DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN DURARARA (HENCE THE FAN PORTION OF THE WORD FANFICTION). GOT IT?

A/N: Durrr (no pun intended)... I actually just finished the series today, and was itching to write something: thus, the fail!fluff was born. Not to be taken too seriously, just a random idea that jumped into my head while watching the series. Is the manga adaptation any good, by the way? I'm a little wary of it after the Darker Than Black manga disappointed me deeply.

And on a not completely unrelated note: Johnny Yong Bosch (Izaya's voice actor) secretly ships Shizaya. Not even kidding.

Status Quo

All things considered, he would not have called himself a creature of habit, especially when said habit involved such pesky things as humans.

Love for those infernally amusing souls aside, he seldom wished the relationship between they and he progressed past the unpredictable but exciting stage of master and plaything. Usually people evoked his interests with their mosaic of decisions made and emotions carried, and it made him positively giddy to see their faces light up in surprise and alarm when their tiny brains finally comprehended that he was always three steps ahead. He had always thought of routine as life's safety net for the mundane, those pathetic enough to stand completely still while the rest of the world flew past them.

And thus he was quite shocked when he woke up one day, and found himself in the middle of an everyday charade.

He pondered this as he made his way calmly, almost casually down an Ikebukuro street, heading nowhere in particular with rather specific expectations. Expectations which, he was sure, would never go unfulfilled. Strolling along with a smirk on his mouth and a tune in his throat, he waited patiently for the commonplace (for him, at least) scene that would start up his morning as it always did.

The breeze is quite nice today, breaking the heat streak and putting a smile on all these human faces:

The elderly man out on his early morning stroll, with a bag of groceries he'd no doubt just picked up from the store; the young couple sitting side by side on the park bench whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears; and a small dark speck whizzing through the air toward him, getting bigger and bigger and-

Oh, is that a vending machine?

He couldn't help but let a laugh escaping through his lips as he took two generous steps left, avoiding the huge metal hunk that landed in his previous spot mere moments later. It was all the same. He could even see the dent in the machine where his head had made contact with it the week before.

He closed his eyes and listened for the telltale "IZAYAAAAA!" issuing from somewhere down the street in front of him, signalling the imminent arrival of the other player in this monotonic game of cat-and-mouse.

"Oya, oya, Shizu-chan." The words have become so familiar to his tongue that they came out as sort of a chant. He fixed the blonde with the same expression he always fixed him with, and pointed with a practiced finger to the mangled mess of plastic and metal beside him. "Throwing a vending machine at me? That's not very nice, is it?"

The other growled at him. "I thought I told you never to show your sorry face here again, Izaya. And don't you dare call me that." And there they were. The same lines, the same biting remarks, the same empty threats and insults thrown back and forth between the two like some perverse play of catch.

He vaguely wondered at this point which one of them would grow tired of it first.

"No need to get so angry, now." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "You haven't even asked why I'm here."

Through Shizuo's sunglasses, he could barely make out a narrowing of his pupils; a response that he'd only learned to detect, of course, after witnessing it so many times before. "Do I need to? Like you need a reason to antagonize me."

He let out a falsely indignant huff. "Shizu-chan, you really ought not to be so full of yourself." His right hand, now safely tucked back into his pocket, fingered his small but agile pocket knife, which he would no doubt need momentarily. "Who says I'm here because of you?"

Like a repeating record, the rest of the conversation played out without even the slightest effort from either party. He could even imagine the exact tone and lilt of the other's voice in each sentence before it was said.

Finally they had reached the breaking point. With a grunt of frustration, the blonde bartender pulled a street sign from its concrete seat and lifted it above his head like a caveman readying to charge. "Enough of your bullshit, you slick bastard." Shizuo bared his teeth, "I'm gonna teach you a lesson, right here and now."

He drew his knife with a loud snap of the blade against handle, the corners of his lips pulling back, back, back, as the other charged at him with the sign raised. He felt his brain kick-starting into autopilot as he too ran forward.

It felt almost as if he were watching the fight from afar. The identical action sequence and the clink of metal on metal a cacophony of satire to his grated ears.

The record is spinning and the music is playing, an infinite loop of cause-and-effect, back-and-forth, life-and-death.

With all the grace and dexterity of a tiger in waiting, he leapt effortlessly onto the pole, dashing toward Shizuo with his blade raised. But before he could proceed any further, the blonde swung the pole suddenly to the ground, causing him to lose his balance. He landed in a half-crouch and stared up at the other with mirth.

Round and round the needle goes; where it stops, no one knows.

He darted out of the way as the metal pole came slicing through the air, and mischievously led it on a wide circular path until the tip hit a nearby building and the entire sign bent into a giant "L". He took the opportunity to swipe his knife at the blonde, but the other ducked out of range in the nick of time.

The same routine. The same morning exchange and quarrel, every day of their lives.

Shizuo hurled the bent pole at him with a roar of rage, and he sidestepped the assault a split second too late, the blunt edge of the bend catching him on his side, knocking the breath from his lungs. He landed after skidding a few feet along the sidewalk and opened his eyes to find his nemesis' shadow approaching with a smug and confident air. He jumped to his feet and raised his weapon just in time to see a pair of hands flying toward his face.

It's all the same.

He felt the blonde's fingers curl around his neck, the same instant he felt the flesh of the other's at the tip of his blade. The fingers squeezed and the blade pushed, drawing blood in one and stopping blood in the other. They looked at each other, long and hard; and suddenly there was an understanding.

Stalemate, again.

"Whew," He breathed, lowering his weapon and rubbing his sore neck, "For a second there, I thought you weren't going to let go, Shizu-chan." The well-rehearsed tone of relief, with the barely concealed layer of sarcasm underneath.

"Che." Came the equally well-rehearsed reply. "If I kill you, my mornings would be boring with no one to beat up." One last look exchanged before the bartender turned on his heels and began to walk away. "Don't let me catch you in my turf again, Izaya."

Spoken like the invitation they both knew it to be. Tomorrow. Same time. Same place. Their ritual would begin all over again, with no sign that it had ever done so before. Going through these motions was mundane, sure, but he knew neither of them could get enough.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."