Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.

Chapter 1 - wherein drunk meets disorderly

Searching for a place to be violently ill in peace after leaving the bar gave Izaya time to realize that he had failed to achieve the requisite degree of mental purification essential to his sanity. He was still thinking it. The horrible thought could not be excised with either hard liquor or a good bludgeoning. Technically, he hadn't yet tried the bludgeoning, but he was working up to it. The alternative did not bear thinking about. He blamed Karisawa of course. After all, he'd gone through three other people's phones without suffering long lasting mental trauma, but when he had hacked hers (for professional reasons, obviously; he was nothing if not thorough), such unspeakably lewd and improbable things assaulted his eyes that he'd been made mentally ill just by looking at them. There were, well, it was probably best not to dwell on them, but some things just couldn't be unseen, there were pictures (born no doubt of a tragically deluded mind), and half of them had looked almost affectionate, which was the worst part. There were also snippets of text that he'd had to squint to read (and now wished that he hadn't), containing words such as "sweat-slicked" and "ouroboros."

Izaya shuddered, trying to shake off the horrible, horrible thought, but it was not so easily dislodged, especially since just then he turned a corner and chanced to catch sight of the other unwitting participant in Erika's sick fantasies, lighting up by the backdoor entrance to some indebted loser's hideout. The look of brief contentment on the dumb brute's face, as he wrapped his lips around the cancer stick, brought the horrifying thought right back around, making Izaya's skin crawl in his clothes. He shut his eyes (and rubbed the heels of his hands over them) to rid himself of the unwanted image of Shizuo sucking in smoke with that blissed-out, heavy-lidded stare, and subsequently missed the subtle shift in the atmosphere, and the not so subtle shriek of bolts being torn from their moorings, and the next seventeen minutes, as a sudden burst of intense pain delivered him into the waiting arms of oblivion.

When Izaya woke up, he felt like a drunken elephant had been courting its mistress on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to ascertain the presence of the amorous pachyderm, but all he could discern instead was Shizuo's appalling form hovering above him with a buckled traffic sign in hand and a glare of fury so eloquent that he seemed ready to punch his own stupid face.

"Well, you broke him, you bought him," chimed Tom's unruffled voice from somewhere at the periphery of Izaya's fractured consciousness, and the steel signpost warped under Shizuo's fingers. "Right then," Tom went on, unfazed, "he is obviously not flouncing out of here. Help me get him to Shinra's place. And try not to break anything else, ne?"

Izaya blinked, and then the unthinkable happened. First, Shuzuo's beastly smoke-reeking face drew closer, then a pair of arms insinuated themselves between Izaya's body and the sidewalk, and then he was being smoothly hoisted upwards into the immediate proximity of the beast.

Seething from pain and humiliation, he bore with the oppressive closeness of the ogre and tried to think of a way, any way, to reclaim his dignity before this runaway chain of events progressed any further down the road of involuntary indecency that he'd been forced to endure in the course of his innocent inquiry into Erika's phone records and his defilement became a foregone conclusion (the bludgeoning obviously hadn't helped). His best bet was that, short of a complete personality transplant or a frontal lobotomy, Shizuo was likely to find the prospect even more abhorrent than he himself did, so all he had to do to secure their mutual safety was make the protozoan think it, and then the beast would drop him, and all would be well. Izaya steeled himself against the apoplectic fit that was sure to follow and shifted in Shizuo's arms.

"Shizu-chan is soooo warm," he drawled as sultrily as he could manage, remembering the most oft repeated line in Erika's entire collection of pornographic horrors (not that he had read the whole thing; he had just skimmed it, thoroughness and all), and buried his face in Shizuo's shirt, utterly disgusted with himself for the first time in his life.

The beast's reaction was immediate. In an instant, his grip on Izaya grew unbearable, and even though the information broker was bracing himself for pain, he still couldn't stop a pathetic little whimper from escaping past his clenched teeth. The hold on his injured arm loosened at once, and he felt rather than heard Shizuo's breath hitch.

"Izaya-kun," said Tom's disappointed voice from somewhere far away, "stop trying to bait Heiwajima-san into going to jail on your account again. If he accidentally kills you, you'll be dead, and won't get to enjoy it."

Izaya ignored the solicitous bastard and concentrated on breathing, neglecting the fact that he was breathing in the sweat in Shizuo's day old polyester vest, which contained not nearly enough oxygen for him to stay conscious, which was probably why he didn't.

Sometime later, he woke up (again) naked, under a scratchy blanket, next to Shinra, who was mercifully dressed and sitting in a plastic chair by his bedside.

"You both have hairline fractures, but no breaks," said Shinra without any preamble. "It's some sort of miracle."

"I shouldn't have any… anything," protested Izaya out of habit, but then his brain caught up with what Shinra was saying and he stopped talking.

"You should have a cracked head," Shinra informed him cheerfully, "or no head, like my beloved Celty, though not as beautiful, naturally—"

"What do you mean both?" said Izaya. "Why are we both injured?"

"I'm not injured," said Shinra promptly. "Why would you think that? Did you bang your head a little too hard on something? Cause then I shouldn't have given you any drugs. Do you think that you might have a concussion? How many of me are you seeing?"

One too many, thought Izaya.

"One," he said out loud.

"You're fine then," said Shinra. "I'm fairly sure that the signpost had missed your skull when Shizuo pulled his swing. He couldn't stop it altogether, of course, though he nearly snapped his arm trying, so now you two have matching fractures. Isn't that sweet?"

Izaya didn't think that it was sweet. Frankly, he wished Shizuo had brained him, because then he wouldn't have to consider all the possible reasons for the oaf's bad aim. There had to be an acceptable explanation for Shizuo's unusual lapse of focus, preferably one that had nothing to do with any repressed designs on Izaya's long lost virtue that the beast might have been harboring at the time. Izaya hastily scrapped that train of thought. He probably did have a concussion, and this was it talking.

"Is he here?" he asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable with only a flimsy blanket separating him from this potentially predatory Shizuo.

"Oh no, you know how he is. I sent him home with some painkillers."

Izaya mulled that over for a moment.

"Fine," he said then. "When can I leave?"

"As soon," said Shinra, "as I am satisfied that you can stand without wobbling."

In the ensuing silence, Izaya realized that he was expected to try.

"Get me my clothes," he demanded.

"Right then…" said Shinra, and waltzed out of the room with a suspicious bounce in his step. He always bounced when he thought that he was on to something.

It was only when he had left Shinra's place that Izaya realized that it was already the dregs of the next day. Whatever medications he'd been given had rendered him unconscious for at least twenty-four hours, and knowing Shinra, the horrid little pest had probably done it on purpose, to keep Izaya immobilized or to test a new anesthetic or most likely both. Sadly, he didn't have the time to fume about it properly, because the other thing that he noticed upon leaving the building was a squat little pyramid of bent cigarette butts nestled amidst the azaleas in the decorative urn by the front entrance. He never would have seen it had he used the garage exit, but Shinra had all but shoved him out through the lobby on what now appeared to also have been purpose.

Now, on its own, a pile of trash, no matter how distinctive, did not prove anything, but a shallow impression of two large fists clenched over the rim of the concrete planter could not have been left by any ordinary chain smoker, so either modern urban architecture was going through a decidedly peculiar phase, or Shizuo had been parked outside throughout the night, just waiting to finish what he had started (which was great news, since it meant that whatever had possessed the blond to try and not kill Izaya earlier had to have worn off and restored reality to its proper state of unadulterated loathing). Izaya couldn't have been happier, since it also explained Shinra's shifty performance. The good doctor was certifiably insane, and had in all likelihood misinterpreted Shizuo's murderous intent as concern. Relieved at what seemed to him a satisfying reconstruction of the day's events, Izaya turned his toes towards Russia Sushi for a celebratory feast.

That did not work out as expected. Simon was as gregarious as always, but the sushi left much to be desired. Another shortage of fresh fish saw the resurgence of prosciutto rolls, which Izaya openly disdained (and kind of sort of liked in secret). He did not stay at the restaurant (on the off chance that somebody would see him indulge and draw all sorts of unnecessary conclusions), but grabbed a takeout carton and took his customary back alley shortcut. He wasn't feeling very well anyway. Whatever experimental pharmaceuticals Shinra had used to patch him up had apparently included a hangover, and now the pain in his injured arm (where the painkillers had been wearing off for the last couple of hours) and his head (where his brain had been fighting off the debilitating effects of amateur gay porn) were conspiring to make him vaguely queasy. He was reaching for the nearest wall for moral support when it happened.

In retrospect, there was nothing extraordinary about being jumped by ornery thugs in a secluded labyrinth of rusting dumpsters, blind walls, and broken crates. The ever lovable humanity was nothing if not predictable. He habitually skirted the very real danger that some people were just too stupid to know better than to lay their fists on him. However, Izaya did wish that he had bothered to predict this eventuality prior to entering a narrow passageway, where a sudden onset of pain-induced double vision and a convoluted web of other people's laundry lines precluded the possibility of either fight or flight.

"Why, Orihara-san," said ornery thug number one, whom Izaya immediately christened Fat Chin in his mind, "we meet again."

Izaya tried to remember meeting Fat Chin for the first time and could not. Neither could he recall any of Fat Chin's friends. And he remembered everyone. So Fat Chin was likely lying for a pretext to hit him.

"Of course," said Izaya, reaching into his pocket for a knife that he belatedly discovered wasn't there, thanks no doubt to Shinra, his well-meaning executioner, "Fat Chin! How are you?"

"So very sad that you don't seem to recognize me, Orihara-san," said Fat Chin in mock vexation. "Suppose I'll have to make sure that you remember me this time." He motioned to his two minions. "Hold him."

A pair of someone's formerly maroon boxers wafted gently in the evening breeze above Izaya's head as thugs number two and number three (Grandma Pants and Ass Backwards, respectively) made him drop his takeout amidst the broken glass and sundry rubbish by slamming his already wrecked shoulder into the same wall that had moments ago served as his crutch. Fat Chin, meanwhile, extracted a switchblade from some fold in his equally corpulent ass and waved it conspiratorially at Izaya's midsection, as if choosing the best possible spot to start carving his reminder. Izaya watched this unconvincing switchblade tango with a loftily raised eyebrow, because it was unlikely that Fat Chin would go so far as to butcher him outright, and it was a short dullahan-assisted ride back to swift medical assistance and sweet, sweet retribution. Fat Chin, however, did not stab him. Instead, he slashed two expert cuts through Izaya's belt, making the buckle join Izaya's forlorn dinner in the dirt. And that was how Izaya knew that Fat Chin meant for them to become better acquainted, and, if time allowed, Grandma Pants and Ass Backwards too. These things happened, and sometimes they even happened to him. It was a job hazard. When he was new to the job, they had happened more often. Later on, he had gotten smarter and faster, but sometimes his lovely humans still got lucky.

Grinning, Fat Chin grabbed a fistful of Izaya's shirt, yanked him forward (and out of the minions' grubby fingers), and then pushed him face first into the crumbling mortar of the wall, which grazed his cheek in a vicious kiss, launching another wave of nausea against the beaches of his self-control, as he waited for the inevitable tug on his hips.

It didn't come.

What came instead was a large dumpster, sailing through the air and smiting Fat Chin in a tangle of clotheslines and ladies' panties. It was followed directly by a few smaller bits of street furniture, taking out Grandma Pants and Ass Backwards.

Propping himself up on the wall, Izaya followed their trajectories back to the source and beheld Shizuo in all his enraged glory, brandishing a mid-sized newspaper dispenser aloft and bearing down like an avenging avalanche with the unmistakable intent of sending Fat Chin to the moon. And that's when Izaya's lips parted ways, and words flew out, and he couldn't stop them.

"It's okay, Shizu-chan," he said, "I'm okay. Really."

Which was absolutely preposterous, since there was every chance that Shizuo had no idea whom he had just rescued. As usual, however, the sound of Izaya's voice halted the beast in his tracks. Shizuo dropped the dispenser, and Izaya had a second in which to reflect on whether those few words had been his last, before the monster spun around, stalked back towards him, held him by the throat, and invaded his personal space headfirst, looking so much like a huge dog sniffing at its prey that Izaya had half a mind to reach for the box of crushed prosciutto rolls lying at his feet and wave it in front of Shizuo's nose in hopes of distracting him with something more substantial than a battered flea. He was almost sure that the blond was not going to brutalize him further, but then Shizuo was the emperor of murky motivations, who could know what he would or wouldn't do.

He didn't do anything. Having eyed him with scalding intensity, Shizuo released him and stepped back in silence, reaching absentmindedly to rub at his own abused forearm.

Izaya righted his clothes. The belt was obviously worthless now, but he could always get another (reinforced with titanium wire, and oh how he would laugh at whomever tried to cut it off again). The thugs were still out cold (or maybe dead, though probably not). The beast was staring at him (irritated, but already verging comfortably on mistrustful). And his dinner had been killed in action (nothing to add there). Izaya supposed that he should try to go home, fire Namie (she never took it seriously anyway), and figure out why Fat Chin had been targeting him.

"Bye-bye Shizu-chan," he said, waving his hand in dismissal, and began dragging his feet as gracefully as he could in the general direction of Shinjuku.

Roughly five minutes later he became aware of the fact that he had a stalker. Shizuo was following him at a respectable ten-yard distance. Not hurling curses or vending machines, just stalking, like a reticent butler. When Izaya got on the train, Shizuo got on the train at the other end of the car. If Izaya queued to look at a new phone, then so did Shizuo. Izaya sneezed, and Shizuo sniffed in solidarity. It was like being shadowed by a circus bear or a mime. In other words, intolerable.

This persecution finally ended outside of Izaya's building. As Izaya entered the lobby, he noticed a distinct lack of Shizuo in his wake. Turning around, he saw his stalker making himself comfortable in the tree pit by the entrance and taking out a pack of cigarettes. He would've been happy to leave the blond menace to his incomprehensible surveillance, but an impending tragedy prevented him from boarding the elevator that would carry him to his home office. One of the building's security guards had also noticed Shizuo's freakish antics, and was preparing to venture forth and heroically subdue the suspicious visitor.

This, in Izaya's estimation, could play out in one of two ways. Either Shizuo would punt the hapless guard right out of his tacky uniform and get nabbed by the local SAT unit, or Izaya had to go out there right now and make a citizen's arrest. It was a tough call. On the one hand, Shizuo being tazered into submission was always good fun, but on the other, it would break one of Izaya's self-imposed rules of good business practices, which required him to avoid causing a riot in his own backyard. Ultimately, practicality won out.

"Shizu-chan!" he exclaimed, making his way towards the monster ahead of the guard and clutching at the absence of a knife in his pocket. "Can't you read? Those signs say 'don't smoke' and 'don't loiter.' Come along now, before the po-po gets you."

Shockingly, the beast did as he was told. He even allowed himself to be herded into the freight elevator at the back of the lobby, and then just stood there, looking put upon (and unusually compliant).

"Shinra said—" he began, but Izaya interrupted him at once, spurning the fact that these were the first words that Shizuo had spoken since their last altercation, not to mention the first civil words that he had spoken to Izaya, ever.

"Shinra? Why would anyone ever listen to anything that Shinra says?"

"He said that I have to take responsibility for what I did," Shizuo continued mulishly.

Is that why Shizuo was keeping an eye on him? Did failing to miss him with a signpost carry the penalty of becoming his keeper? Seriously? Or was that just Heiwajima-ese for "I feel guilty for bashing you with a traffic sign for no reason"? Not that Shizuo had ever needed a reason before; he was preternaturally convinced that entropy itself was Izaya's fault. The beast was beyond reasoning, and could not be swayed with words. That was his forte. He presumed guilt.

Izaya was so absorbed in his mental rant that he almost missed Shizuo's next question.

"Does that happen to you often?"

"Does what happen to me often? Getting attacked by you? All the fucking time!"

"No. I meant those guys…"

Oh. So that was the problem. The rape squad. Shizuo Heiwajima wanted to know about humans. Well, he was certainly asking the right informant. Izaya smirked inwardly as the elevator released them outside of his duplex. He opened the door, shed his jacket to the floor, gingerly freeing his injured arm, kicked off his shoes, and padded into the kitchen, leaving Shizuo the choice of whether to follow him.

The monster did, shutting the front door, leaving his hooves on the threshold, and sidling over to the kitchen counter in his socks.

"Sure," said Izaya, opening the refrigerator and rummaging inside it for something ready to eat, because he'd sooner die than cook for Shizuo. "Sometimes."

It took Shizuo a moment to remember their conversation, and another to take umbrage at the answer. Moments that Izaya used to grab a cup of coffee-flavored yogurt and a chilled spoon from the top shelf, shut the fridge, and turn to face the beast, who was now in the grips of righteous indignation.

"That's…" The eyes behind the blue spectacles brimmed with virginal affront, as Shizuo groped for words to match his feelings. "That's really fucked up, flea."

Oh Karisawa-san, thought Izaya, how I wish that you were here, because this Shizu-chan has almost certainly never had more than his own hand and very limited imagination for company, and if he were to glimpse your thoughts on the matter, he'd probably catch fire. Never again shall I doubt my sanity on account of your misinformed ramblings.

"No more fucked up than anything else people do," he told Shizuo, popping the lid off the yogurt container and dipping his spoon into its delicious contents.

"Like hell," said Shizuo. "Or…" he hesitated again, narrowing his eyes, "are you really so warped that you actually enjoyed it?"

It was perfect. After all these years, Shizuo was talking to him, which was tantamount to offering Izaya a hitherto denied opportunity to turn the beast into a human being with a few well told lies. Oh, this could be fun.

"Maybe…" he teased, lapping yogurt off his spoon suggestively, "if it had been Shizu-chan." And if that didn't send the monster loping for the hills, then he'd eat a whole tub of ice cream.

Shizuo looked momentarily stunned, and then Izaya learned to hold his tongue, as it was unceremoniously shoved back into his mouth by a pair of very inept but persistent lips. It took Izaya several seconds to process that, yes, Shizuo Heiwajima was kissing him, and then it was over.

"Well," Shizuo said angrily, "did you enjoy that?"

"No, I didn't," said Izaya. "You're terrible at it."

And if he thought that this might discourage the beast, he was mistaken, because Shizuo just did it again, leaving him no option but to up the ante.

Izaya dropped the spoon, grabbed a fistful of bleached hair at the back of Shizuo's neck, and peeled the monster back from his face.

"Like so," he said, and proceeded to suck gently on Shizuo's lower lip, before flicking his tongue across it in a polite request for entry, which was denied with a visceral snarl. "And that'll be sixteen hundred yen," he said, leaning back.

"What?" said Shizuo.

"For the kissing lesson," said Izaya. "Or did you think that I did that because I like you?"

"Fuck you," said Shizuo, releasing him.

"No thanks," said Izaya. "I shudder to think of what passes for your technique."

And that finally chased the maniac away, but not before he threw two banknotes and the door in Izaya's face.

Well, thought Izaya, that ought to cover the ice cream.