Title: Goodnight, Orihara-san.
Author: SYNdicate 930.
Summary: AU. As a single dad, Izaya finds it increasingly taxing to keep his hands off the Heiwajima boy next door. And with the temperatures rising, how will Shizuo handle the heat? Shizaya, hints of Izuo.
Chapter 1: Summer Job
Wednesday, 17:46
"Hurry up, Shizuo-kun!" Tom's voice is muffled by the locked door that separates us. He gives a couple of slow knocks before an experimental shake of the unrelenting knob leaves him sighing. I can already see his shoulders dropping the way they always do when he does. "We have to get going. Are you ready? Come out."
"I don't want to." Yet, even as I say this, I'm getting off of my bed and walking towards my dresser to change out of my pajamas. I drop my lose-fitted bottoms and pull on a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt. Blue denim, plain white v-neck, simple but enough to give Tom the impression I've tried to look good for dinner with the neighbors. I've never been very picky with clothes, anyway; just nothing flashy, it's how I've always been. If this doesn't please him, I'm not sure what will.
"Come on, Shizuo-kun. This'll be a great chance to make friends; I hear he has a son."
"Oh? Good for him." I open the door to find myself under Tom's scrutiny. He checks my hair, a dishevelled mess of flaxen strands, my poorly ironed—but clean, I stress, when he points out the wrinkles of my left sleeve and lower half of my jeans—outfit and mismatched socks. He pauses briefly, but he doesn't call me out on the socks. "Can't I just stay home?"
"It's just dinner. You'll be fine."
"Whatever."
He steps closer and inhales deeply, his brows furrowing with accusatory doubt. He catches my eye and holds it. "Have you been smoking again?"
"No." The both of us take my answer for what it is—a blatant lie.
"As long as you don't get caught, it's fine. I don't want you taken away because I let you get away with it." I've always liked his casualness and slack method of parenting. It makes him feel more like a roommate than a guardian, which is always nice. No tension, no power struggle, no misunderstandings. The subject drops, and I follow Tom into the kitchen where he hands me a bright orange box before excusing himself at the noise of his cellphone ringing in the pocket of his blazer. There are English words written in beautifully, yet obscurely so, printed gold handwriting on the box, but my English isn't fluent enough to make out what it says. Cursive is a different language all on its own.
"What's this for?"
"It's a cake I bought to bring over. You know, to say thanks for inviting us over?" He doesn't look over his shoulder to reply. "Sorry, give me a sec, I need to answer this."
Tom hurries into his room down the hall, sounding a little distressed as he greets the caller. I don't blame him, though. Working as a specialist in the ER sounds like enough pressure for a lifetime, and it doesn't help coming home to and constantly having to worry over his adopted son getting himself into trouble. But it's not like I mean to cause him trouble. Fights with other boys at school, phone calls from my teachers, and dwindling grades—these things are as set in stone in my life as the stars in the night sky. At least school's over for the next couple of months.
In Tom's absence, I wander into the living room to watch some television with a yawn and crippling slouch into the leather material of my favorite recliner. I've ditched the cake in the fridge. Women's health, the sports network, news, news, news, celebrity gossip, television bores me. Regardless, I settle for my favorite music channel I used to watch regularly when we still lived in Japan. You can say I'm not completely used to life in America and the initial shock from the difference in dynamics and locals was enough to keep me locked in my room for two weeks straight, but I'm a lot better than I used to be. It's been almost two years, but I've learned to deal. A lot can happen in two years; I was fourteen with no other choice.
"I understand. I'll be there ASAP." Looking over my shoulder, I watch Tom haul his work bag over his shoulder wearily as he pockets his phone in resignation. Pursing his lips, he explains that he received a call from the hospital he works at, and that he's been asked to come in and help. He doesn't give me any specifics—Tom never really does, he says it's too much for a teenager to comprehend—but urges I go to dinner at the neighbor's by myself.
"What? Why?"
"Just go on without me, I swear I'll make it up to you."
"There's no way you're getting me to go over to some stranger's house by myself. You know I don't do well around new people."
"If you go, I'll extend your curfew."
"What? I don't have a curfew."
"You will if you don't have dinner with the neighbors."
I get up instantly, making my way around the couch to face him properly, to talk some sense into that medical brain of his. It's not like I stayed out late to begin with, I never had much of a reason to in the past, but the thought of having my freedom limited doesn't sit well with me. "You wouldn't—"
Shoving the cake box into my arms for a second time, Tom smiles. "So we've come to an understanding. Good. I'll be home as soon as possible. If you're still hungry after the dinner, there's food in the fridge. I bought milk this morning while you were asleep."
I'm speechless, and I try to reason with him while he slips on his shoes but it's no use. Rushing off to his car, I watch as Tom hurries away in his expensive black Audi, skittering down the smooth pavement with adolescent recklessness I figured he would have discarded the moment he adopted me but old habits and ways of being die hard. I wave at him, though I know he can't see me by now.
18:26
Ding. Dong.
Here I stand at the entrance to my neighbor's home. The house is how I've always imagined modern houses to look; odd shapes, abstract edges and an abundance of glass in place of sturdy brick walls, a flat roof as opposed to the traditionally triangular ones I had always drawn as a child. It's a beautiful home regardless. Just like the ones in the magazines in the hospital waiting area.
I try to piece together my neighbor's character using whatever I can as tell-tale signs as I wait to be greeted. Green, freshly cut grass, no flowers, no trees, a straight, long-winding driveway with a car I assume is parked in the garage. Nothing I couldn't already see from my bedroom window. A practical fellow, one who doesn't have time or energy to waste on things like gardening. I've seen quick glimpses of a young fellow, probably his son, here and there but I don't think I've really seen him. He's probably some old geezer who went and had a child with a woman much younger than him. That sort of thing happened a lot these days, especially in rich areas like these.
"Hello." A Japanese boy purrs. Dark hair, dark shirt, dark pants, dark shoes, an unbelievably bloody set of sardonic irises. This must be my neighbor's son. Through the cloth of his deep v-neck, I can make out the lines of his clavicles easily, and follow downward to take in his slim figure. He's almost a head shorter than me, but it looks like he's stopped growing. How old did Tom say his son was? Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen at most? Twenty was a lesser possibility. Maybe even twenty-one, but that was really pushing it. I hardly believe he's graduated high school yet.
"Uhm, hello. I'm Heiwajima Shizuo from next door. My dad—" The words feel uncomfortable. I've never had to call Tom 'dad' at home; only when I speak to strangers do I force myself to do it. It's easier than explaining my adoption situation. " –said to come over for dinner."
"Oh? You're Tom-san's boy. It's nice to meet you." When my eyes hit the floor, I trail them upwards, eyes ghosting over his incredibly skinny jeans, staring down the collar of his shirt, and then to his face. He's caught me staring, but he doesn't seem put-off. With the suggestion of a smirk, he holds my stare and the crimson of his eyes is enough to singe my eyelashes and the tips of my fringe. "The name is Orihara Izaya. Please, come in."
I make it a point to bow before following him indoors. I have to remember to be excessively respectful now that I'm here and without Tom's incessant reminders and cues to guide me. I close the door behind me and pause to slip off my shoes, but, when he continues onto the black tile of his living room and kitchen, I fall back into step after him, sneakers squeaking. So they wear shoes in the house. Interesting. Masaomi is the only Japanese person I know who wears shoes indoors. Kadota did occasionally.
Inside, I take in the high ceiling and dark interior with wandering eyes. The home is lightly furnished and smells of strong alcohol and laundry (yet I do not see their sources), with a monochromatic color-scheme consisting of dark grays, white, deeper tones reminiscent of navy and rogue scattered about haphazardly, and solid, brooding black. The walls are painted a deeper shade of gray, and would otherwise appear unsettling if it weren't for the large windows providing lavish quantities of sunlight from all angles.
"So, where's Tom-san?" He perches atop a high stool at the marble island in the kitchen. The aroma of detergent is coming from the bedsheets drying outside on the deck beside us, and the alcohol can be traced to Izaya, which would explain his peculiar tone of voice and demeanor. I'm not sure what to do with myself, so I stand a foot or two away from him awkwardly.
"Something came up at work. He works in the ER." A little vague of an answer, but it's all the concrete I've got.
"What a shame. I was really looking forward to having him over." There's a glint in his eye. "Nothing we can do about it, though, right? Work can be very demanding sometimes."
He doesn't care. He's shrugging this off so coyly, without intention, a careless teenager playing sarcastically nice on his father's behalf. But I'm not offended; rarely do children care for the social endeavors of their caregivers. "I brought cake."
I lift the cake box and watch his eyes dance over the colorful cardboard with mild amusement as he takes it from my grasp. The tips of his fingers graze my knuckles, and they slide themselves down the length of my digits, ghosting over the proximal to distal with such a sustained largo it couldn't have been accidental. "Eh, how thoughtful of you."
Words die out immediately, and we find ourselves orbiting next to each other in unsettling silence as he flips open the flimsy lid to gaze at the lightly, but prettily, decorated cake and I resist the urge to whip out my phone to slacken my tense shoulders. I take this opportunity to eye some more of the glum home and its bleak, yet charmingly unorthodox, air, cocking my head this way and that in an attempt to appear absorbed curiously in aesthetics, which I kind of am. I wonder what his father thought of this place, or if it had been his idea to paint over whatever color there might have been before. In the corner of my eye, I see him tilt his face upward at me. He's looking at me, but I pretend not to see to ease the way it's spiked how uncomfortable he makes me.
"You're in high school, right?" He asks, and I unwillingly return my attention to him. "Tom says you attend Raira Academy. What year are you going into this fall?"
"Third."
"Hard to believe. You look much older for someone your age. It's humorous." He finishes with an unsettling laughter. It shakes my spine with icy breaths, drawing forth from my arms goosebumps upon goosebumps. "You don't seem like a bright student, or even just bright in general."
"Excuse me?"
"Tell me, how do you find school? I hear you might need assistance this upcoming year." He places the cake on the counter before standing from his stool to pace around me. "What do you attribute your mediocre academic scores this past year to? Girls? Disinterest? Limited—or, maybe even a lack of—cognitive power?"
"My grades are none of your business."
"Oh, but they are." The quirk of a brow prompts him to continue with a nasty mirth that pulls at the corners of his lips. "I've offered my tutoring services to Tom the other day. He and I have yet to fully discuss details, but I suggest you remind him of this later. You seem like you'll need it."
It's so obvious he's calling me stupid. Tom's sharing my grades with complete strangers can be dealt with later. Until then, something must be done about Izaya and that fucking mouth of his. "Why should I let you tutor me? What makes you so qualified?"
"A university degree." Following his gaze over his shoulder are several framed award—all academic, with said degree hung strategically in the center of the abstract mess of honors and high achievements. In black text reads University of Raijin, with the Kanji used for Izaya's name printed beneath. I turn to look at him. Maybe twenty-one wasn't pushing it. "Or several."
"But you look so young. You can't possibly have skipped that many grades to have already ended up with a degree." Let alone several.
"Why, thank you. I take pride in my youthful veneer."
"How old are you?"
"Guess."
"Twenty-one?"
"How about another guess?"
"What, too high? You can't be seventeen. Are you?"
"I'm flattered." He crosses his arms and rests against the fridge behind him. "But you're mistaken. You've missed the mark completely."
Just as I'm about to ask for his age, the doorbell rings through the house and he excuses himself briefly. From my place in the kitchen, I can see the door open to reveal two girls reminiscent of each other and a young boy, who, with open arms, rushes to cling to Izaya's legs. Izaya converses with the girls before they depart, and, leading the child by the hand, I come to notice the resemblance between the two.
"I had so much fun with auntie Kururi and auntie Mairu! They took me to the fair, and I even got to pet a pony at the petting zoo!" The boy gushes. I'm more than confused. Tom said he only had one son.
"Shizuo, I would like you to meet my little boy, Psyche."
Wednesday, 20:45
Dinner was as painful as I had anticipated. My gut feelings rarely do me disservice. The more I linger on the memory, the more cringe-worthy it starts to feel in my stomach. It turns out Izaya was the old geezer I had expected to meet, and that child was the son I was told about earlier. I'm surfing the web on my laptop when Tom arrives home. He comes into my room to ask me about how things went, to which I answer with a brief inquiry about the disclosure of my grades.
"Izaya is a university professor." He reveals as he leans against the wooden door frame. There is a little blood smeared on his forearm, and his muted maroon uniform is a mess of wrinkles. "Before I forget, were you still looking for a summer job? I have something for you."
His promise warrants my complete attention. I turn in my computer chair to look at him properly. "Go on."
"Not only is he a university professor, but he's an excellent tutor. He used to tutor my coworker's daughter before we moved houses, and she made honor roll for the first time."
"So what does that have anything to do with getting a summer job?"
"You see, we talked about you going over to babysit his son. He'll pay you more than minimum wage and he's offered to tutor you during the summer for free, too."
"An easy baby sitting job with high pay sounds nice. I could do without the tutoring, though."
"You could, but you won't. Shizuo, you need to do something about your grades this coming school year. You start Saturday morning. He'll brief you when you get there." I sigh. With my dwindling motivation and track record, junior year already looks like a challenge we both know I'll barely survive. Past tutors say I'm smart enough, but lost the will to instruct such a disinterested pupil. I've never had a reason to do well because there has never been anyone for me to impress, myself included. Honor roll is a meaningless title, and "AP" is just two letters of the alphabet placed together and attributed a high status and warranted praise. Tom retreats to his room with a yawn and wave of his hand. He isn't mad. He's never gotten upset about my grades or overall standing before, even with the heavier pressures of Japanese academics while we still lived overseas. Tom closes the door behind him and I wait a few minutes before slipping down the hall into the bathroom to brush my teeth.