Well, this one's...um...strange...but what the heck. I'm aware that I've played havoc with the Japanese penal system by doing no research. Oops. Dedicated to Roxy & to Unzip Your Religion Down, the former who gave me confidence & the latter who actually likes this pairing. People whose names start with M, you know...

(hey, and I finally went back & fixed all the wonky spacing with words in italics. Whoops! thanks to whoever pointed that out!)

Invitat culpam qui peccatum praeteri.
He who pardons sin, invites fault.
-Publilius Syrus, Maxim 750

Prison's all about waiting. It used to be where you waited to get out. Now everyone's on death row. Kira. Yeah. Thanks, Kira. They mutter about Kira in a lot of different accents all over the world but here they do it in Japanese mostly, with disgust and anger and terror and all—that terror particularly on the part of these kiras themselves, killers, rolling their Rs into neat little Ls and—

Matt is so tired and sick.

Then again, he tells himself, rolling his eyes, it's not like jail is supposed to be an enjoyable experience. There's only a couple things that might make this bearable, and neither of them are gonna happen now.

He stares at the wall.

He sort of thinks, how did this happen.

Except he's not sure he ever thought that it would be anything different. What chance did they have, anyway? Two crazy motherfuckers against a far-reaching guy with a God complex and a pen in hand and a whole fanatic militia backed by media and church alike, yeah, that wasn't going to happen. But he's not giving up now. That wouldn't be right. That'd be lame. He's going to die anyway. Everyone does sometime. He knew that before Kira proved it. He gets grim satisfaction out of his own defiance though he hates it here and he hates that they lost and he hates that he sometimes thinks of Near, surrounded by building blocks, constructing the scratched pine-wood castle of that victory Mello wanted and holding underneath that head of stupid-looking hair whatever hope he's (they've) got.

Not like he ever had anything against Near really. Near has the charisma of crumpled Kleenex but his mind is like a computer. They need him. Matt knows that now. He knew that back then, too.

Matt knows a lot when all's said and done but he just hates to think about it sometimes.

He and Mello have got a lot in common.

Have. Had.

Dammit.

He doesn't think, I wasn't supposed to survive. He feels crappy, but not that crappy. Also, 'supposed to' is kind of whacked out—you know, destiny, higher intent, Calvinist doctrine bullshit—so he doesn't think that. At worst he's thought something like I wasn't supposed to outlive—

But not even that—

More like, this whole thing where I outlived him, it's kind of stupid and

Asshole!

and, This sucks.

He knows, with an almost droll certainty, that he's a prisoner in Japan who's conspicuously resisted Kira. His real name's on file with Wammy's somewhere and Kira is spreading like a virus—phlegm and fear in people's throats—so if Kira gives a damn, he's dead.

An accomplice.

He's in prison for being an accomplice and Kira might get him for being an accomplice and he'd be vaguely okay with that, if not completely, because when all's said and done there's not many better things you can be. They're all identified by crime here. He can see that on his epitaph. Matt. Accomplice. Then nothing else.

But he doesn't want to die, really.

There's been enough death, he tells a bathroom sink, wiping sweat from his forehead.

By this he doesn't mean any weak altruism, mind you. Hell no. He's just been in prison for twelve days and his best friend's a nameless corpse somewhere and he doesn't want Kira to get his fucking way again.

mostly.

They aren't told of Kira's downfall.

People are really sick.

Matt finds out anyway.

What Matt doesn't find out until later is that the guy they throw into his cell, dizzy and sweating and furious—he never got a trial. He's got black crow-feather hair that's somewhat greasy and he wore glasses once, for reading, though Matt doesn't know that either. The first thing he says isn't included in Matt's limited Japanese vocabulary. Sounds like it's probably not 'dearie me', though. It might be directed at Matt. An insult, maybe.

His voice is hoarse, like he'd been--

Hmmm.

He looks…

What he has is that mix of arrogance and terror that Matt could swear that yes, he's seen before.

"Hey." Knowing the guy probably won't understand him anyhow. "Calm down, huh? It's gonna be okay, you get used to it—"

"I do not need to hear that from someone like you," says his new roommate in even, accented English. He's shivering, Matt notices. It is pretty cold in here. He's been sleeping in some damn weird places before now, running with Mello in ex-Mafia hideouts; he's more used to stuff like this. "Criminal."

'Criminal', huh?

Matt extended a hand in false greeting. "Hey, pot. Meet kettle."

"My name is Teru Mikami."

Teru Mikami's voice is icy and it doesn't tolerate foreign idiom.

Matt shrugs acceptance; grabs this Mikami's hand and shakes it in a pseudo-manly fashion. "Mikami. I'm Matt. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"I cannot say the same." He pulls away in distaste.

"Circumstances could be better, I know." God, he needs a cigarette. The craving's been tracing the veins in his forehead with a scalpel for the past three hours and that nagging voice at the back of his mind keeps reminding him how things could've sucked so much less than they do now. Yeah. I know. Shut up."Still, at least we've got something in common—"

Mikami gives him a sharp look. "What is that?"

"We're both—" stressing the word. "—criminals."

"Shut up," says Mikami softly.

Well well well.

The intensity in that retort was more than the comment deserved, and it's damned unnerving. This guy; maybe he's interesting. Maybe he was one of tho—

Hey.

Wait.

Mikami continues, "You have no idea what you are talking about."

"Were you on TV?" Matt asks.

--that face, darkening. "What?"

"You were on TV." He guesses his eyes are probably gleaming with recognition and disgust by this time, but of all the people he was going to get stuck with, this is probably the last thing he expected. "Kira's Kingdom, or whatever. So you don't think you're—wow." And he's laughing, and he's not sure why at this point—neither is Mikami, who's giving him a Look that usually translates to 'you're insane' no matter what your first language is. "Wow. That's just. God."

God has nothing to do with it.

The word 'God' makes Mikami flinch, interestingly enough.

"…Beg pardon?" he says.

"It's just." He lets his head fall back against the wall. "I have so many reasons to hate you, right."

"Then hate me." Staring at the wall like that, as if seeing something distant and exact.

"Nah." Matt waves a hand vaguely in his direction. "Too lazy. So you're a Kira supporter, huh? What's that like?"

…And Mikami has to pause and take significant effort to school his face into something even, because for a moment crossing it—well, there's some major anger issues there, and—Matt knows damned well what new scars look like, physical or not—

And so when Mikami says "No," Matt isn't entirely surprised.

Entirely.

"Yeah?" Why bother keeping the interest out of his voice? "Changed your mind, huh? I remember I saw you on TV—" (sort of. Watch these, Mello said, sticking the tapes into the battered VCR and biting off a corner of chocolate with a snap.

What's this? 'Kira's K—'…awwww, come on, this has got to be the—

Get over it. It'll help you work on your Japanese and maybe you can tell me what in fuck is wrong with these people.

Stupid virus?

Watch your TV or you don't get any vegetables tonight.

Go to hell.

Moot point. No cigarettes either.

Aaagh—wait. Wh—

I'm going out.) "You were all, We would like to hear Lord Kira's—"

"Your accent is awful," says Mikami, burying a flinch in scorn.

A quick mordant grin. "Well I'm sorry. I'm learning, though. Even if I won't need it long—" Shit, he thinks for the thousandth weary time, I don't want to die here, I don't, I really don't—"thanks to mighty Kira-sama; hurrah, hurrah."

Mikami's staring at him.

"…Something on my face?"

"…You don't know," Mikami says.

About—"What?" Matt asks sharply.

"K—Kira."

Was he gonna say something else?

His tongue pushed too far back in his mouth for any i, right--? An a, maybe. There's a part of Matt that could punch himself for still keeping useless observation after all this time. Like he needs the help, remembering. For crying out l—"What about Kira?"

Mikami answers in Japanese: "Dead."

The kanji's a big black swoop in Matt's mind for a second as he translates—like the blood of a cockroach smeared on a bathroom wall and—

Oh, hell yes.

"How d'you know?"

The older man clears his throat, and Matt notices how the shadows under his eyes deepen. "I saw it."

"Jesus," Matt says, whistling.

It's a few loooong seconds before Matt catches Mikami's muttered reply, more bitter than almost anything he's ever heard:

"…hardly."

The guy's company, is what he is.

Neurotic, accented, moralistic psycho company.

--you take what you can get.

Yeah, so Mikami, he never got a trial.

"What?"

He nods, having delivered this information. He looks ready to spit.

Matt should expect shit like this from any government, he's seen enough, but even so! In absence of Kira, shouldn't they have had at least a go at following the law? It being all that's left. He guesses there's just too much paranoia in the Kira case, but…then again, he never had a trial either.

"As a lawyer I know the law is flawed and often corrupt," Mikami adds, irate, "but if the world will not submit to the judgment of God it should at least obey its own law."

Judgment of God. Right. Matt forgot what a loony this guy is. He remembers now. Tries to ignore it. "But how'd you get arrested? Did they just come looking for you 'cause they saw you on TV, or…?"

"…I was apprehended by a successor to L," says Mikami, after a pause. There's no lack of distaste in that. Mikami has the snobbery of the moral high ground and it actually drives Matt nuts, except that he can't help but feel sort of sorry for the man since it's such a pathetic act. Considering the circumstances.

--Hey.

Now that's interesting.

(and what's really interesting is that he said 'a', not 'the'. Smart guy, huh?)

"…Stupid hair?" Matt asks, eyebrows raised. "Short? Looks kind of anemic? Smart, but lousy social skills?"

Mikami isn't sure what to make of the last one but lets it slide and just nods.

Well, what d'you know.

"Near."

"…You…?"

"I?"

"You are acquainted with…"

Matt smiles sourly. "We've met."

"What was your impression of him?"

Near.

What is there to say about Near?

When Matt found out about Mello (shoved against a wall, hands handcuffed behind his back, his head aching, waiting for a verdict or news or fucking anything

and then having to catch the scorn of one of Takada's lackeys, pieces of Japanese strung together by sounds, amounting to

Don't think your friend's gonna come save you, either. You're just lucky Kira doesn't know your name--)

the first thing he thought was No and the second thing he thought was sorry, I'm but the third was waste him, Near; I know you can and God I hope you will because otherwise—

otherwise—

"He's a gigantic prick," Matt says, "a certifiable genius, and I wouldn't be him for a million dollars."

"He uses underhanded tactics," Mikami says.

"God, Mikami, where've you been?" Matt rolls his eyes. "Everyone does that. Near, L—they're just better at it. Your Kira was a pro, too."

Mikami shuts up like a clam at the mention of Kira.

So Matt stares at the wall again.

It's so boring. He misses video games. The wall doesn't move and it's just sort of dirty and grey and lame. Compared to it, Mikami's almost pretty.

The days are long, and it sucks.

At least he learned enough from Mello to be able to get a few cigarettes out of one of the guards (the really tall one who always looked bored to tears).

It's hard but there's not much point in noting that.

Some days are harder than others. On those days nights are worse because he always used to like those. Nights, he means. And so when Mikami finds him with his head in his hands and a twisted, sinking feeling in his stomach he doesn't have the heart or the energy to feel embarrassed.

He hasn't got a problem summoning up some kind of bewilderment at Mikami's look, though, since it's more concern than anything else and it feels…weird. Really weird. Different. No one's supposed—

Whatever.

"Are you all right?" Mikami asks, hesitant. Everything he says sounds polite. That's what makes him terrifying. And why does he ca—never mind.

Matt shakes his head.

Mikami nods. It means 'oh'.

They sit.

They always sit.

Matt's back is to Mikami and he's playing cat's cradle with invisible string. He waits a while. Then he asks, "What was it like?"

"What?"

"How'd he die? Kira." –licking his lips; déjà sentit. "Yagami, rather. When you were watching."

He doesn't see Mikami's expression, which is somewhere between pain and revulsion.

"A…shinigami…I think," says Mikami. "Before that, he was shot by the police officer Touta Matsuda."

Matt wonders absently how Mikami'd know the police guy's name.

"Tell me what it was like," he says.

Mikami was a lawyer once in practice and, at heart, judge and jury. So he has been trained to speak in truths and testimonies and there's something in him compelled to answer Matt's question, and Matt who went to Wammy's is disgustingly aware of this and he's dimly aware that he's being an asshole but he also wants—

"He was pleading for his life before the end," says Mikami—clear, distinct, distant. "He was terrified. It was pathetic."

That last, bitter editorial makes Matt feel like an asshole.

Also makes him happy.

That happy leaves a bad taste in his mouth but god damn it, he should enjoy this—it—something—Kira—Mello would enjoy this. For God's sake, Mello's telling him out of the dark (meaning for yours, for mine), for God's sake, Matt, live a little. Fuck it. Live a lot. While you can.

Is this living?

Everything's living.

But that look on Mikami's face—no not even his face, his posture, defensive and cold—it's just—

Dammit.

He glances over at Mikami.

…People are people, he's got to suppose, whatever they think and whatever they are.

Whatever good that's supposed to do.

So he says, "Sorry."

--wishing the other man didn't have to flinch like that. "For what?"

"Bringing it up." Matt's as sheepish as he sounds; more than, really. "I didn't…it must not be a good thing to think about."

"Very little is," says Mikami simply. He is studying his hands. Odd, graceful hands. Sort of…piano-player-ish. Matt's lost in that line of thought before he gets what it was that Mikami just said and gives him a Look of no uncertain terms,

adding a redundant, "What the hell?"

"I mean to say…"

No, he's not struggling with the English. That's what he wants Matt to think, probably, and maybe it's true, but only in the way that Matt himself struggles with English—his first and best language that he's known since he was two.

"I mean to say," Mikami says at last, "there is not much that is…pleasant? To think of. Here. Now."

"Isn't there always something?" Matt offers, vaguely. He thought that at one point. He'd like to. He's not sure if he does now or not.

Mikami shrugs. It's a small, weary shrug. It doesn't suit him.

"We could think about getting out?"

Mikami shakes his head. His voice is very wry. "No."

"What d'you—"

"Not me." Spreading those hands; helpless?; an orator's short appeal. "I am an accomplice of Kira. Did you think they would release me?"

Shit."Well—yeah, at some p—"

"Until I die," says Mikami, "I am here."

Oh.

Well.

Fuck.

What's he supposed to say to that? 'Life sucks?' Matt feels terrible. Again. This guy, he's bad for the emotional constitution. At length he's got to settle for another awkward "Sorry" and a quick glance at the wall.

"What about you?"

Huh?

"What about me?"

"Will they let you out?"

Me?

"…Depends," is all he can say, thinking. "I assisted in a kidnapping. Used a fake ID. I worked for a guy who ran the Mafia and blew up a building. I fired a smokescreen. Drove over the speed limit." His resume sucks, doesn't it? "I never killed anyone."

"Breaking the law, it is unjust." Mikami's voice? Yeah. It's a trifle unsteady. "I still believe that. The unjust should not continue to pollute the world."

"You figured out what justice is already?"

"…It isn't that difficult," Mikami answers, puzzled. "What do you mean?'

"Nah. Nothing. It's just—" Great. Thinking about him, too? "—I met a guy once who said he spent his whole life protecting that and he still couldn't figure out what it was."

"It is doing what is right," Mikami insists. "Staying within one's boundaries, defending the weak, destroying those who would do wrong."

"Right?"

Mikami nods.

"You think that's right?"

Another nod, then "...What would you suggest?"

It's to Mikami's credit that he's started sounding much less condescending and self-righteous than he did when he arrived. Good for him. But Matt has got to live for every smartass that died fighting Kira, which means he owes the world a debt of wondrous magnitude. He points to the cell door.

"That," he says.

Mikami doesn't get it. His expression shows.

"…And that's left," Matt adds, pointing the other direction, enjoying the way the scowl changes Mikami's face. He looks much less the photograph of dignity now, doesn't he? Ha. Points for him. Matt: 1. Mikami: 0. Pointing. "Up. Down. And right again." The door, that locks from the outside. "That's the only right I know. Anything else, your guess is as good as mine."

He's getting used to Mikami, which is just as well.

Because he's not a bad guy, really—aside from the whole Kira thing.

He's starting to think most bad guys just exist in pixels.

For Mikami, too, some days are harder than others.

Matt knows somewhere and somehow that it's a bad idea, being reminded this guy is human. But he doesn't have a choice. And here, if he has a shred of decency, he figures now is the time to hold onto it.

Yeah, he's watching Mikami Teru shaking, sometimes—remembering in a distant way what it's like to be lost, scared, alone—and he had that stupid anchor for so long, Matt guesses, biting back indignation, now it's like they took away what mattered most to him.

Is this what—

It's hard, this.

What mattered most to L was being right, what mattered most to Mello was being first, and as far as he knows nothing mattered or matters to Near except having a set of Legos whenever he wants them. But what mattered most to Matt was always Mello, whether or not he wanted to admit it, except now he's here and Mello's not and he still wants to live.

This idea, living. He—well. What's left?

Hell, he even wants Mikami to live.

His hand on Mikami's shoulder.

"Hey."

Mikami shakes him off. God, but he has so much pride. It's strange. It's strangely familiar, is what it is.

Matt's dealt with this.

Again. Japanese this time. Trying to accent it right. "Mikami, listen to me."

Silence.

It hurts.

"…You don't have to listen to me, actually," Matt goes on, careful. "I would just rather if you did, you know? You don't…we don't have to listen to anyone. I don't think there's have to anymore. Maybe there shouldn't be, even. Nothing…is really sure. That's what I think." What he felt. "And that, that's enough to scare the living hell out of anyone sane. But…"

"…But?"

Yes! I got him to say something.

"But it's better than the alternative."

Mikami doesn't know about that.

Neither does Matt.

"…It's better to make your own decisions," he says, hoping it's true.

"Even if they are foolish decisions?"

"Especially." A grin. It's an honest one, at least. "I don't think I believe as much as you, but I believe very strongly in man's right to be a gigantic dumbass."

Mikami gets the gist of the sentence, and almost returns it with a smile. "That is…exercised…often."

"Damn straight it is."

He sort of likes Mikami. Mikami's smart. He can tell. Maybe all smart people are lunatics. At least Mikami's a lunatic who believes in something. Believed. Believes? He's not sure what, and he doesn't want to ask. Short, terse conversation's yielded a sense that Mikami still believes in God, in divine judgment and some sort of undiluted righteous power (although how he can, Matt'll never know) but the whole thing where he saw the guy who he thought was God's avatar get killed? …That's probably been bad for his faith. Gah. Least no one was ever stupid enough to hand this guy a translation of Nietzche.

"It might be easier being stupid," Matt adds, musing. "'Cause that way if you messed up you'd, like, have an excuse."

"There are no excuses." Mikami's clearly got no ambiguous feelings on this. "If you fail, it is your own fault."

…But he…

And didn't Mello say something li—

Matt wonders if maybe it was kindness killing Yagami and then he brushes off the thought like ash.

How many days of the same scenery?

It's like anywhere he goes he's got to stay for awhile—inside with video games, with surveillance equipment, and now with—

Once they let him go outside to smoke a cigarette and it's great in, you know, a really trivial way.

He gets back with his head still full of smoke and night air, trying to walk like he's not there, inconspicuous. Maybe he'll—

That's just about when he sees it.

"Wh—"

But that's—

(a hubbub, a miniscule commotion and a lot of boredom, something someone that was and now isn't being covered by some white cloth and on the floor what looks like it could've been--)

Putting two and two together.

He--!

…God damn it!

"You have got," he's saying hoarsely, "to be kidding me." Struggling for no good reason towards his mediocre Japanese. But he can barely get it out. What. What."Mikami, you—" Because this is just too—"What the hell—"

That he'd even go so far as to—

It does not make sense and Matt feels awful and he's not even sure why. A lump in his throat. Or.

How to say it. What's the word? That Japanese word for 'stupid'.

Why would he—

Not even—

He can't hear you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

In his head he works out how to ask someone standing guard as they're taking the body away, "Sir—hey, did he leave a note or—"

The guard shakes his head."Went crazy. Hanged himself. That's all. It happens."

I must be going crazy, Matt thinks.

He nods a thank you.

"Get back in there," the guard says, jabbing a thumb at his cell door.

"Right on," says Matt dully. He's back to English. "Yes sir. Here I go." The door's locked behind him and he looks through the bars, at all these sets of eyes. Still scared. Insane. Predatory. Curious. Knowing.

Knowing?

"It's Kira," drawls a shadow down the hall.

Oh, not him again.

"Kira's dead," Matt mutters. He's sliding down the wall of his cell, sitting on the cold hard floor and noticing empty space that wasn't there before.

Not the only one, either. How could he? That fucking idiot, if I ever—but I won't. What did I expect?

"The hell he is." That echoing, soft laughter seeps into the floor and the walls, striking stone and bouncing back. "Kira's going to get all of us. One way or another. The world isn't ours anymore."

Wasn't ours to begin with.

"It was Kira," agrees someone else.

But Kira's dead. And if he isn't there's n—there isn't any justice in this world anyways nor any God so, what the hell, maybe it's not surprising. But Mikami said, he saw Kira die—

(and he'd felt awful for juxtaposing that guy's horror with his own, bitter satisfaction)

Wh—

Wait.

The Death Note.

Who—

Mello said once that—

"Near," he says aloud, revolted, disbelieving, afraid.

A bored voice asks, "Near what?"

The next day someone comes and tells him he's to be released and deported, sent back to the United States in the custody of an official. He is not surprised.

The official walks like a spy and has a sort of Italian aspect. He gives Matt a name Matt's almost positive isn't his. Then again, the official doesn't have Matt's real name either.

Can't be too careful.

On the plane Matt might've started chatting but he still feels sick to his stomach. Not sure why.

"You all right?" says the official, quietly. His English is perfect, casual, American. Nice low-pitched tenor. The usual announcements buzz in their ears, safety, precaution, while airborne, seatbelts, thank you. Please fasten your own oxygen mask before helping others.

I can do that, Matt thinks.

He wasn't listening. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you all right?" The concern's even sincere. "You looked kind of—"

"I'm fine."

Even before Mello Matt was an accomplished liar.

Comes with the territory.

But the official's not buying it. "You're sure?"

Matt grimaces into the seat in front of him, which is being lowered with two jerks and a satisfied sigh. Fantastic. Now he gets to have plastic seat in his face for nine hours.

"You work for Near," he says, bored.

"…I work for L," official corrects, not missing a beat, and having the gall to look sympathetic.

It's the official that gets Matt's Look now, perfected from years of study and yeah, it's pure Mello, that scorn. Maybe with a little of Mikami's elitism. "You work for Near."

"…I know you know how things are," says the official.

"Better than you," is Matt's answer. He can feel the pressure from the altitude. Official got the window seat. Just as well. He can see a fraction of the sky interrupted by the sea, that tiny clump of islands. He feels like he's going home from a war. Only what's he coming home to?

"Probably," the official allows. "My name's Gevanni. Want an Advil?"

Matt nods a thank you.

Names need to stop ending in vowels.

"What happens when we're back in the States?" Matt asks for the hell of it.

"I'm not sure." Gevanni shrugs. "It's up to Near. You should be able to go back to living a normal life soon enough, though. L's pardon still means something, since the Kira incident got wrapped up."

Living.

"—Near told me about you," Gevanni's adding, taking down his tray and leaning on it with skinny elbows. When was the last time he took a plane? L.A.? No. Japan. Flew straight into Tokyo with a cell phone burning a hole in his pocket, the voice in it jagged, certain, electric. There were so many people he never stood out once. "You must be glad to see an end to this."

Matt's not sure so he doesn't say anything.

"…At the risk of sounding saccharine, you've been through a lot, haven't you?"

"I survived."

"That's luck, at least."

Not good luck. Not bad luck. Just luck.

"…Maybe," says Matt finally. "Can I have another Advil?"

"Sure," says Gevanni. "Sure. Here."

Matt swallows.

Survival.

…sure. Alright.

There will be no smoking during this flight.

Dammit.

So damned, Matt sighs, puts his hands behind his head, and looks for just a second out the window.