the end is near... ty all for your support!
The thing I'm most afraid of is me. Of not knowing what I'm going to do. Of not knowing what I'm doing right now.
Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
MIHAEL
Mihael has multiple interpretations for L's enduring silence, and none of them reassures him. It could be that he is immersed in a work of genius that will increase the distance between them. The notion saddens Mihael, but it's an inevitability he is prepared for. This is preferable to any alternative, as they all involve Yagami in some equally disturbing way. What was the model, to L? Never a friend, hardly a lover. A muse, then, whatever that means. There is a logic in this – art disturbs, fascinates and moves L. In Yagami, he found the incarnation of art itself, wicked as he imagined it.
An artist who has been abandoned by art, how he is supposed to react? In spite of himself, compassion washes over Mihael, fine fingers pressing his heart. This is not rational. Yagami is only human, it's L who painted his portrait, and glorified him, a beautiful profile shadowed in moonlight. A sort of Dorian Gray-esque elegance edging towards collapse.
"A muse? It's inspiration at will, forever; it's art reinvented every time you lay your eyes on them. It's a promise. It's a vow; may you never be lonely in your art again." Mihael recalls L's words from a year ago, slow bitterness closing his throat. L painted Yagami in the colours that pleased him. This mess, it's all L's fault. The artist frightened the muse. No one, even Prodigy Yagami, can honour his expectations. It didn't prevent him from trying, though. Yagami must have fancied being loved as intensely. Who wouldn't?
He was gone as soon as fear started to tug at his sleeve. If Nate is to be believed, Yagami claims ambition is what drives him. A lie, meant to reassure himself – Lawliet is the best at what he does, and Yagami's charm does not need the catwalk. Success is not a promise, it's waiting for Yagami at the end of any path he will choose. He is the key to his own future glory. Prodigies, that's the fabric of muses, I guess. With the thought comes a sour taste in Mihael's throat.
He sends another text to L. Am I not allowed to care for you? He is not an imbecile, however, and doesn't expect a response.
His phone rings sometime in the early afternoon. All L gives him is a place – his apartment, and a time – whenever. He obeys diligently, and goes there after class.
Behind the door, sugar and candies are found in the strangest places. It's neat, otherwise. More so than Mihael remembers. Books are lined up, straight and regimented on the shelves, in an order that is unusual. It might be the last discernable trace of Yagami's presence.
"You're not afraid to come anymore." Bent over his desk, L has his gaze focused on a series of photographs. Mihael moves slowly. In the darkness, the pictures scattered across the walls seem to glow. They're the only lights left – the sunlight is relentless but shatters against the block-out curtains.
"If only I knew you wouldn't snap any pictures without me knowing, I would have come sooner," Mihael says in an accusatory tone. He takes a seat beside L, crosses his arms against his chest, hoping to feel more resolute.
"I don't steal souls, Mihael," L says sincerely. It's touching, as L considers that sort of beliefs seriously. Then, in the same solemn tone: "I capture moments before they die from the passage of time. You might think you're not photogenic, but no one really is. It's the stolen moments that are beautiful."
"There. It's your problem," Mihael says severely. "You want to steal moments that are meant to pass. Time exists for a reason. Some moments are better gone and forgotten."
Some absences should be celebrated. You're free, L, can't you see?
"No. It's best to remember, always. You seem to forget remembrance isn't the childish fear of the future. You can only move forward if you have some memories to leave behind, and how do you know your memories if not by summoning them from time to time?" L lifts his head, looks at Mihael, and yet, doesn't see him. Is there more painful offense? Mihael swallows his pride. He will choke on it, one day.
"That's what photography – any kind of photography, is all about. We don't need the pictures to hold on to the past, we need them to recreate it for one moment. Get sucked into it, so we can finally say farewell. Over and over, as many times as we want. A portrait to feel a dead person's look, vivid as it was; a man and his burning flag to revive a political statement."
L dips his clouded gaze at the photographs once again, as if addressing them. "I don't know, Mihael, do you truly believe this is being a slave of our past? Or do we master it that way? I stopped being afraid of death after I learnt how to save instants of my life. That's why I'm hitting a wall with Light Yagami. We would prefer each other dead. I'd be peaceful and still pale as he loves me. And I would never yell at him again."
Mihael isn't sure that perspective would enchant Yagami; Nate spoke of a triumphant smile in response to L's wrath. He loves igniting fires, and show how he can survive them.
"I don't believe so, L. He seems to resent you, and maybe the act of killing you would satisfy him…but you would leave a void, you would haunt him. He would hate you for that. He would hate you more dead than alive. As for you…You want him whole. And you want him too much. You trust him with your art. I mean, he betrayed you, and you're still…You want to protect him? To help him? It's…I don't know. I can't understand. It's…devotion."
"Devotion?" The word seems to sting L. "No, it's merely survival. I need him, and I'm honest enough to admit it. We recognised each other, like many lonely people do..."
His remark dies with the brisk change in Mihael's expression.
"You were never alone. I don't get it. I never left you alone! Listening to you now, I could pity you. But you chose him. You chose to open that door, and you love the plays he creates for you. He changed since he met you. It shows. The models of the agency worship him now, don't you know why? Because he defied you. He's singing your song, and I don't think he is unaware of that."
L's hand, ghastly and perfectly adjusted to Mihael's taste, reaches for him. The gesture is dismissed. Mihael takes a step back, then two.
"There is no shame in love, don't you know it?" He spits the words, hoping for nothing, he doesn't get the ghost of a result. L remains perfectly still. "You're made for each other. And you have something even rarer – you deserve each other. You'd want the whole universe to dance at your pace. You're not different from the lot of us…you've been blinded. The difference with you is – I love you. And I'm hurting. It's my duty to open your eyes, isn't it? There is nothing substantial in his love. Will you love an empty thing? He plays with the dark parts of you, he never told you about that interview…he calls you impure, disgusting for it, but he wanted it to happen. He wanted you to expose him."
After a silence, a real one, devoid of sounds or unsaid words, L raises his voice. "I hurt you. That wasn't…I'm sorry. For all of it. And you're right. He troubled my vision." Swiftly, cruelly, he sweeps the photographs away. "These are worth nothing." They scatter across the floor, light and silent as painless memories. "I know I have been unfair to you. Anything you need to do…do it. I would force myself to understand."
Mihael closes his eyes, breathes. "I know." There are hands pressing his heart. The despair in L's voice stretches his nerves. "I know… You're alone. You feel that way, even if you have company. You will always feel that way. You want to feel that way."
"You should leave." L has trouble fixing his gaze, hates himself for it. It shows, that rage tensing his limbs. I have seen him like this before. Finding his addiction gone devastated L once. It's back. There are monsters you can never fight yourself.
"So, you always knew for the interview, didn't you? That's what you meant the other day, when you claimed you always saw how toxic he was. I thought that was a good sign. I thought you would forget." L edges a step closer, but Mihael proves swift enough to retreat towards the door. Anger courses, warm and familiar, through his veins. It's better to leave now. "I was so stupid! Where would you go? Where would you find your fix? You should find help for these obsessions you have. I'm not strong enough. And cocaine scared me less."
Mihael slams the door behind him, so he offers his anger a chance to be heard.
Over the phone, Naomi seems to feel the tears filling his eyes. She has a voice Mihael loves – soft with a secret, reassuring authority. She has a gift with words, the useful kind, a talent for saving people.
It's been two hours of half-silences. A strange melancholy flutters in the room; it's music, of the nostalgic sort. Anna's partition reveals its secrets, and Mihael slides onto the couch. There is comfort in Naomi's place, pieces of a normal life, unfinished books and scattered bills. It's cleansing, as sorrow can be sometimes, a place to arrange your life again.
"Well played, Mihael," Naomi says after taking the last sip of her tea. "I can confide the final piece to Beyond. He will be ever grateful to you."
"Don't worry about it. It's Nate you should thank. He did half the work by himself." Anna's last partition played on the hidden beauty of math; numbers and lines of codes stood guard before its true meaning. It took Nate, a known genius, a week to translate it.
He told Mihael it was worth it with a strange gratefulness in his voice.
Naomi is holding a magazine open for her to read. At some point, the melody turns violent, and Naomi's eyes widen. "Oh look at that – I might never leave England again. I have a family home, and I won't honour them by straying away from my path. If someone can do this, it's me."
Of course, Mihael could read the interview himself. There is, however, a stunning portrait of Light Yagami on the double-pages that he refuses to see. "I'm done trying to understand him. I tried my best, and I always come back to that same place of…hate. It's really shameful. I wish I could just stop caring altogether."
Naomi dismisses the magazine with a flick of the hand, pushes herself on the side of the couch so she's facing Mihael. "Then you couldn't write. You couldn't be a friend to anyone. It would be a great loss. You're excellent at both of these things." In the same serene tone, she continues: "You always wait for others to approve of you. Be hard-working…kind. Be a person you'd love to follow. I believe it's an intelligent strategy."
I could believe that. Strange thought. L once used similar advice on him, and it proved to be vastly inefficient.
"Thank you," he says. "You talk brilliantly, you know? Words are wind, I know…But you've weighted yours. Your colleagues at work are stupid not to give you more credit."
"I was absent for a long time. I was there without being there, and people started to talk behind my back. You know how petty people can be, Mihael." She keeps the wounds from her voice.
"Well, you'll prove them wrong soon, I'm sure. That's what they deserve. You're too considerate. Look at that, your words were so great to listen to that I almost forgot L for a while."
"You shouldn't. He wants to be a friend to you, and he will never stop trying. It's the artist you'd better avoid. He is too self-centered, and you were right – he doesn't know how to stop." Naomi pauses, think for a minute. "That's probably the last thing he needs to learn; how to free others. Let them go. Clearly, he can't do that now."
It strikes Mihael, then, how often L has argued he would never be a mentor. You're already better than me, he confessed once. Mihael protested vehemently, by virtue of that blinding admiration that poisoned them both. He knew, even then. He knew L was not a man to share his art. He wanted his creations to be disturbing, and distant, and unreachable. He wanted his art to be exactly like him, and regarded words of praise with disdain.
It's his way, an art that holds others hostage.
"Sometimes I think his creations speak over him. If it makes sense. He thinks people love his art better than him. I can't prove him wrong. No one sees him, after all. How could they love him?" He doesn't even allow me to love him.
"He's that kind of artist," Naomi replies, and her voice sounds warmer, kinder, as she speaks about art. "There isn't one acceptable way to apprehend art, as much as it would reassure us. But you know what you all tend to forget? You're humans, flesh and bones, not paint and lights and words. No one is born an artist. L forgets that. He acts that way because he thinks of himself as a vessel. That's my feeling, in any case."
"It does make sense. He wanted a muse, as another man looks for a soulmate. It obsessed him."
"Until the source is dry. I don't think it can be eternal. He's too stubborn to pursue Yagami, and isn't Yagami too proud to come back?"
"You'd be right in most cases. L lives to be that special, brilliant, exception to the rules."
And Yagami lives for rules. They are a fascinating contrast. Mihael recalls the vicious melancholy of Yagami's poses, sorrow turning violent, a presence surpassing the paintings and the ring of his courtesies, pieces of poetry. He hooks the attention, captures looks, relishes glances as the many evidences that he will never be rejected. For the same childlike fear of rejection, he obeys the rules, studies them. The knowledge of Eden's rules is the assurance never to be casted away from paradise.
He will be a rule-follower, until he takes over to shift the paradigms for his own.
"They give me a headache," says Mihael after a moment of silence.
Naomi has a compassionate smile. "They might hurt each other, but it's better than the alternative – them hurting everyone else. As for L…I might have a piece of advice. Don't laugh, metaphors aren't my specialty."
At the word metaphor, Mihael lets himself sink deeper into the couch and huffs a little laugh. "I will never say no to a story. I knew you had it in you."
Naomi ignores the childlike mockery in Mihael's tone. "It's silly, you know, but whatever works... My aunt knew a stray cat like L. A sad, bad-tempered, greedy animal. It bit the hands that fed him, and seemed resolved to challenge every human who dared approach it. The cat found a worthy opponent in my aunt, though. Contrary to everyone else before her, she didn't abandon the cat, she didn't stop feeding it. She grew accustomed to the bite, until it served nothing to the animal. Its bite didn't matter to her. It made no difference; she fed it every day, all the same. Soon enough, it grew tired of trying and she never felt its teeth on her skin again. The solution was strange to my eyes, but it worked. The animal wanted someone who would stay, in spite of its terrible nature... or maybe because of it."
Mihael's eyes widen under a horrific realisation. I wanted the praise, only the praise, without the bite.
"I used him as well," he replies, a quiver in his voice. "Every exception he made for me – a warm smile, a touch, words he reserved me…I was proud of receiving them. They were trophies. As many reminders that I was worth something to someone great."
With L, he fancied himself a tamer, a snake charmer, the saint who loves a monster. I played the victim, it's easy enough.
"You shouldn't feel guilty. It's easy to fall into that trap, the beauty and beast. It's a tale, it's made to appeal to us all."
"It never happens in reality. Beasts end up waking other beasts. That's what L wants to show on his photographs. He hasn't caught the decisive instant yet, the moment Yagami will obey his own rules."
"I agree." Then, with something of a laugh: "Your words belong in a book. Break the fairytales, how exciting."
"I guess that's something I could do," Mihael says, and is taken aback by the determination in his voice. "Write about them – I just need a plot."
"Murder stories are my favourite. Although, I do not wish that on them. And that won't happen." It sounds eerily close to a wish, instead of a certainty. "Anyway…that might be a good idea for a cure. Let your words flow, you'll be just fine."
BEYOND
Anyone can be beautiful, sensual or wretched. Friable concepts, appearances. Philosophy didn't teach him that, cosmetics did.
"Models should be more than their appearances, you know. There is a presence, an aura you have to craft around you," he tells the pretty face he is applying eye-liner on. "That's why modelling is complex. You need to command people never to forget you. But no one should feel your authority."
Models are used to listen in obedient silence. That is why Beyond confides them his grand theories about modelling. He rarely ever gets a response, and when he does, it's solely guided by politeness. Others would find it frustrating, that depressing lack of mordant.
Beyond reads a fear of spontaneity in a model's silence, and a discretion he appreciates. He loves a vis-à-vis who gives off an air of quite attention. They seldom listen, yes. Should he care? He prefers a merciful lie to the harsh truth, always had. It's a form of cowardice; he admits it to himself, sometimes, when the weather is fair.
He doesn't need their full attention anyway. For all the scorn he receives, Amane has always been strangely receptive to his musings.
Her little hands cup the model's face, her eyes study the colours and how they blend together. "It looks fantastic! Oh, I knew I was right to choose you." Then, with a smile to the model: "You're free, you can go now."
"I thought Mr Coil was the one who asked for me," Beyond says, shifting on his stool to face her.
Misa's gleeful expression melts. She bites her lip. "He did, but only to annoy your friend, mh…Lawliet? Jeez, that would have been fantastic to have you three. But I only got you and Yagami. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic." She huffs a sigh, composes a charming attitude for herself again. "He's so pretty though. So inspiring."
Tell me about it. Yagami found the way to the whimsical hearts of artists. Feeling the weight of Beyond's stare, Amane is drawn back to reality.
"Hm… I almost forgot! Where have you been? Sorry I didn't ask. I could make arrangements for your absence and I think Takada doesn't hate you too much."
"I needed to…focus." It's impossible to explain. Still, he tries, because of the fascination he reads in Amane's eyes. "Magnificent things are happening everywhere. I've been self-absorbed. Selfish." Dead before my time.
"And then what?" Misa Amane says expectantly. There is no mockery in her tone. "You changed, you improved in a month?"
"It doesn't take time to change your perspective." He recalls how it felt, the flight, admiring the world from up above. "I needed fresh air. See…it's possible to breathe on my own… You don't have to please anyone at all."
Misa nods. A distant memory clouds her eyes, and her fingers dance lazily along the waist of a mannequin. "I guess independence is not my forte either. I'm glad you could learn one thing or two."
"All it took was talking to someone, you know."
"Who, then?"
"An old forgotten legend," Beyond teases. "I'm certain you know her, you listed her name as one of your role models."
Her eyes light up in excitement. "McQueen is dead, and he wasn't a woman either, uh…Let's see…"
"You mentioned her in an interview. You were still a model then."
"Oh," Misa says as pleasure brightens her soft features. "Miss Kwon is it? She's been some sort of mentor to me. I hope she's fine now." She pauses. The sight of Beyond's soft smile seems to warm her heart. "She's fine, right?"
"She is." They met twice in a café in Paris, a cliché, as Beyond cherishes them. Twice. Enough to learn secrets from Miss Kwon; she used to collect them in her other life. There comes a time in the life of a liar, a time to finally let go of the lies, a time to wear the tales proudly. No one talks as much as a lonely liar. Radiant jewels are made to be admired, to a liar, distorted truths aren't any different. In that, Miss Kwon is not her son. Lawliet is all secrets, so much so that he can't tell lies since there isn't any truth to compare.
With a smile he means to be reassuring, Beyond ensures Amane her mentor has finally found happiness. Miss Kwon never uttered that word. She talked of her son at lengths, of her faults, and in listening to her, Beyond saw the future he feared.
"She is fine. She lives in past she idolises. Of course, she's fine," says Beyond, bitterness now unveiled. The words escape him. "She abandoned her son, and still wonders why he never came back to her. He knows she's living in Paris, you know? He's there often. He knows the places she haunts."
He averts Amane's gaze, dreading the effect his words may have on her. Her voice rings, finally. It's marked by a certain nostalgia. "She's an intelligent woman, Miss Kwon. But she always wanted to be perfect. I know those kind of people. It's hard to appear perfect. They waste all their energy, and forget to love the people they love."
"You seem to know what you're talking about."
She gives a little smile, childish and wounded. "Those are the people I love."
"It takes courage to start loving those who deserve you."
Noises kill their conversation – a man putting his weight against the double doors, slamming them open, and the thunder his voice makes. "It has NOTHING to do with him! No way I'll let you slender me, Yagami!" Of the two men, Coil is the one producing all the noise. Yagami maintains that quiet elegance around him.
"This is not the place. I simply wanted to assure you these tactics won't intimidate me, Coil. As I left you a written note explaining you everything in detail, I would have appreciated you returned the favour. Public confrontations serve to humiliate, don't they?" After draping his vest over a chair, he bends for a swift bow. "I apologise."
Amane manages a polite smile, as some overpowering emotion is dulling her eyes. Ever the megalomaniac, of course Coil is making the show about himself. Yagami sees a conquest in it, a revenge, a masterpiece he is about to bring to life, or something equally insane. The clothes are signed Misa Amane, though. They are excluding her from her own creation.
"He keeps making me the villain here," says Coil. Nothing in his attitude hints that he dislikes the part, though. He seems rather amused.
No words of support come from Amane. She arranges a theatrical dress on a mannequin, and with a veiled expression: "I want honesty tonight. Not perfect. You can do that. You don't have to get along, so don't talk to each other if it's easier that way. We followed your lead, Eraldo. You told us the theme of water pleased everyone. Will you prevent you from participating tonight, Light?"
"No," Yagami replies at once. "I would have preferred to be informed beforehand. That's all."
Coil rolls his eyes. "You've got to admit, Yagami, you're the one at fault here. Who's even afraid of water?"
"I'm not afraid. I tend to avoid baths and water tanks, and you know why. You did it on purpose. Well, enjoy the show, Coil. I'm not Ryûzaki, I won't fall. He was a dreamer, you know. They don't survive long."
Coil observes him at lengths before offering his answer. "Some do."
It's cold, calculated, cruel. Yagami averts his eyes.
"You miss the point, as always," he says, and after asking Amane which outfit she wishes him to try on: "I have a clear idea of where I am going, and you're not part of the picture anymore. You have no ambition. Revenge is not an ambition, it's not even a motive."
Light Yagami's voice doesn't miss a cue, yet indisputable traces of venom seep into the melody. Once again, Beyond is reminded that horror does not stand still beneath a perfect façade. It's bound to escape, and it will not keep a silent elegant poise doing it. You should have travelled, Yagami. It frees the mind.
"You're in for a bet, Yagami?" Coil tosses nonchalantly at the model after a strained silence. You could say that he is bothering Yagami on purpose, or you could admit that Yagami seems to enjoy the game. He misses L. "If we win tonight, I'll bend the knee. I will gladly crown you with the others. I will bury the best friend you killed."
"This is your belief, then? It's a disgraceful way to ease your sorrow. You should honour the dead, or forget them altogether. As for Ryûzaki, I'd advise you to forget him, his cowardice, and the art he was too weak to create. I learnt from his death. I won't dwell on it. Please, do yourself a favour. He was too frightened to live. He doesn't deserve anyone fighting for him."
Yagami grabs the outfit Amane hands him and passes the doors, leaving only the fragrance of jasmine and rosemary as an evidence of his passage. Ill-fitted scents, for a man that wields cruelty as easily as lies.
We all felt your authority, though. I'll grant you that.
L
Nothing in Takada's attitude hints that she has a heart. In that, and in some other ways, she resembles L. She looks like Light, also, but Light needs to give his priest smiles to mingle in the crowds. Takada wears a smile as a predator flashes its teeth. A career in fashion does that to you, your body turns into artillery. The finest kind of weapons. Give Light Yagami some years, and he will cut and claw like the others. Though he might surprise us yet…Prodigy Yagami hides a graveyard beneath, scenarios of what Light Yagami could have been; he will smother parts of himself at will, and he is bound to ever please. Someone like that may never miss a step, and always smile the right way.
Hung on the wall behind Takada, a work of art reminds Lawliet of his priorities. Ansel Adams' Moonrise has the majesty and inexplicable beauty of a picture that could have easily never existed. The legend says Adams caught the decisive instant seconds before it was forever gone. It's beautiful as a fateful meeting. The day had been bleak and devoid of art, and he captured the moon on his way home.
"Lawliet, poor Lawliet, I can't read that stare. Either you start talking or I'll have Teru walk you outside. He's charming, but not the best company."
Takada's tone draws a faint smile from L. She wears her pained expression as elegantly as her Saint Laurent suit.
They're facing each other in the busy little universe that is the Angels Agency. Fourth Floor. Takada's office. The White Room, the models call it. He passed a little assembly of models before pushing the door. Light was nowhere to be seen, and when L asked about him, they said he seems to avoid the Agency these days.
"It's too white in here, he must hate it," L told them. He wanted to see offense in their eyes at the careless mention of their role model. As always, the models did not disappoint.
"You're not one to talk for Yagami."
L couldn't tell who raised their voice. They all have dull, uninteresting faces under the ordinary lights, so it doesn't matter.
"You're quite right. The only one allowed to talk for Yagami is Yagami himself. How odd is that?" L stared until half of them averted their gazes. "I'm just telling you. He hates white, and that disturbing shade of purple you're wearing as well. Now, I wonder why he doesn't come more often just to see you all. Perhaps he has better things to do." Taking pills by the dozen? Hopefully not. L entertained the thought that Light was sitting in one of London's charming parks, reading refined American poetry. "But I understand your passion. He's such an inspiration, isn't he?"
The instant Lawliet claimed his muse for himself during that interview, he became the unwanted admirer all models dream of meeting but will scorn in public. L has to admire that twist in the plot. You've quite a bunch of devoted followers caught in your web already, Light. But none of them would extend a hand for him. Come weakness or old haunts, Light Yagami would have to hide so as not to be thrown away like some dusty old jewel.
Ever delicate in her frustration, Takada taps her manicured fingers against her desk.
"It's as I told you over the phone. Coil is a pathetic man, but then again most fashion photographers are. He has no interest in sabotaging our show. I won't replace him now."
"Did he ever suggested an idea that was remotely interesting?"
"Actually, he did. A marine theme, the sea, the idea of drowning. Amane was rather enthusiastic about it."
"…Water, then."
"Water. Tell me, Lawliet, do you intend to tell me anything interesting at all? I have a modelling agency to manage, and an editorial to write."
Her smile is composed of a terrible disdain. It isn't aimed at L, it isn't aimed at anyone in particular or perhaps at everyone at once.
"The show, it will be perfect," Takada continues. "I expect it to be. Luminous, with a touch of Amane's deliciously horrific deliriums. People love that, it appeals to their fantasies of what fashion should be. A world without rules. That's false, of course. Few arts are as orderly as fashion. But they don't see that, under the layers of eccentricity."
"That's why I should have been your creative director," says L, and he claps his eyes on the statuette perched atop of a monstrous pile of paper. It's an angel. It held a sword once, but it's gone. "You know it should be me."
"But it's not. What are you going to do about that?" Takada glances at L, then at the angel.
"What I should have done long ago. Attend a Fashion Show. Do you have any photographer backstage?"
"I didn't want any," Takada replies warily. "Amane is always there, and she forgets herself when cameras are involved. She needs to stay focused."
"Deities won't publish any backstage photoshoot, then," L declares, staring.
"I won't hire a man who refused an offer and then comes crawling at my feet," Takada says coldly. She has standards. For her, for her colleagues, for the world. "That's so unlike you to beg."
"You know me well." It doesn't have the ring of flattery. "I'm not begging, I'm offering my loyal services. You can only win here."
"You're the most impolite man I know." She lets silence reign for a minute. Her voice takes over soon enough. "Although Deities would surely benefit from the change of heart of L. Lawliet." She rises up, and walks past him to the door. "Be there at ten. And…I may be too hopeful here – be discreet. "
As cameras go, his compact Pentax is the most loyal of companions. It's another sort of photography; wild, and spontaneous. It doesn't let him change the settings, or create a message, it doesn't let him think. For the backstage photoshoot of the Wammy's annual fashion show, it's the Pentax he brings.
When L enters the dressing room, he finds Amane cheering her models on in her inimitable style.
"Darlings. The London Collection has been dull. Models walked the runway like zombies – pretty zombies, which is an aesthetic I fully endorse, but still! People slept through catwalks, and even photographers suffered on the sidelines." She has a sparkling smile for L.
"This is terrible for our art, but great for the Institute. They will not see me coming. And you, you will remember everything dear Kiyomi told you: stand straight, and hide your smile. No one wants to see your smile on a runway, but hopefully you'll get to smile after. There is a party for all of you. Okay?"
They all nod, a perfect chorus. Amane has the rarest sort of power – obedience by love. It's also the most terrifying of all. Blind loyalty. She does not seem aware of it. L hopes no one ever tell her. In a soft ruffle of laces, she minces to his side.
"Does Kiyomi know you're here?" she asks petulantly. Her enthusiasm is an armor of its own, and harder to pierce than most expressionless faces.
"They all know I'm here, save for Coil."
Misa gives something of a grimace. "You should have accepted. I can't get over that lost opportunity. You remember how I told you I admired your pictures last winter? I already wanted you for the show."
"And I got the hint, Miss Amane." I had no reason to accept then.
It's like coming back to a place he's been evicted of, to a paradise lost. Any place you left in hope it'll pray for your return is a paradise lost. Backstage, the lights are gentle and revealing. They're all being interrogated, the models and the artists and the designers. Only, it's discreet. It's subtle. It's the moral equivalent of playing never have I ever – secrets are given, never stolen. When L shoots the models, it helps their confidence. They throw smiles, sometimes, and hide their faces lazily as a tease. The photographer offers them that, a minute of childish play before the show. They deserve it.
He spots Light, offering courtesies at the centre of the room. In the eyes of the other models, he embodies a desirable future. So many of them aren't here for art. There is no art in modelling, that's what they've been taught. No creation, only diligence and sacrifices and dependence. Light Yagami, the model, is powerful. It's the man beneath, who doubts and shields himself, but they will never know that. And does it matter, really? Light needs their ignorance to cast his spell, and they need his tale to soldier on.
Beyond advances on him, too sophisticated in his vest of red velvet. He exudes a bizarre confidence, and he has an eyelash curler in his hand. L takes a step back. You're never too careful.
"I thought you were dead," L says mercilessly. A wolfish smile dawns on Beyond's face at the remark.
"Not quite. I've visited an old friend in Paris, drank too much, pondered just enough on my future. You should have come. You shouldn't ignore your mum like that. I mean it."
"If you want her as a role model, go ahead. I don't mind, B. You have that insufferable childishness in common. Some people find it charming."
"I told her about Yagami, you know. 'Here's the next face of Calvin Klein,' she told me. And she thinks you have marvelous taste. Then, she made a comparison with her that I found frankly distasteful, although I did laugh." He smiles fondly at the memory. "You have issues, Lawliet, but now I know where they come from."
"It's not the first time you talk to my mother." Numbed by Beyond's conversation, L allows himself a glance at Light. Ice cold anger gleams in his almond eyes, electrifying. It fails to impress Wedy, who nods and shrugs coolly.
"True. I don't know, I was entranced. It's hard not to be a little charmed. Look at him, there. Same technique, only he wears Acqua di Gio, not Chanel."
"How long is he going to last?" He is pale. "He can't go on like that." Sick. It's not fitting for a model, Yagami. Do you eat at all?
Beyond runs a hand, nervously, through his slicked-back hair. "Until he decides it's over, I guess. It only just began for him. He will win and he will end up on the list of the top breakthrough models this season. You shouldn't be waiting for him. It's like living in the past. Nothing lasts in this world, make the best of what you have." The words are delivered at a quick pace. He turns his head away from L. "He's too ambitious. Your help, your protection, they're obstacles in his mind."
Was the Law student he met so eager to represent Prada, or Chanel, or even Amane? I made him that way. Light might lose, but he will surely win. In either cases, L's fate remains the same. I am condemned to watch in the audience.
Someone taps his shoulder, demands a picture. He obliges, for the light is giving its best today and he has to honour it. It used to be so evident, to him, the way life plays out. Everything was written in clear words and lit up in black, white, some murky colours merging in ways he could predict. His trouble was reading people, but even that never lasted. He learnt the rules of human nature, applied the formulas. It worked just fine. There are more intricate matters; jealousy isn't more complicated than alchemy, and even love has a code. It used to be clear. Obsession never blurred his vision. It was not a flaw in the plan; he waited for it, he held the door open.
His body is aching, not for capturing Light's body on film, not for having him at all. It's an instinct of protection. Light should remain untouched.The world ruins him. He is so pale. How is he fooling anyone today? That's a muse, someone who can't live an ordinary life, and is afraid of the bleeding artists need to create. L takes a step in the direction of Light. He wants to cradle, protect and kiss him. He wants to scare everyone away, so they can talk alone. He wants to create methodical, mad art with him. He had sprayed Light with bullets-like flashes, some metaphorical death L inflicted as a test. He could shoot me with a bullet of his own. I'd keep it.
If their mutual affection is measured in looks they can't hold, and words left unsaid, imagined touches and the persistence of their beings within one another…then, that strange affection is immense. And blinding too, merciless as the insomnia they have in common. Maybe we're heartless, and we love each other for it.
L doesn't hear the careful steps before the ring of Light's voice draws his reflection to an abrupt end. "May I have the pleasure of a portrait?" He could be asking for a dance, or a kiss. "Or would you rather steal it while I'm not looking?"
"I'll take your picture. If you so wish." It's impossible to think of a quip. This new form of fascination, the power and all the mystery of it, none of it disgust L. It silences him, however.
Perturbed, Light studies him extensively. "I would have me pose before the folding screen here, if I were you. The patterns will glow in the light, and contrast with the white of my shirt," he says, expectation evident in his tone. Light always sounds softer beneath the veneer. He's younger then, even more beautiful. He flashes an airy, boyish smile because L follows his advice. That might be the heart-stopping bullet L waited for.
After the shoot, L tells Light he'll develop the picture when the show is over. They should meet in the darkroom of the Institute. Light's eyes gleam at his solemn tone. "It's our promise," insists L. He doesn't know why he says that. The words escape him, and the result is worth it.
With the tip of his finger, Light skims the surface of the Pentax in L's hands. "I do love promises."
LIGHT
His father's watch is the most precise in the universe. It rings at 3pm sharp, a hateful melody really, the sound of duty. Exhausted by the backstage preparations, Light laid down on a dressing room couch. He only dreamt, didn't sleep at all. Sleeping implies keeping a distance from your being, a pause in existence. Light dreams as you embark on a journey; it feels real, so it is real.
Rising up slowly, he deplores that dreams are considered the weapons of the weak-willed. Those who dream can be powerful, and the dream the mind crafts so carefully isn't less real than the lie our mouth throws nonchalantly in real life. Yet, it the common opinion that lies belong to reality while dreams are excluded from it. It should not be so evident. They all want their dreams to become true, when they already are. There is another reality beneath his closed eyes. Happiness has a taste as distinct as honey. It's sweet and beautiful and unforgettable. He's always enough, there. Make your dreams tangible, and the mundane horror of real life will be bearable. No less absurd than the promise of peace after death.
An interesting fact – mirrors and reflections can't be, in a dream. They're simply not there. Light never misses their presence. He knows he is perfect; it's a dream, why would he need a mirror then? However, now is reality, as they all love to call it. So, he grabs the Adderall and confronts the glass and smiles in a way he hopes convincing.
He recalls someone saying that to him: you're too superficial. That is not true. Light relies on his reflection, on the person others choose to see in him. He relies on mirrors. What sort of looking-glass logic is that, to deem him vain when he only cares for the inverted image of himself, for the person seen through the eyes of strangers? He uses that prejudice to his advantage. No one fears the pretty haughty model; that's good. It will fall on them like a thunderbolt, the realisation that Light Yagami is an artist too. They're the superficial ones, to fall for that trick.
The calmness of the dressing room shatters briskly, much like in a dream. Though the people are louder than the ones his mind creates. A shame. He slips a word of comfort into Miss Amane's ear – it will be perfect, said in all honesty.
She gives a half-reassured sigh. "You're absolutely certain the glass cages of water won't distract you? I have a fear of heights myself. Fear does that to you, it paralyses you." She catches Light's arm so he doesn't escape. It's a habit of hers. "I should have told the models, I know... I wanted it to be a surprise. Will you forgive me?"
The last words fall pathetically. Light plucks her hand off his arm. Her rings are cold, and numerous. A superfluous accessory, rings, only there for distraction – don't look at me, admire my hands instead. Though Amane's rings have horrifying shapes, skulls and dark roses, but still manage to inspire more refinement than Coil's.
"You can count on me. Don't you know that?" She should trust him, and refrain herself from nursing him. Her concern is an offense, at this point. "I have my ways with fear. Trust me, you will be surprised of what I can accomplish."
He turns on his heel, leaving her to care for someone else. It's tiring, to care this much. She should waste her energy elsewhere.
Naturally, Lawliet spots him and only him amidst the little assembly of models pacing backstage. He seems nervous and somewhat threatening in his walk.
Light doesn't turn around and looks at him in the mirror. "You shouldn't still be here. You're not authorized."
"Why didn't you tell Coil to change the set-up?" L says. Fear sharpens his words. "You have every reason to be unsettled by water after what happened. It was a cowardly move from his part. Why didn't you say anything? He could have changed it still. I'm sure Amane would have jumped on the opportunity to move her show to some deserted asylum, or something equally charming..."
Don't you believe in me? "I adored water once," Light cuts in, and he finally can face L. "I can pretend to love it again. I won't fall. Not now. I believe…I believe that I can do it. Coil could have keep that victory away from me. He didn't, because he knew no one could replace me."
"Or he is certain you'll fail."
"It's only water. It doesn't bite, and all its power is useless when it's restrained. I had a bad experience with it, yes, but it's nothing I can't endure. Really. You'd rather believe Coil than me? You should be cheering me on, Lawliet. You should be here for me."
"I know how you work. You hatch the most absurd schemes to avoid facing yourself. Coil is not the villain of your story. He never wanted to sabotage the show, only you. And wasn't that pleasant to have some archenemy reminding you of your moral qualities?" He heaves a long sigh before uttering the most terrible words in the universe: "I can't believe in you. Not entirely."
Why? Coward. "It's your duty as an artist to encourage your muse." A shiver on the last note, but still, Light saves his composure.
"You left."
That moment, in Light's eyes, seems decisive. He breathes.
"I left Lawrence, the impure artist who loved me in a cage. You can resent me for that precisely. Or thank me, maybe…You may be desperate now, but you'll merge your sadness with beauty. You do that in art. It's protecting you. That beauty your mind produces in the light…the result of your hands mixing chemicals in the dark. Art, your art changed my life." Light feels his breath quickening, the sound of his own voice comes with a headache. "How can you forget that? I will never forget it. Are you afraid? Are you finally afraid of me? " Then, slipping out two photographs from his pocket: "Your art and I? How would you say…? It's forever."
For one terrifying second, beneath the rich backstage lights, Lawliet's lips seem to quiver. Light doesn't know what to say. This is the first time in a long time that someone occurs to him as a tangible reality.
Lawliet only stares, with in his eyes the sort of desperation he tends to mock in others. The faint noises around them recede, and the world listens to their strange silence.
Without a look at the refined silhouettes, slowly emerging from the dressing rooms, Light grabs Lawliet's shoulders. "Take as many pictures as you can," he says, and leaves him there, alone, awestruck.
It's as if Light has stolen the photographer's daring, then. To attest to that, a newfound courage leaping into him. The show begins, Amane flutters her eyelashes and wishes good luck.
A step. Nausea taunts his body, but Light resists. At either sides of the catwalk, distorted sounds of water cascading down into the glass cages, he puts these at a distance too.
Beneath him, his feet dare move in defiance of his mind. That's for the better. It's so unlike me to let my body guide me, he thinks, in the neutral tone he has for strangers. No trace of a shiver trailing down his spine, and his knees never bend. That means Light trusts his body to keep him from the fall. It feels like a small victory, to finally trust his body. Mind absent, he is fixing a light in the distant horizon, latches on to it desperately with the dedication reserved to prayers and hopes. He thinks of a bathtub. He hold onto the light, keeps the desperation from his gaze.
Light had prayed a hysterical prayer in mind that night. Water clawed at the dead flesh, and Ryûzaki's eyes…dead eyes longing for heaven's lights. Dead eyes fixed on the ceiling. He is drown, he doesn't deserve it please choose to revive him, that old thought comes back to him but he focuses on the shimmer at the end of the catwalk, and he walks, if only to prove Lawliet wrong. He thinks of all of those he is proving wrong. He thinks of Soichirô Yagami, and the country he fled away from. He thinks of his lies, those that started on the aircraft.
Light parades down the runway knowing he is reaching for the thing he desires most, and it's neither victory, revenge nor peace. It's salvation. It's rebirth.
Who are they all seeing now? No one. They are entranced by the clothes, stained glass patterns and endless laces and tight-fitted jackets with only one sleeve. The designer and her careful hands have worked to craft a tale. But the richest fabric is just that, a fabric, if no one wears it. And Light is the only one who can elevate it to a work of art – or so he believes, and make them all believe. They don't see him, no, but they drink the fable he tells. Who are they all seeing now? A seller of stories, enhancing human creation, someone special. Light thinks of art, the illusion he is selling, how proud he is that they all believe it.
He feels Sayu's presence, how her hands are held together. It doesn't matter that she isn't really here. I need to focus. The airy texture of the clothes, his skin under the spotlights, he thinks of that. The artists and the photographers, how he is used to them. It helps. He carries on.
Only the light, alone in that blur of faces and flashes, is real. Sometimes the light flutters and the water crashes against the cages. It wants to escape. Theatrics, it's only that, pretty illusions won't carry them to paradise. It takes a presence to impress an audience.
So he stays present.
He is creating art. He stops being a butterfly or a pretty bird reciting words, at that moment, he is more than himself. The puppet breaks its strings. They're all there to see, and they applaud the feat.
Nobody sees him lying his way out – it's an urgency, he says, I'll be back. As Amane is seducing the audience with a counterfeit smile of her own, he runs. Amane has no trophy to cradle in her arms yet, still, he knows. He knows victory, it tastes sweet as relief. Of course we won. So he escapes to the darkroom to meet Lawliet and tell him about it. He promised.
The realisation of their promise is the beautiful note you remember from the song. Isn't it? Even he will be proud. His heart is revengeful; it pounds, and pounds against his chest, a revenge for all the neglect. This could be a dream, Light is clever enough to imagine it. This could be dream, he realises under the marble arches.
This could be a dream and he would love an evidence that it's not.
It comes. In dreams, after all, plans and promises unfold flawlessly. A promise is a promise. The darkroom stares back at him, desperately empty. "Where is he…?" Light hisses in defiance of himself. He has to clutch his heart, it seems, so it doesn't burst out of his chest. "It's the pills again. I really need to stop –"
He cuts himself, turns around. "Why that silence?!" Light feels the distinctive, lingering eye of a photographer on him. Yet…it's…
Not really as promised.