A/N: Long story short, I saw something on Tumblr that inspired me to write... but this has been sitting unfinished in my little AU folder for a good month now.

To continue or to leave it be? That is my question.

Disclaimers: Do we even still do these? Anyhoo~ Ryohgo Narita is still fabulous, and I don't own any of these characters, nor Drrr!

Surprisingly, I don't have any warnings for once!

From Rock Bottom

Once again, the cloth swiped around the inside of the cup with enough pressure to crack the glass. He didn't particularly care that he was about to break something once again – by this point, both him and his manager expected the damage – but he did particularly care about keeping his job. He was on strike three already, and it had only been a week at this particular establishment. And so, he sat the glass back down and onto it's proper shelf as gently as he could, inhaling sharply through his nose – a huge mistake, as it was filled with a terrible stench – to resist the irresistible urge to just smash the glass straight off the mahogany counter top with a feral roar.

He couldn't lose another job. He just simply couldn't. He needed the money badly – rent was late again, and his cellphone had long since been cut off – and without three more shifts he would be doomed to once again explain to his landlord just how poor he was. Just how pathetic he was. Just how hard it was for the beast of Ikebukuro to keep a job and a roof over his head.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance at his thoughts and the fact that we all know who was skulking around in a booth, the bartender attempted to remedy the situation by removing himself from the presence of the annoyance, the only annoyance he would never be able to tolerate.

The Perfect Tilt was anything but perfect. The bar was small, dingy, and there was a constant fog hanging in the air from the sheer amount of cheap cigarettes that were smoked in there. The music was loud and the stereo system was just outright cheap and bad; even Shizuo's broken headphones sounded better than their deluxe system. The bar was almost always full; full of the wrong kind of people. Most of them were older, shady and not there for drinks or to pick up women. No, they were there for shady business meetings under the false pretense of old buddies hanging out for a drink. They were even the wrong kind of shady; the worst kind of shady.

But it was the only place that had offered him an interview, and given his situation, beggars couldn't exactly be choosers. But at that moment, Shizuo was contemplating on whether or not he would have been better off just begging on the streets.

"I'm going for a smoke," Shizuo suddenly spat to his coworker, throwing his cleaning rag down onto the counter with a little more force than necessary. The other man simply nodded, dull and lifeless eyes focused on his own hands as he slowly made his way through the recent batch of dishes. The other employees were mirrors of Shizuo's own self – just scraping by and hoping they could eat that day, something Shizuo himself hadn't had the luxury to do.

Without so much as a glance behind him, Shizuo rounded the bar, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy dress pants – his only dress pants – while his old dress shoes thudded dully on the old wooden flooring. They had been gifts from Kasuka, the brother he had lost touch with the moment his life went to shit. But that was a mistake he could fix later – when he was properly standing on his own two feet again and could afford to make a call.

None of the customers at the bar looked up at him as he passed by, a young adult who normally stood out within the crowd was nothing more than just a bartender. He didn't care. If anything, he was happy about it. The customers were all too enthralled in the shady business deals that were going down. Trafficking of the worse kind. Drugs. Weapons. Humans. He didn't care. He never cared. No one particularly payed him any attention, and since he had dyed his hair blonde, only the brave approached him and tried to start conflicts.

Because he was a fucking icon now. A symbol. A man labeled as 'Violence Incarnate'. The blonde in the bartender get-up that everyone needed to stay away from. He had killed a man. He could kill anyone. His life was ruined to the point where he couldn't even move out of the city – he would be bone broke and living on the streets by the time he made it just out of Ikebukuro, if they even let him in the cab to get that far. It hadn't always been this bad. Actually, it had never been this bad until one certain monster appeared in his life – a monster more savage than even the beast loosely chained within Shizuo himself.

Izaya Orihara.

His face twitched at the simple thought of the name, his feet carrying him closer to the back door, further away from the loud cackle of the bass by the front of the establishment. A fresh headache was blooming in the front of his skull and his eyes were painfully dry from the less than desirable air. He just needed to get outside – to refresh himself and calm himself down. He had seen the bane of his existence come in earlier, with a coy smile and an arrogant wave, but he had yet to see the rat leave.

It was in a large round booth along the way that he saw him, all smirks and head held high, the dim light above casting exaggerated shadows across his face like a demon straight out of Hell. It didn't take more than the flash of Izaya's teeth to set Shizuo off.

But he couldn't do anything. Izaya had removed even that right from him long ago. He made eye contact – against his better judgment – Izaya's eyes red and flaming like Hell itself. All he saw, all he felt, was defeat and misery looking at him. He won. The bastard finally won, so what does he want now? There were four large men sitting at the table, not including the skinny little rat comfortably seated in the middle, and their eyes too suddenly seemed to venture from what once held their attention to Shizuo. A white suit, red suit, blue suit, black suit. They were regulars, regulars that Shizuo had come to identify simply by their blazers, and they were men not to be trifled with. Yakuza. Go figure.

"Fuck." Shizuo clicked his tongue and averted his gaze before rushing past the booth filled with Yakuza, finding the back door and shoving it open at record speed. The cool night air slapped him in the face, bringing to his attention the fact that his forehead was slick with sweat even though he hadn't been doing much inside. He let it slam behind him with a quick kick of his heel, and in the next second an almost empty package of cigarettes was produced from his pocket. He was always low, sometimes he was spending his food money just to get a pack, a habit he needed to stop. He shuffled further down the back alley, gravel crunching and a single rock jutted through the sole of his shoe as he managed to get away from the stench of alcohol and piss by the door. He plucked a single stick from his box with the peck of his lips, turning his head away to hide his face when he heard the back door creak open.

It was when he was fishing for his lighter that the rat slunk out from within. He didn't need to see him. He could smell him from where he stood.

"Ah, long time no see Shizu-chan."

Shizuo clicked his tongue again, teeth clenching to the point where his cig almost snapped in half. Just calm down, calm down. Opting to try and ignore the pest, he produced his lighter from his pocket and cupped a hand around his mouth in order to light the stick. He needed his nicotine, and he needed it now.

"I never imagined you'd stoop so low, working here and all." Izaya's voice rung loud and clear through the back alley, the mere sound of it raising the hairs on the back of Shizuo's neck. It practically echoed. "It's quite sad, ne~ You used to be so interesting. Now you're just pathetic."

"Will you shut the fuck up," Shizuo glanced over his shoulder, sending Izaya the dirtiest look his could muster while his muscles tensed, fingernails slicing through the palm of his hand, "and just go." The last part was a silent threat; an empty threat. Normally he would be grabbing for the near by dumpster, ready to haul it up and over his head just to throw it in Izaya's general direction. But not now. Not ever again.

Izaya Orihara, however, didn't feel threatened. He was standing by the door in that ugly signature fur jacket with his hands shoved into his pockets. He was leaning back confidently with his hips cockily jutting out – but of course, he was too finicky to ever lean against such a filthy wall – with the most disgusting, condescending smirk plastered on his face that made Shizuo want to puke. "Eh? Is Shizu-chan still mad that I pinned that crime on him?"

Another twitch of his eye told Izaya that he was right on the mark.

"Awh, will you forever hold a grudge, Shizu-chan? Or will you pull yourself out of this mess like a man crawling out of his own early grave? I can only wonder. You are simply a monster after all, and I can only love my human beings. I hope you don't kill any more of them~ Shizu-chan the Murderer~ But of course, only you and I know that you didn't really do it. It's a shame that the evidence said otherwise." Izaya bared his teeth, his grin creasing his skin in a sinister manner.

The cigarette snapped between Shizuo's teeth, and he whirled around to face the dirty informant. He wasn't bothered by the smile. He wasn't even bothered by what Izaya said. His heart only clenched because there was nothing he could do to save himself, and there had been nothing he could do to save that innocent person, so long ago, when Izaya created this permanent mess. "What the fuck do you want from me?" His voice cracked, restrained emotions threatening to escape, and he clamped his jaw shut as hard as he could to save what little pride he had left.

He had been given the option to move to Tokyo with Kasuka and his parents, back in High School.

If only he had just gone instead of shrugging it off and asking to stay, things would be different. He never would have met Izaya, and then his life would have been okay. Better. Liveable.

It was the one thing he was regretting the most.

Izaya merely clicked his tongue, waving his finger at Shizuo as he dared to step closer to him. "No, no, Shizu-chan. You need to ask politely, and perhaps I will tell you." He slowly brought himself closer, stopping a few meters away because they both knew that Shizuo wouldn't do anything. He couldn't, anymore.

Shizuo scoffed, glancing down quickly and then stomping his foot over his wasted cigarette. "Just. Shut. Up." He looked away, swallowing hard while trying to decide how he was going to get back inside. He couldn't afford to slack off – he was one step away from getting fired. Again. But Izaya blocked his only path to the door...

"Awh, Shizu-chan is being so docile. How boring." Izaya scoffed, shoving his hands back into his jacket and stepping within reach, that cruel smirk still present on his face. "Who would have thought that all it took to tame the beast was to -"

"Just shut, up!" Shizuo suddenly stomped forward, grabbed Izaya by his shoulder and shoved him out of the way. The informant tripped, shoulder slamming into the wall and he silently cried out from the force of it, keeling in on himself and gripping at his arm as he went down. Shizuo continued towards the back entrance, footsteps angry and heart beating quickly. His temple was throbbing, and he could feel the minor headache blossoming into something much more terrifying. His face was heating up again, and his fingers were twitching. He needed to throw something. Punch someone. Hurt.

He needed to calm down before he made a mistake. Or rather, another mistake.

By the time his fingers were clamped around the handle of the door, hysteric laughter was echoing off the long walls of the alley, the chime of them sending a shiver down Shizuo's spine. He pried the door open despite the cackle, pretending not too hear the sound of Izaya winning this little battle. Of having something over him that could once again ruin him.

Shizuo simply ignored it and slunk back into the bar. He could already hear the manager loudly asking his coworker where he was, his voice booming and not inconspicuous in the slightest. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying him any mind, because there was always some form of an argument going on in the little establishment. Yelling was normal. Shizuo still cringed as he headed closer to the bar, eyebrow already twitching because he knew he would be in trouble. It was a common occurrence for him nowadays, just with varying levels of severity. There was always something wrong, anything. He sighed, passing the table that Izaya had been previously seated at, the Yakuza executives suddenly interested in the commotion at hand. He could feel their eyes trail after him as he bee-lined for his manager to quickly explain his short disappearance.

"Heiwajima! Where did you go!?" The second Shizuo was within sight, the manager felt the need to turn his full attention to him and yell straight across the room. He wasn't that far, the man didn't need to be that loud, but yet he still shouted. Short and overly plump, his brow was slick with sweat and his beady eyes did little to reassure Shizuo that he wasn't doomed to be fired once again. "You can't just leave the bar unattended whenever you feel like it! That's unprofessional!"

Because yelling was professional.

Shizuo waited until he was closer to speak. He didn't trust himself otherwise. "I needed a smoke." He said quietly, rounding the bar and returning to his proper position. He made sure to give his manager the respect he deserved – by title only – while theoretically making himself as small as physically possible.

The manager regarded him momentarily before sighing in exasperation. Shizuo held back his own sigh in relief. "Don't do that again. We've got a full crowd, you can't just up and leave whenever you feel like it." He snapped, eyes narrowing.

Shizuo dropped his head, nodding quietly in acknowledgment. "Yeah, sorry." He said impishly, hands grabbing back for his cleaning rag simply for something to do. He needed the job. He needed it so bad, and yet Izaya continued to come around and make his life difficult. Borderline impossible. "I didn't mean to -"

"Sir, are you the manager?"

Shizuo glanced up to the new voice, deeper and calm. The manager turned to look at the older man suddenly standing beside him. Neither of them had seen the man approach, despite the fact that he was dressed in a crisp white suit that was hard to miss. His face reflected his age, but his eyes reflected insight beyond his years.

"I am, is there a problem?" Turning away from Shizuo fully, the manager fixated his gaze upon the customer. He had that tone again, the nice tone he used whenever he was dealing with someone who could potentially be important.

"There seems to be a problem. One of my associates has injured himself and I was wondering if there was someone who could attend to it immediately." Dark eyes flashed over to Shizuo, and he shuddered under the gaze. It was the White suit from the Yakuza table, the one Izaya had been lounging in.

"Ah, yes, let me come see." The manager bowed politely, and Shizuo was already guessing what was going on before the Yakuza even turned his back to lead the manager away. Shizuo had the slight thought that it might have been Izaya. Actually, there was no doubt. Did I push him to hard? Panic suddenly settled in his chest, and the blonde nervously wiped at the already clean counter. Even if I didn't, he would still over dramatize it. Playing up an injury wasn't below Izaya Orihara, and Shizuo knew that if it would cause problems for him, then Izaya wouldn't hesitate to do it.

"Shit."

It was several minutes later that the manager was storming back over, face red and eyes narrowed. "Shizuo, come with me to my office." He was getting fired, and he already knew it. Accepting his fate, he dropped the rag before shooting the large table an angry glance, and following his manager back and into the office with his head held high.

He was Shizuo Heiwajima, and he would hold on to his last thread of hope until the day he died.

- % & ~ -

It went just as well as Shizuo expected.

It was two weeks later, and he no longer had a roof over his head. He had sold everything that he couldn't keep in his old school bag, making enough money to keep him in a motel for two days, for a pack of cigarettes that he had long finished, and for at least a daily meal.

But the money had run out over a week ago, and now he was living day to day, scrounging away at nothing and slowly but surely dying.

He had applied for countless jobs, but they all turned him down. How could anyone hire him? He was the Shizuo Heiwajima. The man who killed someone, but couldn't be prosecuted because there just wasn't enough evidence. He was the man who alone fit the profile, who had that terrible anger, who could pick up and throw a car.

But the evidence hadn't been enough. There had been a smashed car near by, and it had been parked strangely crooked, but that didn't mean anything. The man had died from a severe blow to the head. The shoe size had matched Shizuo's. He had been in the area at the time. There was footage of him getting a milk shake three blocks away, eight minutes before the crime was committed. He could have been at the crime scene if he had ran there. But the black hair that had been found at the scene suggested something else. Something more complicated. The puzzle pieces were fitting, but the picture was wrong, something amiss.

It had been Izaya's doing. In jail, the beast would have had shelter and food. Without it, he had nothing. Shizuo almost wished Izaya had been a little more thorough, and a little less clumsy. But then again, the bastard had probably intended for him to starve on the streets.

Returning to the here and now, Shizuo sighed. He watched as a white cloud formed from his breath before slowly drifting away. It was a shame that Shinra and Celty had moved back to Ireland. He would have felt terrible, but he knew Celty wouldn't hesitate to take him in, to help him out. Instead, he was sitting on a park bench in the dead of night – the bench he had claimed for himself several days ago – waiting for something to happen, something to change. Anything. Anything besides the chilly air as it tore through his tattered dress shirt, leaving him cold and hollow and regretful.

I should scrounge up some change and call Kasuka. A disappointment or not, he didn't think he could get himself out of this mess. The only one who would lend a hand would be Kasuka, but even he should be tired of helping him out all of the time. Not to mention, by the time Kasuka left and flew back to 'Bukuro from wherever he was, Shizuo would probably be lying in some alley, starved and rabid.

Sighing again, Shizuo ran his dirty palms over his face. Maybe he should just end it? There was nothing left for him in life anyway, and he was stronger than everyone else on this end of the hierarchy. He would suffer a lot longer than he should have to. But how would he do it? He didn't have much. There was next to nothing in the old school bag besides his empty wallet containing his ID – just in case – and a family photo from before his parents had moved up to Sapporo. Everything else had been used or sold to try and get him by. He dropped his face into his hands with a sigh.

"Hey,"

He could always scrounge up some glass somewhere. There was sure to be an abundance of it, given how many street wars there were now. Probably Izaya's doing. If he was going to go the suicide route, then he might as well make it a murder suicide – this was Izaya's fault after all. He had vowed since they met in high school that one day he would wring the skinny bastards neck. And he was also Shizuo Heiwajima – he could break anything, and anything could be used to tear open the louse and then his own skin. That too, presented an option. He didn't need a fancy weapon. But even so, he still felt a slight twinge of guilt at the idea of taking another life, even if it was that bastards.

"Hey,"

Shizuo flinched, lifting his head and squinting into the night and sitting up. He hadn't realized that the voice had been talking to him, because nowadays he didn't talk to anyone. Sitting up a little bit straighter, he eyed the man who was now standing in front of him.

"You're a hard guy to track down, did you know that?" He was tall, not quite as tall as Shizuo himself, and more on the lanky side – though nowhere near as lanky as Shizuo had been. He was grinning, showing off all of his white teeth while leaning on a long, eloquently designed cane. "Shizuo Heiwajima, right? You're quite popular these days."

He had dark red hair, and his right eye was squeezed shut, a long and nasty scar running down the side of his face.

He was one of the Yakuza, one of the men that had been at the table that terrible night two weeks ago when Izaya had successfully pulled the last stand out from underneath him. Red suit, as Shizuo had nicknamed him, even though he was wearing a black blazer with a blue dress shirt. He had seemed a bit aloof even within the Yakuza, and most of the other customers avoided him like the plague. He had always forced a crinkle in Shizuo's nose, much like how Izaya had.

"What do you want?" Shizuo's voice was a lot rougher than he remembered, and the words came out just above a whisper. His throat almost hurt from speaking, and he swallowed to try and rid himself of the scratch. Maybe this guy just wanted to fight? Figured that because he was technically homeless – though Shizuo tried to avoid that word at all possible costs – that he could fight him and come out victorious? Or maybe someone finally wanted to actually try and kill him? Again?

"To make you an offer."

Surprised, Shizuo sat up a little more, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He wasn't in the position to question people, but at the same time, he was still holding on to his single thread of hope. "And that would be?"

The man's smile broadened, if that was even possible, and he gestured with his hand. "Straight to the point, just like..." Izaya. He trailed off, gaze casting over to the side for a moment. And then he was glancing back, dark eyes clearly seeing all of Shizuo's thoughts. "Oh, how rude of me, I haven't even introduced myself." He extended a hand, "Name's Mizuki Akabayashi, and I am offering to hire you as my personal body guard."

Shizuo didn't accept the hand, mostly because his own were smudged with grime and dirt, but he did perk at the last part of the sentence. He eyed the stranger suspiciously, before glancing back at the hand. "And why should I trust you?" Just because he was Shizuo Heiwajima, it didn't mean he would get into a car with strange Yakuza men who could possibly have ill intent. He might be a monster, but even he tried to stay out of unnecessary trouble.

Akabayashi chuckled, withdrawing his hand and pushing it into a pocket. "Well, if you wish to continue brooding in this park night after night, I will leave you to it. I'm not easy to find, and neither are you, but -"

"I'll accept." Shizuo cut him off quietly. His eyes not quite meeting his. There was something warm coming from the man, but at the same time, Shizuo wouldn't even trust him from where he could throw him. "You have a problem then, your life is at stake, if you're coming to someone like me? I'll accept, but I have nothing else to offer." If he was a body guard, he would be paid, right? And if he was paid, he could call Kasuka and ask for help? Again?

Akabayashi nodded, offering his hand once again with a small smile. "Then let's go."

Shizuo glanced up for a moment, confusion and mistrust clear on his face. He suddenly felt like a lost kid with a stranger offering to take him back to his parents. Go where?

Akabayashi grinned, elaborating and gesturing with both hands, "unless you have a cardboard box to return to? Let's go. I'm taking you home with me."

It sounded so easy, coming from his mouth. So normal and so casual. Like the man had nothing to worry about. Shizuo held his head high, worrying at his bottom lip for a slight moment. What do I have to lose?