of the
question and mostly to bring himself back to the reality of this moment, of the
heat bearing down on him like the sunlight is trying to force him to the
ground. There’s sweat running across the back of his neck; he can feel it
sliding across his skin with uncomfortable clarity, can feel the clammy damp
sticking his shirt to his skin far more closely than he would prefer the
clothing sit.
“No,” he says, and twists against the loosened streetlight, pulling it free
entirely so he can support the whole unbalanced weight of it at his side. His
thoughts are surprisingly clear and calm; he takes a breath of summer-damp
heat, relishing the moment of peace before he scatters all his calm at once.
“It just means I found an opening.” And he’s turning, bracing one foot hard
against the ground as he turns with the weight of the post in his hand, as he
lifts the burden of it up as if it’s a misbalanced lance to be thrown to stick
through the body of some monstrous beetle. “One to catch a bug” and he flings
the pole forward, using the whole of his strength to toss the upended
streetlamp at the figure standing behind him. It’s a fluid action, one carried
through more by the unthinking frustration of his anger than any conscious
thought; but Izaya barely so much as shifts his feet to dodge the blow, only
takes a half-step sideways and tips his head to let the metal and its bracing
weight of cement sail past him to crash into the side of the fountain some
distance over his shoulder. There’s a sound of metal creaking, the noise of the
cement giving way at the impact, but Shizuo doesn’t watch the collision,
doesn’t have attention to spare for anything but Izaya right in front of him.
Izaya doesn’t turn either; he just takes a deliberate breath, filling his lungs
so he can offer a heavy sigh as of resignation to a child’s tantrum.
“Shizu-chan,” he says, his tone dropping off into the edge of a lecture, like
he’s a teacher to Shizuo’s presumed immaturity, as if he’s the reasonable one
of the two of them. “Don’t throw around public property. The post you threw
just now? The public has to pay for that with their taxes.”
“Shut up,” Shizuo growls past gritted teeth. “I’m a taxpayer too, so no problem
there.” He steps around the edge of the bench next to him, moving to the far
side where there’s another pole, this one with a display of warnings about
activities forbidden in the boundaries of the park. Shizuo braces his grip just
below the sign and tightens his fingers until the metal starts to cave under
his fingers. “If I kill you right now the agency will give me quite the reward
for your head.” He pulls at the metal to uproot this one as he did with the
first; it’s an easier motion, this time, as the cement slides free of the grass
underfoot like it was waiting to be asked. The satisfaction of that is enough
to draw a grin at the corner of his mouth, to keep him smiling as he turns back
to Izaya with his new-made weapon in hand. “Isn’t that right, you little bug?”
Izaya’s laugh is utterly humorless, bitter and chill enough it almost manages
to resist the force of summer in the air. “So that pole you just got, is that
supposed to be some kind of bug catcher?” He steps in closer, striding over the
distance between himself and Shizuo with no indication of concern for his own
well-being; it’s not until he’s close enough to reach out and touch his fingers
to the line of the pole above Shizuo’s grip that he stops, so near Shizuo can
breathe the smell of him into his lungs, can see the sheen of sweat clinging to
Izaya’s collarbones. Izaya braces his fingers against the metal and lets them
trail down against it while he hums consideration in the back of his throat.
“With that kind of shape, I doubt you’ll succeed in catching me.” He turns his
hand around to close his fingers against the metal and slides his grip down by
an inch, making the motion fluid and graceful enough to leave no doubt of the
suggestion of the gesture. Shizuo can feel his face go hot, can feel his
shoulders tense even as Izaya cuts his gaze up to look at Shizuo through his
lashes. “Though it’s not like I’m planning on letting you catch me.”
Shizuo wrenches the pole free of Izaya’s too-lingering touch one-handed and
sets his jaw against the unwilling flush of heat that is running through his
body, his imagination responding more immediately to the curl of Izaya’s
delicate fingers against that metal than he wishes it to. “Who said I’m
catching you?” he grates out, and brings his other hand around to brace against
the metal of the pole, to crush out the heat of Izaya’s hand on the support
with the force of his own as he angles the pole in front of him like armor.
Izaya takes a step back, folding his hands behind his back as he smirks at
Shizuo in front of him, but Shizuo has a weapon in his hands now, and he can
tell himself the pounding of his heart in his chest is from the adrenaline of a
fight instead of the possibility of something more so clearly telegraphed by
Izaya’s motion. “This isn’t used to catch bugs, oh no.” He squeezes hard
against the metal, feels the satisfaction of the resistance giving way to his
grip as his fingers flex. “This is used for crushing bugs.” And he lifts it in
front of him, growling through his teeth as Izaya rocks back onto his heels and
lifts his gaze to idly watch the flash of the metal in the sunlight. “Crumble,
Izaya!” And he swings it forward and down, wielding the flat metal at the end
as if he’s likely to pin Izaya beneath it.
Izaya dodges, of course. That’s hardly any kind of a surprise; Shizuo knows how
quickly Izaya can move, knows how rarely he’s ever managed to make contact with
anything as unwieldly as the sign in his hands right now. But he swings again,
growling incoherent frustration to go with the attempt; because it’s a relief
to be angry, and it’s a relief to move, and if he’s swinging the pole in his
grip he’s not giving in to the temptation to grab at Izaya with his bare hands,
to press his grip into one of those skinny arms and weight his fingertips
against that slender neck and lean in close to catch the heat of Izaya’s
gasping inhales against his lips.
He’s too hot already.
***** September *****
It’s late by the time Izaya finds Shizuo.
He’s been busy all day, he tells himself, occupied with all manner of
manipulations and schemes that have kept him within the dark space of his
apartment and the cool rush of the air conditioning to keep the enclosed area
tolerable even while the rest of the city blisters under the weight of the
summer heat. He didn’t even open his blinds until the sun was going down, until
the light angling through the sharp tilt of them glowed gold instead of the
white heat it maintained all day, and it’s only once the sun has sunk below the
city skyline that Izaya pushes back from his computer desk, and gets to his
feet, and stretches himself into the intention of movement.
He’s sure Shizuo will be irritable. Shizuo is always irritable, it’s all but a
given; but especially after a full day of what must have been miserable heat,
and with Izaya himself hidden away to pique the other’s temper on the
possibility of what he might be doing without any proof of reality, Izaya all
but expects to open his door and find Shizuo right there waiting for him. But
there’s no Shizuo at the door, or storming down his hallway, and even when
Izaya takes the stairs instead of the elevator there’s none of the crushed
railings or splintered steps that would mark a frenzied attempt to find Izaya
himself. There’s in fact no trace of Shizuo at all, and that alone is enough to
crease Izaya’s forehead and draw his mouth onto a frown as he steps out of the
front of his apartment building and turns to make his way towards downtown in
stride with the cool whisper of the nighttime breeze settling into the city.
Shizuo is in none of his usual haunts. He’s not at the park where Izaya so
often draws him at the end of one of their cross-city chases; he’s not at
Russia Sushi, where they end up on those occasions Simon catches up with them
before Shizuo gets his hands on Izaya directly. There’s no horrified gossip
about half-dead gang members, no missing streetsigns threatening traffic
collisions with every confused car; the city is quiet, slow with the heat of
the ebbing day and as silent as if it has never heard of the monster called
Heiwajima Shizuo. It might be a relief, if Izaya thought this would last; as it
is it just makes him frown at the absence, at the temporary respite from a
force he knows too well to believe has suddenly vanished. Shizuo is too big,
too much, too real to just vanish from the city the way a more ordinary human
would; and he would hardly do so without Izaya’s knowledge, either secondhand
or -- more likely -- in the direct attack of a last-ditch fight. That idea
makes Izaya’s mouth quirk at the corner, even with the frustration of his
failed search still hanging over him, and he follows the pleasure of the idea,
letting his feet carry him from the city center and away, towards the side
streets that lead to the Heiwajima family residence at the fringes of the city.
Izaya doesn’t rush. He rarely comes out to this part of town -- he rarely needs
to travel so far to draw Shizuo’s attention to him -- but he knows where he’s
going, there’s none of the anxiety of uncertainty that might speed his steps or
catch his breathing. The air is still hot around him, still clinging to the
sultry heat of the day he so neatly sidestepped, and Izaya moves slow,
sauntering away from the comparative rush of the city center with a speed
better suited to the summertime heat than his usual skipping haste. There’s no
need to rush, anyway; there’s no one chasing him, after all, and with no
reaching fingers stretching to catch and drag at the back of his shirt he can
go as slowly as he likes. Izaya stalls the pace of his steps, easing his stride
into such slowness he’s almost dragging his feet, and he deliberately ignores
any sign of pursuit, any sound of far-off footsteps hastening towards him; but
all the reverse psychology he can bring to bear on the situation proves
useless, in the end, and he’s left with nothing but the soft scuff of his own
footsteps for company all the way to the front gate of the Heiwajima residence.
Izaya doesn’t ring the bell. That’s far too direct, as blunt as Shizuo’s usual
style of attack and not at all suited to his own more elegant approach; he
slips in the front gate instead, striding forward as if it’s his own home
instead of that of the person he has granted the title of his mortal enemy.
Izaya’s been here before, has slipped around the corner of this building under
cover of darkness and pulled himself up onto the edge of the roof to make his
way to the window of what he knows well as Shizuo’s bedroom; but a glance shows
the light to be off, the absence of any resident in the room made clear by the
falling dark of night, so Izaya looks forward again and continues on instead of
up, padding softly around the corner of the house like he’s part of the same
shadows settling themselves into a blanket over the city. There’s a handspan of
grass, the shadow of a few trees rustling at the corner of the backyard; and
there Shizuo is, sitting at the corner of the porch with his head turned up to
the sky and his whole expression as soft and relaxed as if he’s never known the
meaning of anger in his life.
Izaya stops just at the corner of the house, his feet stilling without any
conscious effort on his part to halt him just in eyeshot of Shizuo sitting at
the edge of the porch. Shizuo’s head hasn’t turned, his attention hasn’t
drifted sideways; Izaya is sure the other hasn’t seen him yet, perhaps doesn’t
know Izaya’s there at all. It’s a strange feeling, to watch Shizuo without
being seen himself, as if he’s just another one of the humans Izaya so
regularly observes unseen, as if Izaya himself is as trivial an existence in
Shizuo’s life as he is in everyone else’s. Izaya can feel his shoulders tense
with the thought, can feel his fingers tighten against the corner of the house
where he’s half-hidden; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and speaks in such a
clear tone that he might as well have turned his head and be offering the words
for Izaya directly.
“I don’t dislike tsukimi,” he says, his head still tipped back and face turned
up to catch the glowing illumination of the moon he mentions. Izaya blinks and
glances up, startled in spite of himself by the sudden realization that it is
the full moon, that the darkness of falling night is mitigated by the brilliant
glow of the perfect circle rising over the edge of the city and up towards the
shadow overhead. He hadn’t even noticed the bright of it.
Shizuo goes on speaking, still calm and composed as if he’s talking to someone
else, as if he hasn’t entirely processed who it is standing just around the
corner of his house. “Even though it’s September it’s stupidly hot during the
day, but then the night comes and it’s cool and breezy. And then you see the
moon, and you think maybe it wasn’t a completely wasted day.”
Izaya coughs a laugh, the sound loud and grating against the quiet of the space
around them. “I guess even Shizu-chan says poetic things,” he says, letting his
voice drag into the lilting mockery that will clarify his identity beyond a
doubt, and he cuts his gaze sideways to Shizuo, feeling his mouth tighten on a
smirk of anticipation for the fury that will surely come, the rage that will
tear Shizuo from his comfort and bring him lunging to his feet and forward to
grab at Izaya’s collar, to shove him back and against the edge of the fence, to
duck in until his forehead is pressing Izaya’s, until his mouth -- but Shizuo
doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t so much as bat an eye. He keeps looking up, his
chin lifted and gaze fixed on the moon rising over the city, and Izaya can feel
his smile melt away from his mouth, can feel his lips pull down onto a frown
again.
“Well this is new,” he says, without much pleasure on the words. “To think that
Shizu-chan wouldn’t charge after a comment like that.” Shizuo shifts where he’s
sitting, turns to look away from the moon at last; but it’s the wrong
direction, he’s looking down at his far side instead of up and towards Izaya.
Izaya frowns harder. “Huh?”
“Yup,” Shizuo says, and lifts his head again, this time with something between
his fingers. “Tsukimi dango is really the best.” He tips his head back to bring
the dango to his mouth and eat it at a go, swallowing hard enough that Izaya
can hear it from where he’s standing. “Every month there’s a full moon so why
don’t they sell it every month?” as he reaches for another. “What a waste.”
Izaya huffs a laugh and feels his frown unravelling into a smile as much self-
deprecating as amused. “I see. In your own way you’re really an example of the
saying dumplings over flowers.” He shifts against the corner of the house,
turning to weight his shoulders against the support behind him as he slides
down to sit against the edge of the building and tips his head back against the
wall behind him. “Then I guess I’ll watch the moon by myself.” Shizuo doesn’t
turn to look at him, doesn’t give voice to an answer, and Izaya is left to lift
his head towards the sky, and cut his gaze sideways towards Shizuo, and watch
the way the moonlight gilds Shizuo’s yellow hair to silver in the shadows.
With no one watching him, there’s no one to call him out on his indulgence.
***** October *****
Izaya looks good in Shizuo’s bed.
Shizuo hates to admit it. There’s a lot of things about Izaya he’d rather not
admit, when it comes down to it; there’s something fundamentally frustrating
about acknowledging so much as the other’s existence, much less to recognizing
the benefits that come alongside his ever-irritating presence. But this is too
immediate to avoid, too obvious to deny: that there is something satisfying to
Izaya spread out over the tangle of Shizuo’s sheets, with his hair dark against
the pillow and his skin pale in the sunlight spilling through the open window,
and however irritating his presence may be there’s a pleasure to it, in this
moment, in this context, with Shizuo’s hands pushing up over the inside of his
thighs and Izaya’s head tipped back into what looks like surrender, even as he
lifts a hand to touch and toy with the edge of the windowsill over them.
It would be ideal, Shizuo thinks, if Izaya would just keep his mouth shut.
“October,” Izaya says now, purring over the word with idle interest like he’s
talking just for the satisfaction of hearing his own voice, like he’s speaking
for the benefit of an audience rapt on his every word instead of a single
person more interested in quiet than in the constant reminder of who he’s with
and what he’s doing. “Right when the heat dies down. The weather is just right,
it makes you think about many things.” He lifts his hand from the sill,
spreading his fingers wide as if to catch the whisper of the breeze spilling
through the open window; it’s a casual motion, frustratingly unconcerned with
anything he, or more immediately Shizuo, is doing. “Autumn plants, autumn food,
autumn vegetation. I could keep going with the list.” His fingers curl, his
hand falls to Shizuo’s sheets, angling up over his head with an elegance the
more striking for its disregard. “But if I were to pick which one to do, I’d go
with autumn studies.”
“Studying?” Shizuo repeats, scoffing the word into judgment. He hadn’t intended
to answer; the reply was urged from him by the curiosity Izaya’s words drew up
out of him, as if he’s playing a part in a dialogue scripted and directed by
the other. The thought makes his teeth grit, makes him push harder with the
stroke of his fingers as he works up and into Izaya before him. “The studies
you do are never any good.”
Izaya hums a laugh. “That’s not true,” he says, and tips his head down to meet
Shizuo’s gaze, to offer the drag of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he
lifts his hand to gesture at the display he’s making of his body, his fingers
sweeping out to indicate the expanse of pale skin and long legs laid out for
Shizuo’s consideration. “In my case it’s me that’s the experiment.” He draws a
knee up with casual grace, angling his leg up and wider as if to draw Shizuo’s
gaze down to his entrance, where Shizuo has a pair of fingers pressed together
to slide up and into the flexing heat of Izaya’s body around him. “All to
understand the mystery called humanity.”
Shizuo growls. “The more you talk the more it sounds like lies,” he says, and
pushes up hard enough that Izaya’s lashes flutter, that his lips part on a
silent huff of an exhale. Shizuo grins, darkly pleased by this proof of a crack
in Izaya’s composure; but when Izaya takes another breath to speak his voice is
perfectly level, his tone as unaffected as if he’s standing fully clothed on
the street outside instead of clenching around the strain of Shizuo’s fingers
with every forward stroke the other takes. “Then let’s begin right here.”
Shizuo’s movement stalls, his thoughts scattering as he blinks and frowns into
confusion at Izaya before him. “Huh?”
Izaya shifts against the bed, his spine arching into grace as he lifts his hand
from behind the pillow under him and snaps open the knife he closed his grip
around while Shizuo was distracted. Shizuo hadn’t even seen him put it there in
the first place; he can’t imagine when Izaya had the chance, between Shizuo
pinning him up against the door and their subsequent desperate fumbling out of
their clothes and down onto the bed. Izaya braces an elbow under himself to
push up and off the sheets beneath him; when he reaches out it’s to touch the
knife to Shizuo’s throat, to kiss the rhythm of the other’s pulse with the edge
of the blade.
“Now,” he says, and his voice is darker, lower, sliding into the range that can
be a threat, that can be a seduction, that Shizuo has learned to recognize as
both. “Here comes the problem. How many knives does it take to paralyze Shizu-
chan?” The blade slides down, the edge trailing against Shizuo’s bare chest and
over the edges of his ribs. “The answer is…” The knife skims over Shizuo’s
stomach, touching against the indentation of his navel before it drops down to
catch and stall at the waistband of his pants around his hips. “Well, I’ll have
to find out.”
Shizuo huffs an exhale, feels the sound turn dangerously close to a laugh in
the back of his throat. “I see,” he says; and he draws his fingers back out of
Izaya’s body, freeing his hand so he can reach for the front of his pants
instead to push aside the threat of Izaya’s blade and thumb open the button of
his jeans. “Then come and get me. If you’re using knives, I’ll see how many
objects it takes to take your breath away.” He draws his fly down and pushes
his pants open to free the heat of his cock from the fabric; he doesn’t look
down, but he can see Izaya’s gaze drop, can see the dip of the other’s lashes
and the tilt of his chin as he watches Shizuo close his hand around himself and
stroke up to spread slick wet against the hot skin. Shizuo rocks himself
forward towards Izaya before him, pressing in close to fit against the pale of
the other’s thighs; Izaya shifts his knees farther apart to make space for
Shizuo even as he keeps the edge of the knife pressing flush against the line
of the other’s hip, a threat direct enough to go unstated as Shizuo braces
himself in place against Izaya before him, as Shizuo ducks his head to bump his
forehead against Izaya’s like he’s holding the other steady with his own
weight.
“That’s my experiment now,” Shizuo says, growling the words to heat against
Izaya’s lips; and then he rocks his hips forward, and Izaya draws back the edge
of the knife to match him, retreating for every inch of depth Shizuo gains as
he slides forward and into the other. Shizuo presses as deep as he can, feeling
Izaya open and ease for him as he moves to lean against the other’s thighs, as
he sinks the whole heat of his cock into the tension of Izaya’s body beneath
his; and then he gasps a breath, and Izaya reaches up with his free hand to
clutch at the back of Shizuo’s neck, and when Shizuo draws back for another
thrust it’s with no thought in his head but the simple pleasure of driving
himself as deep into Izaya as he can, to force the air from the other’s lips
and strip the composure from the other’s voice with the strength of his
movement. By the time Izaya drops the knife over the edge of the bed to be
forgotten by them both, Shizuo has entirely forgotten about his stated goal.
He succeeds anyway.
***** Festival *****
Izaya can hear Shizuo behind him.
The other is making no effort to soften the weight of his stomping steps as he
follows in Izaya’s wake. Izaya thinks the whole school must be shaking with the
force of Shizuo’s movement, is sure he can feel the vibration humming up the
soles of his shoes and purring in against the curve of his spine where he’s
strolling down the crowded halls, but he doesn’t glance back to see the scowl
clinging to Shizuo’s lips any more than he turns to let Shizuo see the grin on
his own.
“Yakisoba,” Izaya says, speaking clearly so his voice will carry over the
murmur of conversation bringing the halls so alive with the presence of the
students within them.
“Curry rice,” Shizuo fires back, barely even hesitating over his answer.
Izaya doesn’t look back as he turns the corner to climb the flight of stairs to
the next floor. “Oden.”
There’s a pause, a moment of quiet while Shizuo focuses either on the tread of
his steps against the floor or on his answer to Izaya’s reply, Izaya isn’t
completely sure which. Finally he sighs, sounding frustrated by his own
struggle. “Frankfurt.”
“Grilled isobe,” Izaya fires back, the words as quick to fall off his lips as
Shizuo gives back his reply. He swings himself around the railing at the top of
the stairs, pivoting to stand at the very edge of the landing in front of
Shizuo following him up their height.
Shizuo lifts his head enough to scowl at Izaya from under the weight of his
brows but he doesn’t hesitate over his answer this time, just huffs an
irritated sigh. “Potatoes.”
“Red bean soup.” Izaya sets his feet against the edge of the landing to grin
down at Shizuo in front of him; with the extra step’s worth of height he can
look down at the other, can force Shizuo to lift his chin fractionally to make
eye contact.
Shizuo’s frown deepens, his forehead creases. “Tch.” He looks away for a
moment, scowling intently at the floor alongside Izaya’s feet as if it’s likely
to give him the answer he needs. Izaya waits for a moment, wondering if it’s
going to be as easy as that; but then Shizuo is looking back up, his expression
clearing as he finds another offering for the conversation. “Chocolate
bananas.”
“Fried things,” Izaya replies, handing the game back to Shizuo as easily as
returning the serve of a ball over a net.
Shizuo growls as if Izaya has just stabbed a knife into him. For a moment Izaya
wonders if the other won’t lose his patience entirely, if he won’t lunge
forward and turn their verbal banter into physical sparring; but Shizuo’s hands
stay at his sides, even as his fingers curl into the weight of fists, and for
all that he’s glaring at Izaya all the tension in him remains unexpressed,
tight in his shoulders and straining at his arms as if he’s a spring winding in
on itself but not quite ready to break free, not yet. “Hot dogs.”
“Crêpes,” Izaya lilts, slurring over the accented vowel with his mouth curling
up at the corner in amusement at Shizuo’s struggle as much as in anticipation
of his victory.
Shizuo huffs an exhale, his forehead creasing as if with pain, as if he’s
surprised by the blow of Izaya’s reply to his offering. His eyes narrow, his
head ducks down; Izaya watches the weight of his hair fall forward, watches the
yellow strands catch and tangle on themselves before Shizuo reaches up to push
a fretful hand through the locks. “Damn, what else was there?”
“What?” Izaya purrs. “You give up?” Shizuo lifts his head enough to glare
sufficient answer at Izaya standing over him, and Izaya can feel the threat of
his smile break wide and brilliant across his face into delight he doesn’t try
to hold back. He lifts his chin and grins down at Shizuo beneath him, feeling
his shoulders ease into languid satisfaction even as Shizuo’s tense as if in
expectation of a blow. “Then this contest of food found in cultural festivals
in my win.”
“Wha--?!” Shizuo gasps, sounding as shocked as if he hadn’t considered this as
a possible outcome; and then his expression tightens, his face goes
thundercloud-dark with frustration. When he swings his hand it’s to slam the
force of his fist against his thigh with enough strength that Izaya is sure
anyone other than Shizuo himself would have collapsed to the blow. “Damn it!”
“You’ll have to keep your promise now, Shizu-chan,” Izaya informs him, lifting
his chin into haughty pleasure as he steps sideways to retreat back down the
stairs with an easy, graceful stride. “What was it we said? The winner gets to
decide where the loser goes for the rest of the festival, was that it?” He
pivots on his heel at the foot of the stairs, lifting his head to grin back up
at Shizuo still just shy of the next landing; Shizuo has half-turned to watch
Izaya’s retreat, his shoulders still hunched and his hands still balled into
fists at his sides. His hair is shadowing his face, his whole body is tense on
the frustration of his loss; he looks wild, half-feral, like he might lunge
forward into a fight just for the satisfaction of smashing his balled-up fist
into the corner of the hallway wall.
Izaya lifts his head high, lets the haughtiness of the action combine with a
sideways tilt to bare the side of his neck, to make an open invitation of his
vulnerability for that pent-up fury coursing so visibly hot through Shizuo’s
veins. “Come on, Shizu-chan,” he purrs, holding Shizuo’s gaze without blinking.
“You’re not going to break your promise, are you?”
Izaya doesn’t know what answer he’ll get for a long moment. Shizuo is still
standing on the stairs, still staring at him with frustration incandescent
behind his eyes and in the set of his shoulders, and for the span of heartbeats
Izaya doesn’t know if Shizuo’s unwillingness to prove him right is going to win
out over the satisfaction of violence that always so laces their interactions.
He’s left to watch Shizuo, to wait while the balance teeters and shifts behind
the other’s eyes; and then, finally, to see the strain sag out of the other’s
shoulders, to see Shizuo’s hands go slack on surrender as he turns to follow
Izaya down the stairs.
“That’s a good boy,” Izaya purrs, deliberately taunting now that he has
Shizuo’s admission of defeat so clearly in hand, and he lifts his hand to the
other, palm-down to make the unspoken request clear just from his position.
“Incredible. Even you can be a good sport about losing.”
Shizuo swings his hand up before Izaya has time to blink, his fingers curling
and closing bruise-hard around the other’s hand before Izaya can even make an
attempt to snatch his hold back. Shizuo jerks at the point of contact, the
force enough to bring Izaya stumbling forward by a step, and when Izaya looks
up at him Shizuo is leaning in to bare his teeth on irritation, to hiss words
right into Izaya’s face. “I really goddamn hate you, Izaya-kun.”
Izaya feels the bones of his hand shifting under Shizuo’s hold, feels the angle
of his knuckles grinding hard against each other as Shizuo tightens his grip.
He lets his lashes dip, lets his mouth curve onto a smile. “I know,” he says,
and when he pulls at Shizuo’s hold it’s to shift his hand instead of drawing it
free, to turn his fingers so he can wind them in to interlace with the other’s
rather than breaking away from the dull ache of pressure running up the whole
of his arm and down his spine. “Come on and buy me a crêpe, Shizu-chan.”
Izaya’s hand is throbbing with pain by the time they make it to the end of the
hallway, but the feel of Shizuo’s fingers digging into his skin just makes him
smile.
***** December *****
The card shouldn’t be a surprise.
Shizuo should have expected it. He’s known Izaya for years by now, after all;
even if that time was spent unwillingly, he ought to have learned enough about
the other to be able to predict this facet of his behavior with as much
accuracy as he can predict the lithe grace of Izaya’s movements in their
fights. But then again, he can’t predict those either, judging by how often his
attempted blows hit nothing but air and the echo of a brittle laugh; so maybe
it’s not that inexplicable, after all, how startled he is by the card with
sharp-edged handwriting scrawling Shizu-chan over the smooth weight of the
front. Shizuo could have guessed at the contents without reading them: Maybe
this year you can do some growing up, Shizu-chan, with the words dragging
across the page until Shizuo can almost hear the lilt of the voice that goes
along with them. Or is that too much humanity to expect from a monster like
you? He reads them anyway, once and then twice and then a third time, his gaze
following the slant of the letters like his fingers follow the dip of Izaya’s
collarbone, like his palm slides along the curve of Izaya’s spine; and then he
tosses the card aside, and gets to his feet, and leaves the house without even
bothering to finish going through the rest of the cards wishing him a more
sincerely happy year than the first did.
The air of the city is cold, the wind sliding between the building to catch at
Shizuo’s hair and tug at the collar of his jacket; but Shizuo barely notices
it, doesn’t even feel the chill sliding across his skin as discomfort. He’s
warm, rather, his heart pounding with adrenaline and his hands trembling with
anticipation as if Izaya’s card were Izaya himself, as if he had caught a
glimpse of dark hair and bright eyes from across the span of a street instead
of just stared at the spill of ink across the ivory weight of a folded-over
card. Shizuo feels overhot, overexcited, like his heart is rushing through its
remaining allotted beats in doubletime, as if he might run through the last of
his life and collapse right here in the middle of the cold-emptied streets; but
he keeps moving, striding through the winter grey of the falling evening with
his head down, and his thoughts blank, and nothing in his awareness at all but
that electric heat in his veins crackling with greater tension with every step
he takes.
Shizuo doesn’t know how he finds Izaya. There’s no thought to it, no conscious
decision to track the other; he wouldn’t know where to begin if he went about
his pursuit logically, if he stepped back from the energy so hot in him to
decide how best to track his objective. Izaya is hardly going to be at school
at this hour of the night, might not even be in the city at all; and the city
is vast, spilling over with people until the idea of finding a single presence
amidst so many others is laughable at best and utter insanity at worst. Shizuo
knows that, knows all of it, could recite back the facts of it to anyone who
asked; and yet he beelines through the streets without needing to think,
without even glancing at those strangers that pass him with wind catching sleek
black hair or tugging at the sleeve of a shadow-dark coat. They’re not who he’s
looking for, he can feel the certainty of that fact down in the marrow of his
bones, like magnetism pulling him forward, onward, through the streets and into
the night; and then he steps out to a crossroads of two sidestreets, and he
takes a breath, and he can taste Izaya’s presence like ozone in the air.
Shizuo’s head comes up at once, his vision sliding across the view in front of
him without consideration for the details made inconsequential by his focus.
There’s a rush of cars, the flash of traffic lights; to his left there’s a
woman with a stroller, far to the right a neon sign is blinking with a languid
rhythm. There’re any number of screens, signs, people to draw his attention,
things more objectively interesting for his focus in the moment; but Shizuo
lifts his head without thinking, his gaze rising as if someone had shouted his
name, and there Izaya is, leaning against the edge of a pedestrian overpass
with his head ducked down to watch the flow of the traffic below him. He’s
dressed in dark colors, the same way he always is whether in school or out of
it; with the dark of his hair falling to curtain his face he ought to fade into
the shadows, ought to be barely discernable where he’s leaning against the
railing. But Shizuo can see him like he’s standing in a spotlight, as if
there’s a tether between them pulling his focus the tighter for every step
forward he takes, and when he breathes out he doesn’t even realize the sound
rushes from him like a sigh of relief.
Izaya doesn’t look up as Shizuo approaches, striding forward along the street
without looking away from the slant of Izaya’s shoulders over the railing or
the angle of one leg crossed to casual elegance behind him. That’s okay; that
just gives Shizuo a chance to draw closer, to reach out and catch the weight of
a trash bin from off the edge of the sidewalk without looking at it. The steel
lifts to his pull, sliding free from its established position without any
resistance that Shizuo notices, and Shizuo hefts the weight up over his
shoulder as he draws up to the base of the overpass and sets his feet to
steadiness.
“I-za-ya-kun,” he growls, pitching his voice loud to carry clearly over the
distance between himself and Izaya leaning against the railing. Izaya’s head
turns, his attention swinging around to focus on Shizuo even as his position
remains unchanged, and Shizuo grins savage pleasure and lifts the bin up over
his head, bracing it with both hands winding into the mesh that form its sides.
“Let’s play a game!” And he hurls the bin forward and up, sending the weight of
it arcing through the air in a perfect curve towards Izaya slouching casually
against the edge of the railing. Izaya watches it coming, his attention
tracking the motion of the projectile as it sails towards him, and then he tips
sideways at the last minute, sliding to the side and ducking down to let the
bin fly past his head and crash into the pathway a few feet farther on. He
turns his head to watch the impact, his attention following the makeshift
weapon with idle interest, and Shizuo strides forward without looking away,
covering the distance between them with long, unflinching steps.
“Shizu-chan, that was out of the blue,” Izaya says, and then he turns his head
to look back at Shizuo, his eyebrows slightly raised into mild surprise. He’s
still leaning on the railing with every appearance of complete relaxation;
Shizuo can see the put-on slouch of his shoulders, can see the idle shift of
Izaya’s feet as he trusts himself to his support at the railing instead.
Shizuo bares his teeth into something that might be a scowl on someone else’s
face, or even on his if he were talking to anyone else. Under the circumstances
it feels nearly like a grin. “No shit,” he says as he climbs the overpass to
close the gap between the dark of Izaya’s eyes and the tension of his fist at
his side. “I got my New Year’s card and thought I should use my time for
something instead of lazing around.”
Izaya hums, sounding almost thoughtful as his gaze flickers down to take stock
of Shizuo’s entire existence, from the set of his jaw to the tilt of his
shoulders to the heavy weight of the pace the other is setting towards him.
“Well, I can guess what you came here for,” as he pushes up from the railing
and pivots around to lean over the edge of it, arching out over the support
with apparent disregard for the shift of his balance as he leans back and over
the rush of the cars along the street below. “But I’ll ask anyways.” His head
tips to the side, his lashes dip dark over his eyes as he looks up at Shizuo
closing with him. “What did you come here for?”
Shizuo grins, baring his teeth into more sincere amusement than he expected to
feel. “If you know, then ask yourself.” He lifts his hand from his side,
swinging towards the angle of Izaya’s eyes, towards the curve of the other’s
mouth; but Izaya steps aside with more ease than his position suggested, his
balance shifting him sideways and out of range as Shizuo’s whole body commits
to the force of his blow. Shizuo’s knuckles hit the metal of the railing
instead, the steel cracking and crushing to the blow as it lands; and in his
periphery Izaya steps backwards, skipping to a greater distance even as Shizuo
turns to growl frustration at him.
“Ahhh, what a mess.” Izaya takes a step backwards as Shizuo straightens,
increasing the distance between them as quickly as Shizuo turns to face him
fully. His eyes look black in the dim lighting, the color of them muted and
softened by the dark of the night weighting over the glow of the city. “Since
this is getting dangerous I’m gonna call it quits.” He lifts a hand to flutter
his fingers into a wave, the motion as casually mocking as the upward tug of
his smile as he rocks his weight back on his heels. “See you later.” And he’s
turning, holding Shizuo’s gaze even as he twists until he’s looking back over
his shoulder as he takes his first step away and down the overpass from where
the other is standing.
Shizuo huffs an exhale, the sound as much a growl as it is laughter, a threat
and a promise together purring into heat in the back of his throat. “As if I’ll
let you run away,” he says; and then he’s moving forward, reaching to drag the
railing free and hurl it towards Izaya as part of the same movement as quickly
as Izaya turns to bolt away down the overpass and towards the sidewalk running
alongside the street. Shizuo sprints forward to follow him, dropping into a
dead run before the attempted blow has yet crashed uselessly into the side of
the adjourning building instead of into Izaya himself, and he takes the turn as
quickly as Izaya does, without even noticing his shoes skidding out against the
pavement before he’s twisting to bolt after the other. Izaya is quick, light on
his feet with a grace that makes him seem to float above the ground with every
forward stride he takes; but Shizuo is determined, his strength enough to surge
him forward with more power behind each stride than Izaya can possibly manage.
He grabs at handholds as he goes, tearing free signposts and shop displays as
he moves to fling them towards Izaya bolting away from him; but the projectiles
are an afterthought, a vague capitulation to the form of their fight instead of
the substance of it, the truth of the dark, rising anticipation that catches
Shizuo’s breath with far more effort than his all-out forward sprint forces
from him. Izaya dodges left, ducks low, avoiding Shizuo’s attempts to hit him
without even looking over his shoulder at the other; and then he takes a sharp
right turn, catching his fingers at the corner of a shop to swing around and
into an alley, and Shizuo follows with unhesitating intent, growling certainty
in the back of his throat as he storms into the shadows.
Izaya is turning as Shizuo draws towards him, twisting on his heel as he steps
back to press his shoulders to a wall, to gain the support of brick and mortar
behind him as he faces Shizuo. His chin is ducked down, his eyes dark and
unreadable; his mouth is open, on the rush of his breathing or the start of a
sentence Shizuo doesn’t know and doesn’t wait to find out. Because he’s
stepping in, he’s reaching out, and when his fingers close hard on Izaya’s
shoulder Izaya doesn’t slip away, Izaya doesn’t duck and melt like fog through
his grasp. Izaya tips his head back, and reaches out with both hands, and
Shizuo’s fingers fist onto Izaya’s hair just as his mouth crushes down against
the part of Izaya’s lips, just as Izaya’s hold drags to pull Shizuo off-balance
and stumbling in against him. Izaya huffs a low sound in the back of his
throat, opens his mouth for Shizuo’s taking; and Shizuo pins Izaya still
between the brace of his fingers and the weight of his lips, and he licks into
Izaya’s mouth as if he’s laying claim to the smell of the other’s skin, and the
soft of his hair, and the bright, wild dare behind his eyes.
By the time the bells are tolling in the first moments of the new year, Shizuo
has already given in to his greatest temptation; but with Izaya’s arms around
his neck and Izaya’s teeth against his lip, he can’t find it in him to even
regret his surrender.
***** Epilogue *****
“Ahh,” Izaya sighs, turning his head away to gaze out over the sunlit glow of
the city street alongside him. “Repeating the year just like that reminds me we
did a lot.” There’s a flicker of heat over his skin, the memory of fingerprints
like bruises pressing to his hip, his wrist, the inside of his thigh; he lets
his lashes dip, lets his lips curl on the edge of a smile secret and unshared
between himself and the lens of the camera fixed on him. Then he takes a
breath, and tosses his head, and lets his voice lift back into casual disregard
as he looks back at the reporter offering a microphone for him to speak into.
“Well now,” he says, letting his smile go wider as he drags it into the
illusion of sincerity, into the satisfied glow of amusement warm against the
inside of his chest. “Shizu-chan isn’t here.” He shakes his head and heaves a
sigh of put-upon resignation. “To think that of all things he would boycott the
epilogue. What’s the point of it if he’s not here?” He lets that settle for a
moment, lets the camera capture the downward tilt of his head and the weight of
feigned unhappiness on his shoulders; and then he lifts his chin, and
straightens his posture, and flashes a brilliant smile as he claps his hands
together decisively.
“Well, since he’s not here I’ll just do whatever I want!” He beams at the
reporter; she blinks, caught off-guard by his sudden change in tone, but Izaya
doesn’t let his smile waver as he tips his head up to gaze at the clear of the
sky overhead. “I love humans. Humans are interesting beings that will never
bore me and will always change.” He lifts his arms up towards the blue over
him, to the warmth of the sun illuminating his face, and when he closes his
eyes it’s with his smile spreading wide across his face and the lilt of a
mantra on his lips. “If this isn’t love then what is?” He lets his arms spread
wide, lets himself tip back like he’s inviting the sunlight to kiss his skin,
like he’s drawing the warmth of its attention down against himself. “I love
people. People Love!”
“IZAYA!!”
Izaya can feel his smile drag wider across his face, can feel it take on the
sharp edge of true sincerity in spite of his efforts to the contrary; but he
doesn’t care, even with the weight of the camera focusing on him he can’t find
it in him to muster even a flicker of concern. He tips his head to the side,
opens his eyes to look towards the source of the shout; and there he is,
seething on the far side of the street, the sunlight turning his hair to gold
and highlighting the lines of fury printed so clearly in his expression.
“Don’t change the epilogue’s shooting place just ‘cause you fucking feel like
it!” Shizuo reaches sideways without looking, his grip closing around a
newspaper display and wrenching it free of the cement as he steps out to stride
across the street without any sign of so much as glancing for the danger of
oncoming traffic. “Let me hit you, you bastard!” He lifts the display over his
head, flinging it in Izaya’s direction with as much offhand ease as if it’s a
baseball in his grip; the weight sails through the air towards Izaya, marking
out a smooth arc in the air. The reporter gasps a breath of panic and throws
herself backwards with terrified alacrity; Izaya moves in the opposite
direction, stepping smoothly to the side without looking away from Shizuo’s
tempestuous approach. The projectile crashes into the camera, destroying the
tripod it’s standing on and the film thus captured at a single blow; but Izaya
isn’t watching the camera, isn’t looking at the reporter, doesn’t have eyes for
anyone but the man hissing fury as he lunges forwards towards him.
“But Shizu-chan is the only exception,” Izaya declares, careless of who hears
the declaration; and then he flashes a grin for Shizuo’s benefit, and offers
the taunting gesture of a wink, and turns on his heel to dart forward and away
as quickly as Shizuo growls incoherent fury and flings himself forward to
follow in Izaya’s wake.
Izaya doesn’t mind the loss of the interview footage. In the end, there’s only
ever one person whose attention he truly craves.
For him, Shizuo is always the exception.
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