Child's Play
"...You're not Kira, are you?" Matsuda asked, voice quavering.
("How do you think it feels to be accused of being Kira?" pariah child on the playground with the devil's eyes—)
Ryuzaki turned his head to look at them, the déjà vu crawling over his skin.
(wary stares on the back of his neck like strands of spiderwebs, perpetually shadowed by whispers of "don't go near that one, he's—")
Aizawa's eyes were narrowed, jaw tight, arms held stiffly at his sides. Matsuda's eyes were widened, wounded, glistening slightly.
("Get away from me! I'm not hanging out with you anymore!" aching from the fall, fingers digging into the dirt, watching the feet in their sneakers slowly back away. "My mom says that you're one that killed that cat, the one they found all mangled—")
"I can assure you that I have no memories of being Kira," Ryuzaki said, meeting their eyes in turn, holding their gazes, trying not to think of—
(Have you ever wished that someone would just die?)
"Oh," Matsuda said, chuckling uncomfortably and scratching at the back of his neck. " That's… that's good."
(alone on the rickety swing, splintering seat, fraying rope, tree branch creaking ominously—)
"But Light claims not to have any memories of being Kira, either," Aizawa pointed out, eyes still narrowed, jaw still tight.
(splinters in your feet and rope burns on your palms but it was better than having to listen to the yelling—)
"That's true," Ryuzaki agreed, and stretched out to grab the cup of coffee that had been left on the table before curling back up again, the mug's handle held carefully between two fingers.
(sundown, long shadows and you left the rope oscillating behind you like the pendulum of a grandfather clock with the weight set up wrong, ticking away imperfect seconds—)
"Unfortunately, I have no proof that I was not, at some point, Kira." He took a sip of the drink. It was bitter, and cold.
("I wouldn't use that swing, if I were you. It's not safe any more—")
"I understand if that makes you suspicious of me." He reached out for the sugar bowl, grabbing a few of the white cubes and dropping them into the drink, unheedful of the small splashes. "There were no flaws in Light's logic."
(they fell over themselves to get away, scraping their knees on the cement, hopscotch chalk on their palms and tears on their faces. "He looked like he was going to kill me—")
"Uh, well, we're not really suspicious of you, per say…" stammered Matsuda, glancing at Aizawa uncertainly. "Are we?"
(the rope snapped on the next child who used that swing, the air rent by sirens, red and blue lights flashing over the playground and the boy sitting on the cold metal slide pulling splinters from his feet with his fingernails—)
Ryuzaki stirred his coffee with the spoon that had been set carefully on a napkin, the metal clinking against the edges of the mug as he stirred, handle of the spoon held between his thumb and forefinger.
("Cursed child," they whispered. "He's the one who made the swing break. Did you hear what he apparently said? And just look at that wild hair, those soulless eyes—")
"I can't say that I truly trust you at this point," Aizawa said stiffly. He glanced at the monitor, the black-clothed figure folded on the floor of the gray cell. "But I trust Light even less. He's still more suspicious than you are."
(slow walk home to a house with dark windows, door ajar, dark blood creeping over the floor—)
Ryuzaki took another sip of his coffee. It wasn't sweet. The sugar cubes were still lying at the bottom of the cold liquid, barely dissolved.
"However—" Aizawa said.
Ryuzaki reached for the bowl of sugar cubes again. "I should be put under 24 hour surveillance as well, yes?"
(warm, sticky liquid between your toes, cold hands too steady around the telephone, words like frost brushed from winter windows. "Is this the police? I think my parents are dead—")
He could practically hear Aizawa stand up straighter.
"It's only right," Aizawa said stiffly.
(grandfather clock striking twelve midnight, echoing bells, red and blue lights flashing over the porch with its trail of dark footprints, over the boy sitting there with blood drying on the soles of his feet—)
"Indeed," Ryuzaki agreed, stirring the sugar cubes around in his coffee. They clinked against the ceramic.
(cold metal seat, bare feet and swinging legs, closed room with a one-way mirror—)
He let the spoon still, stared down at the surface of the dark liquid, watching the swirling slow and his reflection materialize to look back at him. "I don't fancy the idea of being detained in a cell, though."
(light trickling like blood from the crack under the door, voices just barely audible—)
Aizawa sighed, and Ryuzaki could practically hear him trying to rub the tension from between his eyebrows. "We're not that suspicious of you. Bugging this hotel room should be fine; you don't seem to ever leave, anyway."
("What are you doing taking in that child, Wammy—?")
"Very well then," Ryuzaki said, looking up at the ceiling. "You should set that up with Watari; it would not make sense for me to be in charge of that when I'm the one under suspicion."
("He's an orphan. I run an orphanage—")
"I understand," said Aizawa, and Ryuzaki took a sip of his sweetened coffee.
("He's the prime suspect of his parents' murder! They say he's insane—")
"Watari," said Ryuzaki, "could you return as soon as you are able? There's been a new development. And please view the footage from Light's cell, from 07:13:46 to 07:14:08."
("I don't believe that child killed his parents, and neither should you—)
"Yes, Ryuzaki," came Watari's voice over the speaker. "I'm on my way."
("You can't believe everything you hear, you know—")
"Where does he go…?" Ryuzaki heard Matsuda mumble.
(light spilling across the floor, looking up into a small crowd of dark-clothed figures lingering in the open door like thunderheads on the horizon—)
"Out to buy desserts, I believe," Ryuzaki said, carefully removing the spoon from his coffee and laying it down on a napkin on the table. "They certainly don't procure themselves."
("I didn't kill my parents." inadequately equipped with only that small shred of truth, not enough—)
"Oh," Matsuda said, chuckling nervously. "Right. Of course."
(a large, warm hand covering his own, softspoken words. "I believe you, L—")
There was silence, then. Ryuzaki took another sip of his cold coffee. It was still bitter. He carefully picked up the spoon again, using it to lift one of the soggy sugar cubes from the bottom of the mug, dark beads of coffee dripping from the curved metal surface. Ryuzaki waited for the drips to stop, then moved the spoon to his mouth.
(photos, police reports, witness testimonies, coming together like jigsaw pieces beneath your fingers, nails bitten down, no longer needed to remove splinters—)
Ryuzaki let the coffee-flavored sugar dissolve in his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. It dissipated completely, syrupy down his throat, and Ryuzaki used the spoon to lift out another, letting that one melt on his tongue as well. The another. Another.
(the maddening hours spent submerged in darkness, the regular chiming of church bells—)
After a few minutes of coffee-saturated, sugar-coated silence there was a cracking sound from behind him. Then another. Another.
(the clandestine excursions to the kitchens when the hunger pangs became too much of a distraction, bananas snatched from the fruit basket, truffles pilfered from their cupboards—)
There were only three more sugar cubes left in the bowl. Ryuzaki picked one up between his thumb and forefinger, turning around in the seat just as there was another crack.
(the moment when the picture came together, the glow of satisfaction, the warm rush of pride—)
"I'll give you this sugar cube if you stop cracking your knuckles, Matsuda," Ryuzaki said, holding out the small white cube, meeting Matsuda's betrayed eyes.
(the realization that you'd never before had so much fun, that you couldn't help but feel grateful they had died—)
"…Matsuda?" Matsuda asked weakly.
"The purpose of the false names was to protect against being killed by Kira," Ryuzaki explained. "However, given that Kira is either Light or myself, and we both know all your names, there is no longer any point to using the false ones."
(pariah child in the hallways with the devil's eyes, perpetually shadowed by whispers of "he's scary" and "he's the kid that apparently solved that murder case, the one that even the private investigators couldn't figure out—")
"What are you suggesting, Ryuzaki?" demanded Aizawa, voice too loud in the quiet room.
("What you have is a gift, L—)
"If Kira wants to kill you," Ryuzaki said, still holding out the sugar cube, sweetness and caffeine still lingering on his tongue, "then I'm afraid that you're quite dead. No fake name will save you."
("It would be a waste not to—")
Aizawa's eyes widened for a moment before he narrowed them again, muscles in his temples tensing visibly as he clenched his jaw, hands fisting at his sides, shoulders straightening. His expression was that of a soldier gearing up for battle that he knew would be unpleasant, but could not be avoided.
("Okay." it was not something you had to think about, whether to live your life suspended from a fraying rope in the lengthening sunlight, splinters in your feet, or crouched on the dark with puzzles at your fingertips—)
"Ah… right…" Matusda gave a nervous chuckle, scratching at his cheek, even as he took a step back. His eyes were those of someone who had just realized that they would very likely die. "Of course…"
(photos of corpses, photos of corpses; mangled, drowned, dismembered, crushed, burned, mutilated, hung, shot, stabbed, stripped, strangled, beaten, bludgeoned, impaled, twisted, bloodied, broken—)
Ryuzaki unfolded from his chair, stepped over the arm towards them. Matsuda flinched away.
(horrible, grotesque puzzles at your fingertips, spread out over the game board, and soon enough you had command of the pieces—)
"Here," Ryuzaki said, holding out the sugar cube.
("Is there anything I can do to help you, L—?")
Matsuda's mouth opened, closed, and hesitantly he took a step forwards, holding out his hand.
(lengthening list of names, faces, human beings with friends and lovers and families, people who would never see them again—)
The sugar cube was dropped into his palm, tumbling over its edges, and he was forced to curl his fingers around it lest it fall to the floor.
("You could bring me a piece of cake." acrid taste in your mouth, vomit washed down the sink, but your lips were pushed upwards by your thumb and stayed there when your hand moved to set the next piece—)
"Thanks…" Matsuda said, uncertain, glancing down at the white cube showing through his fingers then back up at Ryuzaki's face.
(murderers on the stands with a sick, twisted grins, eyes full of jealousy, greed, hatred—)
"If it's any consolation," said Ryuzaki, stepping back onto the seat cushion and folding back up again, slow-motion footage of a cat leaping played backwards, "neither Light nor I are Kira at this moment. It is simply that one of us was Kira up until a week ago."
("Good job, L—")
"And there's no chance that Kira is not either of you?" Matsuda asked, looking at him with a pained expression, hand still closed around the cube of sugar.
(empty weeks, days spent watching the rain run in silver rivulets down the windows, hours listening to the bells tolling behind the pattering of raindrops on the roof, pieces of cake gone stale on the table—)
Ryuzaki looked up at the ceiling. "I would say there is a 0.01 percent chance."
(the rope hung from the tree, whipped by the wind, and with each moment it looked more and more—)
"That low…" came Matsuda's voice, weakly.
(Have you ever wished that someone would just die?)
"Yes," said Ryuzaki, and turned his head, meeting their eyes. His hands, which had been clenched around his knees, relaxed slightly, and his voice softened. "There is a 99.99 percent chance that either Light or I was Kira."
(—the hallways were shrouded in darkness, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, and the shadows no longer followed him.)
Matsuda felt his heart sink, gut twisting, and his gaze dropped to the sugar cube in his palm, seeming almost to glow in the dim room. He felt sick.
He was in the same room as mass murderer, or had been in the same room as mass murderer, and both of them had smiled kindly at him and spoken passionately of justice.
"I'd eat the sugar cube, if I were you," came Ryuzaki's voice, and, startled, Matsuda looked back up at him.
Ryuzaki was facing away from them, holding up the metal spoon with its malformed lump of coffee-saturated sugar. "It'll help."
The spoon disappeared into Ryuzaki's mouth, slipped out from between closed lips and dipped back into the coffee mug, fishing out another soggy lump that quickly joined the first, the man's dark eyes staying fixed to the monitor the entire time, watching Light's slumped figure do nothing but breathe.
Matsuda looked down at the cube in his hand, nauseated, and wondered how sugar was supposed to help anything.
Author Notes
If Ryuzaki's memories were disorienting, distracting, and/or confusing - good. They were supposed to be.