Rubicon
rubicon
[roo-bi-kon]
n. a decisive step that passes the point of no return, with consequences that ignores one’s resistance. a single reckless course of action capable to commit someone to unpredictable outcomes that are indifferent to thoughts of right or wrong.
Orihara Izaya was the kind of person who would always have a plan.
He’d definitely feel vulnerable without it. The idea of walking into a game board without a proper analysis of the rules never dared crossing his mind for more than twelve seconds. He knew that getting rid of his Machiavellian self would — along with bringing no benefit whatsoever that didn’t involve fitting the very poor, very common concept of a virtuous person — enhance his chances of defeat.
Orihara Izaya was the kind of person who would hardly ever lose.
He’d be the one to count cards during a poker match or calculate the probabilities in a throw of dice. The one to foresee logical outcomes from strategies used during a chess game.
(And, ah — isn’t life a huge, beautiful chessboard?)
Orihara Izaya was the kind of person who would carefully plan his games in order to take his prize and whereas victory was already satisfying, watching the plot unravel itself while maintaining control of the whole picture was definitely his greatest pleasure. After all, the wisest player is always the one no one knows it’s playing.
The greatest player is always the observer.
And despite his never ending love for winning, observing and amusing himself with his humans —
(Hito rabu.)
— Orihara Izaya was the kind of person who would always be bored.
He had gone through too many jigsaw puzzles with odd pieces that initially didn’t seem to interlock very well. The thrill of an interesting game, however, would suddenly fall apart with the noticeably ordinary picture produced once all the pieces fit together.
It was predictable. It was boring.
Orihara Izaya was the kind of person who cherished the victory, but also someone who’d once in a while crave for a real challenge.
And that’s why Orihara Izaya was the type of person who would mess with Heiwajima Shizuo.
“Aah, this is fun! This is fun, this is fun.” he chuckled and leaned against the nearest wall, watching the uncrowded school hallway; aside from a couple students that lazily picked up their books while discussing plans for the weekend, classrooms were empty. Izaya waited until his schoolmates’ footsteps could barely be heard and slid into the nearest room.
Hands found their way to his pockets — fingers gently brushing against the locked switchblade that laid into one of them. His lips curved into a smirk upon recognizing the blond-haired boy who sat at his place almost as if he hadn’t noticed the class was already over. Shizuo’s notebooks were still on his desk, forgotten, while he absent-mindedly rested against the back of the chair.
“Afternoon, Shizu-chan~”
There was a scowl even before his eyes could reach the raven close to the door.
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t be mean, I just got here. Tough week? You do seem rather tired. Are those hooligans giving you a hard time lately?”
“As if you didn’t know!”
“Are you implying I have anything to do with that?” Izaya’s smile widened as he waltzed across the classroom. “Wow, Shizu-chan. Is your anger that out of handle? That you feel the need to blame me for the ridiculous amount of fight you get yourself into?”
Red eyes expected reactions to those words, to his smooth tone, to the close-mouthed smile that wouldn’t leave his face and there was no disappointment once they showed up: clutched fists, clenched jaw, eyebrows plunging into a frown.
(Your anger is beautiful, Shizu-chan.)
“Get the fuck away from my sight before I throw you out of the window.”
Against Shizuo’s threatens and aggressive body language lied the absence of his usual reactions. His annoyance couldn’t be any clearer; he groaned, his pursed lips drew a thin line and his hands were angrily jammed in his pockets, but no rampage burst could be seen. No punches piercing the air, no desks being thrown away.
Nothing.
There was something unsettling about this.
The sudden silence seemed to simmer down his temper. Izaya let out a sigh of impatience, arms crossing over his chest as his mind raced to understand the other boy.
Unable to make sense of anything whatsoever, he considered facing a defeat.
By logical reasoning, Shizuo’s refusal to step into his game board would make Izaya winner by default. However, the failure in getting what he wanted felt like losing.
It left a bitter taste in his tongue and Izaya refused to go home with that sort of feeling. He held onto his need for excitement and stood still, eagerly searching for something — anything. Even the smallest of details would suffice as long as he could bother Shizuo with it.
A slight curve came back to his lips once he saw it.
There was a blue box on top of Shizuo’s desk. Its fragility seemed off among shabby books and notebook pages filled with scribbles from his last literature class. Wide, thin, embellished with a yellow bow. Seeing a fair amount of crumples upon the ribbon, Izaya assumed that Shizuo’s harsh touches couldn’t handle it very well.
Before even noticing, he crossed the safe distance between them —
(Izaya. What are you doing?)
Just a new approach, of course.
(This is reckless. You know that.
You’re purposefully neglecting the plan.)
Shizu-chan doesn’t act according to plans.
— and sat on the desk behind Shizuo’s chair.
The blond followed every step taken towards him, huffing in annoyance for the invasion of his personal space and yet not willing to stand up and leave. His eyes darted away from Izaya’s sly smile, tensed muscles once again exposing his growing irritation.
Anyone who had seen the fury of Heiwajima Shizuo would recognize the oncoming storm on his face.
Anyone who had — luckily — only heard about Heiwajima Shizuo’s strength would consider withdrawal the best choice for the moment.
Anyone but Orihara Izaya.
“I’m not in the mood for your shit. Go away.”
“Is that a box of chocolates, Shizu-chan?” he drawled, chuckling to himself.
Shizuo’s eyes followed the direction pointed by one of Izaya’s long fingers. He seemed to almost have forgotten the box’s existence, scowling at the other in an unspoken threat once confirmed what he was referring to.
Another smooth laugh.
“Can I see it?”
A hand reached for the gift, being stopped midway by a strong grip. Shizuo’s squeeze around Izaya’s wrist was painfully tight, bordering on shattering his bones. Giving it a slight twist as a warning, he parted his lips to yell something —
Probably something as ‘Damn you, flea’.
— words turning into a grunt once he felt Izaya’s sharp blade touching his jaw.
“A simple ‘no’ would suffice.” Izaya murmured.
“You touch that box and I’ll break each one of your fingers.”
“You’re as hot-tempered as always, aren’t you?”
“I said already I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”
Their eyes locked, both refusing to yield before the other.
Izaya’s had a bloody color, with hues of red that seemed to add even more malice to the curve lingering on his lips — that parted just enough to drop a faint laugh in response to his wrist’s plea for release.
Shizuo’s, however, contained a rather distinctive shade of brown. Warm and almost too comfortable to look at, his eyes seemed almost gentle when not buried under knit eyebrows — that twitched in anger upon feeling the switchblade smoothly grazing down to his neck.
Expecting the other to move first, they knew that an offensive move would end up badly for both of them. Still, they were ready for it.
The moment felt brittle, a blink and it would shatter.
The danger tasted like lime. Acid, corroding their senses.
The silence was deafening.
Once it was borderline unbearable, Izaya looked away.
(Oh, my.)
Shut up. It’s not as if I averted his eyes.
(Whatever you say.)
It was merely a glance, eyes darting away for no more than a second, for a specific reason Izaya tried — futilely — to infer.
As an outcome of his withdrawal, the dire pressure enclosing his wrist was eased. Shizuo checked the reddish marks on the other’s skin with a sullen look, subsequently shoving his arm away. Sighing in disappointment to what he considered to be a very boring conclusion of the previous moment, Izaya pulled back his knife and slipped it back into his jacket’s pocket.
Wondering for how long he’d carry bruises, he massaged the injured wrist.
“You’re certainly protective of your chocolates.”
“Go away.”
“Calm down, Shizu-chan, I’m just curious. Is it White Day already?”
It was still February and Shizuo didn’t reply his rhetorical question.
“Aah, now I kind of remember Shinra mentioning your birthday was coming. Is it today already?”
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That was another question Shizuo knew Izaya had the answer. Shinra would have mentioned during his endless babbling that his birthday was on the 28th. Two weeks from then.
“What a bummer, if I knew I would’ve invited some nice gangs to celebrate with you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, anyhow… A birthday. How nice, Shizu-chan! That clears some of my doubts, since it’s not that absurd for you to get a gift. Setting aside the fact of whether or not this day means something to you, friends and family will celebrate it simply for its symbolical meaning. Because it’s your day. Heh, isn’t it adorable? How comforting it feels for humans, this idea that a day shared with million of others belongs only to them.”
“…”
“Since the birthday excuse serves me right as an explanation, I will — for today — ignore that Shizu-chan can’t exactly consider himself a human. This, however, only answers me the ‘why’ and what I’m really aiming for is the ‘who’.”
“…”
“It’s not as if you have friends, is it?”
Breaking the resolute silence he used to slip into during Izaya’s endless rambles, Shizuo let out an ironic scoff. Having or not the intention to point out the absence of friendships on the other’s side, it was enough to twist the smugness glowing behind those red eyes into nothing but sheer annoyance.
In spite of that, by the time his lips parted and his voice could once again be heard, Izaya’s tone remained as composed as ever.
“As much as I try to, I can’t ignore that chocolate boxes are a well known tradition, nor even how gracious this ribbon looks. You see, I suppose we’re hitting a stereotype here. I would very much prefer to be surprised by an intriguing answer, but I believe it’ll be as elementary as you are. It was a girl, wasn’t it?”
“Shut up!”
“He speaks!” Izaya applauded his own reasoning with a gleeful smile on his face. Once Shizuo’s eyes angrily darted away, the black-haired boy rested his chin on top of his soon-to-be bruised hand. “Who would have known Shizu-chan is popular with the ladies.”
“W-wha — ? Shut up!”
“Ahh, bright up a little, will you? How can you carry such a scowl when someone took their time and effort to prepare you a gift? Don’t be ungrateful, I’m sure that this sort of thing doesn’t happen to you very often.”
In response to that, Shizuo laughed; a hoarse, short-lived sound, foreign enough to Izaya’s ears to leave him in a startled silence.
“I can see your desperate efforts to have your ass beaten, flea. It’s sad and I’m still not in the mood to give you what you want. Piss off already.”
In the silence that followed, Izaya could see himself fumbling with words.
But Orihara Izaya wasn’t someone that mishandled answers.
“I am merely curious about your secret admirer.” he claimed, “Do you want me to find out who she is? With a couple calls, I can slip off a na — ”
A loud noise muffled his words as Shizuo punched the desk behind his chair. Izaya’s eyes made their path across the white surface below him, laying for a brief moment on the clenched fist that had just shook the entire table with its impact. Once looking back at Shizuo, he could see a vein bulging on his temple as he evidently used as much willpower he could gather to avoid turning that smiling boy into his fist’s next target. The likelihood of a dislocated jaw was high, but Izaya’s voice remained calm nonetheless.
“I’ll take that as a no.” he chuckled, glancing once again at the alarmingly close fist to his right. “A very passionate no, I must say… My, my, Shizu-chan. Are you scared?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?!”
Izaya let out a hum, his head tilting slightly; eyes scanned Shizuo’s face, almost as if waiting for any hint of an obvious reaction.
“Have you ever kissed a girl, Shizu-chan?”
Once again, he was unpredictable.
Instead of triggering an immediate rage burst, those words caused the blond to widen his eyes. There was a fleeting, almost fragile moment, during which Heiwajima Shizuo was nowhere near the monster Orihara Izaya loved to portray him to be.
He was nothing but a teenager.
A 16 years old boy who would flush upon being faced with that sort of question.
“Mmmm, I figured… Have you ever kissed a boy?”
Shizuo opened his mouth briefly, only to close it again. He repeated the same movements for a while before his aspect would start to change and, after that, by every time his lips were once again pressed against each other, he’d display a different emotion.
Embarrassment. Turning into seriousness. Unfolding into annoyance. And, finally, reaching pure anger.
“Heh, you haven’t.”
“Shut up!” Shizuo lashed out. In what seemed a failed attempt in holding back his rage, he shoved a couple of massive literature books inside of his backpack, almost ripping it in half.
Izaya patiently observed while humming.
“Mmm, aren’t you interested?”
“Shut. Up!”
Whether a school supply or not, every item resting on top of his desk — with the single exception of the yellow-ribbon chocolate box that found safety in a pocket — found their way to Shizuo’s bag. He didn’t seem to hold any concern whatsoever regarding the possibilities of losing notes or ripping notebook pages, and Izaya was absolutely sure he had seen the blond put away an open bar of chocolates amongst everything else.
“I get it, Shizu-chan. Needless to say I’m nowhere near sympathetic to you, but your fear is understandable. Human beings are fragile creatures and since you can break their bones with something as simple as a hug, then we can only imagine what sort of catastrophe a kiss would bring.”
“Shut the fuck up!!” Shizuo groaned.
He stood up suddenly, his backpack being picked up by one of the straps and then tossed over a shoulder in a harsh movement that allowed both of them hearing the school supplies hurling on its interior.
Before he could take three angry steps towards the door, Izaya was by Shizuo’s side; a smirk on his lips and sharp words on his tongue.
“Maybe…” he whispered, “That’s part of a monster’s nature, mm? To destroy, whether it intends to demonstrate love or hatred.”
Before his lips could coil into another smirk, Izaya felt a hand latching onto his collar. His slender frame was jerked toward the other as if weightless, faces being brought so close he could see Shizuo’s eyebrows twitching in anger.
“If you don’t disappear from my face in ten seconds, my fist will kiss that smug look out of your face.” he groaned.
Ah, this is fun.
Reasons unbeknownst to him, Izaya didn’t reach for his blade. Nor tried to take advantage of his fast movements in order to escape. He remained still, observing the other with amusement.
“What kind of havoc would one create by kissing you?” he whispered, warm breath trailing Shizuo’s skin.
(Izaya. What the hell are you doing?)
Chill. It’s a game.
Just a game.
Right?
“How dangerous can it be? Now you caught my curiosity.”
(Izaya, stick to the plan.
You play with fire and it burns you.)
“Does it burn? Is it poisonous?”
Each word, a drawl.
“How does it feel?”
His eyes darted from eyes to lips.
(Izaya, don’t.)
“Can your kisses kill me, Shizu-chan? I wonder.”
With that last whisper, he tilted his head slightly and reached up, hands sinking among blond locks as he pulled the taller boy for a kiss.
Shizuo’s eyes widened. Izaya’s closed.
It was quick.
Lips pressed and then a punch in the face.
The dark-haired boy was doubled over with the impact. A fair amount of pain seemed to spread across his face, every muscle aching before he could notice blood dripping off his lower lip.
Izaya pressed a cold palm against his sore cheek and let out an amused laugh, the split lip complaining with an uncomfortable tingle.
That was fun.
“Of course you’d taste like blood.”
Orihara Izaya was the kind of guy who’d count the probabilities on a throw of dice.
The odds were as clear as water — from how Shizuo’s entire figure trembled with rage, to the white-looking knuckles resulted of fists shut tight — and calculating what would happen during the following moments seemed no more of a challenge than a homework from elementary school.
The only problem Izaya seemed to neglect realizing was that to every rule, an exception should be considered.
That was why, despite having every indication to his next actions pointed one way, Shizuo turned away and left the raven with no harm other than a split lip and what it would turn out to be a massive bruise on the cheekbone. He walked out without a word, not daring to look back or ponder other choices.
Heiwajima Shizuo was an oddity to Orihara Izaya’s cautiously estimated odds.
To keep up with Heiwajima Shizuo’s unpredictability, Orihara Izaya would purposefully disregard the rules of his own games.
However, Orihara Izaya was the one to maintain the balance in that twisted relationship. He couldn’t let go of the rules, for it was what kept him from crossing a point of no return.
Such as he had just done.
Orihara Izaya learned, on that afternoon of February 16th, that by overlooking his own rules he had crossed a Rubicon.
