Author's Note: The part of my brain that usually makes up names was not working. Mea culpa.
Also, for the record, this chapter was written the day the United States of America elected Barack Obama. :O
…and now you've got a time frame; good heavens. XD
XXVI. Ladies and Gentlemen
Matt had a bad feeling about all of this crap. Maybe it was the whole strolling-into-the-heart-of-danger thing. It was just so much easier to leap headfirst into the lava-lined pit of destruction and despair when you had some extra lives, a new gun, and a recent save point under your weapons belt…
Also, fortunately or unfortunately, the tie was making hyperventilation an impossibility.
In addition, Mello might or might not had been eyeing him in the rearview mirror, which was even more distracting.
He was grateful for traffic lights, which, although they were poignantly similar in color to Mello's dress (a phrase that he suspected would never cease to sound strange in his head), gave him a chance to settle down and breathe for a couple seconds.
Breathing was an advisable first step. If his heartbeat continued to cooperate as well, he'd be in pretty good shape.
That considered, he'd better not let himself catch another glimpse of Mello's black-stocking-clad legs. The first had made all his vital systems go haywire, and another would probably shut everything down completely, like when Mello unplugged the power strip right before the final boss just to piss Matt off.
Pissing Matt off seemed to be one of Mello's favorite hobbies.
Which explained why he was kicking the back of Matt's seat.
"Green light, Matty-Boy," Mello announced. "Do we need to stop by the optometrist's?"
"You might be blind as a Matt," Light muttered, almost inaudibly.
Boy. If Snogami was nervous enough to start punning at a stoplight, they were in deep shit.
The road was too short, and as they neared (of course) the end of it, stone walls rose austerely from the height of the hill. It was a grandiose thing, this castle was—half-ostentatious mansion, half-fortress, thirteen blood-red pennants snapping in the wind, the slate-colored stone sharp and imposing everywhere except the leftward wing, where a part of the structure had crumbled. A tower had collapsed upon itself, though the outer wall hid the worst of the destruction. Matt imagined shattered stone like an aura or a bloodstain, splinters of wood scattered with abandon.
Cringing as gravel pinged like laser-fire, Matt guided the car up the snaking incline to the wide parking lot and found a nice, empty space close to the exit. You never knew when you might need an escape strategy. Any video game could tell you that.
Light hopped out of the car, opened L's door, and offered him a hand. The veil concealed the nuances, but the way L ducked his head and tentatively accepted, gathering his skirt in the other hand, led Matt to believe that he was blushing happily.
It was so adorable it made his teeth ache.
Could you get cavities from cuteness?
"Hey, Mattso," Mello called. "You gonna treat me like a lady?"
"You're sick," Matt informed him, yanking the door open and finding the drawbridge and portcullis that took the place of a driveway extraordinarily interesting.
Mello started delicately down the walk, beaming over his shoulder, danger in his dark eyes. "You can examine me later, doctor," he replied.
Matt made a point of shuddering.
Mello strode across the drawbridge without so much as wobbling on his heels, but when they approached the stairs ushering them up to the pair of open front doors, he glanced back at L holding tightly to Light's arm. Apparently inspired, he darted over and seized Matt's forearm likewise, batting his overstated eyelashes elaborately.
"Did you bring a hammer?" he asked.
Matt blinked at him, taking the stairs slowly—as steady as he was on those stilettos, Mello wasn't looking where he was walking, and Matt didn't want a faceplant on his hands.
Or his feet.
"Why would I?" he prompted.
Mello's evil grin was even more dramatic framed by the shimmer of the lipstick.
"Because you look like you want to bang me into the floor," he answered innocently.
Matt tripped.
He caught himself before Mr. Face eloped with Ms. Front Step and looked up dazedly to see Mello smirking wider still.
"Nail me, baby," he added, "or screw me in tight if you prefer."
"You're enjoying this far too much," Matt decided, trying to disentangle his arm from Mello's warm, unyielding hands.
"On the contrary," Mello rejoined, "I'm enjoying this just the right amount."
—
Light saw to their reservation, waiting while the solemn butler—painstakingly traditional in an impeccable tux all in black and white but for the red rosebud in his buttonhole—flipped his plodding way to the very back of the guestbook, where Yagami, the only name they could give and verify with ID, ought to be scrawled innocently. Sure enough, it dutifully turned up, and they were nodded in and permitted to move past security guards blithely decked in sunglasses despite the dimness of the hall. Light surrendered his fedora at the coat check, and then tapestries and candelabras drew them deeper into the deliberate grandeur of the castle. The hall opened into a vast, palatial, high-ceilinged room with dining tables and a dance floor, beyond which an orchestra was warming up at the front of a low stage, a black velvet curtain draping behind them. Instruments, jewelry, cuff links, fake smiles, and endless dozens of champagne glasses gleamed in unison.
"This is nice," Light remarked, trying to process the entire panorama. He noticed a massive dessert table and shifted in preparation to nudge L with his elbow before remembering first that L was on his elbow and second that one did not dig one's elbow into the ribs of an elegant young women who was in mourning, regardless of how much one might want such an elegant young woman's attention.
He nodded to it instead; pointing didn't sound much better.
"There's lots of cake," he noted.
L's soft voice wafted gently from behind the veil. "He knows how I feel about cake. He may have poisoned the strawberries." Light sensed that L frowned, and he thrilled faintly and involuntarily at the notion that he could read the beautiful creature at his side with that degree of accuracy. "I should have thought to bring some sugar cubes. They've very portable."
"I'm sure Mel…issa… has some chocolate," Light managed. Then he remembered what dreadful little Mello's outfitting left to the imagination. "…somewhere," he amended.
Speaking of the boy Light hadn't thought was physically capable of looking more like a cheap prostitute…
"Where'd they go?" he asked.
L turned to scour the room as well. Light strained his ears, trying to filter the general hubbub of subdued small-talk and clinking champagne glasses for one of two specific voices.
He succeeded.
"Do you like cherries?" Mello was inquiring sweetly.
Light tired to pinpoint the sound and traced it to the drinks table, where Matt, looking rather sourer than his companion, was struggling to extricate himself from the blond's red-nailed clutches.
"If you finish that thought, Mel," Matt gritted out, prying Mello's fingers from his sleeve one by one, "you're going to get kicked out on your pretty little ass."
Mello gazed at him, faux-star-struck. "You think it's pretty?" he gasped.
Light turned to L. "Should we save him?" he asked.
"Save whom?" L murmured, sounding as though he was smiling wryly. "Matt is in grave danger of being overexposed to miserable pickup lines, but Mello is in equal danger of getting messily dismembered."
Light considered. "Good point," he decided. "I suppose I should say, 'Should we save them?'"
"It might be wise," L agreed, accordingly beginning to tug him towards the place where Matt and Mello were eyeballing each other like a pair of rival cowboys at high noon.
"Mello-kun," L reprimanded quietly when they were close enough to the Terrible Twosome and out of earshot of everyone else, "please stop propositioning Matt-kun. You seem to be making him uncomfortable—"
Mello raised an eyebrow and shot a sultry look at Matt. "Maybe we should go somewhere more accommodating," he suggested.
It took all of Light's willpower to suppress the gag reflex.
Matt looked calmly at L. "Slut-Princess Barbie isn't here right now," he explained, frighteningly deadpan, "but if you leave a message after the expletive, she'll get back to you as soon as she's finished doing the entire football team right on the field, grass stains be damned—"
"He's just jealous I don't lower his rates when he scores a goal," Mello confided.
L's hand disappeared under the veil as he touched a thumb to his lips. It looked like the argument had lost its charm, and he'd moved on to the next topic of concern.
"Perhaps we should scope out the situation," he mused. "I presume that, as we've completed the puzzle and reached the stronghold, this should be the last stage of the game, which makes it likely that Near is somewhere in the house. We might split up to search for him; there is a great deal of ground to cov—"
A portly man in a bow-tie inserted himself into their huddled circle, smiling genially.
"Good evening," he rumbled by way of greeting. "I don't believe I've ever encountered you at one of Mister Burgundy's affairs."
"This is our first," Light replied smoothly. "Are you a regular, then?"
The man laid his chubby hand over his heart. "Not one to miss a party, at any rate," he noted. He extended that hand to Light. "John Falstaff, at your service."
Light shook. "Light Yagami," he returned.
Falstaff bent low, his cummerbund straining, to touch his lips to the glove over L's hand. "Hiding your woman from the world?" he asked Light, winking. "Not a bad strategy, with men like me around. Does my lady have a name?"
"Elle LaRue," L whispered, settling both hands on Light's arm again. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"All mine," Falstaff replied.
It was probably true.
Then Falstaff discovered Slut-Princess Barbie.
"My," he said, awed. "My, my. What have we here?"
Mello gave a truly mortifying giggle and offered the hand that wasn't cradling a drink. Falstaff took it quite gladly, his eyebrows going into overdrive, as if he was using them to convey a complicated message.
"We have Melissa Davenport," Mello sang. "Pleased to meet you."
Matt was glowering with no little amount of skill as he grudgingly made his own introduction.
"So," Falstaff blustered, patting absently at his capacious stomach. "Might I ask what any and all of you do for a living?"
There was a pause. Well, the blond boy—er, yes, he is, actually—and the redhead are genius-orphans, and my… boyfriend…? and I are professional detectives, and we're really only here because the resident albino miniature Einstein back at the House got kidnapped by its creepiest reject.
…what was it people always said about lies being more plausible than the truth?
Light blinked at Falstaff.
"I write an advice column," he said.
He had a whole three seconds of triumph before Mello snorted laughing and sprayed champagne all over the intricate granite tiles of the floor.