Hi, all. Thanks for giving this story a try. It's a very sad story, and I got the idea while listening to 'Disarm' from The Smashing Pumpkins, hence the title. Oddly enough, that song has very little to do with the subject matter featured here, but whatever. This story is completed, but it was a little too long to post all at once. I'd love to hear what you think. I'm sure the concept has been beaten to death, but hopefully it's well written enough to offer a new perspective on a popular tale. So, hope you like, and without further ado, I give you Disarm! Part I!

-letters

~Disarm~

There are no second chances in life. It is what people like to tell themselves, because forgone opportunities are unbearable. Chance makes it sound as if there is no choice, and there is always choice. They just like to believe that when those choices lead them to poor ends, it was not their doing. It was fate...it was the devil...it was chance. I suppose there are those who do not take credit for all the good things they do, either. In fact, I am sure of it. However, even this group can be split into two smaller, sub groups; one that pays lip service to selflessness to garnish the good graces of other people, and one that realizes the wretchedness of their own human condition. The latter is slightly more evolved, in as much as they see that no one is truly selfless. But I am above the rest of humanity. All of my choices belong to no one but me, and I never suffered any delusion that my life was under the control of another.

Ah, but that is life. What about death? Yes, indeed, I played my own hand in that as well. When it came down to it, I made my choice, and it was apparently not one I could live with. Will the future I never had be able to forgive me? It doesn't really matter, does it? Nothing ever seemed to matter much. I know, you are holding your breath, on the edge of your seat even, waiting for the "except" that is surely coming, waiting to hear about that one redeeming quality of my sad existence; something that made all the terrible, bad things that I have suffered and done become...bearable. It is the last thing I wanted, really; just another exercise in futility. Such pointless, useless feelings...but I wonder...why is it that I am smiling right now, so close to the end? ...I am so sorry. For the first time in my life, I have regret. Ah, see what you have done? You have unwittingly kept your myriad of promises to end me. This feeling completely eclipses the strongest migraine or any amount of nausea I have endured. It pales everything in comparison, and after it is all said and done, this feeling will be the thing that kills me. But how terrible of me to try and make you feel guilty without any means of defending yourself! Maybe, in this way, I can assure you that I really never loved you. Having established this, I trust that you will not shed too many tears over my passing, if protozoans are even capable of such human emotions. I highly doubt it, and you know it is impossible for me to be wrong about anything. How does that saying go? 'I'll see you in hell'? Not that you are a terrible enough person to warrant the eternal doom of Judeo-Christian mythology, but if it did exist, I like to imagine that they would let you go on field trips, especially if it involved tossing the damned about, a bit.

Well...I guess that is all I really wanted to say. It is not much, is it? How out of character of me! But I am too tired to be bothered about it, at the moment. So long, brute! May every bent street sign and dented vending machine you see fill you with fury, as you recall that person that really, truly hated you with every fiber of his being. I honestly cannot recall anyone I have ever hated more. Goodbye, my Shizu-chan.

-Izaya

Shizuo vaguely felt himself being pulled toward the open casket. Once he finally did comprehend it, he could not stay the mounting dread threatening to overwhelm him. As much as his normally unyielding body wanted to resist, all of his strength had deserted him. Gripping at the black tie which complemented the rental suit, he felt like he was being deprived of all oxygen; suffocating. Nothing had made sense since he got the phone call from Shinra a few days prior. He wasn't even there when it happened, and yet, he was here, in a Buddhist temple, being led like a lamb to the proverbial slaughter under the watchful, painfully familiar eyes of people he did not even know. His mind was making a feeble attempt to prepare him, and several nightmarish images flitted across his inward vision of what he would see once the aisle ended. The past few days had reduced his mental faculties to the point of basic instinct. He ate because he instinctively knew he must eat. He slept because he instinctively knew he must sleep. Now, as a crown of raven black hair became visible over the side of the cherry-wooded casket, Shizuo knew, instinctively, he must not look. Unfortunately, the rest of the world was not privy to the inner workings of his current state of mind.

"Shizuo," Shinra whispered. Ah, so it was he that had pulled him so unwillingly from his seat in the very back of the room the wake was being held in. Shizuo figured that made sense. Shinra was one of the only people present he actually did know. Kida Masaomi and Saki Mikajima had been sitting close to him, away from the family. He had heard the girl quietly weep through the priest's incantations, burying her face in a tissue during most of the ceremony. It was a relief to Shizuo, in a way, as he focused on her public expression of grief. Kida's hand stayed on her back, gently rubbing soothing circles, the look on his face more somber than most had ever seen it. It was a look riddled with mixed emotions of anger, jealousy, and sadness, making the often carefree boy, who was also wearing the customary black suit, suddenly seem twice his age. Namie Yagiri had passed them both, walking the opposite way down the isle. She met Shizuo's gaze with her normally harsh countenance, but then, for a brief moment, something softened in her deep brown eyes, speaking to him from beneath the rim of her black, felt hat before quickly looking down at her feet again. Now he and Shinra had climbed the three small steps of the altar, and the amount of incense burning in front of the coffin was overpowering, making Shizuo's eyes burn. He looked upward, over the mound of flowers the funeral home had placed in intricate patterns on tiers, to the picture that resided over them. It wasn't a recent photo, and Shizuo vaguely recognized the person depicted in it. It tugged at distant memories of high school days, when life was simpler, and death was the furthest thing from his mind. Due to the amount of anonymity required at times from the deceased's line of work, Shizuo was not surprised at the boyish face, which smiled mischievously down at them from the confines of the frame. What surprised him was just how much the future had changed him. "Shizuo..." Shinra's voice descended into a sympathetic plea. Startled out of his reverie, Shizuo looked down at the incense he was gripping harshly in his fist, completely forgotten. He held it out to the candle until it was lit, and placed it in the holder next to the other offerings. Immediately turning, he began to walk back to his seat, but Shinra stopped him by laying a hand on his arm. "Don't you want to say good bye?" he asked, in a small voice. "I know he would have liked to hear it from you. And...and I think it will help." Shizuo flinched as if he had been struck, and slowly brought himself to face the altar again. Hesitantly, his eyes fell on polished, black shoes, and it was with great effort he forced them to travel upwards, taking in the lanky, black clad figure with two, ghostly pale hands crossed over the breast of a jacket. It bothered him that the trade mark, silver rings had been removed from his index fingers, as they could not be incinerated. However, perfectly combustible flowers were placed around the body, along with various other items offered from the guests. Someone had folded his favorite jacket and placed it just below his elbow. Yet another person had placed pouches of green tea on his other side. Along with the customary monitory gifts, Shizuo almost smiled when he saw several, small take-out boxes from Russia Sushi, intermixed among the flowers. He guessed the one thing he had not been able to keep a mystery from his precious humans was his favorite food. Fond memories giving him courage, his eyes traveled the rest of the way to Izaya's face. Shizuo let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"He just looks likes he sleeping," he muttered to no one in particular, but Shinra answered with a nod of his head.

"Mmm, indeed."

"It's one of the only times I've ever seen him with his yapper shut..." Shizuo smiled as Shinra let out a nervous chuckle, but it was as if by allowing one emotion to gain a foothold, flood gates had opened, and Shizuo was overwhelmed by a plethora of powerful feelings coursing through him. His smile quickly faded, and he clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth were in danger of shattering from the pressure. Shinra's eyes widened at the sudden shift in his friend, and put a concerned hand on his shoulder, but Shizuo shrugged it off. "God damn you!" his voice thundered throughout the hall, startling all of the previously serene occupants. He gripped the side of the casket until his knuckles were white, and the sound of groaning wood creaked loudly. "God damn you, you fucking flea!" Izaya's family stood in alarm, and the priest was about to interject, but Shinra held up his hand and shook his head, silently asking that Shizuo be allowed to deal with his grief in his own way, as unorthodox as it might be. Shizuo let his head fall with something between a sob and a laugh. "And people say I'm the stupid one...," he growled, tears beginning to fall, sprinkling his hands and sleeves, "You never... You never believed me! Everything was such a fucking game to you, wasn't it? And I couldn't..." Shizuo broke down into incoherence, as he sank to his knees, "I couldn't help you..." he finished, barely above a whisper. Shinra replaced his hand on his shoulder and used his other hand to help Shizuo back to his feet.

"You did help him, Shizuo," he whispered so that no one else would hear them. Shizuo shook his head, unable to speak. "I know he wasn't very good at showing it, but you meant a lot to him. I know you were the only thing keeping him going for so long...but...well... At least now he can rest. You didn't want him to suffer anymore, did you?" Shizuo simply shook his head again and looked back at Izaya. He did look rather peaceful, his face finally free of the ugly contortions of pain. Izaya had always tried not to show how badly he was hurting, even when his morphine levels had been maxed out, but Shizuo knew it had to be a nightmarish existence. So much so, that he was surprised Izaya had not simply overdosed himself into blissful oblivion to escape, but deep within himself, he knew the reason. It made him feel selfish to be so angry, but Izaya always did say that everyone was inherently selfish. At this thought, Shizuo felt his anger melt away, leaving him with the far more painful and quiet feeling of loneliness. Seeing his recovery, Shinra gave him a pat and turned to leave. Shizuo gazed at the body one last time, and ran his hand through Izaya's soft, combed black hair, returning it to a more familiar state.

"See you around, Izaya..."

Izaya spun slowly around in his office chair, periodically pushing the floor with his foot to maintain momentum. Namie Yagiri studied him from her smaller desk, critically, as he slowly came to a halt. He had been unusually quiet since she'd brought him his mail. Among the many envelopes Izaya still received, despite digital mail, she had been surprised to see one from what looked like a medical company, but was written in Portuguese. The only reason she knew that was because she had typed the Roman letters into a search engine. Now that she was actually taking the time to study him, she realized that Izaya did, indeed, have a few tell tale signs of illness, though the informant's routines hadn't changed, much.

Izaya always seemed to instinctively know when he was being watched, much to her annoyance, and she quickly looked back down at her work once his piercing gaze fell on her. "Oh my, Yagiri-san. Have you finally fallen for me? You haven't taken your eyes off me all day!"

Namie rolled her eyes at his overconfident, self-glorifying tone. "Quite the opposite, I assure you," she did not try to hide the haughtiness in her voice. Izaya looked momentarily crest-fallen, but she knew better than to think it was anything other than an act. "I was just marveling at how even creatures like you get sick."

"Why, I am fit as the fittest of the fiddles, my dearest Yagiri-san!" Izaya chirped, leaning back in his chair and placing his feet on his desk. "But pray do tell me what you have observed. I am most curious to hear."

Namie felt a little uncertain for a moment; something in her employer's tone giving her pause. Izaya smiled pleasantly enough at her, but the atmosphere had shifted, quickly becoming heavy with an anxiety she found almost smothering, as if she were being tested. She cleared her throat and brushed the unspoken intimidation aside as she always did. "You have circles under your eyes, your lymph nodes are swollen in your neck, and you look like you've had some weight loss."

She expected her keen observations would momentarily floor Izaya, but he simply laughed, and began that wretched spinning again in his chair. "Well, with your cooking, how could I not lose weight, Yagiri-san?" He chuckled some more as Namie shook her head, hopelessly. At length, Izaya finally stopped his spinning, and rose from his seat. "Well, I suppose we all have our off days, eh? Even us demigods." She merely glared at him in reply. "And along that note, I don't really want to look at you anymore, so why don't you go home now, Yagiri-san?" Namie looked at him quizzically, as he gathered his read mail together and tossed it in a waste basket, all except that one letter.

"You're really giving me the rest of the day off?" she asked, somewhat suspiciously.

"Consider it compensation for amusing me so," Izaya waved her away, and, after securing the letter in his front desk drawer, began walking towards the stairs.

"Fine. Enjoy your nap. But you're still paying me for today," she informed him as she gathered her purse and keys.

"Oh I don't know," Izaya teased, reaching the bottom of the steps. "I might be too sick and just forget to pay my poor employees."

"I don't really care what was in that letter of yours," she bit, as she walked out the door. "But let me assure you that you will have even bigger problems if my paycheck is even the tiniest smidgen less." And with that, she slammed the door shut, not even noticing the slightly surprised look on Izaya's face.

"Well, well, well..." he smiled slyly to no one but himself. "Bigger problems, she says? Wouldn't that be nice?" He climbed the stairs a little more slowly than usual, making a mental note to write her check out for exactly one yen less. It annoyed him that he was more tired than usual, so early in the afternoon. He hadn't even had proper exercise yet, and there was still work to do; both official and unofficial. Izaya slid on top of his black, downy comforter and rolled on his back to stare up at the ceiling, placing his forearm over his eyes. The minutes slowly dragged by, but even though his body felt exhausted, Izaya's mind refused to rest. He didn't feel frightened. Though still young at the age of 23, the informant had learned there was little point in worrying about the inevitable. He let his arm fall to his side and followed the spinning blades of the fan with his keen, brown eyes that seldom missed any detail, no matter how small. That's how he knew even before he got the letter in the mail that something in the intricate workings of the familiar Deus Ex Machina had begun to fail, and there was little even a god could do to help him. "And that is why," Izaya sighed, giving up on the chase of sleep after half and hour and forcing his resisting body out of bed, "Izaya Orihara helps himself." He prepared a pot of green tea, and resumed his perch in front of his computer, which overlooked the vastness of the glittering, neon jungle that was Tokyo. A moment passed, and he picked up his most personal cell phone. After making a brief call that did not require speaking, he tossed the phone to the side and serenely began destroying unwitting people's psyches in the chat rooms in rare form. Izaya was certain almost everyone's parents had warned them of the dangers of online predators, but that only made it all the more beautiful. He was not the beast anyone ever expected. He was far worse.

Jian smoothed his black, dress shirt as he exited the elevator later that evening, striding confidently toward a familiar door. His steps echoed through the empty hall, as his boots struck the tiled floor. Once he reached his destination, his projected easy and confident demeanor faltered for a moment, and he tucked a strand of coppery, freshly colored hair behind his ear. His dark, almost black eyes darted nervously to the side before knocking. He didn't usually knock, but the small amount of apprehension he was feeling seemed to warrant it.

"You know it's open," Izaya's curt voice was slightly muffled through the wood. Jian sighed, frustrated with how much this was agitating him, and entered, pushing the door with a flick of his wrist.

"Just trying to be polite, Orihara-sama!" A genuine smile lit his face at the sight that met him. Izaya was surrounded by several large stacks of paper, leaning back in his chair and studying one document with a pair of black framed glasses and a pen in his mouth. The slender man made himself at home on the sofa in the small TV den, and regarded him silently. Jian did not know much about his client, but he did know that Izaya seemed to have the bearing of someone twice his age. You wouldn't have thought it from looking at them, but the fiery haired man was at least four years older. Wise beyond his years, that is what Jian thought every time they met. Whether or not that was a good thing, he could never really say. At length, Izaya removed the pen from his mouth to make a note in the margins.

"You dyed your hair," he commented without looking up.

"Ah, yes," Jian recrossed his legs, nonchalantly, sinking a little further into the plush leather. "Got a little tired of the blonde, you know? It was fun for a while."

"Indeed," Izaya seemed completely immersed in his work, his voice lacking that usual taunting tone, displaying a hard edge instead. It made Jian feel a little ill at ease. "What made you choose red?"

"It's 'Sahara at Dusk', not red!" Jian informed him, tossing his head indignantly. This amused Izaya greatly, enough to lift his eyebrows over the rims of his glasses with an incredulous smile. "And you're supposed to know everything!" Jian tsked, shaking his head. "What are you doing all day long, if you don't even know that?"

Still retaining his fox-like grin, Izaya leaned forward over the desk. "I can see how one would be disappointed," the happy sarcasm started to creep into his voice. "After all, you're working hard to live up to your life ambition as a genderqueer, and you seem to find my research as an informant somewhat lacking."

"Only in the hair department," Jian offered with a shrug, not minding at all to be the target of Izaya's ridicule. It actually made him feel more comfortable, as that was more par for the course. The previous silence from the informant was odd, indeed. "I'd say you're exceptionally informed, otherwise."

"Ah, I'd almost feel flattered if I didn't pay you so much!" Izaya threw the stack of papers he was holding to the side, and removed his glasses. "They say red heads lack self confidence. Is this your indirect cry for positive reinforcement, Jian?"

"Take it as you like it, Orihara-sama."

For the first time since his arrival, Izaya looked directly at him and smiled, evilly. "I liked you better, blonde."

"I'll have you know," Jian rose from his seat now that he had Izaya's full attention, stretching as if completely unfettered, "you're the first to say so. My other clients were quite enthusiastic about it." He walked next to the informant's desk to lean against it. Without any pretense, Izaya's hand flew to his collar and gave it a firm pull, causing Jian to lose his balance and fall with his back across the flat surface. With his boots on, he was at least seven centimeters taller than the dangerous looking man glowering over him, but that did little to bolster any sense of ascendancy, especially now that Izaya was removing them.

"My, my," Izaya mumbled, gently pressing his lips to the side of the startled man's face. "I suppose I'll just have to make you forget about all of your other clients..." Jian moaned as Izaya twisted his body toward him by his belt loops, still feathering is neck lightly with kisses. Izaya paused, standing up straight to remove his shirt. "Oh, no," he smiled, expertly unbuttoning the front of Jian's own shirt, exposing his chest. "None of those rehearsed theatrics, tonight..." His hand glided over to the wall beside him, turning the lights off.

"Orihara-sama...?"

"Jian," Izaya stepped out of his familiar jeans and quickly stripped the other man of his slacks. "You look thin."

"Ah, you're not going to ask for a refund, are you?" Jian narrowed his eyes before laughing as Izaya tugged him off the desk and laid him on the floor. The informant's mouth spread in a Cheshire grin, and he gripped Jian tightly around his naked hips.

"No..." he responded, positioning himself over the smaller man's entrance. "Because you're not going to die," he declared, thrusting into him all at once. Jian stifled a cry and arched his back, before adjusting to the harsh intrusion.

"We all die eventually, Orihara-sama," he managed, his voice short and breathy. Izaya chuckled, the vibration sending a shiver through Jian's body as the informant's lips sought his own. It was completely forbidden within the agency, but Jian found himself caring less and less how this one particular client behaved.

"Not you," Izaya broke the kiss. "You must live forever," he breathed into his neck, grinding against his hips. Jian threaded his fingers through Izaya's raven black hair and moaned again, but this time, there was nothing contrived about it. Izaya responded by putting his knees on the floor and lifting the other man up by the small of his back, until he was straddling him. Jian placed his hands on Izaya's shoulders, and gazed down at him with lustful, dark eyes.

"So thoughtful today, Orihara-sama," he spoke quietly, gasping as Izaya took full advantage of the new angle, placing one hand on the floor to steady himself and the other around the Jian's fully erect length. "You don't have to do that," he laughed airily, letting his face fall into Izaya's hair, which was quickly becoming damp with sweat. "It's not what I'm paid for."

"Don't you know that the customer is always right? Who's not very good at their job, now?" Izaya murmured into his chest, continuing his rhythmic thrusting and ministrations until Jian's entire body went rigid and his nails began to bite into his pale shoulders. If this had been the normal course of business, Jian would have passionately wailed his admiration for his client's love making capabilities, and it would have all been lies. Most of the people he slept with were not the slightest bit interested in his pleasure or comfort. Of course, Jian knew Izaya wasn't really either, but he had learned very quickly on their first encounter that the mysterious informant did not care for insincerity, and took greater pleasure in manipulating and causing him to react than he ever did in his own sexual gratification. However, it was not lost on Jian that something was different tonight, even as he climaxed, panting heavily, as his head fell to Izaya's shoulder. He was surprised when Izaya didn't immediately shove him off to fetch a towel, and even more surprised when Izaya laid him gently back down, without pulling out. It occurred to him that his client might want to finish, as he just realized only he had, but Izaya rested on top of him, unmoving. Jian looked down at him, curiously, but he could not see his face. The informant tightened his arms around his midsection, grinding his forehead into the thin man's breastbone, as if agitated. With a sympathetic smile, Jian lightly rested his hand on the back of Izaya's head, and stroked his hair, comfortingly. This only made Izaya tighten his hold, until Jian could scarcely breathe, and they stayed like that for a while, in silence.

"Are you afraid?" Izaya asked, his voice unusually quiet and muffled against the other man's skin.

"Ah..." Jian sighed. "A little, maybe... I'm sorry, but this will probably be the last time you see me, Orihara-sama. I'm supposed to quit the agency next week." He felt Izaya's limbs slacken, before one of his arms darted out and brought a flick blade to his throat. Jian flinched as the cold metal touched his heated skin.

"Would you like me to end it for you, now?" Izaya's voice was completely void of all emotion. Jian met his intense gaze, and he couldn't help but feel that looking directly into Izaya's eyes was like looking into that of a snake's; completely cold and unyielding. It sent a shiver up his spine. "I can promise that you will only feel a little pain."

Regaining his composure, Jian smiled warmly up at the man. "Thank you, Orihara-sama, but I have to decline. My life, though a little sordid and tawdry to the rest of the world, is something very precious to me. Well, what little there is left of it," he laughed at the last part.

"That's a foolish notion," Izaya bit, sitting up and withdrawing his blade with a snap of his wrist. "There will come a time when you are longing for this knife."

"Maybe so," Jian sat up as well. "And maybe when that time comes, I will be the one giving you a call." He rose shakily to his feet, and would have stumbled if Izaya hadn't quickly caught his elbow with a grim look on his face. "So thoughtful," Jian echoed again. Izaya frowned in disgust and quickly dropped his arm, but Jian shrugged off this hostile behavior, and, after regaining his balance and coughing into his shoulder, he began gathering his scattered clothing. Without asking or waiting for an invitation, he lithely trotted up the steps to use the shower in the master bathroom. A few minutes later, he emerged, fully dressed and drying his hair with a towel. The lights were still off, but Jian could see the informant's slender silhouette, illuminated by the lights of the city filtering in through the bay window. Izaya had dawned a black, silk robe, and was leaning his back against the wall, gazing downward as he sipped on a mug of tea. As Jian approached him, he became aware of a clamor in the street below. Angry shouting and the sound of sirens became louder and louder, and he leaned on Izaya's shoulder and peered curiously at the scene beneath them. A blonde man, dressed as a bartender, yelled furiously in their direction, shaking his fist before quickly turning to throw a trashcan at a cluster of terrified policemen. One of the officers got up the nerve to shoot him with a Taser, which momentarily made the blonde man fall to one knee before his rage returned ten fold. "Oh my..." Jian's eyebrows shot up as the blonde man began to uproot a tree. A deep chuckle reverberated in Izaya's chest before the informant burst out laughing. Startled, Jian quickly took a step back. "Someone you know?"

Izaya looked at him in complete amusement. The light glinted in his eyes and he bared his teeth in a terrible grin. "Yes, can't you tell? We're friends!"

"I will fucking murder you! IZAYA!" the blonde man's cries were louder that the commotion around him, causing the building's walls to tremble, as if in fear.

"Friends...?" Jian sounded doubtful, arching a fine eyebrow.

"Mmm," Izaya took another sip of his drink and continued to watch the show. "The best."

"I didn't fucking rob that convenience store!" the blonde man roared at the police, taking a swing at them with the uprooted tree. They quickly lept out of the way, as it smashed into one of their patrol vehicles. "IZAYA!" he turned back to the window, "Get down here and show your fucking face, you coward!"

Izaya laughed again, before waving and pulling the blinds shut. Jian looked at him a bit incredulously. "You framed him?"

"It's how we play," Izaya smiled and shrugged, turning the lights back on. He sat down at his desk and retrieved his checkbook and a pen. Jian shoved his hands into his pockets and studied Izaya's face, as his client replaced his glasses and flipped open the billfold. The smile on his face was nostalgic and sad, and Jian was just now noticing the dark circles under his eyes that almost reflected his own. For the first time since he had met Izaya Orihara, he felt like he understood him a little. He gazed knowingly at the window, now covered by blinds, and felt a twinge of pity in his chest.

"What's his name?"

"Shizuo Heiwajima," Izaya said, simply, as he began to swiftly fill out a check, the scratching of his pen sounding very loud in the open, empty space of his condo, "strongest man in Ikebukuro."

"Ah... Heart of gold?"

"To be sure. Who am I making this out to?"

"'Shinjuku Personal Assistant Agency'."

Izaya winced as if in pain. "Astounding. Tell them not to get too carried away with the creativity." He tore the check out of the book and held it out to him. "Thank you for 'assisting' me, tonight."

Jian plucked the check from his hand and glanced at it. He did a double take. The amount was at least ten times the normal fee, and Jian slowly lowered the check and stared at Izaya with large eyes. The informant was already back to work, reading a report, as he slowly turned in his chair. "Um...Orihara-sama...This is a little much...I mean, you didn't even-"

"I'm going to miss you, when you are gone, Jian." Izaya spoke without looking up. Jian fell silent and tilted his head before closing his eyes and smiling, sadly. He reached out and swept his hand through Izaya's hair, good naturedly, before heading toward the door.

"Good bye, Orihara-sama. For what it's worth, there are better ways to express your feelings than framing the one you love ."

"Love?" Izaya spun around in his chair with a laugh. "Oh, Jian! You could not be any more silly than you are right now, at this very moment!" As fast as he had begun, he abruptly stopped his twirling and favored him with another evil smile. "I love all my humans! But Shizu-chan is not a human." The smile was quickly replaced by a deep scowl. "He is a monster, and I hate him."

Jian smiled, sweetly, at him for a moment, before opening the door. "As you like it, Orihara-sama. I wish you happiness, whatever that may mean to someone like you." He left, shutting the door behind him, but Izaya continued to gaze at the place where he had stood long after.

Every day, Izaya went to high school completely dazed. Having gone through the mandatory physical, his parents received the news a mere few days before school started. His mother had cried in the doctor's office. His father had looked at him with a mix of contempt and disgust. As for himself, Izaya stared blankly at the world, the blood in his veins feeling like ice water. It really was the ultimate betrayal, and it vexed him greatly that even though he was being given a death sentence at the age of 15, nothing in his outward appearance showed any signs. Other than the mind numbing fear, he felt completely fine. Oh, but the endless sea of questions eventually brought him out of the fearful corner he had retreated to in his mind, and he was filled with an astounding amount of rage, unlike anything he had ever thought possible. He didn't give them the man's name, but until the day the traitor died, he made his life miserable. Later on, Izaya would even credit himself with causing that particular person's premature death, a personal satisfaction he could not have enjoyed if the man had been in jail. He also devoured every last piece of information he could find on the virus that now invaded his body, but these things did little to quell the anger churning inside him. At the end of the day, Izaya felt corrupted and filthy, and he often felt the compulsion to rake his fingernails across his skin, as if there were some way to physically tear the illness out of his body. He used to take great pride in his appearance, and now he could barely bring himself to look in the mirror, let alone anyone in the eye. He kept his gaze cast downward at his feet, as he entered the school yard with the other, happier teens, laughing and talking among themselves. Izaya used to have quite the reputation for being a trouble maker in middle school; a reputation he was quickly losing. At times, he would go entire days without speaking to anyone at all. During those long stretches of silence, he couldn't help but wonder if he should just end it before things got worse. The lack of control he now sensed over his fate was becoming unbearable. These same, troubling thoughts plagued him one sunny, spring afternoon in the school yard, after lunch. Though he did not know what was wrong, his long time acquaintance since middle school, Shinra Kishitani, patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, as the dejected looking teen sat on the back rest of a bench with his feet on the seat, ignoring him for the most part. Suddenly, they both heard a loud commotion, and looked in the direction of the extramural sports field.

"Ah, Shizuo!" Shinra smiled, pointing to the tall, apparently very angry, blonde currently throwing around twenty bodies into the air, along with the field goals.

Izaya blinked at the scene in front of him, a devilish smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Who?" he asked, making sure his voice sounded anything but interested.

"Shizuo Heiwajima! I met him on my first day here! He's simply amazing! Look at that!" the nerdy youth clapped his hands as Shizuo swung two of his school mates around by their collars, before sending them flying over a retaining wall. "I've never met anyone so strong! Ah, how I wish he'd let me have a sample of his muscle tissue! Just a sliver!" Shinra held two fingers close together for emphasis. Izaya rolled his eyes and continued to watch the blonde youth massacre the unfortunate high schoolers with gusto. His smirk slowly faded into a genuine smile, as his mood lightened. Somehow, watching the unbridled rage before him made him feel...strangely better. He could practically feel the air humming around him with an electric intensity, and it thrilled him. Izaya immediately found this Shizuo Heiwajima very intriguing. "But he threw a desk at me the last time I asked him," Shinra sighed.

"You should introduce us," Izaya said quite suddenly, not taking his eyes off the incredible display of force unfolding before him. Shinra blinked at his directness and smiled with a shrug.

"Okay, sure!" He turned and put a hand by the side of his mouth. "Hey Shizuo!" he hollered over the commotion. Shizuo paused in his destructive activities, still holding a boy by the front of his shirt, and threw them an angry stare over his shoulder, as he panted from the exertion. "Come here!" Shinra shouted happily, gesturing his other arm toward them. Complying, Shizuo gave the student a quick head butt and let him fall to the ground, before shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a few steps in their direction. He stopped at least 5 meters short of them, and stood standoffishly, regarding them with a deep frown.

"What?" he asked, flatly.

The fact that he even listened to Shinra proved that the two at least shared an acquaintanceship of sorts, and Izaya straightened his back as the blonde's honey brown eyes fell on his. Shinra pointed to Izaya with his thumb. "I wanted to introduce you to one of our school mates! This is Izaya Orihara. We went to middle school together!"

Izaya felt his hairs stand on end, as he gazed back at Shizuo with a confident and cocky smile. Shizuo scratched the side of is face, leaving a streak of mud. "So?" It sounded like a demand. Shinra cleared his throat a little nervously.

"Well, I thought I'd introduce you two, since you're both my friends...," he paused as Shizuo's lip began to curl. "Kind of!" Shinra quickly added. "I mean, you know, you like to throw things at me a lot, and Izaya was kind of an asshole in middle school... Actually, you both are pretty bad friends!"

Izaya smiled, closing is eyes, coyishly. "Shinra, that's so rude," he admonished.

"Shut up. I don't like you."

One of Izaya's light brown eyes popped open in surprise at the gruff voice. "Oh, yeah?" he questioned.

"Uh...," Shinra blinked hesitantly back and forth between the two, taking a step back.

"Yeah!"

"And why might that be, Shizu-kun?" Izaya gave his head a toss and looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

"There's something wrong with you!" Shizuo growled, turning his head away to leave. "And I don't like it! I don't like you!"

Izaya jerked his head back, feeling a jolt of self loathing wash over him. He quickly recovered, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "My, my. Well, you know what they say about first impressions! Such a shame! I thought you and I could have some fun, together!" he sighed wistfully, leaning back on his elbow. He barely lept out of the way in time, as Shizuo's fist came crashing down on the bench, smashing it in two and sending splinters flying everywhere. Izaya quickly circled around his back, and as soon as Shizuo turned to strike at him again, he left a long gash across the blonde boy's chest with his flick blade. He had carried it around since middle school, but the brunette currently sporting a maniacal grin had never actually used it to harm another person, before. Izaya wasn't the least bit sorry. His knife would never cut as deep as the grievous and utter rejection he'd just received. It cut Izaya to the bone. "See?" he laughed, jerking his knife upwards, "Isn't this fun?"

Shizuo merely scowled at him, clutching his now blood drenched and slashed shirt. Shinra stood with his mouth gaping, completely dumbfounded. Izaya's eyes flashed, dangerously, as he quickly tucked his blade away, turned, and ran. Shizuo didn't chase after him.