Aftermath
They have to pry his fingers from where they are clenched around his gun, until Matsuda can practically feel the bones snap.
He laughs so hard his insides hurts for days.
Triumph
"So I guess it's almost like I killed a real God, huh?"
He tries to smile, tries so hard.
No one smiles back.
Guilt
He sees Light's face in the mirror every day during his morning shave. Light looking back at him, with his eyes glinting crimson red, the color of death.
Matsuda says nothing, skates his razor along his throat and doesn't cry anymore when the blade nicks his skin, spilling blood into the sink.
Those eyes are all that seem real anymore.
Sleep
He wakes up in the middle of the night, fevered, overwhelmed by the pain crackling deep inside his right arm. His shaggy mop of dark hair has grown long and disheveled, sticking to his forehead with sweat.
He can feel his own bullet embedded snugly in the palm of his hand, stuck inside between bone and bone. The agony of it burns, burns, oh why won't it stop, like the brand of the Lord's own revenge.
He keeps the gun armed beneath his pillow, a fool's protection against the ghost of a god.
Dreams
Did you really think that you could kill me?
He spreads his palms—both of them, whole and unmarred—smiles his benevolent smile like a vision of perfection, like an angel.
Matsuda is horrified.
Matsuda is awestruck.
Matsuda is relieved.
I never meant to kill you.
His neighbors bang on the apartment walls, yelling at him to quit screaming, that they have had enough.
Outsiders
The rest of the force, they don't really look at him anymore.
Aizawa is the most obvious about it; Aizawa the family man who can't bear to be around broken things, because he knows he can't fix them.
Mogi is silent, grim, grave. Mogi is unhelpful, autonomous, alone.
Ide brings him a cup of coffee every morning, he always makes it wrong.
Misa-Misa follows him home one day. Misa-Misa, her hair falling out in pale yellow chunks, she screams for Matsuda to give her Light back; she screams and screams and screams.
Return
Light sits beside him in the back of the taxicab, his legs neatly crossed, his arms neatly folded. Matsuda doesn't look at him. Matsuda tries.
The door is heavy, the screechy, metallic rumble as he pushes it aside echoes like the sound of someone dying. Matsuda whimpers, brushing aside a spare shed of crime scene tape with trembling hands. Light follows him inside without a word.
And all Matsuda can think is that the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime, always…
And there, lying spread-eagled and half-crucified on the floor of Yellow Box, Matsuda knows what must be done.
Penance
The mountain path's sharp rocks tear open the soles of Matsuda's feet; he trails bloody footprints behind him like a hundred quiet, unassuming apologies. He gathers the threadbare cloak around his shoulders, the way it slides over his work clothes feels like a lie. He feels like a lie.
He is not one of Kira's eternal legions, not one of the pious or the frail. He is Kira's killer, and with every step of his heels slip in the blood, scudding over the jagged stones, and he is paranoid that all these strangers (who were lucky enough to have never seen Kira's face) will recognize him (imagines his disbelief throws around his bent shoulders like a shroud) and push him off the cliff. He will tumble to his death and they will shout 'All Hail Lord Kira', Matsuda will be dead—and this past year of suffering will have been for nothing.
He exhales; the candle flame gutters in his shuddering breath.
"M-may your soul be at peace, Yagami-kun."
The wind steals his candle flame before he can finish his prayer, without it Matsuda's world seems even colder.
A/N: Forgive me, but I could not remember for the life of me what Matsuda calls Light, so I settled for 'Yagami-kun' even though I don't think that's right.