Chapter Eleven
Deceit and Delusion
Saturday, 5:00 pm
L was not an idiot.
Well, of course he wasn't; he was L. One did not get to become L by being an idiot. But because it was the first important point in L's chain of reasoning, it needed to be stated, even if it was rather obvious.
So, to begin again: L was not an idiot.
Second: Near was not an idiot either.
This point should have been almost as obvious as the first – at least in the terms in which L meant it. In matters of logical deduction and reasoning, Near was not an idiot.
Finally: L and Near were mutually aware of the other's status of non-idiot.
In other words, L knew Near wasn't an idiot, just as Near knew L wasn't an idiot.
So, in conclusion, L reasoned that since they were both logical beings with the proper respect for each other as fellow logical beings, a conversation between the two of them would tend to be efficient, systematic, and streamlined – as had been proven in the past. There was no need for the superfluous words other people stuck into their conversations to abide by unnecessary things like social niceties; there was no need to smooth things over to avoid offense when the clearest, most logical course could be taken – not that L used such polite conversing skills normally, but the fact that Near's brain worked along similarly orderly lines certainly made conversations with him much faster than with the general population.
So when Matt and Mello had left them to share the silence of the hotel room – Mello leaving more like a moody, chocolate-stealing hurricane than anything else – L had known that Near's brain was perfectly capable of deducing that L intended to use this opportunity to get some information and that there was little point evading him on this matter. Likewise, L had deduced that Near was the least likely of his successors to care about keeping the issue – whatever it was – secret, and was therefore the best possible candidate to interrogate.
As such, all L had been required to do was raise his eyebrows in question at Near after the door was shut tightly behind the departing hurricane, and Near had spoken up without hesitation.
"Mello and I had sexual relations in France," he said without a trace of emotion, a lock of hair curled round his finger and his black eyes peering briefly across at L before returning to the computer in front of him.
L blinked. Well. That certainly explained a few things.
"I see," he breathed out thoughtfully, as his brain began rearranging itself to accommodate this new information. Then, "Multiple instances?" he asked.
Near shook his head minutely, curls barely shifting. "Once."
"The initiator?" Ninety percent chance it was Mello.
"Mello," Near confirmed.
"The date and time?"
"Early morning, Thursday."
"His reactions upon waking?"
"Shock, confusion, and embarrassment – which he attempted to hide beneath anger and aggression. And he was more than usually hung-over, I assume."
L nodded, having suspected this to be the case. He paused a moment, another question occurring to him. "Your first time?"
Near glanced over at him again, his eyes still expressionless but as though checking to see if L was earnestly asking. L's clinical exterior must have convinced him he was serious and not asking because of some misplaced sense of sympathy, because he shrugged and turned back to his computer, answering, "No. I hardly see how that piece of information is pertinent, but there is no reason to conceal it. No, it was not my first sexual experience."
L would not deny he was mildly curious now about Near's apparent experience in sexual matters. When, where, with whom – these were all details about which he had absolutely no idea. Up until now, he hadn't even been certain Near had sexual urges.
But now was not the time, he decided – nor did he think Near would be as inclined to indulge his curiosity on the matter, if the disinterested line of his lips was anything by which to judge. And it was a small matter. L actually had no desire to root into his successors' sex lives, save for when it interfered with his work.
Like now.
This, simply put, had the potential to become quite a mess.
He didn't know what had driven Mello to think it would be a good idea to sleep with Near – nor, really, did he want to know – but the simple truth was that the situation was causing the blond enough internal distress that it interfered with his ability to work properly. And that was annoying.
Underlings were annoying enough when they weren't busy fucking each other and causing unnecessary drama. Besides, L was already sleeping with Mello's ex-boyfriend, which he felt was more than enough scandal for one workplace to be going on with.
In any case, this made recent events much clearer, now that L understood the history of what had occurred among his three underlings.
Mello was upset, in basic terms, because he had slept with the person he considered his greatest rival, the person he had spent his entire life hating and trying to beat. That was probably rather disconcerting.
Matt was upset because he, if L's suppositions were correct, had lurking feelings for Mello and had been surprised to find he'd slept with Near. While Matt was obviously well aware of Mello's prolific sexual behavior, it had likely been somewhat of a shock for it to have occurred with someone so proximally close to them – someone Matt knew well.
And Near was unaffected by it all because…well, because he was Near. The question wasn't why he was emotionally unmoved after sleeping with Mello; it was why he had done so in the first place.
L suspected it had less to do with an actual physical attraction to the blond and more to do with a desire to quietly stir things up and provoke Mello. Mello always claimed that Near never paid the least bit attention to him nor to his attempts to surpass him, which was partially what riled him up so much – after all, it was very frustrating for Mello to be ignored and dismissed by the one he had set up as his ultimate rival – but L had never believed this to be quite true. Near was just much subtler about what he did to antagonize Mello, and he always disconnected himself from the situation – unlike Mello.
It was no coincidence that Near could push Mello's buttons faster than anyone else.
But then, no one could calm Mello down faster than Matt. Which, of course, was why L had sent them off on their little tantrum-soothing expedition. They were both next to useless in their current states, though L admitted Matt had been for the most part back to his usual laid-back, mostly-productive self by the time he'd tossed them out. With any luck, he'd be able sort Mello out, at least to the point that he was an actual contribution to the team, rather than distracting everyone with his ill-tempered moodiness.
In the end, L supposed the reasons and motivations behind the whole matter didn't matter so much, as long as the problem was resolved.
And if it didn't get resolved, L was going to chuck the lot of them out for good and let them have sex together and create as much soap-opera drama as they wanted, and he'd finish the case himself.
And, of course, have sex with Light without worry of treading on one of Mello's too-sensitive toes.
Really, chucking his minions out was looking more and more appealing as an option. It was unfortunate Watari was so insistent they be trained, because it would make matters much simpler.
Ah, well. Then he would have no one on whom he could push off the boring grunt work. It all evened out in the end, he supposed.
Still, the drama among his subordinates was quite troublesome. At least Mello had yet to discover L's relations with Light – that was something for which to be grateful.
But L wasn't technically supposed to be thinking about Light right now. Watari had already reprimanded him once today for staring off into space, even going so far as to threaten his cake supply, though L felt he had managed to explain his distraction away as pondering about the murderer, not a certain pair of teasing eyes and long legs.
And contrary to what Watari and his successors might have thought, L was not shirking his work. He was perfectly capable of having a physical relationship with someone and solving a murder case at the same time. It just required a little prioritizing and time management – that was all.
And right now, it was time to focus on catching a certain murderer with a penchant for whacking people over the heads with their own flutes or trombones. Or strangling them with their own harp strings – the culprit didn't seem too picky how the actual murder was carried out, as long as it was done with the victim's own instrument.
L suspected the culprit had some sort of grudge against music, for some reason. Or perhaps just a music lover unduly irritated by poor playing. Or, it could be someone who had been forced to hear beginning violinists screeching on their strings one too many times and had simply snapped, losing all sanity and discrimination, lashing out at musicians of all instruments.
L could sympathize; he remembered his days of staying at Wammy's, after all, where there had been many geniuses but surprisingly few of the musical sort. Though that hadn't stopped a good number of them from trying.
Whatever the case, L, in the past half hour had already narrowed the possible murderer down to three suspects – which, he felt, was a very convenient number considering the amount of minions he had at his disposal. Tomorrow, he planned to send Matt, Mello, and Near to each investigate one of the suspects. Tomorrow – since he had already texted Matt and informed them it would be unnecessary for them to come back this evening and since there was little that could be done tonight anyway. Quite a nuisance if they did come back, actually.
And, once it hit eight o'clock, the part of his day specifically set apart (by Watari) to work on the case would be over, and the final, white-haired nuisance could be gotten rid of easily enough. L doubted it would be hard at all to get Near to leave the suite; L suspected he had already pieced together the identity of the person L was sleeping with, and he wasn't really the type to protest being told to sleep in another hotel room anyway.
All that was left was to convince Light he was in the mood to stop by the hotel tonight.
And L didn't feel that would be much of a problem.
Satisfied with his plans for the evening and with having solved the great underling drama mystery, as he was referring to it in his mind now, L took a sip of tea and returned to work. For the moment, he had a murderer to investigate and a possible grudge against music – or untalented musicians – to fish out.
Light twisted his key in the lock, the sound of scraping metal catching in his ears.
He had already checked the surrounding area twice and found it clear of any prying eyes: to his left there was nothing but a well-worn brick wall, to his right a set of narrow steps with a rusty metal railing, and behind him, a single, tightly shut door, the number 203 painted on its face in fading red.
The lock clicked open grudgingly, and with a twist of the handle, the door swung inwards with a noisy groan of hinges. Light stepped inside, slipping his shoes off and flicking on the lights, only pulling off the low cap from his head when the door was shut and bolted firmly behind him. His eyes fell on the dingy white of the narrow walls on either side and, ignoring the miniscule kitchen and bathroom tucked away through doors to the right, his bare feet padded quietly along the cold wood floor until the narrow walls obligingly opened up into a small, unfurnished room.
In fact, 'unfurnished' perhaps did not adequately describe the room; 'completely bare' would have been a more fitting explanation. There was nothing – nothing to break the harsh monotony of the dull white walls, nothing to soften the unforgiving wood flooring – the only decoration a thin, tattered curtain to keep the daylight from streaming in. Light yanked this open, allowing the sun to pool it's warmth onto the bare floor, and he briefly peered out of the smudged glass to the empty alley below before swinging his backpack from his shoulders, setting it on the floor and returning his eyes to the room enclosing him.
It was small, confining. Much smaller than his fifty-thousand yen apartment on the other side of the prefecture – much dirtier, much less refined. It was the sort of place Yagami Light would never live, the sort of one-man sardine apartment that starving students with no other options rented.
But then, Yagami Light didn't live there. In fact, no one did.
The place was rented under the name Ishikawa Aki, a person who only existed on paper, and most days the room was empty of any life save for the stray cockroach or spider. Were neighbors to be asked about the tenant in apartment 204, they would likely just shrug and say he was probably a young college student quietly living and minding his own business, like the rest of them – that was, if they even opened their own doors to answer in the first place.
This bare, dingy, cramped apartment surrounded by unobtrusive boarders, however, was the place where Light immersed himself in a world of trickery and color. This was where forgeries were brought to life, where he resurrected artists already cold and dead as he created masterpieces in their names, in their styles, in their fame. It was here that he practiced his harbored secret, and it was here that he hid the evidence of his less-than-legal activities.
His tools – his brushes, his blank canvases, his paint, his easel, his paint-aging chemicals – he kept locked in the bathroom, which was rigged with a rather ingenious system to catch afire if not unlocked and opened precisely the right way, and this was the only place where he allowed his skill at painting to truly surface.
Light was nothing if not thorough and careful.
He strode over to the bathroom now and withdrew another key from his pocket, slipping it carefully into the lock and turning it slowly to the left, counter to the direction which was intuitive. When he heard the telltale click, he pulled the door towards himself, turned the knob, then pushed it open, being careful not to hit the easel sitting in the center of the cramped bathroom.
His eyes fell upon the prepped canvas that as of yet had very little color to it, pensively running along the beginning brushstrokes already taking up the top left corner. A Chagall, this one was. Or it would be, once it was completed. The style was considerably different from the Monet Light had painted earlier, which made it an even more interesting challenge.
Briefly, Light wondered what his family would think, were they ever to see this hidden-away den of paint and unashamed deceit which had consumed so much of his life for the past few years.
Surprise – that was a given, though probably less so for Sayu than for his parents.
Disillusionment – another given, though again, less so for Sayu.
Disappointment? For his parents, definitely. For Sayu, probably not so much. She had always been a little more inclined towards deviousness than their upright parents – though hers was a more playful, good-natured mischief than anything else and always kept well within the boundaries of the law. Unlike her older brother.
Light wondered if his family would even be capable of understanding, of perceiving the why's and how come's of what had driven him to begin this. They were average people – normal, almost impossibly so – with average intellects that were never plagued by the chronic, paralyzing boredom that had beset Light ever since, back in middle school, he had realized that half the teachers were incapable of teaching a pig to roll around in the mud, let alone actually impart anything of value to a class of prepubescent boys and girls.
Ryuzaki would understand, Light decided. What was it he had said last night? "I think that, in different circumstances, I would have been in grave danger of becoming a criminal. Luckily, I was able to find something else to drive away my boredom." Yes, Ryuzaki would understand.
That was, he would understand if Light were a fool and happened to inform him of his affinity for painting forgeries and selling them for the usual ridiculously large amounts of money such masterpieces of art went for – or rather, the usual ridiculously large amounts of money they went for when they had a particular name etched along the bottom.
It only took a few minutes for Light to set his easel up in the center of the main room and prepare the rest of the supplies. He didn't bother closing the curtains; there was only a windowless wall across the alley, and the only way someone could see into the apartment would be if they climbed up the outside like a bug and smashed their face against the glass, which was highly unlikely. And Light preferred using natural light to paint by.
Light, holding his paintbrush loosely in his left hand, dipped it in his specially-altered paint and began the process of submerging himself into Chagall's artistic mask.
Then, he put his brush to canvas, and began to paint.
The main thing Light had been surprised to find, during his first year of high school when he first had been intrigued by the concept of forgeries, was how incredibly gullible the art world was in general. A painting could show up from an apparent private collection, claiming to have been painted by a famous master, and if it looked believable and had the proper provenance – the proper paper-trail and history – it would be almost unquestioningly accepted as genuine.
A painting with a paper past – proving who had owned it, where it had been shown – was much less likely to be a fake, and as such much more likely to be believed in its claims of authenticity. And, more importantly, much less likely to undergo thorough examination. If something seemed authentic, even if it was only superficially so, very few people thought to question it.
Light had quickly realized this concept as young schoolboy, and he certainly hadn't wasted any time in exploiting it in his schoolwork. Teachers were astronomically more likely to swallow any information he fed them in essays if he sounded like he knew what he was taking about – even if it was complete and utter horse shit. Paintings were the same way; if the paper work, the provenance, seemed legitimate, the art world would gladly gobble it up, greedy for a chance to waste their wealth on a so-called priceless work of art.
But provenance, much like a painting, was able to be faked.
Which was why Mikami was such a useful find.
With his legal training, Mikami was perfectly capable of creating the false legal documents necessary to give a painting believable provenance – and his work was of a quality that even Light, with his perfectionist standards, wouldn't be ashamed to call it his own. But not only that, Mikami, after a little training from Light, was able to make the paper-trail lead back to anyone they wanted, should the forgery be detected.
Which was exactly what they wanted to happen.
Because Light didn't just paint forgeries for the thrill of pulling one over on the art world, though that was a great deal of his motivation. That was too easy, too simple, too liable to get boring. Instead, Light actually used his forgeries to lead the police to other forgers, forgers who had been selling false paintings for years undetected – such as Marshall Phillips, their first target, who had just recently been successfully apprehended.
The thing about forgeries, Light had realized, was that once a certain dealer's or seller's paintings began to fall under suspicion, their whole operation started to unravel, like a thread from a sweater tugged a little too hard. Art experts and authorities would begin more closely examining all the paintings sold by the suspected dealer, and since most forgers sold their forgeries directly themselves, it wasn't long until they were uncovered, all their fakes tracked down, and they were brought to justice.
To be strictly honest, Light wasn't too concerned with dealing forgers their fair share of punishment – though for Mikami, who Light had realized had a sense of justice that was just as strong as Light's father's but of a more vigilante sort, that was precisely why he agreed to help. For Light, however, it was just another level to the game, another interesting complexity that made it even more engaging.
To make it work, he had to be able to make very minor, purposeful mistakes in his work – such as making the craquelure, the natural cracking that occurred as paint aged and became less flexible, a little too even to be real, or making tiny errors in style or brushwork – small mistakes that wouldn't be detected right away, but over time would begin to stand out and eventually be detected.
Then, once the forgery fell under suspicion, it was put through more rigorous examination, and after being detected as a fake, the authorities traced it back to the original seller – though, of course, instead of finding Mikami and Light, they found whichever established forger Light wanted them to find. After that, it was simply a matter of a little digging, and the forger's actual work would be revealed and they would be brought to trial.
It was a simple concept, one which had been overdone in Hollywood films for decades: who better to catch a thief than a thief himself?
Who better to catch a forger than a forger himself?
Because Light was familiar with the process of creating forgeries and the necessary provenance to sell them, it was a much simpler matter for him to detect paintings that had been faked – especially when taken in consideration with his talent at hacking, which had been honed since before he was technically into his teens.
And it was such a thrill, such an intellectual power high – more stimulating and engaging than anything he'd ever done before.
Except maybe sex with Ryuzaki. That was a close second in capturing his interest, at least at the moment.
It had been Mikami who had first planted the idea in his head to use his forgery skills in such a manner, actually – an offhand remark of his made the first time they met, which, ironically enough, had occurred beneath Light's first and at the time only sold forgery, hanging proudly in a prominent museum.
At that time, Light had already spent his high school years slowly becoming more consumed with the idea of creating forgeries, of throwing dust into the eyes of the world, and by the time he was in his final year he had become proficient enough that he felt confident in actually selling one of his falsified works. Ishikawa Aki had already been created by then, the apartment used for hours and hours of practicing and refining his skills, and it was surprisingly simple to take that small step from painting forgeries for his own amusement to painting one to be purchased.
He had sold his first forgery almost a year ago, shortly before his graduation from high school. It had taken him eight months to complete and had sold for over two million yen – roughly thirty thousand US dollars. The paper-work, done on an old typewriter and reams of aged paper, had been simple enough to create and fake, though rather time-consuming.
It had been pride and an almost a morbid curiosity which pulled him to visit the museum in which it hung, and it had been chance that had arranged for Mikami to visit the museum on the same day and stand beneath Light's painting at the same moment. Light didn't know what it was that had prompted Mikami to make his casual comment and open up a conversation between them, but he did know it was a mutual intellectual interest that had lead them to continue conversing, eventually stopping at a small coffee shop outside the museum to continue their enjoyable exchange.
There had been no romantic overtones at that time – though Mikami was attractive and Light, from minimal observation, had suspected he was probably gay, Light had a boyfriend at the time and Mikami had shown no interest in dating a high school student. No, the enjoyment had been exclusively intellectual; Mikami was a decent conversationalist, interesting enough that Light didn't find himself unbearably bored by his company, and that was it.
And at some point, Mikami had mentioned what a shame it was there were so many forgers out there, hidden beneath the radar, and it was at moment precisely that the idea first struck Light, like a shock of inspiration.
He could use his forgeries to frame and fish out others. It was simple. It was brilliant.
And more importantly, it would probably hold his interest much longer than merely painting and selling forgeries himself.
Light hadn't acted on the idea right away – nor had he even considered approaching Mikami with the idea until a week after their initial meeting. He had eased into it, feeling out Mikami's potential interest, and when he was assured he would be positively received, he had dropped his proposition.
And that, really, had been that.
Mikami had proven efficient and capable, unobtrusive and easy to work with. Light hadn't yet regretted deciding to pull him into his plans.
It had taken some time for them to track down their first target, Marshall Phillips, as well as a brief trip to France, which Light had explained away as a graduation trip to his parents, to verify Light's suspicions that Phillips' pieces were indeed fakes painted by him. Overly cautious, perhaps, but worth it. Light had been right; they were phonies.
Well-done phonies, but still phonies.
It had taken even more time to complete the actual painting. Light, before he even started, had needed to immerse himself in Monet's style and habits, like learning another language. The actual painting itself took several months – partially because Light only had so much time when he could steal away to paint, partially because he was a perfectionist and even his mistakes needed to be perfect.
But eventually he had finished, Mikami taking care of the paper-trail and actually selling the painting – in disguise, of course – and it had been snapped up by a greedy collector with little question, with no more than a cursory investigation into its authenticity.
It had sold for about twenty-seven million euros, which equaled about three billion yen, or forty million US dollars. A staggering amount, but for a supposed Monet, hardly surprising.
Of course, not all of the money could be kept – some of it had to be placed in Phillip's account, framing him and leading the authorities to his door – but Light had been able to scrape off more than enough to make it an incredibly lucrative venture.
But the thrill, the heart-thumping high he'd gotten from watching it all unfold according to plan, had been worth even more.
And, he supposed, Mikami had seemed very pleased, if quietly so, with his own vigilante contribution towards ridding the world of pesky, art-disrespecting forgers. That was important too, that Mikami was satisfied with their efforts.
Overall, it was a slow building plan, each step taking painstaking time, the whole thing taking years to come to climax, but with time Light felt sure his forgeries would start catching the eye of the world. The authorities weren't complete idiots, after all; they'd realize soon enough someone was out there setting up forgers to be caught. And at that point, things would get really interesting.
Like a swimmer coming up for air, Light emerged from his abstracted concentration and examined the painting before him with critical eyes.
Color – that was what he was focusing on with this painting. It needed to be vivid, but simple – vastly different from the softer blend of the intricate Impressionist style of Monet.
And it wasn't turning out quite right. Something was a little off. No, not with the color – that was fine. But something, something about the painting was not quite right.
Decisively, Light grasped the canvas in firm, careful hands and flipped it so it was upside down, and just as he was setting it back on the easel he was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
Light froze, his breath stilling in his throat. His eyes flickered to his watch, waiting patiently on the floor because he wore it on his left hand and it weighted him down when he painted. Was it already time to meet with Mikami? It seemed it was. Several hours had passed without notice, the evening sun already been sinking towards the horizon, fading away and leaving him with less and less sunlight to see by.
He glanced around himself, abruptly becoming aware of his less immediate surroundings than just the canvas beneath his brush, and he realized was currently surrounded by little dishes of paint littered around his feet, their colorful number having slowly grown as time passed by disregarded. His lead and charcoal pencils were out and underfoot as well, as it usually wasn't just paint that went onto his canvases.
He glanced down at himself next – at his rolled up sleeves and paint-splotched fingers and hands and wrists. He had wanted to clean up before Mikami arrived, but it was no matter. Mikami already knew he painted, after all. There was nothing to hide.
First snatching a towel to wipe his hands on, he stepped carefully around his dishes of color then strode up to the door, pausing a moment to peer through the peephole and ensure it was indeed Mikami.
It was. He was standing there, briefcase in hand, checking his watch – unhurriedly, not with an air of impatience or annoyance but simply as if he was making sure he had the time right.
Light opened the door, stepping aside to make room, and Mikami immediately slipped inside, the door shutting quietly behind him.
"Mikami," Light greeted smoothly.
"Yagami-kun," Mikami returned with a pleasant smile, the rim of his glasses gleaming a little as they caught the electric light from above their heads. His eyes fell on Light's appearance, which clearly showed his recent activity, and he said, "I hope I didn't disturb you?"
"Of course not," Light assured with a flick of his eyes, turning to head back to the main room as Mikami slipped his shoes from his feet. "I was merely painting."
"Ah," Mikami said with a nod of understanding, following after Light down towards the small room consumed with painting. "May I see it?"
Light glanced at him from the edges of his eyes, shrugged, and gestured towards the easel with a careless hand. "Of course, go ahead. I've only just really started into it today, though. And watch the paint dishes."
As Mikami slinked carefully around the small dishes on the floor, Light tossed the hand towel to the floor as well then padded over to his backpack and zipped it open, sitting on his heels to root through it.
"This is a beautiful beginning," Mikami said behind him. "What is it?"
Light glanced over his shoulder briefly, before turning back to his search. "Upside-down."
"Pardon?" Mikami questioned, a tone of smooth surprise to his voice.
"The painting," Light said, straightening up as he found the manila folder he'd been looking for, being careful not to get any paint on it. "It's upside-down. I sometimes paint with the canvas upside-down to keep the painting from becoming too…" he paused, looking for a word, "ordinary. The Monet was done almost entirely upside down, in fact." He extended his arm, holding the file out for Mikami to take. "Here."
Mikami's eyes swiftly swept away from the painting, and he accepted the file from Light, beginning to flick through it, dark eyes scanning it quickly.
"Next target?" he asked quietly.
Light nodded, watching Mikami casually. "Blair Blackhurst. Australian – he has a banking account with the NAB. I've already verified one piece he's sold as a fake, and I strongly suspect at least another two of being the same. Will you be able to lead the trail back to him?"
Mikami's eyes flicked to him sharply from behind his glasses, and he nodded. "How long?"
"Within two months," Light answered without hesitation, leaning against the window frame. "The painting will be done by then, and that should leave you plenty of time."
Mikami just nodded again, looking back down at the file before his eyes brushed back to the upside-down painting, running along the work Light had already done. "Has anyone ever told you you're a very unusual person, Yagami-kun?"
A pair of black, wide eyes flashed in the eye of his mind, and Light smiled. "Once or twice."
Mikami's eyes left the painting to meet his, and his mouth gave a polite smile in return. "I thought that might be the case."
At that moment, against his thigh, Light's phone rang.
Matt didn't have anything to say.
He didn't have anything to say yet so he stayed quiet, simply enjoying the curl of his smoke and watching the dying glory of the sun, drenched in its last vestiges of color.
The drive had been quiet, comfortably so, with Mello staring out the window in uncharacteristic glumness as he gnawed at a chocolate bar and Matt just trying to lose himself and his mind in the curves of the road and the hum of the engine. It hadn't lasted long at all, it seemed, and before they knew it they had somehow or other found themselves outside an abandoned factory, grey and dull and lonely-looking against the orange sky.
Matt had cocked an eyebrow in question and Mello had shrugged in agreement, so they'd left the car behind to wander around and throw rocks at crumbling walls just because they could, like two schoolboys flirting with any outlet for destruction. Eventually they'd gotten bored with that and so had clambered up to sit atop the wall, feet dangling down as they watched the sun slowly setting.
It was comfortable, like it had ever been between them, their friendship an untouched constant no matter what shit was going down in their lives. Matt didn't know how many times they'd ended up like this, ended up running away to escape the world for a few short hours, Mello caught in the downswing of his own volatile behavior and Matt by his side as a silent, unconditional support, waiting until Mello was inclined to talk.
Because he always talked. Sooner or later – just how soon depending on the perceived seriousness of whatever was fucking with his mind – he always got tired of sulking and was ready to bitch it out with Matt. And Matt was always ready to listen, even if he had nothing to say.
After a few minutes of silent sitting and watching the sun sink closer and closer towards the horizon, any annoying bugs kept away by the smoke of Matt's cigarette, Mello spoke up.
"I'm an idiot," he said with frowning decisiveness.
Matt, despite the urge to agree and perhaps helpfully point out several examples of exactly how much an idiot Mello was, just hummed noncommittally and took a pull from his smoke.
"Really," Mello reiterated, as though Matt hadn't believed him the first time. "A complete idiot. I mean, I still can't fucking believe how much of an idiot I am."
Matt shrugged, slowly releasing his smoke into the evening air. "If this is about the Near thing, you're making too big a deal out of it."
"It's Near!" Mello said in a small explosion, his hands clutching at sun-colored hair. "How can it not be a big deal, Matty? I mean, Near!" he repeated, trying to put all the inexplicable Near-ness into that one name, as if words alone couldn't explain how fucked-up it was.
Yeah, Matt was already aware how fucked-up it was, thanks. He knew very well it was Near Mello had slept with; he didn't need reminding.
But he just gave another shrug, another drag on his cigarette. Mello didn't need someone to match his intensity and fire right now, and he certainly didn't need someone to dismiss his feelings as childish or out of control.
"Yeah, it's Near," he said simply. "You hate 'im. You've been trying to pass him up practically since before your balls even dropped. You're constantly pissed off by him. You bitch about him at least three times a week, if not more."
"Exactly!" Mello exclaimed, his hands gesturing, still trying to express that apparently inexpressible insanity over it being Near.
"You also," Matt continued steadily, "respect him."
Mello stared incredulously at him then. "What the fu-" he tried protesting, but Matt continued regardless of this interruption.
"You respect him," he repeated. "Not like you respect L, but in a way you do respect him. The same way, I dunno, the same Raphael respects Leonardo."
Mello gave him a funny look. "What, the artists?"
"No, idjit, the turtles," Matt rolled his eyes. "Ya know how Raph's always mouthing off about Leonardo, but in the end they still got each other's shelly backs? Kinda like that."
"Raphael fucked Leonardo?"
Matt groaned, trying to shake unwanted images of fucking turtles from his head. "Ah Christ, Mels, you know 'm not saying that. Jeez, I really didn't need that mental image."
Mello's lips twitched in a grin, his booted foot knocking gently into Matt's. "What, you don't jack off to the thought of the Ninja Turtles getting it on?"
"No, actually. And ya know, I don't care if you do, I just don't wanna hear about it, right?"
Mello rolled his eyes, his grin fading as a comfortable silence settled over them again. It was broken soon, though, as he glanced back at Matt and spoke up again.
"Look, I'm not saying you're right, but even if I did respect him a little, there are a lotta people I respect who I can never imagine myself fucking. Spiderman, for instance."
Matt took that as of much of a confession for grudging respect for Near that Mello would ever admit to. "Spiderman isn't real, man," was all he said, though.
"No shit. But I'm saying, if he were, I wouldn't wanna fuck him, 'cause he's kind of an annoying little twerp, even though he's got some pretty sick powers. Near's an annoying little twerp too, for that matter. But see, Batman? Batman I would wanna fuck. And if we go off into the villain category, we can throw Catwoman in there too. Oh shit, wouldn't that be hot? Threesome with Batman and Catwoman?"
"I think that's just your black leather fetish speaking, Mels."
"Maybe, but the point stands."
Matt threw him a quick glance, his eyes flicking away from the sunset then back again, feeling they were getting a little off topic. "What point?"
Mello glanced back at him. "That there's no fucking reason for me to have fucked Near, and it pisses me off that I did."
Okay, so they were still on topic, it was just taking a sporadic detour into which superheroes – and supervillains – Mello wanted to fuck.
"Mels," Matt said, tapping a bit of ash from the tip of his cigarette, "why are you so pissed off about it? I mean, I get it, okay? It's Near, it's weird, maybe a little fucked up, but no more than anything else we've gotten ourselves into before. Look, it's just one fuck, right? And Near hasn't even mentioned it since. It's just one of those things that happens, and you both forget about it and move on. It's life, it happens. You're the only one still hanging onto this, really. So why're you so pissed?"
Mello looked away, out towards the fading sunlight. "I dunno, Matty," he said, and Matt didn't like the confused, unhappy frown he saw pulling at his lips. "I guess I kinda feel like, I dunno, that I'm outta control or something. I mean, I like sex, you know? A lot. It's like fucking chocolate to me. But lately I've been wondering if maybe, well, I'm outta control or something, you know? Back there in France, that night, I woulda thought you were completely nutters if you said I was going to be fucking with Near in a few hours. But then he was pissing me off so much, just sitting there so damn smug and annoying, and I was so angry that before I knew it I was across the room and kissing him, 'cause it was the only thing left 'sides shooting his fucking brains out of his skull. And it just makes me wonder if maybe I don't have any fucking control, you know? About sex, I mean."
Matt did know. But he had never expected Mello to feel that way. Mello had always relished his sexual freedom, chasing after it in both quality and quantity, never regretting and never looking back. He jumped into things with both feet, for better or worse, and he rarely let any doubts sour his mood for long. He wasn't the type to question himself like this.
Matt wasn't sure how he felt about it. And if its source was what he suspected it was – or rather who he expected it was – he really wasn't sure how he felt about it.
"You've never felt this way before, Mels," he said with another low-key glance, voicing some of his thoughts. "You've never been ashamed about how much you fuck around before."
"Yeah, I know. But, maybe it's something I should think about, you know?" Mello said, looking at Matt as though he could explain what was going on in his head, help him understand what the fuck this sudden self-doubt was doing springing itself on him. He looked like a bewildered kid, and Matt really didn't like seeing his friend so torn up about something that had never bothered him ever since he'd first found out a dick could do more than just piss.
"No, Mels," he said simply. "I don't know. I don't know why you're so caught up about this. I mean, I can understand the Near bit – yeah, that's a little surprising, but in the end not a big deal – but I don't see why you need to start questioning yourself about sex. You like sex, right? There's no reason not to keep having it, with whoever you want. I mean, as long as they want it too – I'm not telling you to go rape anyone – and as long as you're careful of diseases and don't knock some chick up. I don't see the problem, man."
Mello shrugged. "Yeah, I guess," he said, and Matt took another pull of smoke because it really didn't sound like Mello was anywhere near convinced.
"Listen, Mello," he said finally, smoke escaping his mouth in a quick, warm rush. "Unless you're looking for a long-term thing, you don't need to worry about this. And I can't really see you going for something long-term, at least not right now in your life. I mean, the closest you ever got to something long-term was with that Light guy, yeah? Two months or something, right? And that was pretty outta you norm, so it's not like you can use it as a representative example. Mostly you're just interested in fucking around with someone for a short while, so like I said, I don't see the problem."
Matt hadn't wanted to mention Light, partially because he was still vaguely embarrassed about his behavior this morning, partially because he suspected Light was actually the root of what was bothering Mello – not Near – which was part of why Matt had acted the way he did this morning in the first place. And if that was true, it meant Mello might have to face up to a few things he'd been ignoring the past couple weeks, and it would mean Matt would have to watch him realize his feelings for Light hadn't been quite as casual as he'd pretended to himself.
And that might be a little more than Matt wanted to endure.
Mello had gone quiet after Matt's words, and Matt felt something that might have been dread sneaking unwanted into his lower gut.
"Yeah," Mello said, glaring into the sunset now. "That was out of my norm, huh?"
Matt felt he was focusing on the wrong bit. "Mels, seriously dude, snap out of this. You fucked Near, big deal. It's what you do. You like to fuck. Nothing wrong with it. So chill, yeah? Go find a hot chick and bang her, you'll be back to normal in no time. Or a hot guy, whatever."
"Yeah," Mello nodded, still glaring thoughtfully. "But you know, maybe if I wasn't like this, I wouldn't have slipped up and cheated on Light. Just, I dunno. Maybe. Ah fuck," he snapped suddenly, his voice quick and angry. "That was my damn fault, wasn't it? 'Cause I'm so fucked up. If I wasn't so used to fucking around so much it would never have happened, I woulda just told that girl to piss off."
Oh shit, they were at the root of the matter. Or, at least what Matt felt was the root of the matter. And he doubted either of them really wanted to be there.
He doubted either of them really wanted to dig too deeply into Mello's emotions about Light, not when they both were doing such good jobs lying to themselves.
Matt didn't look up from the lighter he had pulled from his pocket and was now tossing around in his hand. He didn't want to see Mello right now. He didn't want to see the expression of angry self-turned hate, the frustrated hands grasping at blond hair, the pissed-off bewilderment and outburst of volcanic emotion that had nothing to do with him – none of it. He just wanted to pretend it didn't exist.
If he didn't see it then it wasn't real, and if it wasn't real then it couldn't hurt and he wouldn't have to deal with it.
Matt was a deflector, a diffuser, the laid-back one of that fucked-up trio of successors, the one who didn't get strong emotions and just didn't give half a fuck about solving crimes and didn't ever get worked up about anything. He was the one who kept Mello from blowing Near's face all over the floor with a squeeze from his impulsive trigger-finger, and he was the one who smoothed things over when Near forgot what it was like to be a human and made some passive-aggressive jackass remark just to stir dust up and watch how it settled.
He was Mello's friend, there so Mello didn't get lonely and didn't pull too much shit.
So he said, "Maybe you're right," and watched his smoke escape, running away from him to the sky's embrace. "But does it matter? I mean, it's over, right? No big deal, you said you were just fucking anyway. Not a big deal either way, it was going to end eventually. No reason to kick yourself over this, when it was just fucking, yeah? So stop flipping out over it all. You slept with Near, so what. You cheated on Light, so what. It happens. Move on."
He ignored any guilt he might have felt for pulling Mello further into his self-delusion, for feeding him the half-lies Mello had been feeding himself in the weeks since the breakup and even before. Matt had no use for guilt. It was pointless getting so worked up, when it was easier to just light up a cigarette and let everything fade away like smoke.
There was no purpose in pointing out that maybe Mello had missed Light a little more than he let himself realize, and what that might imply.
And when Mello's lips twitched in a small grin, relief filling his features, Matt didn't feel anything but relief himself, the sense of a bullet successfully dodged.
"Yeah, duh, you're right," Mello said, the familiar lines he'd told himself before doing their work. "I don't know why I was letting it bother me so fucking much. I guess I just felt kinda guilty for pulling that shit on Light, then when you put it next to the whole fucked-up Near thing the whole thing just sort of got to me. Jesus Christ, though – I still can't believe I slept with Near. That's so fucked up."
And since Mello sounded much more cheerful over the fucked-up nature of the situation rather than bewildered and moody, Matt released a puff of smoke in a half-sigh of relief.
There. Everyone should be content now. Mello was obviously ready to let go of the whole sleeping with Near thing and move on, not to mention continue believing he hadn't felt anything for Light beyond a good-looking, convenient fuck. Also, L would have his successors working again without unnecessary emotional turmoil distracting them, Matt would have his friend back to normal, and Near…well, it was Near. Who fucking cared what Near thought or felt – if he even felt anything at all.
Mello was happy again, and that had just solved almost all the immediate problems bothering L and his successors.
Mello grinned over at Matt, his eyes bright and laughing.
"Jesus, that was a lot of drama over nothing, in the end, huh? Thanks for listening, man. I mean, you're so fucking nice. Why the fuck are you so nice? It makes me feel like a piece of shit sometimes," he said, though his grin took away any self-reproach his words might have had. "I mean, it feels sometimes you're a fucking saint or something compared to me."
Matt didn't feel like looking at Mello, so he let his hands and eyes be busy tossing away his stub of a burned-out cigarette and fishing out a fresh one to light up.
"C'mon, I'm not a saint, Mels," he said, his new cigarette held loosely between his teeth, his calloused thumb flicking along the wheel of his lighter. "Not even close, you know?" There was a flare as his lighter clicked to life, catching the cigarette tip in its flame, and at the first pull of smoke his body immediately relaxed. At ease once again, he slowly released the smoke then gave a wry grin to Mello's considerably more enthusiastic form beside him. "Really, c'mon man. I'm not nice. Not really mean, either. I'm not really anything, ya know? I don't do much at all – nothing good, nothing bad, just nothing. I just do whatever, whatever I want. I'm just kind of here. I'm just…me. Matt. I'm Matt."
"I know you're Matt, dumbass," Mello laughed, his smile too bright to look at without a smoke on hand. "You're rambling, y'know that right?"
Matt chuckled as well and took another deep drag from his cigarette, glad his lungs and heart were located within the same general area, because it certainly made it easier for the smoke to wander over to his heart and ease any nasty little twinges of not-guilt it might have.
"I know. But it's 'Dungeons & Dragons', see?" he said easily, turning his eyes to watch the smoke from between his lips cavort towards the darkening sky. "I'm the, what is it, the Chaotic Neutral, right? You're the actual good guy here – Chaotic Good, but still good. The 'the end justifies all the crazy shit I pull' guy. Me? I just do whatever. Whatever the hell I want. I got no big desire to save the world, become L, like you do. Chaotic Neutral, do whatever the fuck I want."
"You're such a geektard, Matty. D'you really just use DnD for an analogy? Seriously?"
Matt grinned, briefly meeting Mello's laughing dark eyes. "C'mon, you know it's boss."
Mello snorted and said, "You're such an idiot," and Matt took another draw of smoke because that too bright, too carefree, too Mello-ish smile was back, splitting Mello's face, the same smile he'd had the first day they'd met at Wammy's – back when Matt, a lanky, gangly child with no friends, had decided on a whim to give that weird new blond kid who was crying in the corner a bit of a chocolate bar he'd gotten for his birthday but didn't want because it was full of gross almonds. The kid had glared but snatched it out of his hand anyway, and when Matt sneaked a glance at him later he had seen him chomping away at it, with a smile that looked like the sun had risen on his face, and Matt had been following after that sun and smile ever since.
But right now, Matt didn't really feel like looking at it, so he looked off towards the real sun and pulled on his nicotine instead.
"You know," Mello said, after a moment of comfortable silence, or what probably seemed a lot like comfortable silence to Mello. "If you really are Chaotic Neutral and just do whatever the fuck you want, why are you here?"
Matt looked at him and laughed, a feeling of vague danger creeping up on him. "What do you mean, why am I here? Here in the world, here in Japan, sitting here on a wall and wasting my time listening to you bitch about your sex problems?"
"Hey, don't say it like that, you make me sound like I can't get it up."
"Yeah, that's really not the problem, is it?"
"Asshole," Mello grinned. "But I mean, you don't wanna be the next L, right? So what are you doing here? Why do you put up with all his insane shit? Fuck, why'd ya put up with all our shit? Mine, L's, the fuckwit albino's… You don't have to, right? Seriously, why do you stick around?"
This was definitely getting dangerous. Matt shifted, pulling one leg up and tucking it next to his body on the wall.
Fuck, he was turning into L.
He straightened it back out, letting it dangle again, and gave his best relaxed grin.
"What, you want me to take off or something?"
Mello instantly swung from aggressively curious to aggressively backpedaling.
"What the fuck are you saying? 'Course not, idiot. Jesus Christ, I think I'd go fucking nuts if you did."
Matt gave a snort of half-amused laughter. "You already go around fucking nuts. I thought that was what you were whining about earlier."
Mello threw him a completely confused look, not even bothering to pretend he understood. "What? What was I whining about earlier?"
Matt glanced at him, cocking an eyebrow in surprise that Mello hadn't noticed the obvious innuendo yet. Usually he was all over those.
"Think about it," he said.
Mello scrunched his face up in thought. "I was talking about Near earlier, right? And how I can't stop myself from fucking…" His eyes lit up as his brain caught on, and he burst into sudden laughter like a supernova. "Holy shit, from fucking nuts! God, I'm pretty damn funny, huh?"
Matt just grinned and shook his head. "Bloody hilarious, man. So ya know, it should be a no-brainer that I stick around for all your unintentional sexual humor. Duh, man."
"I knew it," Mello grinned back. "Who wouldn't want be around this kind of genius?"
Matt gave his cigarette a hard flick and watched the ash tumble from the tip, all the way down to the dirt below, almost hitting a little tuft of browning grass.
"Beats me," he said, jumping to his feet atop the wall and lazily brushing his pants off, and Mello glanced up in surprise at the sudden movement. "Anyway, let's get going, man. How much you wanna bet L will be staring off in space when we get back instead of working?"
Mello clambered to his feet as well, extending his hand with a daring grin. "Couple bars o' chocolate for me, pack o' ciggies for you. Deal?"
Matt glanced at the proffered hand, bare and smooth, then clasped it with his own.
"Deal," he agreed.
"And none of that cheap shit chocolate," Mello stipulated, squeezing his hand a little too hard for extra persuasion. "The good stuff, right?"
"Yeah, if you win," Matt rolled his eyes, then their hands were apart and Mello grinned like an excited little kid.
"Ah shit, you just got suckered big time, man. I heard Watari threatening L before we left that if he 'didn't make significant headway on the case today', he wouldn't get cake tomorrow. He's gonna have his fucking nose to the grindstone when we get back."
And Matt just chuckled, because Mello looked so much like a mischievous imp who'd just pulled the ultimate prank, and because he couldn't do anything but chuckle and suck on a cigarette and remind himself that this was why he was friends with Mello, this was why he wouldn't do anything to fuck with that friendship.
And when Mello took off trotting smugly down the wall, back towards the car parked among the weeds and gravel and the setting sun, Matt followed after.
Later, he'd think it unfortunate he didn't bother checking his phone first before climbing in the car and tearing back to the hotel with Mello.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Excuse me a moment," Light said with a well-crafted smile, and Mikami nodded obligingly, turning to examine the file in deeper detail. "Hello?"
"I have underling drama," was the only form of greeting given, though the smooth, low voice was hard not to recognize.
"…Hello, Ryuzaki."
"Hello, Light-kun."
Light gave another smile, lifted a finger and mouthed for sorry, just one minute at Mikami, then stepped into the small kitchen – not quite out of hearing distance, as that was impossible in an apartment of this size, but far enough his conversation wouldn't be obtrusive.
"What do you need, Ryuzaki?"
"I believe I just informed you."
"No, actually – you made a statement. You didn't make any indication about why you are calling me with your so-called 'underling drama'."
"I don't believe I appreciate the dismissing manner in which you said that. I assure you, this is a rather serious matter."
"What do you need, Ryuzaki?" Light asked again, torn between grinning and frowning in exasperation. Ryuzaki tended to do that to him.
"I have underling drama-"
"Yes, you mentioned that."
"Let me finish, Light-kun, it is very rude to interrupt. As I was saying, I have underling drama at the moment, which has been causing me an undue amount of stress and has been interfering with my motivation to work. Therefore, I believe a form of stress relief is in order. Do you have anything to suggest?"
The grin was beginning to win out on the battle for Light's expression.
"I've heard exercise is a good method for relieving stress."
"Yes, I had been considering something along similar lines."
Light paused for a moment, pretending to think. "Well then, how about a walk? I think fresh air would do you good as well."
"I'm afraid I'm too unfamiliar with the city and would likely just get lost, which would cause unnecessary difficulty for Wallington."
"Take a map."
"I do not like maps."
"How about a treadmill?" Light said, his voice low and smooth. "Surely your hotel has an exercise room?"
"I'm sure you can guess I would not enjoy that sort of environment, Light-kun."
Yes, he most certainly could. But it was a rather funny mental image to picture Ryuzaki in his baggy jeans and wrinkled shirt and his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoeless feet shuffling along a treadmill as the rest of the room stared at him in their perky biker shorts and sweat-towels. And it was even funnier to picture Ryuzaki in perky biker shorts and a sweat-towel himself, trotting along briskly to the whir of the machine.
Light gave in and grinned.
"Go swimming in the pool," he suggested instead, sparking several new mental images as funny as the last.
"...I do not feel you are considering this with the appropriate seriousness."
"A swim is a perfectly valid suggestion."
"I do not swim, Light-kun."
"You know, Ryuzaki," Light said reasonably, enjoying being the one doing the provoking for once, "if you're just going to shoot down every suggestion I make, I don't see why you called me."
"Perhaps you are not making the right suggestions."
"Perhaps you ought to just ask me straight out what you need." It was, after all, rather obvious what form of 'stress relief' Ryuzaki was after, but Light saw no reason to make it easy for him. He waited patiently, a quiet smirk on his lips.
There was a brief pause on the other end of a line, a moment of deliberation, before Ryuzaki's voice hummed quietly in his ear once more.
"Do you play tennis, Light-kun?"
Light had honestly not been expecting that. He'd been expecting anything from a blunt come over here so I can fuck you to a coyer but similarly-intentioned invitation for a drink or two that evening, not a random inquisition into his sport-playing history – and for that matter, he really wasn't sure how he felt about the knowing way Ryuzaki voiced the question, making it very clear he was already aware Light played tennis. Maybe Ryuzaki really was after a conventional form of exercise, somehow knew Light had played tennis (it wasn't as if the information was classified or hard to come across), and wanted Light to play a set with him?
Improbable, but possible.
"…I do," Light said suspiciously.
Ryuzaki answered immediately, sounding rather satisfied. "I thought so. Now, if you are so eager to help me, why not come over here and let me fuck you?"
…That sly, stubborn little bastard.
"You asked about the tennis just to distract me, didn't you?" Light asked, already knowing the answer. Of course Ryuzaki had; he took ridiculous pleasure in throwing Light for a loop any time he could, and it was obvious he had done it now for just that purpose.
"Of course not. That's very suspicious of you, Light-kun. I simply prefer to defy expectations once in a while."
"You're an ass, Ryuzaki." But he couldn't keep the smile from his lips.
"Light-kun, need I make the obvious remark about exactly whose ass is in question here?"
"I don't think so. Unless, of course, you've recently been lusting after Wallington's ass and wanted to confess to me. In that case, I'll be glad to back out and leave you two to your newfound love."
"…That is a rather disturbing thought."
"Isn't it?" Light said, viciously cheerful.
"And quite unnecessary – and, might I add, childish – for you to inflict me with that idea. However, such matters aside, you have not yet answered my question, Light-kun."
Light paused, his eyes thoughtful as they rested absently on the two-burner stovetop he had never used, but his lips were still smirking softly. He thought about the sketchbook currently slipped inside his backpack, the unfinished etching of Ryuzaki between its covers. He thought about the photo stored on his phone and the fact that there really wasn't much purpose in seeing Ryuzaki anymore, since the photo would be amply adequate to finish the stubborn sketch.
"Yeah, alright," he agreed. "But with the understanding that you'll owe me after this."
Irritating, fascinating, undrawable face aside, Light wasn't quite done with Ryuzaki.
"I find that unfair, since I'm sure this will be mutually enjoyable for the both of us."
"Mm, tough luck," he hummed. "You'll still owe me, since you were the one with the 'underling drama'. Besides, you have no tact. What time?"
"Oh, whenever convenient. I have completed my work for the day. And I fail to see how my lack of tact automatically puts me in your debt."
"Because it means I have to deal with you and your completely unsubtle invitations. It's very trying, you understand. I'll see you in twenty-five minutes."
"We'll be discussing this matter further, Light-kun," Ryuzaki warned.
Light grinned. "I look forward to it."
Then he snapped his phone shut and slipped back out of the kitchen, his grin morphing into a polite smile. "Sorry about that, Mikami. Do you have any further questions about the next target?"
Mikami smiled as well and shook his head, long fingers snapping his briefcase shut, the file already hidden inside. "No, but if I have any I'll contact you, Yagami-kun. Was there anything else?"
"Not this time."
Mikami nodded, already headed towards the door. "I'll say goodbye for now, then. Have a good evening."
Light followed him politely to the door, and when he was gone with one last slim smile and professional nod, Light bolted the door behind him and turned back to the mess waiting him in the main room. He smirked to himself.
He needed to get cleaned up, both himself and the room, then he had an annoying bastard to see.
The painting could wait.